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Best Flip Flop Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Flip Flop poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of flip flop poems written by PoetrySoup members

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flip-flop by lawless, John
A Flip Flop by Wanter, Sunlite
Flip Flop English Proficiency by CHUAN SENG, KENG
Flip-Flop Reality Switching Off and On by Anderson, John
A bitter flip flop by heidari, mohammad
Broken Flip-Flop by Ray, Vincent
Flip-Flop by Winzer, Glory
Flip Flop by Yeates, Owen
flip flop/ alter ego speaking by Riedel, Mark

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The Best Flip Flop Poems

Details | Flip Flop Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Give Me Spring

Take away my static hair,
My thick, wool toque, my glassy eyes.
Take away the chilly air,
The endless clouds, the covered skies.

Give me back my sun-streaked hair,
My floppy hat, my shaded eyes. 
Give me back the sea-salt air,
The fluffy clouds, the crystal skies. 

Take away my dull, dry skin,
My soggy mitts, my booted feet.
Take away the frosty wind,
The icy paths, the slushy streets.

Give me back my sun-tanned skin,
My denim shorts, my flip-flop feet.
Give me back the toasty wind,
The sparkling dunes, the sandy streets.

Take away harsh Winter's sting, 
His gales of hail, his banks of snow.
Give me back my darling Spring,
Her rising sun, her lovely glow.

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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Cleaning Solution

Sticky smears on the table top.
on the couch spilled soda pop
one chewed up shoe and one flip-flop
I’m doomed to clean this mess non-stop
Greasy dog bones gone astray
found buried in the rug today
the hamster made a getaway
where he’s gone it’s hard to say.

The shower drain is plugged, I swear
the tub has grout and needs repair
dirty laundry everywhere.
it really is a mess out there.

Under beds dust bunnies show
all closets are on overflow
the fridge is packed with things that grow
dishes clog  the sink, I know.

Spaghetti sauce dumped on the floor
12 eggs broke, need I say more
fingerprints on every door
this place,  a never-ending chore

Just when I think things can’t get worse
the leaking fish tank cracked and burst
40 gallons was dispersed
I think this house is cursed.

In every corner, ledge and groove
dirt and grim must be removed
there’s one solution I approve
pack your things, we’re going to move!

Liz Relly – 3/06/2012
“Cobwebs and Dust”  Contest (new start)

Copyright © Liz Labadie-Reilly | Year Posted 2012

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Pinhead Lizard

Pinhead Lizard
Ever since he was a young boy
He played with balls of fire
From church halls to Soho brothels
He must have had them all
Aint seen nothing like this pinhead
In any amusement hall

That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean ol shtick

He weeps at mother Mary’s feet
Becomes part of the molesting dream
Feeling proud at his insulting whit
This Pinhead lizard
Sure is a wee wee twit
The gods looks down in smite and anger

That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean mean shtick

He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean twist

How do you think he justifies
God sure hasn’t got a clue
What makes him an evil lizard?
Should have made him into a shoe

Aint got no education
Can’t bear the voices of reason
Don’t see no lights bulbs in that ones head
Makes no sense, but tosses insults like stale bread

He thought he was the charmer
He’s just a pinhead lizard with no crown

Ever since he was young boy
That lizard never grew up
He defames Jesus and preaches
Are all the lizards this lame?
He has his flip flop slippers
No wonder he always falls
Never failing to de-fame

He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean mean twist

Written Sep 14, 2001 Parody on the song Pinball Wizard and a video game at the time!

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Dung on a Rung

Surly Sally slipped and lost a flip flop
at a hearty party in a bungalow with Billy.
while dancing and prancing to hip hop
whirling and twirling and spinning silly.

Can you reverse and remember the flop she flipped?
Well it ludicrously landed in the party punch bowl.
Nobody noticed while they slurped and sipped
and the dancers dipped and ripped and rolled.

They dipped, danced, pranced and laughed,
pirouetted, and sweated,            
tipped and turned till totally daft.
Beer and booze abetted.

