Best Cots Poems
Remember all the Wise Men on their knees upon your yacht?
With orphans on their backs they’d crawled (with others that they’d brought)
Through rubble on the highway sands and residues of Lot.
They came from severed cities selling postcards of your thoughts,
Though offered for a penny piece, not even worth a jot.
They mused
“How are you feeling? What it is you want, you’ve got.
The words you scrawl on calling cards: ‘I AM – the others NOT’
Shun wisdoms of the Seven Seas: ‘Salvation can’t be bought’ –
Your fathers tried before you and your fathers came to naught.
“You started out by gelding goats and then by casting lots
Of bodies to the battlefields, contorted, tight and taut,
Then wallowed in the wake of trails the dervish devil trots.
“With marching bands of fatherlands, and drums of Hottentots,
You lure your legions in harm’s way like giant juggernauts.
Like Tweedle Dum your minions come (the sober and the sots,
The troglodytes, barbarians, and mislead patriots,
The Vandals, Huns and Hannibals and seaport Cypriots,
The Japanese, the Congolese, Americans and Scots)
To vanquish bows and arrows, spears and catapulted shots
Of those who hide in bamboo huts their families, pale, distraught,
(Their withered wives with dried up breasts, their swollen babes in cots)
Who swoon, engulfed in poison darts and vats of acid hot,
Consumed by magic mushroom clouds, atomic megawatts.
“In churches of your deities, your Holy Huguenots,
Your Imams, Rabbis, Voodoo Dolls and Mitered Lancelots
Lit wicked kindled candled walls in temples (while we fought)
(Used pins and needles, magic spells on makeshift mock whatnots)
And mosques, cathedrals, synagogues have blessed each new onslaught
With prayers for pipers, puppets, pawns, your rigid armed robots.
Continued in Part 2…
Hello Friend!
You are welcome!
Don’t underrate that we are boasting about ourselves.
Don’t treat us as the suppliers of the basic needs only.
Try to reach our inner voice.
When you get disturbed,
You can come and roam under this canopy.
You certainly feel the ambience pious and solicitous
The green cover soothes and cheers your heart.
You can regain your energy and confidence.
You know, your forefathers roamed happily in these glades.
Fairies often came down and rested here.
Knowing this, they used to worship us.
Their cultures and festivals were tied with us.
Believe it or not, still we can hear their voices lingering on in this air.
During autumn, we shed our leaves
And in spring we get the lost glory back.
We never get demoralized.
We know Life and its secrets.
“Service” is our motto.
You sit on chairs;
Sleep on cots;
Eat our fruits and nuts
Everything is being used - hides, herbs, roots, leaves and what not...
Store your valuables in the wooden boxes;
We die and transform into coffins to safeguard your corpse. Why?
We know the purpose of living.
Living or dying doesn’t matter.
Serving others gives the bliss of heaven.
Look at the age- old Oak trees
Standing like staunch pillars
They are symbols for strong determination and invincible spirit.
Our strength lies in our roots.
They are hidden in this soil.
The inner strength is superior to all.
Look at the mighty trees. How humble they are!
The calamities sometimes cause severe damage to us.
But we can withstand and revamp this pristine nature..
Is it not the sign of our perseverance?
Hundreds of creatures find their dwellings in us.
Are we not protecting them like a mother?
Dear friend,
Recall the moral of the story that you read in your childhood.
“Enjoy the egg but not be greedy and try not to cut open the hen.”
Remember,
Protecting trees means you are building a heaven for your grandchildren.
PLACED : 1ST
Wisdom from Trees Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Date: 19-05-2022
Making the In-Laws Welcome
By Elton Camp
“Visiting will be my sister & her mate Jim.
Penny warned, “Fred, you be nice to them.”
“Maybe they should stay at a hotel,
But still see that you treat them well.”
Fred prided himself on his guile
So he tried to hide an evil smile
For he knew just what he’d do
So their visit they would rue
In came the sister and her jerk
While Penny was still at work
“The guest room you can settle in
Afterward, our visit can begin.”
Fred led the way down the staircase
The guest room was a total disgrace
The dingy basement had no light
And the two old cots were a fright
His sister-in-law let out a yell
The two hurried to the hotel
Penny got home, looking for them
“Where’s sister and her man Jim?”
“A room they decided they’d rent.
Back soon, but it’s where they went.”
“I tried to get them to stay with us,
They said it would be too much fuss.”
Two grizzled master sergeants repaired to the NCO Club to cry in their beer.
Their jawing invariably turned to discussing the 'old army' of yesteryear.
They grew up in the 'brown shoe' army and of it they liked to reminisce.
'Twas 'happy hour', beer was cheap and their gripes went a lot like this:
"By gawd! Used to be I could take a kid behind the barracks and kick his ass!
Now, ever' time ya turn around they're buggin' ya fer a three-day pass!"
"Yep, they think they can git away with anything jesh 'cause they're a volunteer!
Ya won't believe what I shaw today! An earring danglin' from a soldier's ear!"
