Best Garret Poems
Always Prepared
Ready
Freddy
The Untamed
Feral
Ferril
What’s in Frankie’s Pockets?
Frankie’s
hankies
Patriotic Guy
Yankee
Frankie
Of the highest Quality
Fraser’s
razors
Small Eater
Grazer
Frazer
The Warlock
Pagan
Fagin
The Brilliant One
Star Glow
Fargo
Something’s About to Happen to Him
Herald
Gerald
Poet
The bard
Gerard
The Mimic
Parrot
Garret
Who Needs Pudding and Pie
Georgie
Porgie
Good Grief!
Lordy,
Gordy!
Best Things in his Garden
Gerrett’s
carrots
The Stoic
Steely
Greeley
What People Always Say to Him
Really,
Greeley?
The Generous One
Sharin’
Garen
Thrill Seeker
Gnarly
Harley
So Angry
Snarly
Harley
Embittered
Soured
Howard
Not Brave at All
Coward
Howard
What’s in Henny’s pocket
Henny’s
Pennies
The Pest
Vermin
Herman
What Herman Gives Each Sunday
Herman’s
sermons
Why Can’t He Just Stay Home?
Roamer
Homer
Better Than Ice Cream
Sherbet
Herbert
Get Him Band-aids
Howie’s
Owies
Nonsensical
Phooey
Huey
Always Amazed
Wowie
Howie
The Overly Sentimental One
Gooey
Huey
Armadilly came galloping into Troll Lake, bent on seeking a new life, to unwind.
He’d rode out of the Badlands, leaving only a trail of blowing dust and leaves, behind.
His steady stead Jalopy had been pounding feet, relentlessly with powerful strides.
Rearing up, Armadilly stopped before our Troll Bridge with his slingshot at his side.
I could see, he rode the sleekest mount, and the biggest tortoise, that I had ever seen.
Man that armadillo knew his tortoise flesh… this was the fastest one, ever been!
I would say: he truly looked, the devil’s mount… with glowing, fire stocked eyes.
The stranger named himself as Armadilly, but his true identity, could not be denied.
He was really Armadilly Billy, The Slingshot Kidster, as he bowed to us, so very low.
With a yes Ma'am, and a no Sir, he was smooth and could charm, near any old soul.
The Trolls loved him for the spell binding stories, that at the campfire, he gave away.
He never talked about his past, but we knew who he was, without being told, that day.
The rumor had it that Sheriff Bunny Garret had shot him dead, on one fateful day.
Another said he’d faked his death, heading south to Mexico, his life to live away.
But we knew better, for he was here with us, right now, on this illustrious day.
We knew he was a kind and misunderstood guy, because of what I’m about to say.
He saved our squirrel, Funkundilly, from a hawk diving straight for her, inward bound.
With his slingshot, like streaked lightening, he forced the hawk to spiral to the ground.
And we all applauded that Funkundilly was now, once again, so very safe and sound.
Then he strode, spurs a jangling, to dish out his own type of justice, so very renowned.
With a steely glint in his eye, he ordered the hawk away, or meet his end, he did convey.
And you can say that frightened bully hawk, really high tailed it, as he ran away.
Everyone celebrated that night, with Armadilly, all the way to dawn’s embrace.
Before he left, Armadilly knew from then on, he’d always have a home in this place.
But his mind was set on a wandering, more of this world’s adventures, to unweave.
So with a HiHo! Jalopy! He took off, leaving in another cloud of dust and leaves.
But I heard him shout that he’d be back again, soon…
And we were sure, that’s just what he would do!
Inspired by Silly Billy the Kidster's--- Billy the Kid Blog
An epic poem by Carol Eastman
Perched here within my writer’s garret,
among all my dusty books and notes.
I'll bare my soul and try to share it,
all my stories, poems, quips, and quotes.
Sometimes inspiration guides my hand,
but other times nothing to be heard.
It's hard for people to understand,
the struggle to find that perfect word.
Though my attempts might fail, I won’t quit,
like the Phoenix, I will rise again.
If my heart still beats, I know that it,
will have me write and never give in.
Thank you, God, for the gift of story,
I have strained to pen them full and well.
In hopes the world will know your glory,
with my humble words, I've tried to tell.
Inside the lonesome garret, all was grey.
He sat there thinking of his broken dreams -
like how he’d planned to be so rich one day,
and yet he’d failed at all his half-baked schemes.
Tormented by the itch that went unscratched,
he’d grown embittered by his circumstance.
He loathed the one to whom he’d stayed attached,
a foolish wife who yearned for mere romance!
She’d loved him, rich or poor, which was no help!
Her acquiescence made him hate her more.
He smiled as he recalled her startled yelp;
he looked down at her corpse there on the floor.
His final thoughts were quite far from contrite. . .
and then a single gunshot sliced the night.
There once was a cranky old parrot
who had all the charms of a ferret.
She went to great ends
to get rid of friends
and now lives in a draft-y garret.
The draft made her sicker and sicker
which caused her to bicker and bicker.
She tried writing verse
which made matters worse
so that she would bicker much quicker!
She couldn't stop coughing and wheezing.
Her vanity there was no pleasing.
The truth of her curse
was no gift for verse
which she blamed on all of the breezing.
This made her get tougher and tougher.
Her verses got rougher and rougher.
She wouldn't stop writing,
but kept on delighting
in making the whole country suffer.
BY DALE GREGORY COZART
The parrot soon dropped off her high perch
From the top of an old silver birch
Now she’s no longer squawking
And her husband is walking
To see the old bird buried in church!
