Best Copped Poems
“Can you smell something burning,” Dad frowned and I said “Yeah.”
It had the smell of cooking meat, as well as burning hair,
Dad stopped the truck, lifted the bonnet… “Blimey look at that!”
Something was mangled by the fan, looking like Mum’s cat.
“Strike me pink” Dad shook his head, “Mum’s cat’s been on the motor.
It’s been killed by the fan”; and we knew that Mum did dote her.
Dad looked at me with steely eyes, “Get the spade and dig a hole,
I’ll tell you now and only once… don’t tell a living soul”…
… I was halfway through my tea, staying quieter than a mouse.
Mum asked “Has anyone seen Tiddles? She’s not around the house.”
All Mum got was puzzled looks, and the shaking of each head…
Dad glared to remind me, ‘don’t tell a soul the cat is dead.’
Mum loved her cat so much; she’d have Tiddles on her lap
out on the porch at evening time. Contented she would nap.
I hated seeing Mum distressed, but Dad just acted bored,
when Mum said, “I’ll write a note, with an offer of reward.”
‘Ten pounds for her return’; I thought that Mum would smell a rat,
when Dad said “Make it twenty, if you really love your cat.”
The Ad’s printed in the paper, in the column ‘lost and found.’
Dad said to me “I’m feeling guilty now, with Tiddles underground.”
Dad let me drive the tractor while he spread the ragwort spray,
and then blackberries copped a dose before they shoot away,
he emptied out the tank and we went home to wash the gear.
The Evans’ car’s parked in our drive… “What are they doing here?”
Laughter’s in the kitchen; a joyous Mother’s voice did say
“Young Misty here found Tiddles; she was hiding in their hay,
no wonder she would not come home.” I watched Dad’s eyes and jaw.
… Twenty quid, the cat is back… a box of kittens on the floor.
They’re playing bingo in the lounge bar,
between ten and dinner time,
pensioners arrive from near and far,
to try and win a bingo dime.
I’m watching from me usual stool,
and hear numbers shouted out,
while drinking beer that’s nice and cool,
waiting for the ‘bingo’ shout.
While there is laughter and loud groaning,
depending on their bingo luck,
some others claim of their disowning,
because bad luck has struck.
They are not sitting at a bingo table,
but in a corner all alone,
knowing for now that they’re unable,
to leave the tavern comfort zone.
The Barley Tavern offers shelter
for the likes of Lukey Brown,
who’s problem’s not a mere welter,
but a simple wife put down.
We all know that a woman scorned
can breed disaster to a tee,
and many times a love is mourned,
that’s why I offer therapy.
I brought a beer for Lukey Brown,
who gave me a nod and smile,
and after I was sitting down,
I put Lukey up on trial.
“So what’s the go old Lukey mate?
Why are you feeling so morose?”
And Lukey took a while to state,
“Are all women bellicose?”
Lukey really had me puzzled there,
‘What does bellicose all mean?’
And Lukey states “it means beware,
the wife’s about cause a scene,
and all because she made remarks,
about a couple down the road,
and my reply it set off sparks,
and bellicose so quickly showed.”
Then I supplied more therapy,
shouting Lukey another beer,
to ward off living dangerously,
but to learn to live with fear.
“She pointed to a couple in the street,
who played a loving sexy game,
kissing, cuddling, and no way discreet -
then! Why can’t you do the same?”
“Why can’t I do the same I said.
Have you gone stark raving mad!
I got the stare that means I’m dead,
everything got worse than bad.
With crude insults I copped the hurl -
- can you get me another beer?
I said no way, I don’t know the girl;
and that’s the reason I’m in here.”
1/21/19
"OAT"
I was wrong to quit
It's been too long I admit
Was gone a bit
On a trip
Putting down lagers quick
Now I'm back with a stronger grip
Deep down in the water sits
The key for you and me, it is not a myth
Now go ahead and ponder this
Does god exist?
