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The Best Ermine Poems

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Snow Falling


Snow falling—
Falling.
Feathers escaping from the pillow-heaven
Confusing the air
With the steadiness of a stampede
Advancing, clinging, smothering.

Snow falling—
Settling.
White fleecy lambs atop every protrusion
Sleek ermine boas
Draped upon the naked arms of nature
Bare of their green velvet capes.

Snow falling—
Drifting.
The spatula of wind
Smoothing mounds of marshmallow frosting
Billowy swirls
Of whipped immaculate splendor.

Snow falling—
Burying.
Obscuring the drab tired earth
Her deep wounds of time
Dissolving shadows of other seasons
That Spring may arise again.


Sandra M. Haight

~2nd Place~
Premiere Contest: Number 15
Sponsor: Skat A
Judged: 01/29/2018

~2nd Place~
Contest: Seasons
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: 01/05/2015


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015


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Warm December

My warm December, unexpectedly,
you graced my world and brought such joy to me.

My warm December, You are something sweet
embracing me. Oh, please do not be fleet!

My warm December, how I wish to keep
you like a lovely dream when I’m asleep.

And how I wish to have you ever near,
my warm December dream so ever dear.

December of my dreams, my youth has passed.
You’re all that’s left, but how long can you last?

Oh, warm December, wrap me like a  coat,
inside your ermine dream to ever float.

(This December was very warm and inspired me to write this;
also this is dedicated to my muse!)


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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In the Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak midwinter,
frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter,
long ago.

- Christina Rossetti

***

My mirror-face is pinched pallid as, colourlessly, I go over and over his last journey, and shudder like a train on a track. His last tracks...tracks in the snow...train tracks. Tear-tracks damp-bead my ashen cheeks, but tears, though summer-hot, don't thaw the bone-chill of alone.

his snowflake letter
cold on an empty car seat -
no explanation

Just sorry and people don't always understand, I only hope you can and goodbye.

I took to my bed as the ripped days bled, pulled the duvet up over my head, shaken by a blizzard of dread. Fingers in ears, didn't want to hear about last movements, CCTV footage, forensics. My words fell snow-silent, and, as people have pointed out to me since, now I only speak through poetry's voice, its mediumistic mouth.

I'm reading a book Coping With Suicide, well, I'm trying to read. But each page is a snowdrift muffling my mind, each word is a curled black whorl of hard-iron earth. I've stopped counting the days and nights, they've merged into a blizzard blur of winter-white. And the hoarded condolence cards all cry winter in snowflake whites and star silvers: In Deepest Sympathy ivory-traced, With Sympathy silver-etched.

Who would have thought grief had so many shades of winter? That death had a colour? Whilst others died with a heart attack's red squeeze or cancer's black rampage, he died with suicide's expanding white, its barren blank.

Poking food around my plate, staring sickly-numb, dumb, at the mounded happy orange of carrots, the yellow smiles of corncobs. Ashen faces in sifting ashy light, voices ermine-soft in empathy.

friends coax-feeding me
at a table set for one -
his chair is empty

Sleeping with his photograph, well, feigning sleep, through each silent night. Nothing holy in loss and lonely, just a hole blown through the heart.

Remembering: winter woodland walks hand in hand, plans we made, foundations laid. Frost-framed photos, snapshot days: a memory mural. Each shared moment freezing to a cold grief-pearl. Blanched branches window-tapping, and I'm thinking it's him.

filigree window
vista of Christmases past -
heart-held memories


Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2015


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Cardinal at the feeder

The brittle stems of Queen Anne's Lace
reduced to barren winter bone;
a hoarfrost Ermine coat embrace,
impaled in soil that's turned to stone.

The flowers now are wicker cups,
wear Bowler's hats of purest white;
the snowflakes that they interrupt
await the wind; resume their flight.

The Junco in the Prairie Grass,
drad colors blending, stem and snow; 
his flitting business come to pass
without a glimpse of style, or show.

White crystal mist; the morning still,
a cold and colorless display;
the fenceposts marching up the hill
like soldiers, slowly fade away.

This day in its entirety 
constructed thus to fit the mood,
cabin bound and winter weary,
must you in my lament intrude?

From deep within the Cedar tree
in blazing red from cap to tail,
you interrupt my woe-is-me,
insure my pensive mood will fail!
 


Copyright © Wayne Sapp | Year Posted 2010


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Crown of Sonnets - Part Two


Heroic Crown of Sonnets -  Part Two  

A Year Of Months

8. 

