Best Fox Poems | Poetry
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The Best Fox Poems
At the footbridge Sue was meeting her beau
(He was married to a woman called Flo)
Sue soon found out his deception
She dismembered his ********
For his love life it was a massive blow
To the hospital fled poor Rodger
For an op to repair his todger
Now fixed, it's SO big
Rodger grunts like a pig
in **** films as Rodger the lodger
Inspired by but not for contest
BY JAN ALLISON
He promised Flo he never would leave her
And she would be his only receiver
But she caught him with Sue
And his chances were through
Gnawing off wood when he neared her beaver
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
Sue castrated that cheating deceiver
With one whack of her meat cleaver
she pulled a Lorena Bobbit
turned Rodger into a Hobbit
Sue's now known as an "overachiever"
WRITTEN BY MARTI SUTHERLAND
Across the table sits sweet Amee
Once A Roger, before he became a she
The master of infidelity
So many personalities
Before and after he became an amputee..
WRITTEN BY SKAT A
He was known as a terrible stoner
With a huge un-deflatable *****
It now sits in a jar
At the end of the bar
A reminder to all of its owner...
WRITTEN BY JOHN LAWLESS
It’s become a tourist attraction
As a symbol of female subtraction
Grannies sneak in for a peek
Everyday of the week
Dreaming of former of love action.
WRITTEN BY MARK WOODS
Oh how sad that pork missile should be
unemployed but for all there to see
if science, in a jiffy
can rejuvenate stiffys
then the first in the queue would be me!
WRITTEN BY VIV WIGLEY
Flo wanted to give Sue a high five
For slicing Rodger with all his jive
A two timing fool
Who broke every rule
Now lil Rodger don't work in overdrive
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
Rodger's story has been immortalized
For having his thingy circumcised
It's on display in a bar
Now hanging in a jar
While it's slowing becoming crystalized
WRITTEN BY MARTI SUTHERLAND
As she ponders on what to eat
Hopefully, it won’t be red meat
For there on the log
Is Rodger's hot dog
So she gets excited and jumps off her feet.
WRITTEN BY WINGED WARRIOR
There's a lesson I really must blurt
To all those blokes out chasing some 'skirt'
When you're on heat
Don't share your meat
'Cause your todger might really get hurt!
WRITTEN BY MARK WOODS
Poor forgotten noteworthy Sue
Looking so gloomy she blew
At the pickled todger
once belonging to Rodger
kissing good times its last adieu
WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER
As "Rodger" snaked out of the door
It went past a room on tenth floor.
A woman therein
Said "Come right on in."
she kept screaming, "More, I want more!
WRITTEN BY ANDREA DIETRICH
After Sue chopped his tally-whacker
Poor Rodger became quite the slacker
He tried to bring his pecker forth
Never again to be pointing north
Now when he pees he sits on the crapper.
He stopped at the house, the red-light was on
Knocked on the door, the girls were all gone
Stuck with his sawed-off *****
Tonight He's going to be a loner
Damn, why did the girls all have to be gone?
BOTH POEMS WRITTEN BY JAMES ANDERSEN
A group of limericks quite clever
Began with one simple sever
Of engorged *****
which is, (between us),
I think, a spicy endeavor
WRITTEN BY H PENELOPE SWIFTLOCK
There was perfection in his pecker,
as a **** star he was a wrecker,
but to his wife he was unfair,
so she severed what was down there,
now his only job is director.
WRITTEN BY CASARAH NANCE
Poor Rodger thought he was being slick
when he carved out a handcrafted prick
he rubbed his new attire
his precious toy caught fire
Now he is left with an ashen stick
WRITTEN BY TEPPO GREN
An ashen stick means man minus prick.
Poor Rodger, now a eunuch, without a fix.
He decided to become a transgender.
Then off he went on a bender.
Woke up married to a man from Bertrix
WRITTEN BY JEAN MURRAY
Rodger's new love was a prudish fox
but for brains she had a head of rocks
he splinted up his willy
popsicle sticks look silly
he said it was new and still in the box!