The next night they stayed sober and soloed somber.
Crashing and complaining Billy’s head hung,
both believed they’d been belted by a bomber.
Surly Sally swore she felt like dung on a rung!

Let this be a lurid logical lesson,
to those who think it’s only fun and frolick to abuse booze,
Or you too could be confessin’
And for lack of the light of this litany you’re liable to lose!

 An answer to a challenge for John Freeman’s Alliteration  contest
    by my poetry friend, Gwendolen Rix. 

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2011

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Sounds of Life

As I hear clinks of your cups I can listen to orange sounds in your ample eyes I can hear your obvious highs as if nearing a sea Morning in a humming bee You are busy at the mild harsh and tasty sound The butter knife spreading butter on the dark dense toast For the person you love the most Eloquent silence all around Soft munching sound from inside our mouth Mingles with the wind from south The door bell chimes its beautiful tune Like the monsoon Then comes the rustling of newspaper pages The train crossing so many bridges Combines with the rhythmic drumming of the woodpecker The sound of your stirring sugar Bubbling of boiled water in the kettle They settle In a silent sound of a loud red lily in bloom at the window As rain falls in a crescendo The flip flop of your sandals Passing into your bangles clinking together Culminating in the slurp as we sip tea Real moments of pure glee A great strength Against the various wavelengths Of the bang bark bray Throughout the day
_______________________________________________________________ June 19, 2016

Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016

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Danny Boy


Danny Boy!
I'm not your kind of girl
You own a He-Man classic toy
Rapping slams like She-Ra

Your slam has no style
 if I want to be put to death
I'll read your poems
See me yawning, 
You cry nobody loves you
Trying to end your life support
Give up the depression you made it through an abort
Your slam was full of crap
Come on Danny you smell like a rat
Give yourself some dignity 
Stop writing as if you're on crack
Don't tell me you got writers block
Right after you got hit by my glove
Stop writing as if you're in shock
Like pancakes, I made you flip flop
I'll use the excuse my computer just got hack
Take it easy on Danny C, 
Do not hurt me, by thinking I am your enemy.

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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Sabre bay

A gentle cough, a quiet word, a morning breeze, a waking bird, Into her box her letters fall, soft flip flop slippers down a hall, A radio plays yesterdays, and on the wall a clock face says That sometimes time talks much too loud, like ego’s clashing in a crowd, Her percolator’s gurgling rhyme told her that it was breakfast time So she sat in her window seat, and drank her coffee black and sweet While musing on the day ahead, so much was still left to be said Yet life sometimes has many lanes, and some are losses, some are gains. She stepped outside and locked her door, then slowly walked down to the shore Deciding that she’d start her day by wandering down Sabre bay, Where sunlit sea touched glowing flame, and whispers never meant the same As those that fluttered through the trees, for these were whispers of the seas And as she walked she seemed to hear, from distant waves though crystal clear Those messages from long ago, brought back upon the ocean’s flow From somewhere that they both had been, a distant day, a distant scene Where time and tide were much the same, a picture in a wooden frame. And then she sensed them back again, two lovers in the teeming rain Both shouting at the boiling sea, so footloose and so fancy free Like gulls in winds they danced aloft, where even storms felt cushion soft And from the cliffs they watched their day meander off down Sabre bay Both clasped together with their dreams, at least that’s how the memory seems Yet soon he had to go again, for some things she could not explain So many suns, so many moons, so many tear filled afternoons Despite the fact that she still Prays, her radio still plays yesterdays…

Copyright © Keith Robson | Year Posted 2017

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A toddler’s heels wham… flip flop flip flop 
Annoyed by the sound that runs non-stop,
Dad grabs a plug to cover his ears
While an army of fleas seem to appear
Invading pet cat as child squirts a hose,
“I must declare, it’s a raid...I suppose”
As father throws kitty out the door,
Son plays with bug' galore!  