July now follows summer's song of June;
with burning sun, her days are humid, warm.
Great time to languish in the afternoon,
and later, watch an evening thunderstorm.
More lush than ever is the summer grass,
and deep and dense the forests all around.
The energy of summer has amassed
maturity in spring's rebirthing ground.

The month, July is summer's crowning gem:
the height of summertime for get-aways;
to take advantage of the warmth, and then,
put out of mind the past cold weather days.

And yet, we know that summer will adjourn;
the next months show our seasons take a turn.


9. Volta or Turn Verse

The next months show our seasons take a turn;
the height of summer slowly winding down.
The sun hangs low in sky, a cooler burn,
and thoughts of cooler weather bring a frown.
The prime of summer days behind us now
as season cycles come and go on time.
We must accept earth's changes with a bow
and celebrate each season as sublime.

August, September, downslide to the fall;
it won't be long to gather warmer clothes.
Their passing harkens soon October's call
and our November and December shows.

This turn in climate we cannot transcend;
The month of August leads to summer's end.


10. August

The month of August leads to summer's end;
though warm, the grasses turn to yellow-green.
Our sun hangs lower in late summer's trend
to shorter days with cooler nights between.
Still, time for beaches, laying by a pool,
yet thoughts are turned to end-of-summer blues,
as children must set sight on back to school,
yet hang on to what's left of August views.

Near end of August, leaves curl on the trees;
the hues of brown and yellow catch our eye.
The deepened shades of green fade in degrees,
and soon it's time that summer says goodbye.

And now we must get ready for the turn,
when cool September's bends to fall's concern.


11. September

When cool September bends to fall's concern,
though still, some summer warmth may overflow, 
the shortening of days signals the turn
to think about our autumn's golden glow.
The colored crispness of bright fallen leaves
negates the loss of summer's carefree days.
Progression's slow, but day by day fall weaves
a special time of year that will amaze.

September makes her mark with Labor Day,
when then we know for sure that summer's done.
Our thoughts turn to lifestyles another way,
preparing for our winter time's long run.

September's beauty grows to soon portend
October stirs her brilliant autumn blend.


12. October

October stirs her brilliant autumn blend
of colored leaves that fall and drift away.
Her cold, crisp air we share and now befriend
and are aware that autumn's here to stay.
Progressing still, undressing of our trees,
and days ahead with bouts of sleet or rain.
The beauty of October's painted leaves
now helps to heal the loss-of-summer pain.

The orchards, filled with autumn's ripened gifts
now beckon us to pick them and consume;
aroma, from sweet, luscious pies uplifts – 
replaces missing scents of summer's bloom.

October ends her stay to realize,
November days deliver winter's prize.


13. November

November days will offer winter's prize,
and soon, when we awake on colder days,
we'll know that fall is sending last goodbyes
as snowy days ahead prepare displays.

The trees, soon bare of red-gold-orange shawls,
let rustic browns of branches rule the scene
until the snow wraps them with ermine falls
that cling and drape with whiteness so pristine.

November brings a time we celebrate.
with joyous feasts of food and drink, good cheer.
With family and friends, stay close, relate;
Thanksgiving Day, we honor and revere.

November passes and with her demise,
December comes with end-of-year goodbyes.


14. December

December comes with end-of-year goodbyes.
Full winter now to bloom as days proceed
with snow-filled days, that time that soon implies
we turn our minds to holidays full speed,
when everyone is filled with Christmas joy
and shopping days for loved ones fill each day;
dear families and friends meet to enjoy
this joyous time...our end of year bouquet. 

December is the last month of the twelve
that makes up one year's measured time we spend;
a final year to finish and soon shelve;
last midnight brings December to its end.

A brand new year of twelve will now appear;
divided into months is our Earth year.


15. First Line of Each Sonnet Poem

Divided into months is our Earth year,
and January starts as a new page.
Month two, cold February, will appear;
next, comes our windy March to take her stage.
When April comes on pussy-willow feet,
and month of May unfolds her blossoms soon,
our mid-year month of June brings summer heat.
July now follows summer song of June.

The next months show our seasons take a turn;
the month of August leads to summer's end
when cool September's bends to fall's concern,
October stirs her brilliant autumn blend.

November days deliver winter's prize.
December comes with end-of-year goodbyes.