BY JAN ALLISON
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbour, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dockhands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a strumpet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacramen
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbor, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dock hands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a starlet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacrament
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
Wish I was a poet, and got well paid
for poems writ whilst wearing suede
and drinking lots ‘n' lots of claret,
in a well-appointed Paris garret
My publisher would love me true,
and pay my rent, when overdue,
so I wouldn't sleep on Montmartre streets
and get under decent people's feets
I'd get well drunk and laid a lot,
(I heard poets do, more oft than not)
and choose, with numbers from a jar,
mam'selles to coucher with each soir.
Les dames Francaises would think me clever
‘cause root and boot are words I'd never
correlate. But sometimes Paris Bourse,
I'd rhyme with sexual intercourse.
And what if, for every verse I penned,
I got a hot brand-new best friend?
I wonder how long could I last,
in a life I led that blazing fast?
My real life's, in truth, synonymous
with being next best to anonymous,
but I suppose that it might be much worse,
had I to catch an early hearse.
I Used to be a Prefect
By Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
I used to be a Prefect,
when I went to Spurley Hey
I’d be standing at the front gate every day
With my note pad and my pen
I’d see who turned up late
and take their name, and this is what I’d say
If you’re late again this week
your name goes in the book
on Friday, I will come and get you from your class
I’ll take you to Mr. Walmsley
who’ll try to show to you
the being late is not the smartest thing
He wields a real mean strap
and he won’t take no crap
and when it hits, you’ll really feel it sting
There were some I would not book
or after school for you they’d look
Peter Hesketh, and Charlie Garret too
The two best fighters in the school
my mother didn’t raise a fool
so I was always busy, just as they walked through
It seems just like yesterday
they were good times at Spurley Hey
I hope your school days, were just as good for you
So shocking was that news from France,
we stared at TVs in a trance;
no way to understand.
Those young and old without a chance
were taken down in wide expanse.
Such horror had been planned.
Who could have then foreseen the fate
upon them cast by those who hate?
Just gathered there for fun,
not knowing that their deaths await
while music played and people ate,
their lives were over, done.
Who could have thought ahead that they -
that enemy that wants its way
to change our form of life,
would sacrifice their own to say
that their belief we must obey?
Misguided thoughts run rife.
That Paris scene that fretful night
prepares us now to face the fight.
Define this threat once more
that could erupt within our sight.
Entire world must join the fight
to face this crusade war.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rime Couee - Tail-Rhymed Verse - For France
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 01/03/2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: Best Sad Poem EVER
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/29/2016
=============================================
Rime Couee
I went with this pattern for Rime Couee as shown on "The Poet's Garret" website
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The November 2015 Paris attacks (sometimes referred to as 11/13) were a series of coordinated terrorist attacks that occurred on Friday 13 November 2015 in Paris, France, and the city's northern suburb, Saint-Denis. Beginning at 21:16 CET, three suicide bombers struck outside the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, during a football match. This was followed by several mass shootings, and a suicide bombing, at cafés and restaurants. Gunmen carried out another mass shooting and took hostages at a concert in the Bataclan theatre, leading to a stand-off with police. The attackers were shot or blew themselves up when police raided the theatre.
The attackers killed 130 people, including 89 at the Bataclan theatre. Another 368 people were injured, 80–99 seriously. Seven of the attackers also died, while the authorities continued to search for accomplices. The attacks were the deadliest on France since World War II." Wikipedia
Where will the little sheepie go
When the fields are full of snow?
Maybe he has a garret flat
Where he eats carrots and gets fat
I fear in truth it is not so
And in the fields those bumps of snow
Conceal the sheepie shapely form
I hope his fleece will keep him warm
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbor, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dock hands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a strumpet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacrament
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbor, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dock hands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a starlet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacrament
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
A Hint at What Is Beautiful :
Lovely is the 'bless your heart'
Wrapped with appreciation,
Offered to peace inclined individuals
Who make a special effort
To nurture shrapnel singed casualties
In the midst of napalm sedated air,
Conveying their humankind, unobtrusively
Also, unassumingly, in our
Blood recolored, avarice unhealthy,
Detest eaten world.
Lovely is the occasion,
At the point when the heart apathetic
To euphoria or distress, just trusts
Whatever this life brings
In any case, discovers time to simply be.
By Yoonoos Peerbocus
A Crazed Girl :
THAT crazed young lady ad libbing her music.
Her verse, moving upon the shore,
Her spirit in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Stowing away in the midst of the load of a steamship,
Her knee-top broken, that young lady I pronounce
A delightful grand thing, or a thing
Nobly lost, chivalrously found.
Regardless of what debacle happened
She remained in edgy music wound,
Wound, injury, and she made in her triumph
Where the bunches and the bins lay
No regular comprehensible sound
Be that as it may, sang, 'O ocean starved, hungry ocean.'
By William Butler Yeats
A Baby View of Abortion :
I came as tomorrow
Swaddled in guiltlessness
To your warm womb
Mother… …
Without your decision
Or on the other hand mine
Bound to up date
With time
Our human tree
Be that as it may, before adoration
Developed into fragile living creature and words
What is incomplete creation-
A precipitation of blood
Turned into my greatness.
By Yoonoos Peerbocus
A Ballad of Heaven :
He created at one extraordinary work for quite a long time ;
The world go by with elevated look;
Some of the time his eyes were dashed with tears ;
In some cases his lips with giggling shook.
His significant other and youngster went dressed in clothes,
Also, in a blustery garret starved ;
He trod his measure on the banners,
Also, high on paradise his music cut.
Contemplative he became yet never dreaded ;
For dependably on the midnight skies
His rich symphonic score showed up
In stars and zones and universes.
He thought to duplicate down his score ;
The moonlight was his light; he stated,
'Listen my adoration,' however on the floor
His better half and tyke were lying dead.
John Davidson
change garret
chained up garette
change up grade
rubber
blonald bluck