Judy Konos' I Do Declare Contest
by nette onclaud

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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A Free-Verse Epic

Thus it begins—
A free-verse epic
Into the mind of
A writer and an idiot—
A romantic and, 
Often a pessimist
Conjoined in arbitrary glory
Are the thoughts and words 
Of one overly-worked mind—
Charismatic and, of course,
On the pushover, pitiful
And usually kind side
Ambitious and awkward,
Dark and daring
With the predisposition 
Of neglect and doubt
Mixed with notions of
Unattractiveness and pride of it
The strain of freedom 
Chips the mind of
A flawful perfectionist,
And though she sees color 
And she sees injustice
And all things that most see, 
Perhaps she deems it right
To try and see differently

I am not opposed to uniform
I am not opposed to meter form
Though can this heart beat
In perfect syllables and rhythm
As—let’s say—the great form
Of iambic pentameter! 
I say, prospectively—
If your drum wants to beat 
To that rhythm,
Then by all means
Allow it reign 

But as for me,
I shall let mess be purpose
And purpose gives me surety
That these fragments—
These thoughts,
Will prove worthy
For, after all, 
What are a few words worth,
If in the end they shan’t
Be read? 
Will a writer write for himself, 
Or for the world, 
To witness and appreciate
His inner dimensions?   
Will an idiot acknowledge his stupidity,
Or shall he remain valuable 
Through his own foggy lens?
Will the weight of the world 
Crack his vision,
And lead him to regions
He knows not of?
I have seen the great
Reduced to dust
By the mere vocals of another
I have listened to the 
Relentless cries of the pessimist
And the warm, trickling rays
Of the romantic—
Yet do they see a purpose
In their unique expressions?
Do they feel their beats and rhythms,
And own to the bone what is theirs?  

To be charismatic in words,
But not in nature 
Is a mystery of me
How can I find words to write
With scarcely words to utter? 
I enter dark terrain 
Through rapid fires of thought
They push me to remain
Different and strained
Is there a part of us hidden, 
That in shame is revealed unknowingly
Through our inimitable passions? 
Are our actions snail-paced
When faced with the probability
Of judgement? 
Why then do these words flow free,
With the heavy chance 
Of failure?
Failure perhaps seen by others,
But prominent and bent 
Into yourself?
In the air you breathe
You know your shortcomings
Before others utter your deed
And yet, 
I find glory in a trip
I feel contentment in the fall
Leaves change and crumble
Just as hope fades and returns

Likely I am lost in doubt,
Waiting for a purpose
Made for something better
Expecting the worst
I am unafraid to tread
On the moss
With a friend’s laughter
Only a memory igniting 
Why does she never talk?
Have I drifted from all thought? 
I remember happiness, 
Yet I war
I am perpetually lost in the laugh
Waiting to see a smile spring again
I liked the texture between my toes
Green, weird, and wet
I liked being vulgar
And not being afraid
A bee has never stung me
As your absence does
A monster has never scared me
As my heart scares you

There’s a chance I will break
A chance that life means nothing
Thoughts spurt energy
Trust burns holes
Expectations rise into rage
When what meets us 
Is an opposite fate 
We want to receive the expected
And scorn the unexpected
To jeer the underdog
And take glory from heroes
Be needed by the popular
And kill the weak with our pride
What is so repellent 
About being different? 
Do we need to agree on everything?
The phoenix does not burn for you
It is scorched eons times over
Because of who it is
It burns to birth its existence
Over and over and over and over and over and over
And yet we persist that 
We have started the flames!
Does the world revolve around
Your igniting pig-head? 
Do we care where you 
Got the boot that you use
To kick down your fellow man?
I have a flip-flop for your face
And more
Don’t disgrace me 
With your false grace!