Sandra M. Haight

~2nd Place~
Contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets (Part Two)
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Judged: 06/09/2016

8 Sonnets


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016


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White Christmas

One Christmas eve, we walked outside, to see the colors glow Along the street, each house was lit, our breaths as white as snow The air was sharp, and the world was white, and flakes were falling 'round We watched it fall, turned off the lights, to crawl between the down We slept a bit, till dawn peeked in, to wake our drowsy eyes Our coffee sipped, now warmed and fit, we took a walk outside The morning chilled, was crystal clear, along the windswept hills The world was white, from snow last night, with views serene and still A hush about, nowhere to rush, at least that’s how it seemed We walked along a frozen stream, as if in slumber's dream The arching sky, surrounded eyes, with a morning star that shined As sun came up to tint the snow, with pink among the pines The birds and deer had reappeared, and all the things that creep Below the hills, the sparkling town, was soon aroused from sleep The world had changed from winter’s blue to soft and ermine white A snow globe world, was all aglow, of winter kissed delight The Christmas lights, of red and green, had shone a rainbow hue upon the snow, that lined the streets, turned on before the sun Our souls refreshed, with frosty breath, we journeyed home in ease Contentment came on silken wings, and the world was filled with peace
For Kelly Deschler's Contest: "Christmas Carols"


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014


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Cannon Lee

The ocean shatters on the banks of my despair
where I stand above the cliffs in mournful yearning there,
amid the thunder and the lightning
that cracks the black of night
I curse the rocks below that took his precious life.
 
Oh Cannon Lee, Oh Cannon Lee!
 
my merman of the sea,
so beautiful a creature the world has never seen.
To gaze upon his beauty is to wake up in a dream
and drift forever in those tranquil eyes of green,
those dreamy eyes of my darling Cannon Lee.
 
I met him on the shore of Evermore
where he lay upon the rocks, his tail torn,
battered by the raging storm, so cold and so forlorn,
dying in the wake of early morn.
 
I wrapped myself around him, beneath my ermine cape,
and felt his shallow breath upon my tear-stained face
as he took me with a kiss
to his land beneath the sea,
the only place where he could ever live and breathe.
 
Visions of Atlantis were painted in my mind,
a castle on a cliff where liquid valleys wind
amid the blue and green
and all the shades of light that fall between,
the difference of awake and in a dream.
 
And in that final hour
his heart began to beat as mine,
and I knew for evermore that I would never find
a love so deep, complete and so divine
as the love that stole my heart, my soul, my mind,
my darling Cannon Lee.
 
And now I stand upon the cliff of Evermore,                
and fall into those dreamy eyes of green once more.

                                  ~~~

Author:  Elaine George

Inspired by:  Edgar Allan Poe


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006


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Frozen in Time

~~

Hand in hand they meander through  the deserted lane, 
freshly fallen snow crumpling under foot 
Littering the sky, Bright stars,  glittering like coins on a belly dancers belt,
slowly surrender to the coming dawn


Inch by measured inch the glory of Ra overpowers the starlight. 
In a pale blue sky, a pale golden disc, the colour of ripe oats at harvest time, 
looking close enough, and cool enough, to reach out and touch. 
Brilliant rays, arrows of liquid gold, capture the pristine landscape, 
splintering like a million shards of shattered glass. 
No sound, only silence, profound, in the clear crystal air.

In the distance, a cock crows.

Long morning shadows cast by tall pines, 
revealing a lone stoat, resplendent in his ermine coat. 
Emerging from shade, merging with sunlight, 
loping across the virgin snow with bounding grace.
White on white, 
only the black tip of his tail and tiny footprints betraying his presence.

In the distance, a dog barks,
	 
A small cottage, a stone chimney, a whisper of smoke announcing a new day,
A hardy little robin pecking with determination to uncover water under ice. 
A door slams, the robin takes flight. 
Snow slides from the roof to gather in piles like miniature Himalayas. 
Icicles drop pearls as the thaw sets in. The world is awakening.

In the distance, a train whistles.
Still holding hands they walk on.

~~


Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2010


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Garden Dreams

Tufted white-tops
on pale beige staggered-stalks,
the coneflowers crowns 
dressed the perennial bed;
leaning precariously against
the conical mushroomesque birdbath.

Snow, soft and wet wrapped the grape arbor like ermine;
making trellises reminiscent of Kanji on a blank page.
Fragile, frozen, flowers hung decoratively,
from frail clematis twined about cedar posts.

Brittle brown maple leaves, left behind by autumn;
drag branches draped,
as in bridal lace to the frosted tarp;
defying winter to do what fall could not.