WRITTEN BY SONNY ROPER (EVE'S HUBBY)
To be fair "At the Footbridge"
Now to be completely fair
And to stop every persons stare
Rodger was not actually circumcised
As he was a player, so don’t be surprised
This was from wear and tear and his willingness to share
WRITTEN BY MARK PAUL VAN DER MERWE
Now Rodger mostly stays home
for lack of a viable bone.
He reaches by habit
down for his rabbit:
he's got Phantom Willy Syndrome!
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Rodger was a good friend of Eye
Had a real hankering for cherry pie
Tasted every chance he got
And it would hit the spot
Until his crazy wife made him cry
WRITTEN ON 14TH JUNE BY EYE TRUTH TELLER
Roger pretends that he's a sexy stud
But when the ladies find out he's a dud
they all laugh in his face
anatomically a disgrace
His manhood is referred to as "The Bud"
WRITTEN ON 15TH JUNE BY LIN LANE
Rodger thought his op was a success
When he found he had more and not less
But the surgeon's blind stunt
Sewed it on back to front
Well, he certainly lacks some finesse!
WRITTEN ON 15TH JUNE BY RAY GRIDLEY
As he crossed the footbridge, Georgie saw a duck
Quite unique and raucous, it could quack AND cluck!
(And did so incessantly)
"Hey! Hey! It's all about me!"
It loudly proclaimed, with much aplomb and pluck
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
I also wrote another poem but this one did not turn into a collaboration -
if you read it you will see that it is quite different to my usual style
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
Fluttering beneath the newly cut
Festive green hollies,
Decked out with heaped drapes
Of freshly fallen snow,
A bold little red breasted Robin,
Cheerfully hops to and fro.
Darting between the soft, swirling
Of unique crystalline, driven without
He alights upon his sheltered
And begins to shrilly trill:
Against the on coming, long
Drawn out Christmas night.
For the drawing darkness is
Whilst the harsh wind blows so chill;
And, gently waking
From nonsensical dreaming,
I harken to the old dog Fox,
As, barking, he pads on down
Through the gorse strewn hill.
Suddenly stirred from dozing
As the charred log shifts and
settles in the grate,
I recall with vivid fondness:
Some old memories, good times,
The well meant promises
I did so earnestly to undertake.
Of old acquaintance...
And those that were
Or are no more,
Of circumstance and friendship:
And of they
That daily come
To pass through my open door.
But now the flames from the fire,
Dancing in the frosted window
Are calling for the poker
So I may stoke the blaze again;
For turning my warming back
Upon the locked out winters keep...
I hear that steadfast little Robin
Sing once more -
As I fall back into uncontested sleep!
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014
In search of the human mind
Different thoughts crossed my mind,
a few conclusions I could not find
The human mind has no stop!
Receiving input, danger, before I blow my top
Sometimes the light clicks
I think I figured out the problem
It's at the tip of my mind ;-)
Sorry, my brain cells did it again,
Ran out of THINK!
When it comes to love, I'm brain dead!
This is me talking to my brain,
"Are you just being lazy, you fell too quick?"
A game in a maze inside my head!
Give me some help, or what use are you
Open the way only you can unlock the door.
Unfold my future, stop hiding the key
How about it mind?
Do you want me to put you back on pills?
Stand back brain, while I explain your job.
The Human mind is not easy to read like a book
However, some are cruel limiting judgment, with one look
The mind plays tricks when too much information is perceived
The mind is related to the heart, sending signals the wrong way
The mind works when the body's asleep
(I call it a dream, I hope you don't mind I put it there!)