I saw a college guy
Stop in the walkway
He paused and stared at the floor
He snatched a leaf off
The ground, and proceeded
To move a piece of poop
Away from the middle of the pathway
The flimsy leaf didn’t get the job done
So he grabs a small stick
And moves the **** off to the side 
I thought of him
As someone I would like to know
He was considerate,
He seemed kind,
Or perhaps he was just a neat-freak—
Either way,
I feel like he was raised well
I thought about myself—
If I were walking down the same path,
Would I ever look down?
Would I even notice the clump of ****?
And if I did,
Would I continue on?
Or would I be like that guy,
And move it aside?
I think I probably wouldn’t,  
Though now that I have witnessed
This simple act,
I might just do it
The next time **** gives me the opportunity

I want to be caring,
I want to be considerate,
I strive to be kind—
For what use is it to be cold
And withdrawn?
Is the fear too strong
As to hold me back
From what is right?
I certainly hope nobility
But we cannot stop it there
You cannot expect anything
Merely DO it
And minds—actions
Are probable to alter, 
Just as mine has
But I am not everyone—
I am the only one
Who witnessed the meritable act
Perhaps my job now 
Is to pass it on

I guess this could be categorized as a free-verse epic, hence the title..XD This poem was written in my journal throughout a couple of days during my Creative Writing course in Pasadena. It is really just a trickle of random thoughts, that I thought had some merit and was worthy of sharing with you guys. Hope you enjoyed it.

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2016

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In the Meadow

In the Meadow, I hear a POP!
Drip Drop , Drip Drop!
I can't seem to hear the Clip, Clop!
So off I run with a little Hip-Hop!

In the Meadow, I hear a POP!
Drip Drop, Drip Drop!
As I near, my Heartbeat gives a Stop!
My Stomach does the tightest Flip-Flop!

In the Meadow, I hear a POP!
Drip Drop, Drip Drop!
I howl on seeing the Butcher's Shop!
Onto the Meadow grass, I Slip-Slop!

To Witness the Unbearable Chop!
Blood of my Horse, Drip Drop!

Copyright © sima mittal | Year Posted 2013

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Hard Lessons Before CGI

It happened many years ago, just after World War ll.
When I was just a little girl with lots to see and do.
A visit to my cousin's house, ten miles northeast of town,
Would cause the frown upon my face to flip flop up-side-down.

I stayed for just a week or so and shared her saggy bed:
Told silly jokes and giggled, as sleep hovered overhead.
Then came that awful morning when we took our country walk.
The day would start with sunshine and much childish, girlie talk.

Mowed stubble in an open field, each bare foot placed with care,
As well as dirt road trod upon, with stones and pebbles there.
But what we were to come upon, while meandering on our way,
Is not a sight that any child might come upon today.

An old shed there beside the road, not even tucked from sight.
A charnel house with death inside: bad dreams to come that night!
The hog and steer hung upside down and both were split in half.
The pig above a rusted drum, prepared for scalding bath.

Their innards heaped beside the shed, a pile of sickening gore.
Two heads with glazed and staring eyes, would view the world no more.
A slaughterhouse for all to see while happening to pass by. 
Run by a neighboring farmer who did butchering on the side.  

We stood transfixed and watched him work, his lips pursed in a whistle,
As he dunked the hog in the scalding drum: later scraping off the bristle.
And sadly we took a closer look at the face of that old steer.
Two days before we had patted him in a field not far from there.

That gentle old beast in a pasture, unknowingly chewing his cud.
Now a dead and lifeless thing, defiled with sawdust and blood.
We trudged home in solemn silence, our innocence badly bruised.
The world, though still an open book, had new . . less pleasant rules.

A lesson in our lives to come of the callousness of men,
With many more lessons to follow, before this world will end.
Now when I see children learn about death, while watching pretend CGI;
Two little girls will still come to mind, and the old steer that made them cry.

