Best Goose Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best Goose poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of goose poems written by PoetrySoup members
Search for Goose poems, articles about Goose poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Goose poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
New Goose Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Goose poems are below this new poems list.
Mother Goose and Father Time
by Krutsinger, Caren
Hard-Boiled Goose Eggs
by Horn, Chad M.
Goose and his Trike
by McGuire, Timothy
by Conte, Ashley
THE WILD GOOSE CHASE
by Rodrigues, Kim
A wild goose chase
by Watson, Wendy
Tales of a wild goose chase
by harris, matthew
Duck-Duck Rob 'n Duck -- Where's the Goose
by Wolf, Gershon
DONALD TRUMP RE DUCKS I GOOSE
by harris, matthew
Give Your Contest Goose Eggs To Someone Else
by pachecho, connie
View all new Goose Poems
The Best Goose Poems
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
Night sounds come in floods
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
The girl turns to face
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
~Under the Same Moon~
Our days are different, living under the same moon
Down here in TEXAS, life carries a different tune
This world spins on its lovely axis
Listening to our Tex-Mex of our English lexis
We share a world made with the trust of God's hand
Revealing the beauty that life continue to expand
Don't underestimate our football image of our Cow Boy land
A mysterious Mockingbird only we Texans understand
Surrounded by the sweetest Pecan trees
The Northern Winters come in like a breeze and a tease
We also have them Blue Bonnet fields that come and go
Tell me about CANADA, what makes its motion flow?
Branded like a Long Horn, with my Lone Star State pride
How about you, CHRIS A. What's up on your side?
Different lives, different lands, living under the same moon,
waking up to the ghostly calls of the wild loon.
Look upon mountains and forests stretching into infinity-
mighty Sequoias and tall Douglas firs stand majestically.
I could offer stereo-typical images of hockey, snow and moose,
or sockeye salmon, maple syrup and the great Canadian goose,
but we Canucks are becoming tired of idly standing by
as the rest of the world dips its fingers into our Northern pie.
We are a nation of peaceful, open-minded hospitality,
shying away from brutality by offering liberal neutrality.
Before I blow my top as my strong emotions collide,
I should definitely step away from my nationalistic pride,
and ask about the Philippines and its tropical flair-
how about you Nikko, what is happening over there?
Oceans away, here I am, living under the same moon
Sun’s rising over there; here, dish runs away with the spoon
My sleep is whacked, so I’m wide awake when you are,
amazing how we can all be in one place even if we’re all very far
Where islands form the shape of an old man, waters hug our shores
Tropical Paradise here, when you explore the great outdoors
Awesome sunsets, bountiful fiestas, the warmest smiles to greet you...
We here just love to eat when there’s nothing else to do!
Colorful rice cakes, freshest seafood, the most succulent mangoes~
Sunny days or rainy days, the creativity here just flows.
Resilient. This is a word that pops to mind when I think of us Filipinos-
We bend and bounce back, no matter how hard the wind blows.
This is just a sneak peek, but I’d love to know more about Utah
Care to share what’s on your side, my dear friend Andrea?
( 3 Way Collaboration )
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.
The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.
High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.
"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.
It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!
Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-
I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.
The dream had felt so real.
I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.
Everything appears normal here
on 4th Reichstag Blvd.
2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2016
A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)
I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.
"A Rational Explanation"
What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world I never knew?
For all I've seen hath been untrue,
As all I've felt hath plagued me, too!
I am no more, past Deaths before
I've reached the end of Living War-
(to see through eyes both blind and closed)
A life to touch, but never know...
"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep"
Every day, to God I pray
For answers to Life's enigmas
Patience lays in wait to stay-
To cleanse our Social Stigmas
We pass the time in our idle Dreams:
Like fallen stars in singing streams
"A Happy Ending"
Remorse and regret, I mustn't forget
Remind me that Life is a process of Learning
Indeed for I sorrow'd; 'twas always upset
As the Truth was met with painful discerning
But now my eyes are open-wide,
Grew to love what I once despised
I am no longer sick inside-
I just feel happy to be alive
"A Master's Approval"
No happier could I ever be,
(Or feel a joy's enormity!)
Than to know a Soul as Poe-
Would say he likes my poetry!
"The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven"
I pray that in my Eternity,
I'll meet Shelley, Poe and Emily
That we'll all sit down at a table round,
And at length discuss our Poetry!
And Longfellow, lest we forget
Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and beloved Keats!
If I prove their favorite Poet,
I could accomplish no greater feat!
For all my many silly musings,
This one I covet above the rest
For my Soul's toil- finally proving
That the Masters love me best!
"Heaven For A Poet" by Kelly Deschler
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to bed nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
This poem was one of mine that Chan had faved, so I thought it would be appropriate to share this now and dedicate it to him.
I will always miss you, BP, my brother in poetry, but I sense that you are smiling down on us now.
I know that Chan idolized Edgar Allan Poe. I remember him telling me that someday,
he wanted to share a table in heaven with that "good ol' E.A. Poe".
So, Chan, if that is what you're doing now, I envy you, my friend!
And, you said that you would personally invite me to that little gathering, remember? :)
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
We'd laid old George to rest the week before,
at ninety-one he now rejoined his wife,
no heirs to his estate, so one thing more
to do, and that's clear where he'd spent his life.
Downstairs had been quite easy, George was neat,
his things all had a purpose, neatly stored,
for tidiness this home was hard to beat
all clean and dusted, nothing was ignored.
It seemed almost that since his wife passed on
his solemn duty was to keep a shrine,
no other purpose now that she had gone,
he spent each day just sat, biding his time.
A plain and simple man, a life lived long
but opening a hatch proved we were wrong.
Met with a cold shaft of descending air
and particles of dust caught in the light
I climbed up while my friend steadied the stairs
feet dangling then disappeared from sight.
The torchlight didn't lie, I'd been deceived,
expecting just to find an empty space,
instead I stared unable to believe
how much there was in such a tiny place.
Now, yes, I would expect a Christmas tree
and Golf clubs that had long since seen a round,
a failed attempt at home brewing, maybe
and pictures he thought lost but never found.
But hidden in a tired old briefcase
were things well hid that old George couldn't face.
Tied in a green silk ribbon, slightly frayed
letters to him from his loving Maureen
about over the years the plans they'd made,
a little odd, since his wife's name was Jean.
A small cardboard box held a simple note
with medal and a ribbon tucked inside
thanking him, someone's wife had briefly wrote,
for being with her husband when he died.
I sat and read, transfixed, beside the hatch
the commendation from his high command
for acts of courage, mentioned in dispatch
in battles fought across Tunisia's sands.
It seems for these few things George had no use,
the man who wouldn't say 'Boo' to a Goose.
No time to dwell on this, I carried on,
my eyes attracted to a wooden box
the thing that caught my eye as torchlight shone
was that the lid had far too many locks.
This was no safe, a simple wooden crate
that otherwise one wouldn't think about
easy to break but did such locks dictate
that what was in there wasn't coming out?
A screwdriver was all it took to break
the brass hinges and hasps around the lid,
this liberty I was about to take
I suddenly was sorry that I did.
I paused for breath and let some moments pass
my preconceptions shattering like glass.
Swaddled within a crocheted woollen shawl
doll-like but skin with a leathery feel
chin touching knees curled up into a ball
at first glance, just a toy- but this was real.
she looked maybe, oh, three months old, I guessed,
and judging by the romper suit, a girl,
in cheery pinks and white she lay there, dressed
with matching bonnet hiding wispy curls.
Horror and disbelief fought for control,
recoiling, heart rate now in overdrive,
a stark realisation gripped my soul
that George knew of this when he was alive.
This open box no longer could disguise
the George we thought we knew was built on lies.
Composure now regained, I reached inside
and gently pulled the card out from her hands
on which the feelings mother had to hide
were written for someone to understand.
“ I had my child in nineteen fifty two
but out of wedlock gave birth secretly
they would have taken her, what could I do?
She's all I had and was the world to me.
I moved away and found another place
a dingy hole, so damp, not very nice
one night I woke and saw her pallid face
and realised for this she'd paid the price.
In case folk find out she must stay unseen,
Please take care of her, George, my love- Maureen.
The loft now cleared is empty, hatch is closed,
Golf clubs and barrels gone to garage sales,
the picture frames, well, I hung on to those
and good dish cloths and towels still tied in bales.
The medals and dispatches soon will sit
within a glass case for the world to see
since they're a recollection truly fit
for such a hero no-one knew but me.
And what of the secret letters? They're all gone
ashes to ashes, as they surely must.
Child's memory will no longer live on,
returned now to the ground to turn to dust.
no trace left for the future, no more proof
that there were two Georges under one roof
For contest 'Photo story', sponsor Eve Roper. Picture number three.
15th November 2017
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2017
As if robin's eggs ...
I consider the brittle fragments of her heart,
Cupped in my tarnished Tin Man hands ...
Not taking for granted the entrustment of their care,
I lay them out like priceless puzzle pieces
Upon a surface of loving intent.
She is but finery, fragile,
And I her fool.
As if leaves on water ...
I recall the women and passions squandered,
Encounters and affairs and intimacies ...
As spicy, splendid and varied as an artist's palette -
Some, immutable as acrylics, others fading like watercolors in the sun,
Swept away by life's intrepid courses and floods.
Love is but portion, fragile,
And I its fool.
As if disarming a bomb ...
A Muslim man cleans the lifeless body of his little boy,
Killed by a roadside explosive device while riding his bicycle ...
A mine left behind by an enemy brigade, retreating his town as part of a truce,
His Hindu brother's brigade - the brother he loves ... and despises.
Washing his son with his tears, he thinks of naught but vengeance.
Peace is but sufferance, fragile,
And I its fool.
As if fine goose down ...
I scrutinize the keynotes of my existence,
Turning them gently over with the voltaic breath of my thoughts ...
To the effectuation that none afford me the broadsword of achievement,
That the faults far outnumber the fortunes ... successes, far short the falls.
Still, I've known the passions and shadows as deeply as any,
Formidable joys, exquisite agonies, and sublime oblivions.
Life is but passage, fragile,
And I its fool.
As if fine lacy crystals ...
We gild the memories of lost loves and those passed,
Consummate hurts and piercing heartaches ...
Each and every one a precious memento of the depth of affections realized,
Scars and wounds, the invaluable proofs of how profound our devotions, thus.
Oh, how intensely we love! How dearly we grieve!
And how acute our need for BOTH!
Pain is but love, fragile,
And we its fools ...
Its sad, happy fools.
** FIRST PLACE in the "Fragile" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor. **
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
How do I tell you that you’re beautiful?
How can I be different?
How can I express my attraction?
When columns upon
Of testosterone filled wolves
Dressed in rented Italian suits
And discolored, mesh sneakers
Speak similar flirtatious dialect
Will this baby scented Sunflower do the trick?
I picked it from my walled Garden of Eden.
I spent 4 years mending these butterfly coated petals,
Solely for this moment
How can I express my need for your smile?
When tattered paper donations have been sent
To elicit short-term, newlywed goose bumps upon your flesh
May I have this dance?
You’ve never heard this sensual ballad.
But, it’s an element of my Spoken Word
Waiting for your translation
I await your palms,
Because this is not a Man’s world
This can be ours.
But, will you leap off from trampoline’s corazon?
My syllables are in your hands.
My book is within your misunderstood palm paths.
If you’re going to read between my lines,
Do not be illiterate to my heartbeats.
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
You are mine ~ I am yours ~ in this together
Your heart and mine in synchrony they beat
Bequeathed One with thoughts that sync mine
Enlightened Souls in love ~ a conjoined feat
Overwhelmed with the throb of your heartbeat
A subtle flutter like a butterfly’s touch within
That stirs the very essence of my soul
and tickles goose bumps that creep upon my skin
In anticipation for your fingers to hold mine
Proclaim your entry with your first lusty cry
I’ll weep a mother’s tears of soulful joy
Soothing you with my own sweet lullaby
Till then ~ for now we bond as one to the other
An affinity in the unity of a child to its Mother
He cradles us in his arms ~ you respond to his touch
The completed circle with you ~ me ~ and your father
My poem is written to celebrate the coming event for a very special couple who are excitedly expecting their first little girl.
Video clip and music by - Colbie Caillat
Copyright © Maria Williams | 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
I see the fire in your eyes!
This Red Angel, who's not human, intriguing with lies.
Pointing to the path that leads to paradise.
Ending Revelations with violence, breaking every inch of ice.
Blazing wings like the sunset over a field of corn.
A row of roses with rubies sharper than a thorn.
A devious smile covering up a set of horns.
Diluting me with images, since the day I was born.
Goose bumps when your essence is near.
I linger and shiver my lips with fear.
A slithery hypnotic tongue, the Red Angel wipes away my tear.
Holding the reddish key, whispering the word. "FREEDOM!"Into my ear.
Like the crimson tide lifting me from drowning at his request.
I find my heart pondering deeper and deeper within my chest.
Blessed with the curse of 'death' when my demons are depressed.
I'm still smiling to the sweet surrender of your breath.
A halo exploding like the fur of a volcano filled with lava.
Allowing the angel's advocate around~like a tree of strawberry guava.
Swallowing my own drops of red blood from my own saliva.
Living like the dead after a full bottle of vodka.
I beg for mercy at the Red Angels cow like feet.
Collapsing with sweat in his sweet eternal heat.
Gasping for the fresh air to avoid the smell of rotten meat.
I see the aura of an angel with his fangs ready to feast and eat.
Falling into a daze towards the red picket fence.
My Red House engraved with flames, after my feeling where condense.
My soul tormented by goodness at evils expense.
Flowing with every feeling including God's given sixth sense...
((( Merry X- Mass Everyone)))
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
When you come home late at night
Open the door and turn on the light
You had better be extremely quite
Or your goodly wife you may excite
And I'm sure she will not be polite
When she orders you out of her sight
There is no use trying to be contrite
The dog will have company overnight
Your goose is well and truly cooked alright
Copyright © Shane Cooper | Year Posted 2015
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
My thoughts they roil like waters dark
in the abyss of blackest night,
with memories of mother’s bookmark,
of Longfellow read by lamp light.
She called, in the room around me,
the patter of other small feet.
Her gentle voice fetched angels .
Oh, the rhymes, they astounded me
like lullabies soft and so sweet.
All fearsome shadows, she’d dispel.
Maxine, my queen, read Tennyson
and the Charge of the Light Brigade.
A little girl dreamt of caissons
roll, and thunderous cannonade.
To be so brave, the small child mused,
mother her precious, heroine;
what would it take to stand so strong
without father, and not confused.
What words could be the linchpin
to right mother’s tell-tale wrong.
Such sad inspiration, mother,
oh, how I wronged you by being born,
though I loved you above all others.
Some thoughts of you make me forlorn.
Bring back the tales of mother goose,
three small kittens and their mittens.
Return the vision of your smile
the happiness your warmth induced,
let your spirit comfort, lighten
night, if only for a little while.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2013
I remember Christopher Robin
When helping Pooh find honey
Was my biggest problem
I remember the blustery days
We trusted each other in every way
I remember When we helped Eeyore
Find his way home from the Sea shore
Everything was good
In the Hundred Acre Woods
I remember Curious George
I had to chase him a hundred miles
As soon as my mother kissed me good night
We went around the world
But we made it home
Two minutes before sunlight
And everything was alright
And Sammy the Seal would let me get on his back
And ride for a million miles
We exchanged halcyon smiles
And I remember the monster
Who brought fear to the hundred acre woods
Scarier than the Heffalump
Scarier than the thing with the Black eyes
He was pure evil in disguise
He told lies
Filled with evil and guile
Christopher Robin called him a Pedofofile
It tried to seduce me
Ten minutes after my mother introduced me
I remember that ice cold June
When Mama said “We’re getting married soon"
And Disney left the room
I remember when
And Hugh Hefner moved in
And H.A. Ray moved away
And Dr. Seuss and Syd Hoff
Took the Summer off
I remember seeing the door knob turn
The Pedofofile kneeled on one knee
Said he had a story he wanted to read to me
And he brought pornos to my bed
Mother Goose turned her head
Christopher Robin Fled
Curious George hid under the bed
And the hundred acre woods were
filled with dread
I remember us all gathering around
The meeting in Hundred acre woods
Christopher Robin said if I
Opened up the pornofo graphic
I could be banned for good
I asked him what’s a Pornofographic magazine
He didn't know exactly what to say
But saidt they were ten times worse
Than any blustery day
But i was curious like Curious George
I was curious like Curious George
I opened the Pornofographic magazine
I remember the woman
I saw more of her insides than a doctor
I remember the dog on top of her
But I can’t tell you what they did
And i cried out for Winnie the Pooh
I just wanted to be a kid
I remember the last time
I saw Christopher Robin
Tears rolled down his chin
he asked me why I had to
Let the pedofofile in
And it was a blustery day times ten
And I waved goodbye to Piglet
And Roo to Tigger
And the heffalump too
But Mostly I remember standing closely
To Danny the Dinosaur
He told me he would always love me
But I couldn’t slide down his back anymore
I remember 1974
2011 Dr. Seuss Poet M.e. Michael Ellis..
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016
Goodnight my dear boy and what's that you say?
You want me to chase the bad monsters away?
Well, I'll tell you a tale that may just be true
And if it's made up, it is done just for you...
I know you're afraid of the dark and the gloom
When you lie wide awake all alone in your room
'Scardy cats prowl and their tattle-tales pester
Goose bumps may prickle and worry-warts fester
Shadow-ghosts creep up and crawl to your cover
You roll on your side but then you discover
The thump in your pillowcase whispers too loud
So here's what I've done and I know you'll be proud...
I've met with the monster man under your bed
He thinks you will find he is not much to dread
He just needs a friend and to know that you care
So if you reach down he'll shake hands from his lair
I've found where that boogie man hides in the wall
He's cramped and alone and he waits for your call
He believes you're convinced he is ugly and mean
And hold him to blame when you have a bad dream
Your monster man's fierce and has razor-sharp teeth
But he understands things that may stir underneath
Your boogie man knows what you don't want to find
And what's around corners and hidden behind...
They'd like to come out and tell you a story
(Perhaps something scary but nothing too gory)
Sit up and talk with them late into night
Come morning they'll gladly slip back out of sight
But at night they'll grow strong to protect like they should
To face down your fear and show evil what's good
Stand watch while you sleep, they will stay by their mark
If you wake you might catch their eyes glow in the dark...
It's then as you grow you may find you walk bolder
With two fearsome friends striding close by your shoulders
They'll go anyplace as a general rule
(But maybe you'd better not bring them to school)
If witches and dragons can streak through the sky
Then monsters and boogie men surely must fly!
At the edge of your sleep (when you just start to doze)
Whisper the password and wiggle your toes...
And they'll sweep you away to soar like a dove
Over the rooftops to heavens above!
Up into orbit to your own private place
High on a mountaintop floating in space
Sit back and relax with a satisfied grin
Laughing and singing as you watch the earth spin
Hum along while your boogie man growls a brave tune
Count stars while your monster man howls at the moon
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2009
Have you ever woken up feeling like a kid
With angels dropping cotton candy on your soul
When knocks on doors reveal no steps in snow
And shooting stars have white beards and presents?
I get lost sometimes under goose feathers and it feels good,
Broken speakers squeak Christmas Carols
There are no clocks on walls, only the rhythm of pine logs in the fireplace
It smells of the forest I used to fly with horses,
No saddles, no hats, no shoes, no wolves...
Just practicing tying my shoelaces and sitting up straight for life...
I watch her reflection secretly pray in a room made especially for us...
It's warm, pupils - two mirrors of colorful lights on a plastic tree...
Iolanda Scripca copyright 2010
Copyright © iolanda Scripca | Year Posted 2010
Winter's whimsical nature comes with
fickle freeze, cold pervading every fibre
How I remember you, red hot
against the white snow
against permafrost desolation
How your aura lingers in my brain
fleeting perfume, breeze of ozone
The sweet sweaty scent of long nights
leathery lines grafted in my skin
The fragile steps we took, tension
of our vulnerability in closeness
Sweet brokenness, tender hurt...
Worlds of ice can not find my
Duvet of snowflakes, simulation of
soft warm goose down
Mirroring remnants of our souls
that sleep in dreamless reminiscence
May 17, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!
Copyright © Dean Wood | Year Posted 2018
Oh, Poisiden, you disrupt my sea;
Alter not your color for the likes
Of miserable me;
Your mouth foams in revelry
As I gasp desperately for
One remaining breath;
My rosary floats upon your
Fickle friendship of fury,
For your whims leave me
With goose flesh as
The grapevine wraps itself
Around my throat ~
I bear witness to antiquated
Notes which deceive;
The tongue of thy counterpart
Scorches this bosom...
Nevermore do I grieve,
Yet I swim vainly;
The chastity belt on land
It does remain,
Drowned dreams of delusion ~
I lurk within the shadow of
Door number two.
Copyright © Tamiviolet Manchas | Year Posted 2006
I was having a dream…
you were lying next to me
in our soft bed,
and goose down pillows
as the sun began to rise
painting our room in shades
of apricot and lilac
I was holding you
gently in my arms,
feeling your heart beat,
mesmerized by rhythmic breaths,
gazing upon your enchanting face
as dawn’s blushing glow
illumined your beauty,
and I fell in love all over again
When you slowly woke,
opening those dark November eyes,
finding me watching you
and smiled the most
enchanting smile I had ever seen
as I whispered
“Good morning beautiful”
And I didn’t want it to end
but it did as I awoke,
sensing the morning sunshine
through closed eyelids
and upon opening them
found you staring at me
with that springtime smile
and when you whispered
“Good morning handsome”
I knew right then and there
my dream would be never-ending
Good morning Soupers
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017
The Moon is almost...
Sullen skies forewarn the frozen shroud.
Gale November winds sway bare limbed
trees, whistling in chorus with arrows of
Geese straining to steer south.
The familiar sound of the revolving lead
Goose never wavers, but for tonight.
A strange howl emanates from the current
commander, abandoning the customary
bugling, not elongated; like a hound dogs
lament, but crisp & short, a howl.
Alarm bells ring in the memory recall of my
dna...built-in decipher mechanisms fail,
all of this happening in split-seconds.
What prompted this auditory change?
what does this alternate sound signal?
As quick as I heard it this twilight fall
evening, the Geese passed, the course they
were set upon unknown, circumstances
they encountered, not of my world,
the only sure thing,
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2017
In the dog-days of summer, from a long time ago
there are bear-hugging moments I often recall
It's like leafing through pages, of a ram-shackle book,
for a sweet second look at a bull's-eye of dreams
Dog-eared, and faded, like an hound-tooth worn seam
There are cat-walks of memories that one can peer through
of pigtails, and lollipops, and mischief as well.
Where a pony-tailed youngster would walk for a mile
to join with her friends, for a race through the fields
We would run like the dickens and bull-doze the grass
picking puffed dandelions, and bring them to task
Spreading small seeds with a puff from our breaths
while nature took over, and would handle the rest
Blooming sweet dog-wood would drift in the breeze
Elephant-ear ferns would line every path
With cat-tails and pollywogs, we would bunny-hop home
for chick-peas, and monkey bread, and goose-berry creams
Then snuggle in comfort, in a goose-down recline
knowing summer and fun, would live in our dreams
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2018
(typo just fixed)
Old Humpty Dumpty, the egg on the wall,
had a friend Bacon, who was ten feet tall.
Those two went together like bread goes with jam,
pen goes with paper, or glaze goes with ham!
Friends since their childhood, they’d made a blood pact.
Bacon got fried,and gave up some fat. That’s a fact!
Humpty made a wee crack in his shell. No joke!
The blood that HE used was his very own yolk!
They swore on the good book - Mother Goose Rhymes
they’d always be friends through good times and bad times.
The blood pact was greasy, but no one could sever
their bond! From then on, they’d be best friends forever.
Each day Humpy Dumpty would meet his friend Bacon.
Since both were so large, they had never been taken
by human beings to be cooked up and consumed.
But neither one guessed that their fate was doomed.
They’d thought they were sheltered by all the King’s men,
so they’d sit on the great wall again and again
in plain view of all, and they’d have a long chat
(though Humpty took care not to chew Bacon’s fat).
One day many tourists (Humpty later was told),
had not eaten breakfast, so hungry and bold,
they cut up his friend in bits small enough
to fry him for lunch. Humpty took the news rough.
He went up to the wall where he’d sat with his friend
every day of his life, knowing how things must end.
It’s no mystery now why he had a great fall.
With no Bacon, poor Humpty just ended it all!
July 5, 2018 for The Mystery of Humpty Dumpty Contest of Faraz Ajmal
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2018
Humpty Dumpty always sat on that wall
Except for the one time he had a great fall
So always but once that anyone can recall
Which is why today is a big deal after all
Since Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep
She wanted to ask Humpty to take a peek
If he could see where she should seek
She could round them up within the week
He wasn't on the wall, she rang Missing Alert
It sent shockwaves far and wide and overt
The Three Blind Mice scampered in the dirt
Three Little Pigs squealed like they were hurt
Next thing you know, Little Miss Muffet,
Told Tom Thumb to find Humpty or 'ef it'!
Three Little Kittens told Jack Spratt to "Stuff it!"
Itty Bitty Spider crawled the wall and jumped it
The Old Lady Who Lived In the Shoe
Panicked about what to do
Earlier she and Humpty had a rendezvous
He fell asleep and now had no clue
Most all those in Mother Goose Town
Heard Humpty was missing, wasn't around
Everyone was afraid he fell down
All were searching, wanting him found
Jack In the Beanstalk knew of the tryst
He told the Old Lady they would fix this
They covered up Humpty, he didn't resist
Henny Penny yelled, "Sky falling!" and insists
Hey Diddle Diddle got the cow to jump
And dropped Humpty on the wall on his rump
Starlight First Star said he looked like a lump
Even The Owl And Pussycat were stumped
July 7, 2018
Mystery of Humpty Dumpty Contest by Faraz Ajmal
Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2018
Growing older is a garden of graces . . .
disgraces, wild goose chases, closed in places.
It is an imperceptible tottering of time on a
conveyer belt, where at the end time drops
into the slipstream and becomes the mobius .
Growing older is wanting to be older when
you are young and younger when you are old.
You wish away the days, never dreaming that
you would give a king’s ransom to have them
back once again, treasured, appreciated.
In our youth, we squander time, kick it to the curb.
In our older years, we try to tie it to ourselves.
Age sneaks around when we aren’t looking, spreads
its poison pollen and is gone without our seeing.
The business of living distracts us from noticing
until it is too late, when we look into a mirror,
only to behold the ruthless signs smothering us.
It is realizing men no longer turn and whistle.
You have become invisible, crayoned out until
some young man says, “Grandma, the time?”
Growing older is smelling of Icy Hot instead of
Beautiful by Estee Lauder, seeing people sniff.
It is keeping L`Oreal in business long past the time
you want to stop, but can’t bear those gray hairs
that are the mute testimony to the inexorable decay
Growing older is breaking the shackles of propriety
Wearing that purple, and at least four sweaters.
It is joyously realizing you don’t care a fig what
people think or say about you or anything else.
You can laugh at the absurdity of fashion, style.
It is the delicious capability to say anything
you want, vent your opinions, disagree.
You say the most outrageous things freely,
and are forgiven, because you are getting
more than a little fey and just a little dotty.
And, oh, growing old is the sweetest blessing,
for you no longer are frozen in fear at death
and it's coming soon, for your years have
worn you out and everything changes so much
there is scarcely anything left of your world
What does it matter what god you worshipped
This earth has been hell enough for an eternity
and if there be heaven, it is icing on the cake
Copyright © Sherry Asbury | Year Posted 2018