Best Fictional Character Poems
Good morning, Mr. Elmer Fudd
Can you tell me, do you still have your habit
Of telling Bugs to say his pwayers?
When you're hunting for...that silwy wabbit
Hewwo sir, yes...but be vewy vewy quiet
I'm wooking for some wabbit twacks...
And I'm wooking for that qwacky Donald Duck
So, wisten for his qwacky qwacks
Hey Elmer, can you tell me a dirty joke...
And do you know a joke that's funny?
And do you know a dirty joke...
That's about your friend Bugs Bunny
Yes, sir- A silwy wabbit fell in the mud
He was fwilthy all about
Then, another silwy wabbit fell in the mud
But, oh my, thwee silwy wabbits...came out
(From the Bugs Bunny Cartoon Show)
A Conversation with a Fictional Character Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
2/4/2022
[Imagine this talk is coming from a Roman news reporter who is describing to a group of citizens on the town square wanting to know what is going on and why there is turmoil in their city. This story comes directly from the Bible and is an inspiration for myself and many Christians.]
It’s happening right now on the town square,
I just came from there,
It was a terrible sight to see,
They’re nailing some guy to a tree.
It looks like they beat him to death,
The poor man can barely take a breath,
They jammed a crown of thorns on his head,
It looks like he is almost dead.
He claims to be the King of the Jews,
Have you heard his radical views?
He says we do not have to die,
How can this be true? It must be a lie.
They said Pilate tried to set him free,
But the high priest would not let that be,
So Pilate washed his hands of this mess,
Because he found no wrongs confessed.
There are two others with him on the hill,
All three they plan to kill,
The two criminals I understand why,
But this Rabbi should not have to die.
Most of his friends cannot be found,
Someone said they must have fled town,
His Mother and a few are at his feet,
They followed him up the bloody street.
There is a sign nailed above his head,
“King of the Jews” is what it read,
The Messiah is what you claim to be,
Save yourself, come down, set your self free.
A soldier said his final time has come,
He is asking God to forgive everyone,
He said “God why have you forsaken me?”
Looking towards Heaven as if to see.
Guards are throwing dice for his clothes,
There is no pity for him God knows,
Struggling to speak, “It is finished” he said,
He finally laid down his head.
The day turned to night; the ground began to shake,
Graves are opening, the dead are awake,
People are afraid and running around,
They pierced his side and pulled him down.
Shouts in the temple, the curtain is torn in two,
The elders and priests now know what is true,
Just then I heard the centurion say,
“This truly was a Holy man we killed today.
A conversation with a fictional character Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
2/3/22
" Hello, Mr. Cupid!
I'm so excited to talk to you.
You are the ambassador for love.
And give hope to the sad and blue.
" Hi, how are you?
Thank you for the compliment,
I'm just doing what I was born to do.
It's my pleasure to spread love.
" I didn't believe in love or you.
But I no longer doubt I believe.
You see your arrow went straight through,
The walls of my sad and broken heart.
" I seek the broken-hearted, my friend.
And I happen to have really good aim.
You know what? Love triumphs in the end.
I appreciate you, cheering for love.
“It’s my pleasure, the world needs love.
How do you feel about having a holiday?
It’s tomorrow, a day to celebrate love.
Folk everywhere will let love have its say.
“ It brings me pure joy and lets me see what
I do is worthwhile, it makes my heart smile.
This is not a job for me it is my life’s purpose.
For a broken heart, I would fly many miles.
“ WoW! Mr. Cupid thanks for talking to me.
I see that you love what you are called to do.
You have made my day filled with much glee.
Have an awesome and amazing day, goodbye.
“ Inspired by the “ Conversation
With A Fictional Character “ contest
*Happy Valentine’s Day
02/13/2022
Me: Say Charlotte, is your story true?
C: It’s fictional, now are we through?
Me: So are you rich from telling yarns?
C: I’ve got nice threads, but live in barns.
Me: Are you a speedster in disguise?
C: I took a spin; I won a prize.
Me: So what’s your sport now, with your size?
C: Baseball, I guess, ‘cuz I catch flies.
Me: Do you take trips by ground or air?
C: I went by truck, seemed pretty fair.