Conifers cried under the weighty white down.
Their limbs straining not to crack, surrender,
snapping to attention as the day warms.
The snow plops pleasantly to the ground.

Winter waits patiently as the garden dreams.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2008


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Sleepless in Whereis Part 1

I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis, passing chambers of an Heiress (though no need to feel embarrassed) through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless. A glimpse down naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex- poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics carving symbols, round and runic, in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness. In misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues – patchwork paths consume my shoes (chasing foggy curlicues twisting, twirling by in twos, floating anywhere they choose), forming smoky retinues to the footprints that confuse of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering. Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew, shifting Shadows I pursue (wearing faces I once knew), faint and fading from my view midst the treasures in review – lost! no stars to guide me through Awful Towered residues in the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering. Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension, caught in twilight’s intervention – still unlit (in stark dissension), therefore seething with a tension, in the quiet apprehension of the Watchman’s inattention to the night-time’s bold pretension to her power, not to mention, to her hyperspace extension (far beyond my comprehension of the sundown’s black dimension) – On exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness. Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles, me, a simple abject vassal, trailing moonlit floating castles, – fickle feet, but fingers facile grasp at straws and dangling tassels – as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness. I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things, neath a sky alive with wings of a Nightingale that sings, midst the whispered murmurings soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings pacing palaces in rings, while their hapless footfall clings to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splattered castled ruins. Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries, (while the wind beside me scurries, and a hermit Ermine hurries) lurk my sleepy woes and worries (glowing faint’ but growing blurry) which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012


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Old Elms in the Snow

Old Elms in the Snow

It snows this day
upon Your work.
The elms seem sad,
their bark wrinkled fingers
aimlessly appoint. 

Piped in ermine, winter
ballerina limbs
take permanent position,
frozen supplicant or
petrified pirouette.

Winter grows still
my God.

Kathryn M. Collins


Copyright © kathryn collins | Year Posted 2013


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Your Best Friend

The problem of the inclusive pronoun is still very much a problem for the writer, and needs an accepted solution.  I tried for years with a suggested one of my own, but it never caught on.  So here, I have simply alternated them--over and over!

     Your Best Friend

You may not know him very well
and often slighted her at times
you needed him the most.
You neither heard nor gave a thought
to all the wisdom packed among
the secrets of her mind.

He fades from time to time,
and often thinks she is not wanted, nor
quite sensible enough to speak out boldly,
lest he bowdlerize the common sense
proclaimed by gilt-edged saints
enshrined in texts the priests
bear high above our nodding heads...
and would she dare to disagree?

But there he is--
and all the little thoughts churn
endlessly, and quite in vain.
She is your friend, conceived on skeins
of common cloth; his sources are
the mysteries the ages pass
to everyman, the flying residue
of concepts born of the enlightenment 
that generates upon prolific shores
unseen--some call them mansions
of a heavenly domain where God resides.

I will not reduce such visionary
to a royal personhood, give him a sex
nor place him on a throne.  She is
too much for anyone to pray to, bow before,
or lovingly array in ermine robes
and facial hair,
and that best friend denies his pedigree
to so assume.
And yet a modicum of faith preserves
a shred of confidence within 
that she does not in plain reality,
so lead.

Your friend (and any God who may personify
himself) does so abound in unexplored
and virgin territory, that ready inspiration
is available to any meditator or philosopher
who stumbles over truth--best friend indeed!
No question is too much for her examination;
there are nuances to the myriad of answers
he may entertain, or at the least, confront. 
No preachment is beyond her reach. 
He leaves no clue to her identity, for
He is you!
    ~





Copyright © Robert Ludden | Year Posted 2014


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Packed Up Pachyderm

You know when I think about it now and what I have to do,
a lot of you folk out there would have a bit of envy too;
you see I'm a 'lacky' for a vet, well a nurse I s'pose is true,  
and sometimes I get to help out, down at a private zoo.

For some in my position it's a treat from sheep and horses,
or just the common cat and dog when giving out their courses
of tablets in the bottles, for hydatid, worms and fleas, 
and writing out receipts when owners pay their fees.

So I loved to go down to the zoo and grab a tiger by the tail,
or even box a kangaroo, or put a bison in the bale.
I loved to feel the ermine fur or check the throat of a giraffe,
but me favourite's always been, the monkeys for a laugh. 

But there can be some 'trip falls’; of this I have no doubt.
Well I had to have me stomach and me lungs pumped out
from working with an elephant, that's feeling pretty crook, 
and I was left to nurse him after the vet had had a look.

