Best Dodging Poems
When tax is due make sure that you pay
Scarface didn't and got put away
For the feds they got wise
Took Capone by surprise
Alcatraz he went for a long stay.
So the moral of this limerick rhyme
Tax dodging is a serious crime
If you love prison life
And you wont miss your wife
Be prepared you'll go down for some time .
Written on 24th December 2018
For tax and finance limerick contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire.
( male )
Dodging Hate’s Siren-Shriek
by Odin Roark
He had survived
Six months believed to have made him a man.
Today,
He only wanted his mother.
Today,
Time was running slow,
Slower,
Stopping,
Begging.
Such hopeful beginnings,
Such bestial endings,
Caked fingers bear blood,
Water too precious to remove.
As desert sand’s insistence
Makes mockery of fear’s dry heaves.
Skittering boot prints
Like zigzagging sand pipers,
Short of food,
Wary of enemies,
Making patterns so plain,
This prophetic hide and seek death dance.
Today…
Seems right—today.
Months of sand storms and fire,
Left but sun baked flotsam,
Mixed decomposing bodies of friend and foe,
Their survival charges piled high,
Making but for stumbling of boots
Across rotted bodies and limbs,
Even flies and rats now ignore.
With fingers blood-welded to weapon,
He lay down among the carnage,
Eager to know the peace,
The quiet,
The involuntary resolve,
Just for a moment,
Or two,
Just until the siren-shriek
Of an incoming missile's presence...
Just until it finds him and stops.
Not much to ask.
Not much
If anyone…
Anything…
Is listening.
In the eye of the storm brave hearts embrace
Fears stirring confusion in her turbulence
We recollect our mangled existence
To move forward with growing resilience
In her eye, the look of clarity
Safe in her blink of surety
In the distance hurricane winds
Twirl and twist, play games with our minds
In the face of such overbearing power
The vortex rising higher than a tower
Knees buckle and weaken as we cower
The will to live tested in a baptism of fire
Tempers flare as lightning signals life and death
The battle of the heavens descends to earth
I walk on deadly ground
Life is a landmine field
Listening for the chirp of the sparrow
For signs of life through the cold shower
We plead for her forgiveness
And shelter in the ominous stillness
Yet still we stand in the pool of our teardrops
The cumulonimbus brewing boulders
I'm yet to see the rainbow,
The storm is still not over
04-Jan-2015
We all hear about the habits of successful people,
My habits are not the same.
Successful people, whatever that means,
Their habits seem kind of tame.
I don’t read a lot, nor organize my year,
Nor ever get up bright and chirpy.
I enjoy writing my thoughts, living spontaneously,
Then waking up feeling blurry.
I dance in elevators, touch hot plates,
And practice arguments in my head.
And rather than minimizing distractions,
I live with color and music instead.
And when I’m on the phone I don’t sit
And pronounce with perfect allocution.
I walk the house laughing, joking and swearing-
It’s a trusted institution.
I would like to eat healthy, drink water, walk heaps,
And regularly go and press weights.
But I love my kebabs after a night at the pub,
Dancing, drinking and singing with mates.
Actually, the other day, I went for a run, through the rain,
In the car park, to my car.
It was a fun little run; I dodged bullets and missiles,
Pretending I was a big movie star.
Well, thinking about it, my habits are successful,
Other people’s just don’t match mine.
To me it’s about being happy, open and free, it was easy,
“Success” I would redefine.
Dodging the Shoe
By Elton Camp
The flying shoe, Hillary didn’t faze
Nor did justifiable indignation blaze
Calmly and quickly she did duck
The attacker was then out of luck
Her comeback was right on line
Handling the situation just fine
To a public figure, gross disrespect
From some there’s none else to expect
Her accomplishment unable to minimize
So resorting to violence is no surprise
May the attacker spend time in the clink
To make those similarly disposed think
To oppose her philosophy is okay
Shoe throwing isn’t the right way
He’s judged and condemned to take the saddle, yet, still fighting
without surrender, while we slip the bit between his jaws.
This, and ducking feet in dubble time while lashing
the gear to his back, dodging lightning while riding Thunder.
A saddle placed on a throne and strapped to a rocket.
He fights, he chokes, and rolls his eyes.
Who would give a dollar for his tough ole hide,
go sit on him in the seat of a rocker or hang him over the pea-patch
With the crack of a bullet, he could be gone.
I have trouble waiting for my chance to sling the sweat.
I purch high on the seat, chaps folded back, a nod to pull the rope.
Then out of the gate we fly, the dust, the slobber,
the foaming mouth and ears laid back.
I am screwed to the back of the saddle and
held there by centrifugal force.
Suddenly, the earth and sky are drunken things,
bucked from my senses, jolted to and fro as fence
reel past.
My dreams of being a cowboy fading rapidly
into the choking dust.
Yet, I hang to a flying hearse, the horse called Thunder,
whose hoofs beat drums of doom with boiling smoke.
I’m tossed high in a sickly orbit of sky and earth.
Thunder, still kicking as if to sling his burden to the stars,
plunging ahead, searching for a place to land.
The sky appears to darken around my head,
somewhere between a raven’s wing and the
back of a buzzard. With my shaky hands, I feel
the knots on my head, I fight for breath while spitting
sand, choking on dust and red eyes rolling. I feel hands
on me as they pat my back with hoots and hollows
beyond the limits of my brain. I stand up with
my unsteady feet and stagger. I see Thunder standing
at the other end of his domain.
Then the red bronco whirls in a resounding charge,
rumbling a folly of hoofs in rapid fire.
The final defeat, as I hurl myself over the rail.
Who would give ten dollars for that piece of leather
hanging slightly to the right side. Who, while shopping
for a bargain would settle for a deal.
Our love entices us
to risk the silhouettes
of those we once held dear
Our memories chide us
to hold back our desires
from the one's now so near
Our passion keeps us
dodging those shadows
and feeding that which we fear
Trump has been a really beauty;
Draft dodging has been his duty;
A real pest;
Women molest;
Cake that is a real tooty fruity.
Jim Horn
When death came ‘a calling,’
again thus denied
The future remortgaged
—payment applied
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2020)