Best Fiddle Poems
Riding off into the Ivory Palace sunset,
in a pitch-black limousine, no less
Hear the heavy metallic chariot roar,
leaving exacerbated fumes echo deplored
Aural palette, enamel pestilent pain
on burnt crimson background grain
Scorching prairie brush fire
was the cruel comfort desire
It’s aghast portrait in pandemic grief,
pyramid scheme exit of paucity relief
The curtain call, pulmonary rating king
is a modern-day Nero
His favorite numbers (violin strumming)
are the printed zeroes
Fashioning a Fourth Reich,
naked emperor be blew Lenin unsound
Ballot dropping the psych,
bosom burning the divided house down
With a teary grift posturing diddle,
Amerikan Nero is playing the fiddle
Rearview rolling one last Rublecon riddle,
carny Fahrenheit was the plucking piddle
Crumbling democracy
was brimstone seen through the smoke
Ash trail of hypocrisy
left an urn nation crematorium stoked
12-29-20
The full fallow moon was hung low in July
As white stars and fireflies lit the night sky,
A sight to behold was the feline bold'
Drawing sighs from the violin, his arms did enfold
He played on the breeze to the harvest to come
As An orchestra of crickets rasped to each thrum.'
He raised now the tempo and thought
Of a dish and a spoon that had shone
In delighted dedication....As off they did run!
And so he made ‘paws' quaffing wine from a tun,
Then throwing the fiddle up tight to his chin
He forgot about thinking in pursuit of more din!
The cow swished her tail to the music he made
As the dog danced the polka, through a small garden maze
He played till the pearly dawn light did show
Then the crickets fell silent; and the bird calls did grow!
He slept where he fell, to bother no more...
As a ship makes its way to the safest of shores.’
As he turns in his slumber, as she rolls o'er the waves
He would hold no regrets ‘till the ending of days.'
©Joe Maverick 12-10-13
Four young men and quite large
Are cruising the mall like a barge.
But I, diddle, diddle,
Fit as a fiddle,
Aim my cane at the middle and charge!
Cross-legged he sits upon the ground
Playing a fiddle that makes no sound.
With a broken bow in his frozen grip
No note from his hand will ever slip.
He sits amidst the flowers in bloom-
The air redolent with their sweet perfume,
But he’s immobile indeed throughout the day
And so never sends forth a musical lay.
Yet I swear I heard as I was falling asleep
At the end of a day I had no wish to keep,
When my mind was weary and my thoughts were dim,
I’m sure I heard music coming from him.
He fiddled in notes that were joyful and witty;
Soon I was caught up in his musical ditty.
As the crickets kept time with his light airy tune
The flowers all danced beneath the full moon.
And I, for my part, as I lay in my bed
With his music swirling in my dream covered head,
I danced with the flowers each in their turn
Humming a song I never did learn.
Then after a while he changed what he played
As he eased into a soft serenade,
And the crickets, and flowers, and I myself too,
Found rest in the notes his music spoke through.
And so I dreamt throughout the night
Then greeted the dawn with strange delight,
And the troubles that had gone to bed with me
Now no longer have the same urgency.
If you called me strange I would have to approve,
For I certainly agree that a statue can’t move,
But I noticed this morning down the garden lane
As the sun slowly crept toward my window pane
That the frog and his fiddle, though in the same place,
Has a wry little a smile upon his face,
And with his fiddle resting on his knee-
I do believe he winked at me!
She was playing second fiddle
Caught in a three way love affair
Sometime love becomes a riddle
She was playing second fiddle
She found herself in the middle
In this game of hearts all is fair
She was playing second fiddle
Caught in a three way love affair
Fiddle, Riddle, Diddle
Peter Dolittle did play a fiddle
Couldn't tell too many fun riddles
Didn't miss a beat
Was not so as neat
Oh, oh, now he's doing a diddle.
Written: July 16. 2015
Theresa
forgiveness, may, me, spoken word, word play, writing, game
OH FOLDERAL AND FIDDLE-DE-DEEDS! ©
Polite use in ‘words’ does astonish----
Creating a good reference when stated…..
But ‘red tape’ always ensues.