I listened for his diagnosis when he checked the 'pachy' out,
and after prodding here and poking there, he said "Without a doubt,
this poor old fellas in the wars" then looked at me and stated 
"I'll give you instructions what to do - he's only constipated!"

"Now" the vet reminded me "Here's what I want you to do,
I want you to fill an order form and book it to the zoo
for a hundred pounds of prunes, and two hundred pound of figs,
plus a hundred pound of artichokes, and berries, leaves and twigs."

"That's the natural helping hand to get some movement at the rear, 
but we can move it quicker if we use unnatural gear,
so put laxettes on the order form, and a hundred packs I'd say.
That ought to be enough I think to have some movement on the way." 

I spoke softly to the elephant and gave his trunk a pat,
while the vet continued on about where this old 'pachy's' at;
"You'll have to feed him slowly; this could take a week or two,
and make sure you listen or the onus could end up on you."

"Every hour on the hour give two pound of prunes and figs, 
then just one pack of laxettes and some berries, leaves and twigs,
and don't forget the artichokes, but only every now and then.
You'll have to walk him up and down the fence line in his pen."

Now I'd heard the vet’s instructions and his words "Now don't forget!"
But for some reason I believed I knew more than the vet,
and I knew the elephant that suffered with its blocked up drain,
would rather have me clear it quick to ease his nagging pain. 

So I said "Stuff the vet!" I'll have this 'pachy' cured by today; 
I'll fill him up with figs and prunes and then have laxettes on the way.
"So come on 'pachy' boy" I said while shoving in an artichoke,
"Come on, more prunes and figs" I said as more and more I stoke.  

The 'pachy's' sides were swelling out, and so too were his cheeks,
he'd taken in four hundred pounds that should have lasted weeks,
and still he stands there all-forlorn with no movement at the back,
and if there isn't any movement soon - how else can I attack!

He staggered left and then to right, but stayed upon his feet.
He must be ready to explode with all that stuff he had to eat.
I've got to think of something quick. Of course! Of course! Aha!  
I'll go and get some olive oil - and give him an enema.

Old 'pachy' stood with drooping head and eyes both dull and sad,
while I walked around the back of him with this olive oil I had.
I took off the cap and gently pushed the bottle in then round and round,
and the 'pachy' started twitching - and then I heard a rumbling sound.

And before I took a backward step, there's a few plops then a flood
gushing out all over me, like a dump truck full of mud!
I tried to shout for someone's help, but that’s to no avail,
for I'm somewhere in the mountain that shot out beneath its tail. 

I was burrowing like mad; me lungs were screaming out for air,
and I'm filling up with prunes and figs that rained upon me there. 
I kept fighting through the laxettes and the artichokes as well.
Now I know just what they mean if someone mentions 'living hell!'

Thank God I thought when in me fight I felt the helping press
of hands from blokes in over-alls; all from the S.E.S.
with masks upon their faces to protect from methane gas,
and a block and tackle all set up to drag me from the mass.  

Then I saw them drawing straws, for they thought that I was dead.
And the winner screamed, "No bloody way, I'd rather quit instead.
If he needs mouth to mouth then the bugger’s gunna die!"
Then I coughed up a couple of prunes and shot a fig into the sky.
   
I saw relief come on his face as now I coughed and spat out muck,
but I should have known to be alive is only half me luck,
for bits and pieces on those prunes caused more trouble to unfold ...
that's right, they hosed me down and then - the laxettes took a hold!

Of course the telly and the paper knew they got themselves a hit, 
when someone's buried to their neck, in half a tonne of … ‘muck!’  
Now my experimental diet's practiced by every vet and zoo,
when pachyderms pack up and they need a hand or two.

And I became an instant hit with what I'd say a huge profile,
but the vet got jealous with my fame and my inventive style,
so now when 'pachy's pack up, it's the vet who will entice, 
and constipation jobs I get these days are all involving mice! 



Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2016


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Haiku-soundless in soft snow



soundless in soft snow

    stoat displays black tip of tail...

          all else- white on white








Contest: Animal Haiku
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Written: November 2011.  Margaret Foster


The stoat is a type of weasel. In winter his coat turns white ( ermine) except for the black tip of his tail. 


Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2011


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I'd Drink It Down Like Water

Bring out your white, bring out your red,
Bring out the grapevine's daughter,
Enough to fill a waterbed,
We'll drink it down like water,

Pour it cold, pour it cool,
Pour it a little hotter,
Fill the glass - the golden rule,
Sobriety to slaughter.

Like rivers flowing with the tide,
Wine to soak the blotter,
Wine to fill the oceans wide,
Wine to drink like water.

Toast your sainted mother sure,
And toast your alma mater,
Pick up a wee dram o' the pure,
And down the hatch like water.

Whiskey smooth as ermine pelt,
Or mayhap that of otter,
Here me lad, let's have a belt,
We'll take it down like water.

If you want a hearty brew,
Then I will be your spotter,
Quite a lineup will ensue,
We'll pound 'em down like water.

Leaning on a beggar's crutch,
The merest rabble squatter,
With glass in hand I thirst as much,
As any kingly yachter.

Whether 'tis crystal with golden rim,
Or clay from the local potter,
Fill that bad boy right to the brim,
Then it gets my imprimatur.

Set the bottles, and set me a glass,
I'll mow them down like excess fodder.
Nectar of the gods or cuvée crass,
I'll knock it back like water.

The thirsty man with teetotaling wife,
'Twon't be long before he's fought her,
Serve the liquid love, avoid the strife,
He'll drink it down like water.

Scheme to take my booze away,
Ye righteous little plotter,
Ye may pay, and ye may pray,
But it's going down like water.

I'll slug it back - the sweet, the dry,
Enough to weave and totter,
Tomorrow I'll wake thirsty, aye,
And probably need some water.


Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016


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One in a Million

One in a million, gazillion, bazillion
Worth more than gold dollars a trillion or a billion –
You are my beacon, a Christian, love driven.
No heathen, no herdsman, no huntsman or felon.
No elfin, no ermine, no coward or chicken.
No Klansman, no demon with madman's affliction.
No Gremlin, no goblin no devil dare action.
No draftsman, no doorman, no footman in fashion.
No henchman, no lynch man, no hack man or hangman.
No plowman, no pressman, no herdsman or ranch-man.
No oarsman from Dublin, or coachman from Britain.
No Cajun, no Haitian, no Frenchman, not Latin.
Not even a Martian with earthly transactions.
My hearts guiding light, my soul's satisfaction,
I know your great love by your kindness in action.
You read every thought and broaden my smile.
You stand close beside me mile after mile.
No hardship that comes can tear our love down.
Nor turn your demeanor into an endless frown.
Brought together by fate, marriage became our ensign.
We walk together on a straight and narrow line.
You are my fortune, my gladdening in famine.
My almsman, my sweetheart, you loved my tears away.
My one in a million, gazillion, bazillion
I thank God everyday that you came my way.
A gazillion, bazillion, and trillion thanks I send to you.
I promise that my love will never say adieu.
My Norwegian, I love you.

© November 12, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen


Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010


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Veggies, Veggies, Veggies



Veggies, veggies, I sure love my veggies Just about any that you can name A salad a day for more than two years now You'd think I would tire of 'em but hey, not me Still the best meal of the day With my favourite Poppy Seed Dressing What could be better A meal fit for a king, hmmm maybe not A kings feast is comprised of raw meat With beautiful slave girls standing by Waiting to grant me my every wish Hmmm! That sure sounds pretty good to me How does one become king Is there some exam you have to pass I'm a pretty smart cookie Should pass it with flying colours Would like a crown of solid gold Bedazzled with rubies and sapphires An ermine cloak and dazzling rings on every finger! Am I overdoing it, you think This all started out talking about veggies Did you noticed at what point it started down a different path Oh well back to boring old veggies Somehow they've lost their appeal Gotta leave you now Going to take than exam to hopefully become king Veggies, veggies, veggies! © Jack Ellison 2014


Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014


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12 DAYS TO --- BEING BANNED

12 Days to Being Banned (on Fb) On the first day of Christmas, I sent out a friend request to A Donald Duck swimming. On the second day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the third day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the fourth day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Four armies arming, Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the fifth day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Five ... actors ... acting ~ Four armies arming, Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the sixth day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Six poets penning, Five ... actors ... acting ~ Four armies arming, Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the seventh day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Seven people fb pocking, Six poets penning, Five ... actors ... acting ~ Four armies arming, Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the eighth day of Christmas, I sent out friend requests to Eight George Clooney sites, Seven people fb pocking, Six poets penning, Five ... actors ... acting ~ Four armies arming, Three groups regrouping, Two drunks driving, And a Donald Duck swimming. On the ninth day of Christmas, the Lawyers sent to me Nine last warnings, And a letter banning me. On the tenth day of Christmas, the Lawyers sent to me Ten Orders Restraining, Nine last warnings, And a letter banning me. On the eleventh day of Christmas, the Lawyers sent to me Eleven Harassment Suits pending Ten Orders Restraining, Nine last warnings, And a letter banning me. On the twelfth day of Christmas, my *true love sent to me Twelve long stem red roses Eleven Back Stage Passes, Ten Complementary Tickets, Nine New Release copies, Eight party invitations, Seven boxes of chocolates, Six haute couture dresses, Five pairs of Jimmy Choo shoes, Four alligator handbags , Three cases of Champagne, Two ermine wraps, And a signed photograph just for me!
*George Clooney Suzette Crous 17/12/2012 Poetic Licence to the Max :-) Sponsor Poet Destroyer A Contest Name any poem goes | Original song under About section


Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2012


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THE CHAMPAGNE SOCIALIST

(For those of you who don't know - Lord Two Jags - John Prescott, 
was the deputy Prime Minister to "President" Prime Minister Tony Blair when he was in charge of Little Britain.)  


LORD......TWO JAGS!

IN

((THE CHAMPAGNE SOCIALIST))


"WARNING"
(Some strong language in the following poem, may cause offence. Any complaints should be sent to the....PC Brigade!).

(To the tune of The Red Flag).


The working class can kiss his a***
He's in the House of Lords at last.
Though critics jeer and colleagues sneer
You won't find Prezza sheds a tear!

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
He's in the place he's longed to be
Among the aristocracy.

Although he once worked on a boat
He's now got ermine round his throat,
The oik from Hull is now a toff
His snout wedged firmly in the trough!

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
He'll help himself to more and more
And sod the needy and the poor!

He's sworn the Hypocritic oath
To be a two - faced pompous oaf,
And though it's made Old Labour cross
You won't find Prezza gives a toss!

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
Ennobled now and oh so grand
He's joined the gentry of the land.

He says it won't affect his life
He's only done it for his wife.
Though she'll be known as Lady Muck
You won't find Prezza' don't give a ****!

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
And now that he's a proper swell
His principles can go to hell!

He'll man the barricades once more
To keep the riff - raff from his door.
For fairer shares he'll fight the cause
As long as his share's more than yours!

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
He'll claim he won't betray his roots
Then make the workers lick his boots!

So raise a glass to John the Nob,
At last he's found the perfect job.
He'll sit all day on his fat a***
Hobnobbing with the Ruling Class.

CHORUS:

He'll quaff champagne from dusk till dawn,
He'll play croquet on his front lawn,
And though the world cries hypocrite,
He's happy as a pig in ****!


BY
DARRYL ASHTON


Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014


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To Walk in Winter Blue

At the edge of dawn, to climb the path, along the windswept hills
The world lies blue, from a downy night, and views serene and still

The world is hushed, nowhere to rush, at least that’s how it seems
I will walk along a crystal stream, as if it still my dream

The arching sky, surrounds my eyes, a morning star that shines
As sun comes up to tint the snow, with pink among the pines

The birds and deer have reappeared, and all the things that creep
Below the hills, a sparkling town, is soon aroused from sleep

The world is changed from winter’s blue to soft and ermine white
A snowglobe world, is all aglow, of winter kissed delight

My soul refreshed, with frosty breath, and I find my worries cease
Contentment comes on silken wings, my world seems filled with peace

_______________________________________________
For Juli Michelle's Contest: Winter Blue


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011


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Tribute to The Day before You Came by Bjorn Ulvaeus in the first 1982 ABBA version

Tribute to “The Day Before You Came” * by Bjorn              
in the first 1982 ABBA version 


The day before yesterday 
You came together to play
To lift our hearts in joy 
Belting out in convoy
The day after he came 
We celebrate whose fame
You wailed through self-pity 
But ne’er called it Beauty

‘Infinite suffering thing’ 
Would that Eliot could sing
Pre-dramatic event 
Your breaking-up you meant
“Pretty sure it must have rained”
”…rattling on the roof” hearts stained
The day after he came
Most songs seem sound the same

“Knowing you Knowing me”
Never meant to be free
“…my life…its usual frame”
“…sense of living without aim”
Yes “Some one is crying”
No some one’s conniving
At noon must have left for lunch
“…usual place…usual bunch”

The sad journey on rails
Must break hearts crammed in jails
Due at eight in the morn
Back at eight all forlorn
“And turning out the light”
Curled safe in bed at night
For the day after he came
My life burned on a flame