Me: I hear your love of school is big?
C: I learned to spell and saved a pig!
Me: I hear you were a diplomat?
C: I once coerced a nasty rat.
Me: At this point, what’s your great concern?
C: I’m losing it; I talk to ferns.
Me: So is your life now on the skids?
C: You ever kept a thousand kids?
Me: Surely your life’s not been a dud?
C: You’ve clearly never sucked fly’s blood.
Me: So you’re concened with mental health?
C: I often try to hang myself.
Me: What helps most with life's flow and ebb?
C: I sit a lot and surf the web.
—————
(Inspired by Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White)
FIRST PLACE WINNER
for ‘a conversation with a fictional character’ Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
Submitted 2/4/22
‘My name is Bond…
James Bond,’ I say.
The ladies swoon:
I have a way.
I kill the ‘bads’
And save the day.
My life is cool,
At work and play.
Jack Horne for Georgio’s Become a Fictional Character contest
About James Bond (from any of 007’s adventures by Ian Fleming)
A female gymnast in Romania
Sweet girl's name is Nadia
Went to a castle passed Brasov
A legendary castle, not of Romanov
Elegant and so cozy
To stay is nonchalant and dozy
Fictional character hailed once
People's world quivered more than once
Nadia kept coming back
In the said castle with a knack
Fell asleep one time waiting
In Bram Stoker's baiting
The night so dim in the scene
As a knight comes out with sheen
But the night crumbled with pangs
Nadia and the knight bitten with fangs
From the bed Nadia dropped on the floor, screaming
... a dream!
From the moment I was born I wept. I cried out of wanting, After all to want is the first natural humane instinct. As I got older I walked through life holding open my heart to experiences even if unwillingly. My eyes remained wide as my legs carried me through twisting generations.
I have laughed gaily without judgment, grieved earth shattering loss, embraced joy beyond what the motion pictures portray and loved and been loved more than any fictional character that its writer breathed life onto paper.
From cradle to my destined grave I stroll on earths vast plain of emotion to take hold of life and live as if tomorrow my again body would be laid to rest.
A newborn cries because it is its horn of proof that it is thriving with vitality. An elder gently sobs under breath knowing each day they inhale is another day of dying. We are born into cradling arms and are buried cancelling ourselves, From life to death we take memories we've made from cradle to grave. Nothing is more precious, needed and wanted to either groups young r old than a life fully lived before the final chapter is read.
Birth to twelve is layered in childhood innocents. Becoming a teen is our first presumable milestone and we assume ourselves to be made of granite like Galatea.
Throughout our twenties our lips taste first loves even lust but gracefully as we age our minds and souls carry us home making a place to rest out weary bodies, a place to rest with growing families. Children come wrapped in beautiful ribbons and we grow old. Wrinkles come, inevitably dependency goes then we parish to our coffins made by younger, sometimes older hands.
But even after we rest under feet of blackened tear filled soil we live, To be born again or to be swept away by Gods gentle voice no one person can say.
But we live and breath, inhale life though our lungs from cradle to the grave.
"Sorry for not capitalizing, hope that fixed it! Please keep commenting :) Much love, Whit."
The way he gazes at the moon,
Doesn't quite feel right; every day he has a different tune.
I envy his starlight, the perfect fit for a groom
The kind that doesn't find a reason to fight
With much passion, I was drawn by his spiritual side,
Putting on a show with his flamboyant stride
Like a jewel, he sparkles brighter than 100 years of TWILIGHT
Without a remedy for fading away, I see no reason to stray
He has never shown an ego larger than mine.
Nor a side that needs to conceal how he feels inside.
For some reason, in this relationship, "I'm Always Right."
With my narcissistic personality, he complements my OCD.
When he dreams and closes his eyes,
I can sense and envision __ sunrise
Gorgeous, like a rainbow at any given moment
He's every fantasy come true, nevertheless, too good to be straight...
When he holds my hand, he wears a smile that lifts every mood.
This feels like heaven in any LGBTQ book everything feels good
No straight man gives a grin with every given look
With boundless joy and passion, sometimes I feel he fell from above.
Involved romantically, everything one might dream of.
The hues he wears are not of my yesteryear.