© 2015 Diane Lefebvre

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

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 o man amen club soda you taste good at two in the morning
i am going back to my dreams and tomorrow earl gray
or I'll switch to coffee with toast
all my life I twirled a question and so I peel a banana
and squeeze an avocado good night after a pee
looking for flip flop where are my sandals or sundial
as not einstein I have an accent 

Copyright © catherine labeau | Year Posted 2015

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The Question

True love is unquestionable. 
What is true love?
To me; it is more feeling based rather than definitively worded. 
Emotional attached, formed mentalities that are equally paired with an immaculate physical connection. 
Collected bi-gender, shared love—
She’s out there.
He may be too afraid. 
Hidden in there; inside of this—
What is that?
Pedestal lifted impression that one is more of ______ than…
What am I getting at?
Insecurities canker like goose-bumps on apparent tips—
My knotted tongue wishes—
Tied up; zipped shut as if forcefully so. 
Never allowing such realistic possibility that she would ever… 
Unable to move, made sloth.
Watch her eyes glow.
Somehow in-allowed to connect; looking foolish from. 
I bet she isn’t that surreal. 
Maybe even thinks about him?
Not me though. 
He is surely not I. 
For I—
For I am not worthy; me…
Who am I?
A nobody, a loser, I don’t stand a chance with…
Butterflies ideated coincidentally as fear—
Aged advice isn’t as easy as said.
But done—
Her image becomes glorified; extensions ladder the space between. 
Imaginary perception instilled through conceptualized normalcy. 
That is—
Now and later remains currently accepted as reality.
Immaturity isn’t anything.
Maturity isn’t contextually different. 
Nature is conceived as the ground; associated with the sky.
Nonchalantly accepted; unquestionable…
Man and woman are every-bit; natural. 
Misunderstand man; while miss opportunity slips away. 
Fewer complexes than one foolish boy wonder comprehends.
Angered shouts’ discourage; helped only by belief.
Over thought of everyone else left little room for personality.
Idiotic ignorant youngster; old man self says…
Courage can be found in the outcast. 
Just by saying how it is. 
I don’t appreciate that. 
This goes for pretty much everything; really. 
Cool is the cat who allows natural acts. 
Being who you are—
Is it that difficult to be kind?
It is kind-of difficult to be that.
Parental digressions advise children; blindly. 
Kids talk with the textured walls scent into their rooms. 
Then they count from one, two, and three.
Nothing happens after three… 
I would consider exploring four more numbers. 
Limited lessons teach liars who to cheat. 
Stolen from truth; role models act as if. 
Confused conditions are figured out. 
Control is bestowed within double-standards. 
Seldom do they take this to extremes. 
Carrying this behavior into adulthood; delusional morality—
Sociopathic enlargements build unrealistic illusions. 
Real life illusions; becoming reality—
Handpicked inner circular societies rally as troops. 
Every so often one member wises up.
Calling out this moral deficiency; sanity loses color. 
Spit and foam back-fire from out of nowhere. 
Only to be looked upon from another time as expected behaviors.
Pity isn’t justifiably explained. 
However present pity may be; this takes on more relevance. 
Massively strikes a low blow to society. 
Entirely breaking interpreted innocence in general—
Skeptical now of other people’s intentions; walls form.
Barriers blockade available trust almost impenetrable. 
Knowledge creeps slowly though, over many passing years. (flip-flop)
Perhaps it may possibly be deathly withheld, inside lesser lives. 
Fortunate few will open otherwise closed minds just wide enough; allowing forth-righted passages. 
Fewer so are those select few ambitious to remain bungled-up; bollixing on the brink of sanity. 
Horrified bi humanity, dry vomitus thrusts heave in disgust. 
Neither good nor bad, is this reaction simply. 
It simply just is.
Recognition allows sun breaks to reveal hope. 
Appreciation is graciously true. 
Unmasked by pure consciousness; an option is chosen. 
To be or not to be? 
I believe that has been questioned. 
One decides to be and not to become whatever (this is that) they are. 
Bravely taken stances must lead.
Odds against all this good, hatred and painful laughter pings. (Ping…….)
Tears eventually form; a man is all.
(A)	Man is all… 
Cyclically repeated by one imbecile concoction; empower numerate will and you shall ideologically ingest accordingly so to be comprehensively aware; craziness. 
Always believable through optimism, a little less romantic hope more expressing gratitude. 
Equality based judge-mentality towards all mankind. 
Making mistakes; acknowledging apologetically. 
Example displayed by actions effectively lead confided by word got your back. 
Sleeping sounds snore in a comfortable bed. 
Anxiously awaken by a beautiful, surreal recollection. 
A once fearfully lifted atop pedestal; now he looks into level eyes.
The butterflies remain…
Overjoyed by this, love finds truth through honest acts. 
Lips lock to seal serenity. 
Everlasting love will immortally guide tomorrow. 
Only by showing the way to today.     

-Ironic Zinc
May 14, 2016 (edited on, forgotten and found in folder dated 10-22-15)

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

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Limerick In Focus

All other than serious verse, bogus;
He doesn’t believe in any hocus- pocus.
Ideals! He’d never drop;
But see the funny flip- flop,
Finally, limerick is his focus.

Copyright © Harpreet Kaur | Year Posted 2013

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beatnik to vietnam to hippie stand


At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President  Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.

Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and 
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why 
Our men were going to those shores.

This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.

This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.

They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.

They had  Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.

Then in AUGUST of “69” 
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.

The WOODSTOCK  festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.

© L . RAMS

Copyright © louis rams | Year Posted 2012

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Silly Words

I'm not in step with the Serious Bards
For me, it's the sillier words that chime
I see quadrangles instead of a yard
Jaunty hootenannies I find sublime

I don't howl or cry out, I ululate
Clip-clop and flip-flop, both such disarmers!
Gummy tutti frutti, please be my date
Phenomenology - what a charmer!

Silly names rule - Truth or Consequences
Walla Walla is a beautiful place
Humpty Dumpty brought down the defenses
Winnie the Pooh is a bear to embrace

Sonnets, free verse, rhymes, limericks, haiku, tomes
Silly words deserve their place in our poems.

Copyright © Michelle Faulkner | Year Posted 2018

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Sudden Storm

broken flip flop rests
outside sandy castle walls
perhaps, the clouds break

Copyright © Patricia Sawyer | Year Posted 2010

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Spin a top
Feel a drop
Taste the rain
Weather Vane
What a pain
Dripping light
Falling bright
Wet tonight

©Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.

Copyright © Glory Winzer | Year Posted 2015

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Broken Flip-Flop

Hot sand and bare feet
A long way back to the car
Run fast as you can

Copyright © Vincent Ray | Year Posted 2015

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The Good and the Bad - Paper or Plastic

Discarded plastic can bring creature alarm.
On the head of a manatee, it has no charm.
Paper comes from trees, lost habitats, poor bee.
Is it just convenience that matters, to thee?

Paper or plastic, what shall it be?
The answer sometimes flip-flops within me.
Why you may ask, just read on to see.

Should one use paper, at the grocery shops?
Paper bags decay quickly in acid raindrops.
When added to mulch, it nourishes crops.
And, paper bagged plants save fragile leaf tops.

Paper is bulky; plastic is not.
Plastic has features that paper does not.
Plastic or paper decisions flip-flop.

Yes, plastic is easy to loop on the arm.
And it does not bring any tree harm.
You could even use it around plants on a farm.
So, keep the weeds out and lessen plant harm.

Paper makes masks; plastic should not.
Plastic lasts long, paper will rot.
Paper or plastic decisions flip-flop.

It’s not just convenience that matters to me.
Plastic, when emptied, stays crinkly-crunchy.
Paper saves wildlife, which is extremely peachy.
Paper or plastic, what shall it be? 

Is it just convenience that matters, to thee?