Going about ‘knotting’ a halt to its very ‘charm’----
Waylays ‘to question’ on just how ‘sincere’ is it given?
Unmemorable accounts of ‘dueling’ rallies could go on----
Jostling clashes to and fro if politeness was amiss…..
Just to come to an arranged ‘agreement’ of sorts----
Which is all that is questioned at the beginnings.
Excuse me, allow me; pardon me, if I might and forgive me---
Oh, how should I word this to ‘stream’ in a correct polite manner?
It becomes all, but a game of charades ‘with words’!
While with our ‘tongues in cheeks ’and as ‘puppeteers’---
We frequently are ‘played upon’….
To life’s folderal and fiddle-de- deeds!
He fiddled
with his foreskin,
pulling the taunts over
The tip of his nose,
it still stung, from when
Gary Mother****in' Jackson
(a strapping lad who insisted
this should have been his middle
name, after taking up a pool
job one summer)
Had pushed him, rather
abruptly into the bushes,
and those branches
Feeling like hands, poked
and prodded into the depth's
of his skin and he'd walked
Through that day, red and
welty, like an overgrown zit.
Grandpa was a jolly fellow so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a very handy carpenter never once hitting his thumb,
And he built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the old sycamore tree sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a great old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt.
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His elbows and fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw"!
Friends and neighbors tapped their toes, listening to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the front porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow or a haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a lilting rendition of "The Blue Danube Waltz" by Strauss.
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall,
Though I suspect he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old blue grass music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
-A NOTE-
***DO NOT ATTEMPT TO***
***FIGURE THIS OUT*******
***JUST SAY HELLO : - )****
***or WHAT is this??? ***
((RIDDLES-FIDDLES-DIDDLES ))
My towel is constructed of silk
That did not make sense at all
I drink bitter sour milk
Once again no sense at all
A busted line - A stronghold
Confusing as we speak?
A thief breaks and left gold instead
Leaving my world incomplete ???
In my dream he cut my head
puzzled ???
My dreams in a flowerbed
I'm still puzzled ???
White winter shelter when it comes to snow
a riddle, a riddle of black snow
Black as the night covered by coal
Wonder if I said good night?
I walk and I have no feet
I speak and I have no mouth
Why is it impossible?
a breathing exercise,
misunderstood
the stick walking is bent
My boat is flipped upside right of everything
The grave is empty with dirt and debris
I've lost my mind completely
((Last but not least))
The grandmother is tall
The mother came short
The father is darker than most
Some white child of sort
Why the Mexican???
BY: P.D.
Once a time that was so dark
Came a stream upon it, there was an ark
Animals were on but only one
His name they called son
A cat I said I know I saw
So tiny to me though I am tall
He came to be little
O but did he play with a fiddle
Here and there
Soon it's everywhere
We heard his song
Upon the waters of the pond
He smiled, it was such a riddle
He played songs of his fiddle
Now he is known
As the cat with a fiddle
To my grandpa's fiddle
We had a ball.
Dancing a jigg
To "Turkey In The Straw."
Then to Daddy's guitar
Threw the year's he'd play.
Country tunes from the heart.
We would sing and dance all day.
Our brother's electric strings.
With amp's turned sky hi.
Rock-n-Roll to Christian music
Always turning on our HiFi's.
My son's and nephew's
And cousin's galore!
Strum the strings to the song's
Proclaiming Love and War.
From Grandpa's Fiddle
To my Honer guitar.
We'll turn Poetry to Music
Till we all become stars.
Fiddle cat, fiddle cat,
Please fiddle me a song.
How I love to hear you play
Your fiddle all day long.
At dawn you fiddle to the left,
At dusk you fiddle right.
Then you fiddle to the middle,
In the middle of the night.
Fiddle cat, Fiddle cat,
So lovely and aloof,
You’re my whiskered weathervane,
My fiddler on the roof.
And when wind whistles from the West,
Your fiddle faces East.
And when the wind falls silent,
All the fiddle cats will feast.
February 27, 2023
Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest sponsored by Eve Roper
he played his fiddle and had no nibbles
he sat impatiently casting his pole
it was so bad he couldn't catch a cold
bait, reel and miss
there were no fish
barkeep says try a different watering hole
connie pachecho
2/10/17