The paradox of joy
Is that it makes one cry
‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’
Better still safe routine in tow
“…I hid a part of me…”
“…in heaps of papers” for fee
And let the world pass by
Not knowing what is joy

Is joy carpe diem
Was day before he came
Now my life’s over due
I’ve met my Waterloo
The train’s an ugly monster
Dragging its hind legs after
Frida’s howl pack of hounds
Benny's sound track train pounds

Anna’s swan tones lament
Bjorn’s lines uptight breasts rent
Beauty’s not only content
It’s also the way you vent
Conceit’s the ermine cloak
Rattling skeletons croak
Bjorn’s true lines exquisite poem
Sung in sweet pain What’s its name

Notes

Words within inverted commas are from the song.
Single quotes indicate other well-known words.

*Rhyme scheme: 4  stanzas (3 of ten lines with concluding quatrain) in rhymed couplets of varying syllabic count.
1st stanza: aabbccde ff
2nd stanza: aagghhii ff
3rd stanza: ddggiijj ff
4th stanza: kk ff 
Not all in perfect rhyme: rain/came (for instance)
The syllabic count (more or less): 14 (with the exception of the 4th
line at 18 and eighth (exception: 1st stanza at 10) and tenth at 6.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016 











Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016


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Disclosure

Some question if there was full disclosure
When we decided to follow Jesus to this earth.
Were we told the nature of mortal exposure?
Did we know the challenges beginning at birth?

I doubt not that we made an informed choice,
And were, indeed, told of what we’d confront.
The truth likely came from God’s own voice
Lest lack of knowledge give cause for affront.

So we took the fated step with faith affirmed.
And bravely entered this formidable estate,
Where Christ-like acts our decision confirmed.
Though evil acts by some showed another trait.

On a coming day we must give God a full report
Of how we did living in this mortal sphere.
The righteous will garner His blessed support,
And those who erred could have much to fear.

Yes, I know this worn Sunday School sermon
Is simplistic, naïve, juvenile, and out of fashion.
It is mocked by the elite and some in ermine
But those next to God embrace it with passion.


Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2014


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Cannon Lee - Re-posted for reference

The ocean shatters on the banks of my despair
where I stand above the cliffs in mournful yearning there,
amid the thunder and the lightning
that cracks the black of night
I curse the rocks below that took his precious life.

Oh Cannon Lee, Oh Cannon Lee!
my merman of the sea,
so beautiful a creature the world has never seen.
To gaze upon his beauty is to wake up in a dream
and drift forever in those tranquil eyes of green,
those dreamy eyes of my darling Cannon Lee.

I met him on the shore of Evermore
where he lay upon the rocks, his tail torn,
battered by the raging storm, so cold and so forlorn,
dying in the wake of early morn.

I wrapped myself around him, beneath my ermine cape,
and felt his shallow breath upon my tear-stained face
as he took me with a kiss
to his home beneath the sea,
the only place where he could ever live and breathe.

Visions of Atlantis were painted in my mind,
a castle on a cliff where liquid valleys wind
amid the blue and green
and all the shades of light that fall between,
the difference of awake and in a dream.

And in that final hour
his heart began to beat as mine,
and I knew for evermore that I would never find
a love so deep, complete and so divine
as the love that stole my heart, my soul, my mind,
my darling Cannon Lee.

And now I stand upon the cliff of Evermore,
and fall into those dreamy eyes of green once more.


                                 ~~~
                            Author:  Elaine George


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2009


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Winter Snow


Winter Snow

Sleek ermine boas draping
the naked arms of nature
bare of their green velvet capes...
snow falling, settling.

Sandra M. Haight

~NA~
Contest: Winter Dodoitsu
Sponsor: Heather Ober
Judged: 11/13/2015


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015


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GUYS WILL BE GUYS

GUYS WILL BE GUYS
 ^ ^ ^             ^^


guy frogs are boisterously loud
        quacking  their throats, they feel male-proud
                 a stern warning to shoo
                 will invite crazed cuckoo …
                       so, no big bug meal was allowed


same creatures eyed a cute woman
    got white legs, tads acted human
         wiggling their green noses
          with a throw of roses…
                      turns out, she was an old ermine!



……………


© rights reserved
* don't guys act like frogs, chimps, and vice-versa? 
      such are men, kidding, moe!... :)
*Ermine is a weasel with a tail and brown , furry hair. :)

Contest:
John Freeman’s  “  Limericks Hilarious”
By: nette onclaud







Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2011