Vivid yellow, a reminder to himself of how happy life should be.
When he buys flowers, one can feel he's in love.
Not in love with me, but his unending SANITY.
Every night, he sits and shares his lovely poetic verses,
delightful between every course, he has me under a curse
Always writing about butterflies and Cloud Nine.
I won't mention his sensitive side, which is more intense than mine.
When we talk on the phone, I can feel the pleasure in his tone
Life with him feels like a novel; everything about him feels unreal.
It's surreal, sometimes I feel Danielle Steel wrote his fictional character
What if he's merely an angel in disguise? This would explain everything
Nevertheless!!! As my mother used to say
If he seems too good to be true, then he must be gay.
**D.J. SoundJack**
Reggae serenades a run down shack
Exquisite beats by D.J. SoundJack
A tall dreaded hippie
Surprisingly witty
One that thrives on negative feedback
* D.J SoundJack is not a fictional character, he is one of my dearest friends and
biggest supporters. He spins all over the Tri-City area and in the Burroughs.
A raw talent indeed that throws a great show regardless of the venue.*
Jared Pickett
3/16/2014
Asavvy1
ered, just like I would be if I ever found myself in Gossip Girl’s contrived version of New York
City’s upper east
side on a (b)lust
ery day and I saw prettily-pressed preppy clothes clinging to the perfect pie
l (skin in Spanish. Duh. Who doesn’t (k)now
that?) of Chuck
Bass, the hottest fictional character ever to grace a fashion-forward, self-destructive-lifestyle-
glamorizing teenage
soap opera. Granted, frost
bite has a better personality than Chuck Bass, but ahh… sigh…he still drives me loca.
There. That digression has kept me from going completely loca
but don’t think my unrequited lust
for Chuck Bass has in any way diminished my unrequited lust for a pseudo-intellectual Frost/
Nixon movie discussion party. Ha! I jest. Of course I mean for a frosted sugar cookie. So
let’s ditch this piece of
pie,
go searching for a sugar cookie, and end this Chuck
Palahniuk-esque multiple personality disorder now.
Don’t worry. This won’t take long. I’ve got an (echo)loca(tion) ability for sugar cookies like
bats have for bugs.
“What about the pie?”
you ask, “We can’t just waste it because of your irrational lust(y) cravings.” I know you’re
right so I strike a
compromise. While you’re lacing up your Chuck
Taylors, I patiently allow the waitress to box up the pie as a possible post-frosted sugar
cookie supplement, even
though if we had abandoned the pie, I’d be bathed in beautiful frosted sugar cookie-ness by
now.
I would like to do an interview with you, "OK what are your questions but don't make me blue." How do you like being Jon's best friend, "he makes me laugh and we will be best friends until the end." Garfield you don't like animal food~wet or dry, "Yuk~I am a doughnut~pizza~lasagna kind of a guy." That is not good for you in real-life, "so~I will die enjoying my life." Why are you so lazy, "really~~I love being in rest mode~is that so crazy." "Are we almost done," just a couple more questions for fun. What do you think of Liz, "she is a really nice lady~Jon should be nicer than he is." "Pooky it is time for a doughnut and a nap,"
I guess this interview is now over with a wrap.
Date Written:2/1/2022
1 Place
Note: Garfield The Comic Strip Cat.
The cat in a fur coat that thinks he is a people.
a conversation with a fictional character
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
It happens when you’re debilitated, laid-up, sick;
random images, memories
coalesce within the unoccupied reason of your mind.
Maybe you have a memory, standing on a hill, chilled,
watching the final high school football game of the season.
Maybe you are a fictional character writing about mixed emotions:
your youth transcending societal doubt.
You could be a real person
fictionalizing a pubescent experience
upon a million future pages
describing insecurity at a time of social transition.
Agerstown Pennsylvania wasn’t a bad place to live,
but Pencey was a haven of unforgiving classmates.
Absent mindedness was no excuse
and a lack of self-discipline was grounds for expulsion.
The History instructor was an engaging and affable fellow,
like instructors are.
He was concerned about you,
that instructor that spoke with you
and was aware of the student unable to apply his self
in the presence of teenage shenanigans and impulsive drama.
It seems you were a victim
or a misapprehension of circumstance.
The lack of women at Pencey Prep School was obvious.
The slovenly plain and fidgeting daughter of the headmaster drew your eye.
A growing libido and an ailing fantasy life is no way to grow up.
And while such things make for an interesting read,
they are thin of poetry, romance, and sexual deeds.
Upon the hill pondering flashes of memory,
physical youth seems pleasurable compared to a bleak, unknowable future.
Some good-byes are worth waiting for, some are not.
We always seem to remember bad good-byes.
It is remembering what could-have-been
that keeps us recounting such random and undesired images.
(A Life Worth Living)
Chapter 1
Seems I have to accept you are gone from my life
Though in truth you were really a minor
Who became major leaguer, in spite of the facts,
On the day that you called me grandfather.
We adopted each other for better or worse,
A blood bond formed with poetry’s heartbeat.
Childless senior who shared your unspeakable loss,
Youthful poetry: watering my life,
Both my marriages barren (I guess it was fate)
Your real family gone in an instant.
It was mother’s last gift to push you from their car
(Barely hanging from cliff and on fire),
She succeeded to launch oldest girl from the nest
Though she failed at extracting your brother.
It was mom’s love of life that gave birth to your muse
When you woke a month later from coma!
Though you missed out on closure of family wake
Now you honor their lives with your talent,
And weep poetry’s tears you can no longer fight
With your brother, just memory fading. (1)
Brian Johnston
July 8, 2016
Poet's Notes:
Neethu Panicker was a 16 year old female poet on PoemHunter.com when I first
became acquainted with her. Suffering from depression and complications from
brain trauma after her fall and she eventually withdrew from PoemHunter and
may now be deceased. With her leaving PoemHunter all our correspondence
disappeared so this poem comes mainly from my memory of her many emails
to me.
There will be several more Chapters to this poem as I find time to write them
and every word is a faithful paraphrase of her life as she shared it with me. We
never met, so a caution, she could be a fictional character though I personally
want to believe her story is true. I will do my best to share this amazing story
for I may be the only one who can. I do apologize for the serial nature of this
“poem” but it is really quite an undertaking as time will reveal.
(1) Her only extant work "MISS YOU BRO" that I know of can be found on my
PoemHunter.com site under the title "Ph: Poem En Duo: Views Of A Dark
Canyon" and on PoetrySoup.com under the title "Views Of A Dark Canyon:
Poems En Duo 1."
Let’s have a little game and see how you do.
Guess my riddle with each hidden clue.
I walk on all fours but fly through the air.
I’m a fictional character and I have brown hair.
I’m on a team but not on a list.
I can point and kick but I can’t make a fist.
I have two horns to help clear the way.
I’m really fast but allergic to hay.
That last clue comes from a poem I wrote.
If you come to my home it won’t be by boat.
I’m not in the front and I’m not in the rear.
Now guess my name and be perfectly clear.
If anything, please know I tried
I tripped, slipped and fell behind
I came up short, with empty hands
With two left feet, I tried to dance
I never fit inside the lines
The artist had a structured mind
Inside my head, the music played
The world around, I would evade
I imagined that, it went away
To my own beat, my body swayed
But there you stood, a tiny spot
An itty bitty, perfect dot
You longed for that which can't be bought
But mama failed, she forgot
Though it is a selfish thought
Please don't hate me for what I'm not
Each day, I plan
To begin again
A fresh new hand
I dare not bend
A blank page with no scribbles
And hand full of sharpened pencils
As soon as the led on the first pencil snaps
My fingers slip and lose grasp
A perfect package of expectations
Opened a moment too soon
I lose count of my loose ends
My day, now out of tune
I've come to terms with lack of luck
Deciding things just won't look up
I try so hard but for what
Now stubborn and bruised my ego is stuck
I imagine myself going with the flow
Despite my duck's unsightly row
And the fickle nature of that we know
No worries, my darling, mom will show
But now, my love, I finally see
That what I'm striving so hard to be
Is not your mother. It isn't me
It might be the lady down the street
With red lipstick and polished feet
A fictional character, possibly
Someone better, arguably
But perhaps I fulfill a different need
So I'll pass self love down the family tree