© February 22, 2012
NO NAMES on poems

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Paper or plastic Free Poetry 
Sponsor	Susan Burch

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2012

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the holy youth of sao paulo

skinny  children move quickly outliving
 the shadow of their slim suicides.

 running and skipping they celebrate lent 
 the soles of their feet creating samba  
daylight vigil's on every corner.

now the ash of gods presence floats on 
 water through the navel of the city.

 the drain pipe priest charge a nickle 
 for a bottle, over time some called it coca 

  but still a dark skinned gutter punk jesus 
 through the broken streets with all the 
 holy youth. 

they wear pink and orange flip flop 
 annoited to speckled shades of crimson 
a bleeding grapefruit that gets kicked 
 folded cardboard box goals. 

  the sun is setting now in the streets of 
sao paulo
and in the parks on every bench the old 
 in their tabernacles of wrinkled days.  

 They sit quietly to watch the pigeons turn 
to gray grail. 

With a coronation of lanterns on 
their heads in the late evening
they speak parables in such 
strange tounges.

Copyright © nathan martin | Year Posted 2011

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Up Up and Away

Up, up and away they said,
as they sailed over the blue and the red,
hugging each other and holding on tight,
the Donald and Hillary on election night,

For my sore eyes got my binoculars out,
I followed their moves in the sky, no doubt,
both of them full of hot air in the balloon,
living it up before it ended too soon,

And then there was a paradigm shift in the wind,
the hot air balloon started to descend,
the frenemy's in the basket a case,
they both realized they were done in the race,

Driving up to meet the both of them,
they both exclaimed it had been a lot of fun,
but while on the wild ride they did a flip flop,
Hillary now Republican, Donald now Democrat,

With most of the votes counted and tallied up,
Hillary and the Donald watched the electoral map,
like a horse race derby for a long while neck to neck,
neither one of them seemed to do a double check,

Because they both knew when all was said and done,
like two actors in a play the election outcome,
The Donald already smiling and striking a pose,
like in a horse derby race beating Hillary by a nose.


Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2016

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You Can

You can be born a male
But that is no guarantee that you will be a man
Or a female maybe your gender
Maybe never a lady, but still is a female
Some will even try to alter God's plan
Who knows what they will come out in the blender

You can walk the straight and narrow line
Or you can flip flop and go on the wild side
We all have to go some where
Some will mess up and some will do just fine
It is your ticket and it is your ride
Some will just be winging it on a prayer

You can be independent or dependent
Some want to control and others are in  control
Some get lost of the way
Some are wild and some are obedient
Those that the Devil ends up with their soul
When they become his prey

You can be about anything that you want to be
A fish out of water and swim up stream
Take the rocky road or the easy street
Travel the world and see all you can see
Have a nightmare or a sweet dream
In the end all depends on who you want to meet

Copyright © Danny Nunn | Year Posted 2010

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Feeble Little Mudskipper

In alternating bad attempts;
To reach a puddle of regret.
   A bathing suit of scales he weighs;
   His mouth a circle of dismay.
Flip flop he fumbles back and forth;
A feeble wish he will retort.
   A final honourable sway;
   A gulping down of water may,
Entice a drama too excite,
Enough to one more time ignite,
   A jerk of flesh, elliptic course;
   Too infantile to sense remorse.
To land within a puddles’ shallow;
Missed the creek, forget the paddle.

Copyright © Tammy Armstrong | Year Posted 2006

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Talking Points

Maybe we can put the thing to rest     
with nary an amount of protest:       
I dare say politics at its best            
is but a popularity contest.        

Rule 1, always be in the top news
and if attacked do not be nervous;
remember that what it takes to win                   
is a boundless talent to spin.    

Lie if you must, it’s perfectly okay,
you can't last unless you're a phony, 
say you are a savior or something,
sky’s the limit in politicking. 

Inexperienced? not a big problem!
hire a tested media-savvy team;  
don’t worry about grasp on issues, 
just flip-flop to have a wider view.

So what if you have no character?    
you know it does not really matter; 
what is required is to talk nonstop
to rocket all the way to the top.

Politics is no more than showbiz -
TV interviews, talk shows and glitz;
wait! charisma will do wonders too       
like it did for that monkey at the zoo.

Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2008