I will honor this
World and bring the proper gifts
My help I will always offer it
With a whole lot of wit
I already did it, before you thought of it
Had to stop to piss
Up atop a cliff
As I was walking my boxer pit
While wearing a copper fit
Back in the day I bought a bit
Couldn't tell you the last time I copped a zip
It keeps coming my way, a whole lot of it
Meanwhile, all day long I sip
You should already know, I'm off of it
We're polar opposites
You keep talking ****
Unaware, that I'll bring forth the apocalypse
Soon,you'll need a walking stick
And put in a coffin quick
Before Autumn hits
Still paying my homages
I would rather remain anonymous
In all honestness
Here to follow through on promises
Got no time for incompetence
Across the seven continents
They continue their reconaissance
Over the populace
Because of much more than opulence
It does have to do with dominance
And is rather ominous
You're a drone, I'm a rocket ship
You're a mosquito, I'm a hippopotamus
I'm negative, you're HIV positive
I protected it, you kept raw dogging it
I'm clean with good hygiene, you smell like rotten fish
I'm off the Richter, you're sweeter than a box of chocolates
When I decide to finish, they'll wanna audit this
Once upon a time, Prunella
dwelt amid a magic wood
a dainty pixie most rare
whose temperament wasn't good
Last one of her purple line
in that dreary, dreaded glen
where beasts ever feared to tread
and mankind had never been
For purple pixies were known
to be devilishly mean
they'd terrified the kingdom
wherever they had been seen
So Prunella lived alone
and pouted, skulked and scowled
and dark nights when coyotes called
she piteously howled
Until one day she found them
some children lost in the wood
and scared the daylights from them
just because she knew she could
The children fawned and pleaded
to appease her rotten mood
this only made her madder
so she copped more attitude
But she'd miscalculated
when she made the last one mad
and felt the ammunition
from that slingshot-wielding cad
Wee bits of sweets kept flying
so like pebbles at her wings
until he ran out of those
then he chucked most anything
Around the wood she darted
avoiding him at some length
until at last she gave out
having used up all her strength
He plucked her from where she fell
and plopped her into a jar
then she began to bargain
as the village wasn't far
But Fred, both shrewd and clever
vowed to keep her locked up tight
'til they all were safely home
and ev'rything was made right...
So she charmed the fireflies out
to show them all safely home
bossily shouting orders
from within the jars glass dome
But once they were safely back
the boy quickly changed his mind
decided to keep Ol' Prune'
(as pixies were hard to find)
And 'though she was mad as hell
and her wings pulsed fiery red
she couldn't help but admire
this precocious, wily Fred
'Though he never let her loose
they became the best of friends
laughing with glee as they kept
his parents at their wits-ends
“What's with these wild ideas?”
They would grouse, and groan, and moan
unknowing those mischief-plans
were a pixie's- not his own!
I Love the ground you walk on
So don't take this the wrong
way
Go grab a beer and park it
And listen to what I gotta say
I appreciate the diamonds
And the expensive foreign cars
And how you bust your butt at
work
And don't cruise the local bars.
But I want to dance with you
in the kitchen
And maybe sing along
Like mamma and daddy used
to do
When they heard a favorite
song.
When Daddy would up and
grab her
They would dance the waltz
sublime
And you know my dear old
daddy
Copped a feel of her behind.
Mamma would slap his hand
away
And tell him to act his age
But she just kept on dancing
On the floor he'd made their
stage
I know this all sounds silly
Another thing that men don't
get
But the look in her eyes when
she danced with him
I never will forget.
So come on home in your
dancin' shoes
I've swept the kitchen floor
Don't bother to turn the lights
on
And it would be wise to lock
the door.
I feel sorry for my good mate Billy,
Who chewed on the hottest of chilly.
His mouth copped the blast,
Now with body parts caste...
His wife frantically searches for Willy.
A short letter to this Hot Summer Day,
I get it, you’re a furnace from the sky.
And you want to play chef, to bake and to stew,
Both my feet you simmer and fry
You battered and basted and blanched and broiled
As I roasted all day in the sun.
And to help this heat wave, you turned the kiln up,
And cooked me along to well done.
Even the swim in the pool was a ruse, trap and hoax,
As my skin copped a blistering scorch.
I’d like you to stop these pretty rays of light
This pretty hot scalding blowtorch.
To end this short letter to my friendly hot day,
Here’s a phone number of a guy who mends warm.
Give him a call, invite him straight over,
His name’s Cloudy Wet Soaking Rainstorm.
Hi, this was written in January during Australia's hot summer, but has never been put in any contests. I thought it might fit your contest. It was during the 45 degree C days where it was so mega hot. Cheers.