The mind creates beauty, wonders of the world
The mind is a soft whisper, a secret, my conscious ---I Swear
The mind is devious, tricky can outsmart like a fox
The mind is a beautiful thing to waste in a box
The mind can journey, without leaving its nest
The mind is knowledge, many fail to explore
The mind is a Captain, traveling far and beyond
The mind is like a paint brush, colorful art
The mind is a creature who hides in a cave
The mind is like pain, don't stop in its way
The mind is like a mime who does not talk at all
The mind is fragile, don't use it like a sponge
The mind is like a pair of shoes,
without the mind we're bare
The bottom line is, the mind is a mystery!
Don't mind me, I lost my mind, years ago :):):)
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
Today I found you cornered, drenched in cold,
your fur coat nothing but a newborn's down,
a tiny ball unfolding while I hold
you shivering. Your lacerations frown
and at a distance, I can see the why
of your abandonment, the birds of prey.
I’ve saved you, but you’re causing me to cry:
serrated weapons, Nature’s passion-play,
as blood-attracted sharks, still circling, wait:
I sense the breath-starved fright that made you flee,
those teeth, those claws, you were their blameless bait.
You can’t yet comprehend that you are free.
I see the wounds, some healed, some raw and new,
they're deep, beyond the matted fur and skin.
Four little paws, so tender, sprawled askew,
I seem to feel that you and I are kin.
You mark each move. Mistrustful eyes, so green,
incapable of rest, stir to suggest
you'll try to bite if I will try to clean
the bloodclots, so I hug you to my chest.
You flinch to feel my cuddle. Have I planned
some fiendish way to torture you anew?
The tiny space your wretched life has spanned
has taught you only suffering is your due.
Careful now, I’ll wrap you in a cloth,
And whisper words you cannot comprehend.
Oh tiny one, you're no more than a moth!
It’s alright now. You’ve come across a friend.
Your warmth is blossoming against my breast.
I want to teach you gentleness and calm.
There’s nothing here to threaten you: so rest,
You’re safe now from anxiety and harm.
I'll guard you through the night until you sleep,
until the chesty wheezing eases up.
This is protectiveness, it's seated deep:
I’ll always help a vulnerable pup.
Your heart is racing hard against my hand,
awaiting pain, as wizened captives do.
Believe me, Little One, I understand.
For I have been a broken prisoner, too.
May 30, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
Based on a quote from Watership Down:
"He fought because he actually felt safer fighting than running."
His experience in fighting battles
had been friendly games of Monopoly
Rolling dice across a colorful board
after shaking, to hear them rattle.
Those were serious acts of aggression
and hotels were POWs, taken in possession
Weapons were a top hat, thimble or boot
Men built houses, not blew them up
Winner, the one accumulating the most loot
Snake eyes moved him two spaces forward,
instead of sniper eyes on roofs of Park Place
resulting in blood dripping from a man's face
He wished he was only playing a game
But shots were fired from somewhere near
Bullets seeking men to kill and maim
War is fought with emotions of courage and fear
It was time to clear his squadron out
That kind of move is what wars are about
With rifle ready he led the charge
Run through a mine field, though weary and tired
He heard a man cry out, "I've been hit, Sarge!"
Without a free space they could'nt stop to rest
No Short Line Railroad upon which to ride
No fox holes dug, in which to hide
Amid shots fired, he passed down the word, "GO!"
only stopping to collect dog tags of his dead men
This time the battle was fought and won
From a shrapnel wound his blood took flow
It was never bravery that he lacked
It was being interred with a bullet in his back.
When asked why he hadn't turned to run,
knowing his platoon was badly overpowered,
He sighed and replied, "I'm not a coward,
So I rolled the dice and landed on Chance.
The top card said Be brave and attack!
So we fought until we took our property back."
Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2018
There once was a fox, as wise as can be,
He lived in the hollow of an old oak tree.
Not so very far from an ol’ Farmer’s Farm;
A farmer he knew would do him great harm.
Also, on that farm lived a lively young goose,
And he caused the fox’s dry mouth to juice.
Without a care, the goose gandered about,
Causing the fox great apprehension, no doubt.
One day they met at the edge of the farm:
The goose knew, for sure, the fox meant him harm.
Mr. Fox, I know you can eat me, he said,
But, I know a better way you can be fed.
The farmer has many an egg you can eat,
and they are more juicy than feathery meat.
I’ll tell you just how to gain your supply;
as quick as a wink, or the blink of an eye.
The farmer is rich and he doesn’t have need
for all of his wealth, and all of his greed.
We poor of the earth, he cares not about:
We should take eggs from the lecherous lout.
Sure, he feeds us, and quite well in fact,
But he profits from the sweat of our back.
We animals are brothers, and should take heed
About each others wants and each others need.
You can sneak around by the ol’ mill gate,
while I distract the hound, down by the lake.
His threat to you I shall circumvent,
and you can then eat to your hearts content.
The sly ol’ fox, he surmised this odd tale:
Hen’s eggs were delicious, he knew quite well.
Oh, this we will do, he quickly agreed:
Eggs, he knew, were quite delicious indeed.
So, the goose set off, the hound to distract,
And also the fox, to the mill gate out back.
But, the goose had another plan in his mind;
A problem solution of a far different kind.
He enlisted the hound in his subversive trick,
To solve the fox dilemma finally and quick.
He sent the hound round to the ol’ mill gate,
Leaving himself to just piddle and wait.
Then suddenly upon him with claw and tooth
Pounced the fox, ‘fore he could honk or hoot.
In this moral lesson we all can deduce,
Why no-one says: “he’s as sly as a goose”.
The SLY fox knew: “If the goose would betray
the farmer that feeds him, he will betray me too.”
Copyright © Lionel Ledbetter | Year Posted 2013
- A Most Irish Fairy Tale – Merry Christmas to All
It’s not just Santa Claus who we meet in the very cold of December;
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect
With luscious long, coal black curly hair far down on her back, and
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with such bright
Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of angelic content with
A glossy coat so radiant and sprinkled with pearls and diamonds.
Out of the woods she walks so quietly in the night’s fresh snow
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully,
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with an angelic guard;
The secret is that beautiful Carolina speaks the animals’ languages
And this is an enchanted reality known only to the forest animals;
The birds play in all their splendor so fine without sorrow and they
Fly while Carolina—the “Fairy Maiden of this Enchanted Forest,”
Keeps watch carefully on the evening horizon while the snow falls
Now apace in the hope and wish for such a marvelous and majestic
Christmas—while in the distance the ground is now frozen frosted
Hard and like shining and sprinkling silver in the mist until the very
“Rays of Enraptured Sunlight” break in the morning mist—this most
Wondrous image is at once so divine and fabulous to behold and
Cherish as the annual “Spirit of Christmas” now comes alive again.
The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud—
And then all of the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his “Red Nose” so beautiful, and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children—just like sweet-sounding little voices wonderful so in
Dreams singing such celestial tunes while a bright light appears
So magically on the horizon while planes from all over the world
Begin landing with such precious cargo like loads of neatly written
Letters from good little children—and with this joyous occurrence
Santa Claus begins calling his elfin troops into quick action while
The “Leprechauns” do the heavy work as they are much tougher
But all the while the “Old Fighting Irish” in them reflects a softer
Side while the Leprechauns drink a drop or two or three of some
Fine old fiery Irish dew to keep them both warm and smiling like
The very wee Little Devil in them—so mischievous and all—but
So content and happy to be part of such a delightful moment of both memories and joy for “The Little Children of the World.”
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work
Merry Christmas to All!!
Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014
A lie, wrapped in deception, in the cloak of silent nights
Deception, soothing as black ink, until dried
The wetness caresses the illusion of pretenses white
When it dries, one is exposed to the evil dark fright
A lie inside a lie inside a lie, inside the Pandora’s box
Unwrap it all you will witness the sly red fox
Run from the forest that consumes the noble heart
Lay your eyes on the Gothic inspired cathedral ceilings
From there, is but heavens start
As the symphony plays the rhapsody of life
Remember always the deceiver for his bringing strife
Raise your hands like a conductor of brave hearts
Speak up and speak out, when you see the silent
Darkness bring you illusions in the night
Beware of the dark lamb, and hold up the noble light
With ethereal dreams, one day you know what is right
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
I want you to feed me my only fear,
to make a ritual of the ruddy rain I hear
deluge my dreams with Love's broken mirror,
our inspiration fragmented into faithless drear,
to deliver the division of two hearts once near
on a cutting board of Venu's neurotic nightmare,
take me to where yearning is taunted by stoic stare
to the edges of erotic emotion wounded from passion threadbare,
lead me to fear's chasm split warm and wide on a Goddes's tongue of despair,
I need that soul spasm hyperextending the phantasm of my boyish beliefs unfair,
If I could fall in love with you again
a star hunter I'd be, feigning capture in your solar reign
equiped with erogenous eon, violating your violet virtue from within,
I would be your fuel of fury and flirtation, speedily skipping across a galaxy dim,
an unstoppable windfall of cosmic conquest bursting from our indefatigable union,
If I could see you one more time in truth
you'd be a Queen, lean like love keen, sexy as sabotage with no proof,
intuiting when to kiss, and when to kill, dressed to thrill in vermillion fox,
a King me be, knowing how to war, and how to water the woman that gives me shocks,
would throw roses and lava into a world desperate for heros gone mad on Creativity's roof,
I don't know how Love says goodbye,
I don't know how it sounds, how it moves
or know when the Death Dance begins or ends,
how deeply does Love get buried in the pits of private agony,
how will I remember the anniversary of our Dia de Muertos,
will you paint your face like a sugar skull and grin from misery made merry,
a grave robber I will be, rubbing fragrant memory on the lips of our love gone by,
feeding you the fear you've taught me -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
They're all here, the disjointed pointers,
to peer, to leer, to jeer. They'll dig her out.
Oh yes she hears: voices with vices, snake-slimy
accusations hissing in her ears. Her lover ceasing to love her
and now in the arms of another. And that - that other:
shame swelling like her belly, stabbing, jabbing
his fevered finger-frisk and sweaty clutch of bedroom words
panted, panted and pushed inside her panties, slimy with seed...
the scarlet slow-bleed, as her body flailed and failed,
gave way, betrayed and blooded the spirit-seed.
She entreats the ear-echoes to retreat
and hugs herself into a ball of safe
but there is no sacred space, no private place, no kindly face
or gracious spirit-hand extending gold-glimmer grace
as she crouches and cowers from tongues like whips,
the crashing crescendo of clashing voices
that become the bugling cries of a hunt;
fear flutterings of her frail-fox heart,
his ***** still sliming her ****,
maw-slobber on ****, the hell-horn blown
as the pack closes in -
'In The Corner' contest
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2017
My silky ivory coat keeps me warm in the artic climate,
my keen senses search for prey in the Alaskan wilderness-
When I encounter the mighty mount Denali, I climb it,
yes, I am an Artic Wolf and am known for being carnivorous.
I savor the flavor of a great
muskoxen and caribou.
The way the twilight sparkles
upon my prey, I feel the
desire for more-
When darkness hovers over
the land, my pack and I
find that there is more prey
than during the day holding
such brilliant light.
Deep chameleon blue.
Here I am, hunting for the fox that I always fight,
we battle and struggle with each other’s strength-
And as I search for artic hares in the middle of the night,
my leap into catching him is nine feet long in length.
As dusk arrives I anticipate
The reverie delivers the taste
I can never resist.
As I run through my territory
of about one hundred miles
I feel the fervor of the fight.
I am ready for the temptation of killing as it arrives,
and as my teeth growl I soon become prepared-
My claws dug deep in the ground as I begin to thrive,
for I have encountered a black mountain bear.
Through the combat of the
battle I have found victory.
I am alone, with no other wolf
in the brawl.
I relish in the taste of triumph
and surmount as being the
greatest Artic Wolf in the
My famished body has been marked with the game,
my prey killed with one grasp from my mouth-
Then I linger on to my cave, fulfilled and tame,
tomorrow it will be the time to travel down south.
Poetry in an Animal's View
January 29, 2017
Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2017
black and white landscape
a colony of penguins ~
standing and waddling
in the oceans depth ~
lives a black and white giant
orca killer whale ~
seal on an ice flow ~
oblivious to danger ~
head butting whale strikes
egg laid by female ~
emperor penguin stands guard
female goes hunting ~
not in Africa ~
elephant and leopard seals
sea is their jungle ~
hourglass dolphins ~
smaller than a bottlenose
keen bow wave riders
home is in the air ~
the wandering albatross
a ten foot wingspan
in the frozen south ~
a species of royal bird
the emperor penguin
the antarctic terns ~
fly over a silver dish
krill is on the menu
thick and warm white coat
a camouflaged artic fox
unseen in the snow ~
top of the food chain
carnivorous white giant
fearsome polar bear ~
Copyright © Tom Cunningham | Year Posted 2018
He was an ugly handsome
In a foreword backwards kinda way
Silent and outspoken
with nothing great to say
Strong with a strange weakness
Secrets he could not keep
He had a sense of humour
that mostly made people weep
You were cursed if you loved him
his hateful ways made you pay
The Devil was his confidant
Yet he still liked to pray
Heartstrings busted and broken
oh the songs that he could play
A companion to your lonely
but somehow it was okay
Happiness bled into sadness
your smiling face he’d make it weep
He was the fox in the hen house
sleeping with the other sheep
On the surface he was so cold
with a penetrating shallow heat
Pulling and pushing deeper
a sour sorta of liquid sweet
You wanted him to stop
He was confused when you said go
Pretending to understand
even though he didn’t know
Whenever he finally left
It was a lonely kinda glad
You prayed for him to be good
Instead he was the best sorta bad
Your memory tried to forget
his familiar foreign ways
Your body craved his approval
So you bathed in his lavish praise..
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2017
It started with a cup.
The cup turned into a bottle.
The bottle made an addiction.
Addiction morphed into violence.
Violence grew into destruction.
Destruction Destroyed reason.
The reason delivered abuse.
Copyright © Kennediey gray | Year Posted 2017
A BUSH FIRE
One scorching afternoon,
A sudden splintering sound was heard,
The nearest was the buffalo herd,
They smelt the smoke and felt the heat,
And began to charge, they had to beat,
The, scorching red hot fire.
The monkeys who swing and never tire,
Screeched loudly in tongues,
Whilst smoke, stole oxygen out of their lungs.
A mighty midget the porcupine,
Warned chancers that his quills so fine,
Would incur great pain
Not only a red blood stain,
For he dreaded to be turned belly up,
And had no intention, of being anyone’s sup!
The birds began to fly very high,
Away from the smoke, in the sky.
The unfortunate tortoise lost his way,
And sadly, with his life, had to pay.
The giraffe with tall spindly legs
Ran wildly destroying nests and eggs,
His wildness came from his wrath,
And, the chaos along his path.
The animals ran faster away from the fire,
Whilst the flames leapt higher and higher.
A mamba slithered forward next,
Whilst a frightened cub looked on perplexed,
A Zebra, tripped and broke his back,
Causing more confusion in this race track.
The springbok and hyena together ran,
They were now close to the water pan,
The pan was next to a river,
Would they make it,
Each animal began to quiver,
Could the springbok be tomorrow’s lunch,
A tree falls with a thud and crunch,
Distracting the hyena from his would be munch!
The fox cunningly glances from side to side,
Nimbly a burning log jumps wide.
The lions mouth their cubs gently but tight,
As they run from this horrendous plight.
But water is in sight!
Everyone is close to the finish line,
This race has become competitively fine,
The crocodiles are savagely waiting to dine!
They have spotted their first meal,
The frightened perplexed cub hurriedly steal.
Only a quarter,
Can get into the water.
A stampede starts, animals clamber over each other,
The young ones protected by their mother.
Unfortunately only the strongest will survive,
To tell future generations of their strive,
Of what it’s like, living a bush veld life.
Copyright © JENNIFER PROXENOS | Year Posted 2018
There you go again little Sly fox P.D.
Another game of tag and jeopardy.
Clever, clever, little fox so bloodthirsty.
Chaos roams through your veins of liberty.
You walk the ground, prancing around your hostility.
Marching down with the dignity of mis-guided anarchy.
I'm gonna hunt you smell end it well.
Hang you up from your trophy tail.
Kiss your night one last farewell.
By morning dawn your foxy tail,
Won't live another tale to tell.
I'm gonna find ya' ~ pull your hideout from where you hide.
Smack you around in your everyday rebellious ways.
Thinking you can defeat my crowd with your lawlessness..
I don't need no hounds to track your unlivable Holy-mess.
You created a selfish character of kindness for the blindness.
You prey on the sheep's and linger on their wall of hopelessness.
Your sinfulness grew from the boldness, and bitterness,
Of growing up parent-less.
My dear Sly Fox are you on alert with your ears of nobleness.
Did you not hear me creeping while you were sleeping.
Sly fox the destroyer!
You are right, you are a mischievous game of hunt!
My trap is set and waiting for you by the river front.
Go ahead, take a drink, pull one last obnoxious stunt.
Run and run, as fast as you can!
You can't out run this one game of Skitty Skat fox hunt.....
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2011
~~ The Rabbit and the Fox ~~ 20 line Ballad
The Rabbit and the Fox
The Rabbit and the Fox are here
go down south, to Australia
They have a bounty on the Fox
Bring in his skin they’ll pay ya
Myxameatosis germ warfare (first ever)
Just for the Bagman's bunny (our ww1 war crazed soldiers lived on rabbit in solitude)
Old Rabbit got mattry eyed
It really wasn’t funny
Great depression in the 20s
We lived on lovely rabbit
skins made the Slouch hat
Our soldiers wear, our habit (fur felt made the hat)
The master took the Rabbit (Squatters said plague)
No more free feeds for us
So we started eating of his sheep
Become a bit nonplussed
They brought another virus out
To kill off outlaw rabbit
But bunny still gets about
The Fox your hens will have it
Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011
WHO IS THE GIANT OF THEM ALL
Animals or humans, who is the giant of them all?
Bearing a two sheathed wings, the Hercules Beetles
crash the Titans (beetle) growing more than six inches.
Down the dirty waterways of China is the Mekong catfish
extending at ten feet, tummy-filled with one
full swallow of a child... Horrible!
Godzilla in Japan's sea is the Nomora Jellyfish!
However, the tipped nightmare fuel
incorporeal spill is not at all hazardous.
Jamison Stone, an eleven year old boy,
killed almost, this wild giant hog of 1051 lbs.
Lizards like the giant Salamanders aren't cute at all--
measuring six feet long: the largest of their kind!
Nuisance to Australia's dangerous wildlife, cane toads,
originally are found in South and Central America!
Power and beauty
quiets all his challengers when Percheron
runs, runs fast in a horse race!
Savory staple is the spider Crab but warning!
Their claws can do some serious damage!
Under a tree, don't be shock of the flying fox:
vampires to sweet-juices of fruits in New Guinea...
Weighing over a ton, Trigger is the cow for truckload of macs!
Xenopos are Cameroon Goliath that can live up to fifteen years.
Yes, humans are tough but compared to these behemoths,
zings we have are just their toys!
***nightmare fuel - stingray; flying-fox - bat
==Sponsor Name: Broken Wings==
=Contest Name: Trashed #2=
O. E. Guillermo
2:49pm, September 04, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
You need to go far, farther, even farther
Over small streams and tracks
The moon is distant, but can be glimpsed through the trees
A moose lifts his head, a beautiful antlers
King of the forest
Can smell the forest and wildlife
The fox howling at the moon
Echoes in the woods
Two yellow glowing eyes
It is the owl which are on the night watch
Hope that all mice are safely home
The moon disappears behind the clouds
Darkness falls, deep into the forest
A-L Andresen :)
(5th in the contest)
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2013
Alone, there I stood by the bench in the park.
On a leash by my side, my protective young hound.
In the distance I heard the echo of whispers;
As a dark hooded figure approached in a cloak.
She stopped and looked at me this beautiful maiden.
Rose like lips smiled gently, against skin bright and fair.
She took down her hood, released hair long and fair;
I offered my hand and on bench did we park.
We looked at the stars appearing so maiden;
As we talked of our youths and her company I did hound.
Then the moon cast its shadows and darkness did cloak;
Whilst trees bustled, rustling, the night timely whispers.
As we cuddled up close, to get warm friendly whispers;
It grew colder, I gave my jacket and said it wasn't fair.
So we got up to leave and she bunched up her cloak;
We walked to the car to the place I did park.
In the back did we place my faithful friend hound,
And we drove into the night on our journey so maiden.
We drove and we drove till the dawn arrived maiden.
To the rustling chorus of natures whispers;
And a fox searching for breakfast did stalk and did hound;
Saw chickens, roosters and hens such a fair!
In burrowed field did monstrous combine park,
Whilst autumn leaves rained tumbling natures cloak.
We went to my home and and we hung up the cloak.
Then I partook a chance to kiss the hand of my maiden.
While we spoke of the night at the park.
We enfolded ourselves to bodily whispers;
And I nestled amongst all of hair fair;
But when in heat of moment the barks of my hound.
A knock on wall from angry neighbors, please shut up the hound.
So I fed him, watered and let him outside; around me her cloak.
Then returned to my angel so beautifully fair,
Her skin looked so radiant my heavenly maiden;
That I caressed it so longingly, with gentle whispers,
Then stopped and remembered the leash in the park.
Then cursing the hound; I tell the dear maiden.
Dressed quickly, coats, cloak; and I love you whispers.
She tells me not fair, and we go to the park!!!
Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2010
In the fading days of summer; in the early afternoon,
We climbed the path that winds to Dorry's Ridge..
Where the crispness of the autumn air fortold a snowfall soon
On the rolling hills beyond the Springtown Bridge.
See the reds and golden yellows of the woods up on the hill
Where the maples stood all summer dressed in green.
Can you feel the breath of winter in the early evening chill
With the north wind stealing down the lake unseen?
Does a sense of wonder fill you, when the wild geese fill the sky
As they start their yearly journey to the south..
And the strung-out chains of emigrants call loudly as they fly
Past the rocky point down by the river's mouth..
And when once more it's silent, and our world is still again,
And our geese have disappeared beyond our view,
I'll lead you down the ridge, along the pathway from our glen,
And wander back along the lake with you.
On Dorry's Ridge the snow lies deep, and up along the hill..
The maples stand forlorn; their branches bare.
The lake lies deep beneath the ice; caught tight in winter's chill
The fox is sleeping soundly in her lair.
But one day soon the spring will come, the land will blossom then,
And life will wake again, as nature planned.
We'll climb the long path to the ridge, returning to our glen,
And watch the geese returning, hand in hand..
Copyright © frank halliwell | Year Posted 2013
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
Copyright © Dean Wood | Year Posted 2017
In my clock, I hear tickery tock
It just stopped! No tick tock from my clock
Oh my dear tick tock box
Now I fear there's a fox
In my tickery tockery clock
A sly fox in your dear tick tock box?
Oh my gosh, I can see his striped socks!
Well a stinky striped sock
could put germs in my clock
and cause tickery tockery pox.
Copyright © Kimberly Shaw | Year Posted 2015