"We ate C-rations in our day without all them fanchy frills they have today.
Today, if a kid don't git schteak and lobster on hish plate there's 'ell to pay!"
"It wassh called a 'mesh hall' in the old army and we ate off'n schteel trays.
Now, it's a 'dinin'' facility' and, yesh, we schlept on cots in open bays!"
"Yesh. Things was so schimple when all we dealt with was mornin' reports.
I'm scared of them computin' things that is invadin' all the army forts!"
"In the old days I'd tell a kid what to do and he wouldn't give me no shass!
In the new army if I chew out mommy's boy he goes schlobberin' to the brass!"
"Now, they make us wear them silly lookin' berets jesh like them blimey Brits!"
"Yesh. I don't know about you but I schtink it's time I called it quits!"
"Yesh. I agree. I schtink it's time to retire and end this miserable career!"
"But jush a minute, old pal. Before happy hour ends lesh have 'nother beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
"Nicholas Street Jail is a real place"
The building is imposing, massive and fearful,
built in 1862 as a jail and gallows for criminals;
the conditions were inhumane and appalling,
on the top floor was death row with only one way out.
It closed in 1972 (hangings had not been done in years,)
renovating was done but the creepiness remained;
one hundred and fifty unmarked graves were found,
deemed a heritage building it was turned into a hostel.
It is said to be haunted by the men executed there,
the dark cells can be rented on that top death floor;
small cells with tiny barred windows the only light,
some have seen ghosts standing at the end of their cots.
There are creaking cell gates and heavy footsteps heard,
wailing and weeping and praying all the night long;
on a dare- I rented a top floor cell with bars,
and was told the gallows still remained down the hall.
I went to my bunk not really believing the stories,
but in the night hands were reaching, pulling me;
I screamed but no one was there,
restless, I started walking a dark narrow hall.
There was a man walking also and I wanted to talk,
hello, sir, I called but he did not stop as I followed;
he opened a door and went through, I hesitated a moment,
then, I opened the door, it was the gallows . . .
His was hanging, his neck broken, his eyes staring,
I tried to scream but no sound came as hands pulled me;
decomposed dead were reaching and all had broken necks,
I was screaming when my body dropped into an empty void.
Found in the morning, crumpled and weeping,
talking hysterically about being hanged by decomposed men;
muttering about being dead, dead, dead,
and from the dark side of my mind I cannot escape . . . ever
The mental hospital where I reside is like a jail cell,
where ghosts hang me each night in the gallows,
where I fall into that empty vast void,
screaming, screaming, screaming . . . in the silence.
______________________________
September 25, 2022 (edit from September 19, 2016)
Poetry/Verse/One From the Dark Side of My Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1490-294-25
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted into the contest, From The Dark Side
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 10/04/2022
Ninth Place
The shoes display themselves in racks,
In lines of oddities without their partner shoe,
All kinds of people enter and to them make tracks,
To survey, try on these leathers of every hue.
The shoes wait not knowing who will want to buy
Unknown to them their future or even the reason why
They will be selected
Or they will be rejected.
In the home the unwanted children wait,
Noses pressed to the windows, eyes staring at the gate,
Where people will come in, come to watch each child,
Try to choose one that won’t turn out too wild,
The children wait, not knowing who will indicate
That they have chosen; which child will they elate?
Will they be selected?
Or will they be rejected?
In the Orphanage, in a poverty stricken land,
The babes lie in cots, stretching in a forlorn line,
They wait, not knowing, unable to understand,
Never receiving love so they do not lie and pine.
They wait for someone who will turn their lives around,
Numbed by their situation, they hardly make a sound.
Will they be selected?
Or will they be rejected?
Shoes walking, worn on feet that love to dance,
Or scuffing in a gutter, their fate is ruled by chance.
A child who goes home to be nurtured all the way,
Or that same child could be living, abused every day.
The babe in arms held safely, brought up with loving care,
Or one day re-abandoned, left to live in despair.
Which will be selected?
And which will be rejected?
was hot had cots
we dance a lot
it was years end
old friends
new year about begin
we got started
it was
BOAT PARTY
They sat in love below a willow tree,
And from afar, they heard the rumbling sea.
He looked at her; green eyes seemed full of tears.
He asked what's wrong, afraid he saw some fears.
I am afraid, she said. I dare not tell.
The vale is vast, and flowers spread their smell.
I'm tired, my back aches, and I yearn for figs.
I'm hungry, oh, for a plate of spare ribs.
He stood and ran towards the sea in haste,
And with clothes on, he jumped, feeling abase.
The cold sea spray calmed down his tattered thoughts.
He loved her and began to dream of cots.
He took her in his arms and kissed her sweet,
We'll wed and have so many more to greet.
Placed 1
Written on 4th September, 2025 for the international poetry contest "WA Gentle Hand" sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose. Placement 2nd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God’s hands are softer than the snowflake.
His tender touch feels like falling dew,
blown by a gentle breeze~
Soothing as a whisper on the ear,
a feather-stroke that lulls us to sleep
as babies.