The origin of the unicorn begin's in
A time and habitat where we did not live in
In Another Galaxy it could have been in
Or in an unexplored magical dimension
It was a land overflowing with milk and honey
Pure and abundant was it's skillful offspring
Enchanted with a forest that lulls you to sleep
With it's down reaching hum stemming from the trees
The little creatures were cordial and could speak
The streams of life were the preachers of the peace
The fireflies dancing a mild ballet at night
Would arouse even the most dormant soul to sing
But it was unicorns that governed the land
and so to say put everything under one's wing
A unicorn was considered the horse of the God's
It had the chiseled structure of a steeled spartan
It's horn holstered the power of a lighting rod
Sporting a mane as majestic as a mountain and
When it bucked on its hoofs the earth stood still in awe
They spent years on this planet protecting our spot
Behind the scenes in old men's wars they fought
But it was in the hidden rainbows with gold pots
Where their undisturbed and placid image was copped
Now its unfortunate we do not seem them nowadays
mainly because they did not embark on noah's ark
and all the CO-2 in the atmosphere we sprayed
means their world no longer remains and
Now their remains are just horses with no horns
and no potential to fly, so all they do is eat hay, ride and race
and when they die we just assume to make them into glue
JK! Happy Birthday!
* P.D. Unicorn Poem contest
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
This morning's sidewalk is cold and gray,
traffic sparse.
Coffee awaits, if my secretary remembers.
My head circulating thoughts from a case,
I reluctantly took on yesterday.
I'm usually more particular,
I don't like cases involving blonds and their men,
but, I needed the money.
As I enter my office, the strong odor of coffee hits me,
she remembered, this time.
The steam was rising from the pot,
the widows were also steaming,
with lines of water rolling down each pane.
We need curtains.
Julie my secretary says I have a visitor,
a blond, same one from yesterday.
Says she's wearing a single gold earring,
dried blood on the other ear.
I toss my fedora on Julie's typewriter,
with a not to be disturbed look.
Closed the door.
She was pacing back and forth,
trying not to look up.
Says when she got home she found an ashtray,
filled with cigarette butts, some with lipstick,
two empty glasses and a half filled bottle of whiskey,
sitting next to an airline ticket to Hong Kong,
for a flight at midnight.
They argued, he slapped her a few times, until,
a shot came through the front window.
She's frightened, frightened of the police,
frightened of the truth, both run through my head.
I told her to stay here until I find some things out.
But, it will cost another couple of hundred.
After all I am a detective.
My name, Humphrey M Falcon.
contest Copped III
My list is all done, I stand in the kitchen and stare.
To the Supermarket I'm off, It feels like a dare.
The very thought of that place, brings a chill to my bones.
Walking up and down Isles with all the other drones.
The parking lot is my first bad indication,
as I reverse park the van causing other drivers indignation.
Really everyone! have some patience if you please.
They're all itching to get past, like a dog scratching fleas.
I don't believe in using trolleys, a basket will do just fine.
Just a few things to get. Ooh, don't forget the rice wine.
Now my basket is full and I haven't quite finished yet.
The milk under my armpit is all slippery and wet.
Both arms are full and I can feel the strain.
Standing in line at the checkout and my strength starts to wain.
Squeezing a bit tighter, I just need to hold on a little more.
Then that bag splits and apples dance across the floor.
A kindly lady, (with a trolley!) see's that I'm in need.
Picks up the apples, including the one squeezed with my knees.
As this drama unfolded, I became suddenly aware.
The milk under my armpit went off like a flare.
When the milk was unleashed, she copped it full in the face.
I quickly turned away, giving the man behind a little taste.
The poor lady stood horrified, milk dripping from her hat.
I couldn't help but say, "Do you want Milo with that?"
Soggy groceries in hand, at home I arrived.
A stoic look on my face, only I knew was contrived.
The wife unpacked the bags, said, "The milk isn't here"
Oh, I must have forgot, could you go back for me dear?
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
sounds like the bitter former lover,
venom with a point of view,
copped a few darts me, whenever,
crossed her path the arrows flew,
that december...
blue :(
Don
re:Poisonous Barb.....Owen Yeates
I lost my mien I lost my unity
To the shadow of tartarus
Abided by the doom of iniquity
To the horde of vicious
Ached by the blamed chastity
To the blood of befouled gravitas.
I lost my alias I lost my faith
To the detainment of my goof
Abetted by the aphotic myth
To the trait lacked in proof
Copped by the dummy world so lyth
To the wraiths of swallowed truth.
I lost my anima I lost my chaste
To the roguish sprite
Plied by paroles jest
To the hearsays that parroted bright
Retained by the sight lest
Where I lost my being I lost ardor ignite.
___________x______________
A second of four
a child-to-man maronic
ignored and scanty poor
told only his idle logic
This family career
he could not sanction
then in his yesteryear
so bad became his action
Perfect One just had to quit
Three went underground
Four copped many a clout
Two was never held to account
In later years still stood his stance
for fear and fallacies of arrogance