Best Cockeyed Poems
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
Didn’t digest my all-dressed pizza
Suffering now from insomnia
A touch of every possible phobia
Mostly of ravenous bacteria
And humongous tarantula
O yes, and the sordid mafia
Did I call my Grandmamma
Did I put away the spatula
Did I book girls’ day at the spa
Did all the bourgeois really die of cholera
I’m drowning under this plethora
Remind me What’s that formula
O yes, Abracadabra
Tra-la-la and La-di-da
And poof now I’m in a gondola
On the way to utopia
Dressed in graceful taffeta
Eating baklava in the basilica
Hanging from the candelabra
Swinging to the tunes of Lady Gaga
Supported by the silliest orchestra
Hey you Pass me the foie gras
I have a cockeyed camera
You’ll see me at the cinema
I love you Etcetera Etcetera
AP: 1st place 2020, 3rd place 2025
Submitted on February 3, 2019 for contest 2019 POETRY MARATHON MILE 16 sponsored by MARK TONEY
Originally submitted on February 20, 2018
The Mariner's old salted-air skin, leather tight,
on a mast-hard frame of bones
and flash flood rushing blood,
faces ice-fed winds bouncing his ship
and helm cockeyed on continuous curling waves
from Nature's rough hewn seas,
beneath skunk-colored skies
Standing redwood tall,
in a locked jawed face of stormy, screaming weather
with honey badger determination,
to fight for the aging breath and life of his vessel,
of foot worn,handmade English Oak,
in a lion and hyena fight with the storm
Hoping the molten core of flaming,fiery light from the sun,
bursts through volcanic ashen clouds,
leaving his still sided barnacle plugged wormwood planks attached,
until he reaches shore
4/25/17 contest Word Play Images, Dense and Pithy
I don't suppose
the white hums of summer
will ever out strum the blues;
but here before me,
two colors mingle
in polite harmony-
spouting about
like versed chums
over black coffee
so why do I stand here,
all cockeyed
and bashful
in these careful shades of yellow,
mulling over red
and its poignant way
of bruising my heart
a callous hue of indigo
It's cold here.
It was cold long before
Winter arrived
harsh frigid stares
as people passed by
subtle cues
to warn us off
send us packing
"This is not your neighborhood-
you are not welcome here."
their unspoken message
loud and clear
It's cold here.
Winds of change
blew too fast
too strong for some
to adjust
and bone-chillingly cold
breezes emanate from
these people
who got left behind
their decades of disappointment
and bitter envy
mingle like freezing rain
and sub-zero winds
into a deadly wintry mix
designed to drive us out
It's cold here.
Wind chill fifty degrees below zero
miserably, dangerously cold
so cold that
for a few days
Hell freezes over
and people act like
neighbors
for a change
And I wonder about
the hateful old man
who used to stagger
up and down the street
every day, cockeyed
never saying a word
except one time
he asked if I
had a spare dollar
and got angry
when I didn't
So cold here.
With flaming lips and fingertips
casting words of cockeyed quips
behind a face powdered in white
preys a jackyll with teeth that bite
rouge on cheeks, evil guile at play
opened bottles of rich pouilly fume'
fruit of the vine, wine more devine
than one who waits for you, supine
Painted brows and charcoaled eyes
don't be fooled by a gender disguise
a fool you are if you fall for this villain
party girl who seems more than willin'
It continues to befuddle my inquisitive mind
why many of you have attacked and maligned
vaccines, and have decided to become aligned
with other naysayers. Are you physically blind?
It's not amusing when false dogma spreads terror
Your claims are outrageous and uttered in error
Open your eyes to the truth, and be a torchbearer
instead of creating hysteria as a rankled despairer.
I'm not suggesting you wear rose-colored shades,
but stop throwing darts at hearts and live grenades
at those fighting for the right cause in the crusades.
Life or death is not a game to play like charades.
I wonder how you'd feel if one you loved had died
for refusing to allow a needle to pierce their hide.
Would you admit your theories had been cockeyed
or pig-headedly insist, "Vaccinations are unjustified."
Remove the cloth binding your eyes. Set yourself free
of lies sweetened with rhetoric, so we all might be
safer in a world that's not destined for its apogee.
Listen, if you refuse to see. Please consider this plea.
October 5, 2021
This or That, Vol 7 Contest - Hysterical Blindness
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Where are my shoes? I can't find my shoes!
Where have I put them? They're impossible to lose!
OMG, I'm ashamed! This is awful! Don't tell anyone the news!
--Whew! Now take a deep breath: I've found them with the booze.
Oh, no! Not my hat! Oh, drat! I simply can't have lost that!
My purple-pink alligator hat, the one that's cockeyed and flat.
Where could it be? It's not in the wine vat or under the doormat.
--Whew! Inhale and exhale: It's perched on top of the green velvet cat.
What's this? Ee-gads! My wedding ring's not on my finger?
Where in Heaven or Hell did I possible fling her?
Doggone it! It's not inside my life-size replica of a honeybee's stinger!
--Whew! OK, calm down! I see it: on the tippy-tip-tip of my hummingbird's
dinger.
O, Dear! Whatever can the matter be? Do you think that I'm losing it?
That I've got Alzheiimers, Dementia, or I'm Inspector Clousseau-ing** it?
Not a chance, my precious darling: Boot your brain and start using it!
Once you remember I'm already 99 1/2 years young,
You'll be glad that the green velvet cat in the purple-pink alligator hat
Hasn't yet got my tongue!
--February 07, 2018
__________________________________________________________
**Peter Sellers rather insane, comic character from the movie, "Return of the Pink Panther, c. 1975.
Twinkly bunch with loaded school bags
Ambition injustice and itching their backs,
Cunning those faces in front of the gate
Heedful pupils well-chosen apparently late.
A fistful primary breeziness
Shared with smiles, tears and silliness,
Together they brawled, together they fiddled
At times they often complained to be differentiated.
Kiddo little minds and parents appeared unjustified
They cried, they blamed and they lazed,
Loaded by books and rat raced tutelage
They pass by a very dignified teen-age.
Out from the custody of cynosure
Together they stepped towards Lyceum liberty,
Few were classed and few remained united
The formers became edified and rests were unidentified.
A masked – small compliments and the evening aloha
The river side sunset appeared to be ambiguous –
A fiesta time boogie and the overnight cockeyed
At times such occasions made them to blab out their twinkly time.
Grown up as buddies and with time they rationalized
Affairs, status and outlook made them more gratified,
Traits made them parted and one cried in solitary
The formers humiliated the frailer and the frailer remained solely.
Lost in their computations, explores and technological justifications
Few carried out degree uprightly and few were abased shamefully,
Bucketed with knowledge, numbers, meetings and self-worth
They neglected those twinkly smiles who were grown up with assorted life.
Few became responsible and few got hold of ménage
Few were invited and rests seemed out of the sight.
Hearsays few get together known to be friendly trinity
Yet there also they lived with different hierarchy.
Left away life they sacrificed the age of assorted life
One who lived with it can now front the barbarous life.
They lost themselves to their twinkly buddies’ mobilization
Upcoming in their lives they will surly come by friendly exoneration.
Dated: 18/01/2010
What???...
To get someone to read my poems… Contests there must be.
They must be bleeping nuts thinking I can follow all those cockeyed rules.
Out of a zillion types of poems they always pick the weirdest ones.
Allowed only 16 lines… I found I stopped at ninety-one.
And for a topic they want a bird throwing glitter from a tree.
How about I spank them as I put them across my knee!!!
And why must I name it… as they told me? Where’s that for creativity?
Then they want a special comment added in the poem…
I would rather not add plagiarism… I’d rather call it my own.
But, you know, I am so very needy that I’ll do whatever they want.
Well… I’ll do, maybe one or two… of the things they want.
I know this makes it harder to judge the poems that are found therein.
But to me a poem… is a funny bent on my crazy whim.
Then suddenly, Lord Have Mercy… my poem didn’t win.
But I’m happy as punch for even with their strained smile…
I’m sure they read one of my poems yet again. :)
(Meant only for fun) I'm not really complaining. Just having fun.
Opinions are like rectums, everyone
Has one. Sadly, blockheads have them also.
It’s what comes out: profundity or thrummed
Beliefs that make all the difference. Know
The truth and what’s not before you accept
A single one. Beware of those whose thoughts
are seeded in superstition and kept
Alive as “old wives’ tales” falsely taught
As truth; it’s damn ignorance is what it is!
So eschew these cockeyed philosophies
Beware of the false Sayers chorus
Who opine their contrived absurdities.
They may control the sought-after places
But not Truth when we get down to cases.
It's hard to maintain a strong democracy
when people elect a kakistocracy.
To those who believe in "America First":
your government now consists of the worst.
The POTUS must be cruel and cockeyed
choosing a cabinet of the least-qualified.
Only someone vile and obscene
would select a Health Secretary who is anti-vaccine.
And the Education Secretary must be stunned:
she actually refers to AI as "A One"!
But then, a man with a history of disorderly conduct
would choose sycophants who are cracked and corrupt.
The new definition of stupid
is accepting those who are unsuited,
knowing the truth and seeing it with your own eyes,
but still believing the hype and the lies.
Sweet Becca Lucas told me recently
My silliness makes her roar
Confided though, if given the choice
Prefers my serious poems more
My comfort zone has always been humour
Find humour in almost all things
A cockeyed look at this sad old world
Every morning I'm ready to sing
Till Becca confided, I was unaware
My serious poems made a impact
After all these years on this planet of ours
In life, experienced most aspects
Just chug along now in my own domain
Hoping to improve the outcome
So hearing a comment like Becca just made
It made my old heartstrings hum
Thank you Becca for your thoughtfulness
© Jack Ellison 2013
miss leading lovers
deceptively virulent
cockeyed pandemic
Brian Johnston
July 29, 2015
we have a clock up on the mantel
it's right just twice each day
but, when you get to my age
i guess that it's ok
i don't need clocks to keep in time
my body works for me
i don't need hands on an old clock
to tell me when to pee
my stomach says it's time to eat
the clock says ten past eight
it's three hours off as i can see
but, still ....i think it's great
the clocks been there through seven kids
four dogs, two cats, one wife
it's no wonder that with all of that
it barely has a life
you can still hear it try ticking
if you give it a good wind
i'd hate to look inside it
for fear of what i'd find
the cuckoo clock i used to own
went cockeyed, the bird died
i couldn't get the cuckoo back
no matter how i tried
i figure now at eighty six
that time has passed me by
i used to be quite punctual
i was just that sort of guy
but, now the clock up on my mantel
it's right twice...and i see
it's ten past eight again my friends
so...it means it's time for tea.