As it was in our cots,
His tender touch still cares—
a guiding light for our feet
against the serpent’s bite.
And when troubles torment,
He calms us with His soothing balm,
brushing our faces
until they sparkle with peace.
From infant cradles
to the courts of adulthood’s scorn,
His tender care endures.
He pours His grace
in the warmth of a prodigious embrace.
Though He has filled our lives
to the brim with His care,
His magnificence remains more vast
than the waters of the oceans.
Nothing compares to God’s tender touch:
refining us like the sunbeam’s glow
through the hands of a gentle potter,
flowing like the river’s nourishing stream,
to protect, to guide, to guard, to restore
our fragile souls.
THE PITY PARTY
The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor man
Coming home to rooms so dusty
Coming home to air so musty
Coming home to sinks so rusty.
The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor fella
Arriving home to empty pots
Arriving home to unmade cots
Arriving home to loo with dots.
The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor dude
Wishing he could get very rich
Wishing this home he could ditch
Wishing another’s house he could pitch.
Turn to quenching winds; cherish what you can't see.
Learn to study vastness rippling at sea.
Birds watch you from high as they tranquilly soar.
Words elevated mend a heart that's sore.
Songs of praise are the greatest compliment.
Strong and gentle, our natures complement.
Thoughts of gratitude charm, expressed aloud.
Cots, blankets, and laughter are allowed.
Shells cling to sea rocks; we harvest mussels.
Swells hug your tee shirt, revealing muscles.
Pull me close like friendly breezes that blew.
Full of mysteries are diverse realms blue.
Sky's palette blends at a quarter past eight.
Eyes twinkle from marshmallows we ate.
You strum your ukulele; we become a band.
Two voices that melt cannot be banned.
Seagull calls merge in a tune that's choral.
Regal beauty flaps around hidden coral.
Sway like moonlit, twinkling leaves of beech.
Stay with me tonight upon this lot of beach.
7-14-2021
(Rhyme beginnings, homophone endings)
Grizzled veterans gathered about their brother's bier,
To reminisce and honor their late departed peer.
They talked of yesterday when they were young and gay,
The good and bad times they'd shared along the way.
They had shared the hardships of an infantry rifle squad,
But they had survived by the merciful grace of God!
Now, the march of time was beginning to take its toll.
Another hero had answered the final call of the roll.
They laughed recalling his prankish streak;
The times he'd cheered them up when times were bleak;
The times he'd short-changed the sheets on their cots;
At reveille finding their boot strings tied in knots!
It was well known that he was their sergeant's bane.
He likewise held the army and sergeants in disdain!
In battle's din they'd want no other at their side.
They lost a true brother, a loyal buddy, when he died.
With the sound of "Taps" he began his eternal bourne.
Nine grieving brothers were left behind to mourn.
They gave him a final salute and shuffled off so slow.
Alas, who among these heroes will be the next to go?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
O, Mighty King of Igneous and Summer,
Cape the earth within an icy quilt
And freeze the damned in their cots.
All without enough covering
To remain warm,
Yet enough food alone to remain strong ---
Freeze, mighty King.
Let their knee caps grow frigid
And their lives cease to exist,
Then tomorrow
They’ll wake up in some fancy mansion of nothing
Where trivialness is everything and
Everything is trivialness.
This poem is too mean, too rude, too unkind.
I can never post it. I do not want them to know
There is an ounce of meanness
In the persona of me that I dare to show.
This poem has the word poop. What was I thinking?
It rhymes with scoop,
But is the poem now
Completely stinking?
This poem reflects my most secretive thoughts.
What if they take them, and run and make cots?
What if they bind them together and sing?
What if they jump in and make them all zing?
What if I am being silly?
What if my mind is willy?
For no reason other
That I want them to think
That I am a mother, and
Cannot make poems stink?
What if I am not even a real poet?
Will they nicely and quietly let me somehow know?
What if we are all friends, but they still make me go?
Could I survive without Poetry Soup?
Why don’t I just scratch that awful word ‘poop.’
The well-endowed temptress inspired the giant to think some wild thoughts.
Since she knew it, she did not intend to get anywhere near his cots.
The giant tried in vain to take his wild ideas and clot them with blots.
They were both fools in love but they did not know it yet!
The villagers made up all kinds of stories when they noticed the match.
They tore up each other’s ears with sordid tales of grab, kiss and snatch.
Soon these rumors were wafting around the village in a big gnarled batch.
Some even said the giant was the temptress’ pet!
You know how a lie can get tangled and twisted and blow in the wind?
Gossips were chasing new crazier ideas so hard, our ears were skinned.
Birds were running from the whispers, and the fishes’ flippers all grinned.
Most of the moldy rumors flying were sour and wet!
This is not rocket science, it is not truth, it is simply not right!
Stated a young lad whose character and morals were nice and tight.
We all need to apologize to the temptress and the giant tonight.
But they were squirreled away in a love-making net.
Written 4-30-2022
Contest: Tall Tales 2
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser