Best Hankering Poems | Poetry
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New Hankering Poems
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hankering for a brawling
by Lee Sr., James Edward
Hankering for a Kiss
by Anderson, John
by Yantis, Susan
by robinson, esther
View all new Hankering Poems
The Best Hankering 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 erection
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 porn 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 boner
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 boner
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 penis
which is, (between us),
I think, a spicy endeavor
WRITTEN BY H PENELOPE SWIFTLOCK
There was perfection in his pecker,
as a porn 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
Miles in a coaster, a day and hours elapsed,
Felt the utmost relief when the whirling wheels halted;
So weary and dizzy, even a smile seemed so hideous
But an in peace slumber I desperately craved for;
Eyes wide-opened at the chirping of euphonious birds,
Stirred myself with hankering for the glimpse of exquisite village,
But still a dawn blanketed in frosty mist, sight diminished,
I’d only steal the blurry scene of Tang valley;
An hour after, when the glorious sun showed its perky visage,
Outside I stood relishing the splendor of the hamlet
And savoring the icy breeze wafting underneath my nose
With succulent aroma from the Mother Nature;
Amidst undulating hills and mountains down lay a quiet place,
So called Tang enclosed by rich vegetation and iridescent river
That embellishes the heavenly place superfluously picturesque,
Enticing all man into the blissful homeland of Tang Valley;
Houses clustered and down beneath the farmyard,
Divine school stands with its pride upheld
And hallowed veneration anyone would esteem,
It is so-called Tang Central School elevated of late;
Established in 1965, primary to middle since last year,
Now shines the school proud and gratified of its new recognition
As the central school bestowed with prerogatives and autonomy,
And concurringly, rejoicing its Golden Jubilee in eons;
Postures upright like inert figurines in a park,
Crescendo of unripe singsong voices spring at eight and thirty,
Crooning the sincere words of praise and homage to Tsa-Wa-Sum
That infuses the all hearts with never like joie de vivre;
A trickle of erudite whizzes and astute greenhorns
Gathered deep delved into a bond of kinship with no antipathy,
But an unremitting fondness amongst solicitous brethren-
A purveyor of ecstasy as its depiction I call for the beautiful home.
Copyright © Karma Dorji | Year Posted 2015
I am of Maroon extraction, dear
My grandmother's grandfather fought
Without surrender or tanant of fear
And two times with Boukman caught
And twice unlike him escaped
To die in a rocky cliff, proudly brave
While the freed slave escaped
He held the pass alone unto his grave.
But my grandmother, mixed his blood
Gave me a half German grandfather, good!
At evening when oral tongues tattle truth
These stories were the pomegranate
Juice that fed the worthiness of ragged youth.
My father from aboriginal state
Rose and span his flight from teacher
To banker's clerk, and then to police
Against the national disorder of labor
Hankering for a new identity of peace.
He found his, a veterinarian, at last
But for his broken wing there was no cast
To compensate, he dreamed of children
Into whom all his resources were poured
Rising to the top of government, send
Them to colleges far away, they bored
With the magic of his island never returned.
And I, he died when I was fourteen
Before he carved me from ash for his urn
Dote on his past like a child unweened,
While suckling from the simplicity of mother
Whose clothes on the line reeked of heather.
O but mother too, was only half of Africa
And yet despite the latent Spanish in her
I am your ebon tree, your chocolate or sepia
And when I dream there in the unblur
Stands my ancient, my vast begining, pride
Like a Serengeti from Ashanti to Zulu lure
O this child has many kings in his inside
And yet no kingdom did I claim but the bush
That surrounds my Canterbury with its hush
And the braod pastures on Knoxwood's plain
O to reign there in childhood still
Running in and out with swallows in the rain
To eat the pulp of fruit from every hill
That balmed me I was bruised. Too harsh
Were schools for the vision in my skin
My teachers were lilacs, things in the marsh
My student eyes eclipsed by the fins, things
Still bright, or a sudden gasp of wings.
Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009
In our crimson embers lie the snowflakes
In our snowflakes rise our whispers
In the downward valley
Where are gone the embers
My bird asks your roses
The maniac cucumber
That would change your proses
to hankering lyrics
In sync with the drumsticks
and melt the burglar ice
seated in the starving slice
of my days and nights
into my tissues and veins
calling the fire that ignites
the fragile glass of window panes
pouring the dances of rose-fragrance grains
in the lanes and bylanes
of the churning existence on supreme fire
Dancing with the strings of lyres
Squeezing the pomegranate
The snowflakes have robbed us of the curls of earthquake
No tales of ripples in the frozen lake
Purple pulsations have left my neck
Gone are the hours of scarlet cheesecake
We must wait until the white flowers into colors
Our arrival in the scent of sun and showers
Can never end in the frozen bower
Embers proceed with death in snowflakes
New sparks are born to infuse a break
Gather new embers
The golden spurs
of life in spicy strife
The poetry goes on
From Babylon to Houston
From embers to snowflakes
From heartbreaks to handshakes
The sunshine and the tree
The lemon and honey
The blending spree
The blossoming cherry
January 3, 2018
For Embers and Snowflakes-Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2018
yearning, pining, craving
a hunger for love
hankering, wishing, wanting
longing for passion’s ardency
Sponsor: Dr. Ram
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014
Girls and boys
pick up your toys
has been shut.
There’s a man out there
with greasy hair
in his gut.
That’s what we thought
till Joey’s father was caught.
He was clean shaven
with neat crew cut.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
July 15, 2012
Copyright © kathryn collins | Year Posted 2012
Spawned from the loins that
Perpetuated the loyal serfs mongrel
These peoples of a conditioned and
Born into the enveloping tedium
Of interlocking days...Interwoven
With interlocking days -
Victims of stark circumstance
And vague promises unmade.
Gregariously living out their lives
When warmly embraced by
Every self-serving boast brazenly
To be exploited, and thus,
Under the fortressed arches
And into the newly built courts -
An architects realized vision
Communal gardens, devoid of
Rows of potatoes...
An absence of trailing and
Flowering Sweet peas;
But complete with a regulation
Once fortnightly Cut lawn,
Surrounded with borders of
Herein, specifically positioned
Slug infested Hostas, and
Stunted miniature Maple leafed
Dragging on long and slender cigs,
Stepping over mediocre aspirations,
Which, regrettably, inevitability
Come trudging single-mothers
Hauling groups of unruly and
Compounding their problematic
Reinforced by snacking on
Comforting habits -
Bulging from every fur-lined
Of their zippered-up jackets.
Disposable plastic bags stuffed
With many tins, bottles,
And cheap "Ready-to-eat" microwave
That, for all vitamin deficient sins -
Suit all ideals;
The uncaring volunteer delivering
To the elderly and infirm,
The barely warm "Meals-upon-wheels".
Traversing shadowy paths to avoid
Where the stooping and hooded
Dealer hawks his lurid appeals;
Routinely confronting the drunkard
Who, staggering homeward, totters
Along past troublesome defences
Of overgrown embankments and
Redundant sidings -
Resplendent in outrageously outlaid
And profanely sprayed graffiti
Hankering for the comfort their
Prone forms should extract from
The cheap IKEA settee...
When looking forward to settling down
With a glossy "Womans Own" magazine -
And a nice cup of Rosie Lee!
A glass of sparkling white wine...
Some precious stolen moments with
A favourite Crooners CD.
Firstly however, and in this we are
Convinced any reasonable woman
Would most wholeheartedly agree,
She must dutifully prepare a well
For a hard working-man to partake...
Of his plentiful and much deserved
Thus are her loving actions so
Such that spousely reciprocation
Should adoringly invoke;
Much rather, in joyful release,
Happily place her hands around his
And, in enraged fury -
The wretched life out of him to
Such are these shortened lives
That ill afforded actions all so
Soon to Unavoidably broach,
Delivered through clamouring
Encouraged by the perceptions
And allure of the populist vote.
A doctrine that appeals to the
Craven interests and unsustainable
Of the bickering indulgent-classes;
This, by the grace of God, we
Should so fervently pray not ever
Have to undergo;
Wavering loyalties easily dissuaded...
Then put quietly to one side,
And turning their backs
Against the prevailing party,
Desert and deride -
When to self-righteously Overthrow!
The sadly predictable backlash
When contrasting a collective
Consciousness against the many
Failings and injustices
Of the prevailing Status Quo.
Caught up in the clutches of an
Downwardly collapsing Spiral
They cling to vague hopes of good
Dogged by the spectre of jingoistic
That will hopefully usher in the
Of an ailing nations needy but
Confusing the unimportant issues
Fast fading remnants of yesteryear
Where fleeting memories briefly
To help compound intellect and
Rational thinking -
Into confounded and utter defeat!
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016
When the sands of life run out for me
And I'm about to die,
Will St. Peter say "Come in, Ma'am,
If I bring a piece of pie?
Gravensteins from my own orchard
Are the apples I lke best,
With sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour.
Recipe on request.
I handle the crust carefully
To preserve the tender taste
And delectable deliciousness.
Not one crumb should go to waste.
I learned the process from my mom
Who learned it from her ma.
Grandma honed her skills a lifetime
Making pies for my grandpa
Who was connoisseur of pie
And ate it every day,
Wanting fresh pie for his breakfast,
Not stale slice from yesterday.
Grandpa's hankering for pie, perhaps
Brought him to early grave.
Dad said if pie should bring him harm,
He'd just try to be brave.
My apple tree is bearing
An unusually big crop.
My family is clamoring
For apple pie non-stop.
Last week I had no money
When the tithing plate came by.
I hoped no one was looking as
I left an apple pie.
This week a plumper minister
Could not quite meet my eye,
But when my money hit the plate
I'm sure I saw him cry.
If you think I am just bragging
About my luscious pie,
I'm taking one from oven now.
You're welcome to stop by.
For Linda Marie's contest. "Dreamy Desserts"
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2010
Cold, cold winter, you wield misery like a knife! No magic wand to be waved
To make you finally fade into oblivion. You leave me suddenly hankering
For the halcyon days of summer. There isn't an ounce of warmth saved
Chilled to the bone. Oh dear, I can't seem to shake this incessant shivering!
Nowadays I quiver in my slumber, and another summer seems so far away
Day by day you keep hovering in the air like a flickering hummingbird
My feet are ice cold, freezing on this snow that covers my doorway
I've mercifully given you a second chance, dear winter; I decline a third
Break this curse of yours; the gust of wind you bring is terrible
I wish for heavy rain to rid you, snow, your white hue is blinding
I'm beginning to wonder if this misery you've unleashed is curable
The rays of afternoon sun will soon come shining down, I'm hoping
Meanwhile, I yearn for spring, in all its glory. It will arrive much sooner, I pray
Cold, cold winter, please, please, please...finally be on your way
Date written: 01/27/2016
Date posted: 03/26/2016
Copyright © Edward Ibeh | Year Posted 2016
Shall I suppress the hankering of love,
And behold one’s stifle whispering bare,
Or quench thy besmirch of venom thereof,
Or bedight thy fog, doer of despair?
Before perceiving wisdom of thy crime,
Judgement of thyself no question make,
When desires approach years of prime,
Must respect and morals themselves forsake?
Though slavery gone captured we still be,
Yet must we all have thy person to blame?
Praise thy duets of similarity,
Forswear injustice and love all the same,
So even I not man still do yet swain
For love alone must I wish to gain.
Copyright © Joanna williams | Year Posted 2016
Tumbleweed Billy And One Eyed Sam
Banked off jagged hills, pushed on by memory
Cause and effect took turns churning the sidewinders
Tumbleweed Billy and One Eyed Sam (The patron Saint of snake eyes)
Dragged down from on high by a freak flood
Through swollen gorges flushed with raging waters
From melted mountain snow with a long way to go
Two cowpokes gathered up by ancient storms without warning
Compounding the Pounding past the sandy canyonous rocks
Crashing through dams along the flooding passage
Tumbleweed Billy and his one eyed friend rolled into town
They came to rest at Rusty Bottom, a dusty town
Released their grip on a sturdy timber log
That brought them there all wet and muddied
With wind against their backs
That swept them up to view the Last Chance Saloon
Looming over there
This brought them to their feet to mossy over
They moved like prestidigitation fakes, hankering for a drink
Taking whiskey down like magic water
Then set out their pedestrian plan there on the table
To take this western town down by gambling pranks
Quick digits formed their sleight of hand
Children suddenly appeared before the strangers
Seemingly from nowhere on the action
The two cowpokes glanced back at them like spies
Sam scared them with his missing eye
Covered by a black patch, looking kinda pirate like
The other clouded, milky white, piercing, with limited sight
Billy grants the young ones wishes on the spot to settle them
Magic to be perfected and performed above a pending storm
He rolls one die. A one comes up. A snake eye
An omen more visible than not
This made the children fear an awful lot
Dice played a major role for his desires and devices
He kissed them twice for luck then vanished in their cast
Tumbleweed Billy rolled out of Rusty Bottom Town
Taking his dice and the bad eyed man
In a singular milky white last lost glance around
On the same south winds now gone from town
Both sidewinders de-materialized, vanished in that instance
As though they never existed
Invisible, never seen before, never seen again, as foe or friend
As for the children; who gambled on the chance of magic
Got exactly what they asked
And what was granted when they first wished it
For the two to disappear
Tumbleweed Billy and Sam were gone as quickly as they came
And no one really missed them or their game
That is; their tricks, dice and way of life
Their little slice of paradise
9/16/14 Cowboys in the badlands – Poetry contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
9th march 2012, by: Sashi.Prabhu(zeauoxian)
~ LET'S DANCE! ~ Poetry Contest
Dance, only with you, my sunshine,
Dance, our vigorous emotions within erupt and rise.
Dance, exuberantly and vivaciously to make you all mine.
Dance, diaphanous caress with my gossamer eyes,
Dance, intimately churn sweet love’s nectar to inside us sensationalize.
Dance, ecstatic desire to drive us to each other fondly insane,
Dance even in doubt’s pain I have only you to gain.
Dance, desire gushes out the fathoms of my heart to my yearning lips,
Dance, from my fervent emotions all impurities will drain,
Dance, Behold us hankering and seductively gyrating our hips…………
Copyright © sashi prabhu | Year Posted 2012
So if I recall I was on the backhaul
early 2003 sometime 'round late February
usual cold n' bleak Jersey winter
still snow n'ice enticed roads n' bare trees
reached up all dark n' fingery
I'd made it from 527A in Englishtown
to the 33 to Bordentown to the 130 to the 1
then up the 278 Expressway to the 78
I was runnin' a long hooded big black Classic
with a Cummins 500hp red top n' was gettin'
tired so pulled into a town just off the Interstate
After restin' 'til late mornin' I decided to grab
a bite before headin' west n' didn't see much
open besides a lil'ol'world style bar n' grill place
Though for years hadn't been a drinker n' most
times just in aftermath a thinker figured I'd get
soup n' sandwich deal but got an uncannily
uneasy feeling from the few seated in bar
though barely even turned a face
Even barkeep gave me double takes while on
the food i wait n' i picked up a Reading PA ol'
style newspaper n' front cover I was shocked
to see 100 killed n' 187 injured in
West Warwick RI nightclub fire
I stood in the corner taking it all in I looked
up on the wall n' saw posters describing witch's
feet n' their symbols of a coven n' if I said I didn't
wanna get outa there quick I'd be a liar
As I rolled to get back to the freeway through the
center of town I saw a church not usual to be found
were no crosses it was plain except for above
the front door the exact same symbol saw on poster
back at the bar
I wanted to put as many miles as I could between
me n' that evil place but I'd taken a copy of the
newspaper n' kept glancing down at the picture
though further 'long seemed I hadn't got that far
In the photo taken just minutes before the fire
had broken out I could see dark pointed caped
figures in the audience millin'about n' not really
passing judgement on the singer well least not
condemning it still looked like his eyes were dead
When I looked later at some other photos it showed
fire trucks n' emergency crew n' people wanderin'
'round in the smoke n' confusion n' only thing
missing was those 100 poor lost souls
Seeing the remaining black charred embers kinda
took me back to that evil little town 'long with the
eerie feeling those at the bar were witch affiliated
n' most likely members still
So if you're ever taking that road trip back east
to see The Big Apple or Hamptons or Connecticut
n' unless you got a hankering for things related to
the beast-i'd say none the least you might wanna
10-31-2016 Duncan R.M.Ferguson
Copyright © Duncan R. M. Ferguson | Year Posted 2016
Vast skies, the tiny drop’s soul now ascending
Dying, to heaven helplessly heading
On the ground,a corps, dried, into vapor turning.
Hard-hearted heat, its flesh mercilessly still biting.
A condoling cloud the driblet’s life saving
Caring,on its back with compassion carrying
Fleshier, stouter ,stronger everyday growing
Looking down revenge on earthlings swearing.
The driblet, now a monstrous Armada proudly admiring
Ruthless mercenaries from all lands continuously levying
A rumbling cloud to the battlefield majestically riding
Over the village endlessly roaming, the enemy feverishly skulking.
Thick icy mist from above came down swirling
To their nests alarmed birds hurriedly sending
Silence the defenceless, scared village invading
Dribs in thundering rage down their whole selves hurling
Roads, paths, streams every means taking
To the big river in floods ,All hankering
There, the driblet its pongos eagerly waiting
A demonic, resentful revenge that night caballing
Into a cruel monster, the river now swelling
Silently around the village sneaking
Leaves in trees rustling, doors suddenly creaking
The bugle then reached the villager’s hearing
Dayspring, cadaverous,pale faces in icy waters wading.
Behind , carrion, felled homes leaving.
Cherubs in shivering, sapless hands carrying.
Warmth, a dry offered hand seeking.
Copyright © Andi Abderrahmane | Year Posted 2010
There's an event in the country that few city people ever know,
It's called the Greasy Pig Competition held at the local show,
It's a novelty event put on when the riding's been all done,
A greased up pig chased by the locals on the run.
Now local cafe owner, Chubby Enright was his name,
Has prospered in recent years, his belly showed the gain,
Had planned daring tactics to capture the running swine,
On pork ribs with cranberry sauce that evening he would dine.
Lean Lanny Watkins had a mean and nasty look,
In fact on the morning of the show there was little there to cook,
He'd been out of work for quite a while, no fault of his own,
And he was developing quite a hankering for ham on the bone.
The whole Godolphous family had been practising for a week,
With their pet cattle dog dipped in mud from the creek,
The dog was fairly cringing, he was sure they'd all gone mad,
As they chased every afternoon caked in mud put on by dad.
The Gunning brothers were responsible for supplying the hog,
But if the locals knew what they'd planned they'd all be on the grog,
You see they were replacing the domestic with a very furious brand,
A wild pig caught in the bush, near the salt-bush on the sand.
It was the morning of the show, the fairground filling up,
On the announcer's desk taking pride of place, the Greasy Pig Cup,
Many contestants entered, some paying with their last two bob,
Later on they toed the line, waiting for the release of the hog.
The contest was held inside an oval with a fence all way around,
The starter held his gun up high, everyone waiting for the sound,
The pig released, the gun went off,the hog was on the run,
Alas the poor town folk thought they were going to have some fun.
But this snorting wild pig had other things on his mind,
Returning to the salt flats to live with his own kind,
He was knocking people over and a terror replaced their grin.
Realising he wasn't domestic but a wild swine that'd been rung in.
The grunting wild animal had turned the crowd around,
Survival now their primary thought as they raced across the ground,
Screaming people everywhere, one opened the oval gate,
Both man and beast came charging through to escape a drastic fate.
The pig flew through the opening straight into a stall,
Causing all the home-made cakes to be flung against a wall,
The weeks of work now a sloppy mess laying on the ground,
The Harkness ladies now mortified gave a kind of whimpering sound.
The fruit and vege stand was prepared with pride by farmer Ness,
It was decimated by the rampaging boar creating such a mess,
After wrecking another two stalls the pig finally turned east,
He headed off for sanctuary and other wild beast.
The towns folk didn't appreciate the joke that had been played,
Their nerves and their tempers had been completely frayed,
The Gunning brothers most unpopular hastened to their farm,
They daren't show their faces for a while in case they came to harm.
Eventually they were forgiven, the locals even grinned a bit,
As they re-told the story of the swine and all the people hit,
However next year at the fair they made sure a domestic pig was used,
No more broken bones for them, no more battered and so bruised.
Copyright © john williams | Year Posted 2015
A subtle carol echoes of the evening
Upon bended knee I am arrested
Betwixt strange refrains
Shaking the floorboards of Teicu
The evocative moans amplify
The foolish peacemaker of astrologists
The English dream of poetry
Those I coaxed by death
Were the witnesses of the tragedy
And were familiar with its ballad
Crafted the design ‘tis conceptual pornography
Eradicated their honor for vanilla threads
As they shimmy and shimmy
They defile elongated hankering
And retreated in the greenhouse of Woodstock
Its language made iconic by efficacious character
Having often been labeled an experiment
Broadening its brilliance along death’s boulevard
‘tis she who was the stunning one
Her language made sacred by her iconic fame
A long time controversial reference
An automaton, an origin of extraterrestrial etiology
The evocative moans ensnares the tourist
Copyright © Glenn McCrary | Year Posted 2012
Twenty-six letters in the alphabet:
Vowels and consonants be soldiers to defend my message
I'm like a twenty-five cent coin rolling on a parking lot;
destined for the machine or the storm drain?
Twenty-fours in a day, but all I need is a minute
to grab your attention
Twenty-three is unlucky so they say (I pet my black cat
under a ladder so that doesn't bother me)
Twenty-two or two times eleven? I got this thing about math, you see
Numbers and figures mean way too much to me....
Twenty-one is a golden age... a time to crash (literally or
figuratively?... pay close attention!)
Twenty fingers and toes... help me keep balance...
in fact I'm using them all as we speak
Nineteen-or-older shops surround this path I'm on
I look left and right, but keep moving forward
Eighteen, can you believe it? Still not there yet
but I heard it's a memorable turning point in life (most likely just another day)
in so few words
(perhaps that wasn't my best haiku,
however you made it this far... right?)
Sixteen or two to the fourth power? I long to multiply,
but I'm still stuck at one...
Fifteen for a moment (according to John Ondrasik)
It's only just begun, so let's have some fun!
Fourteen lines in a traditional sonnet
Sorry William, that I couldn't keep on it
Thirteen be the year I watch the thriller 2012
(and laugh hysterically)
Twelve months and a dozen broken eggs later...
yeah maybe farm ain't for me
Eleven thousand poems I could write
As well as a eleven millions wrongs committed by the end of the night
Ten Commandments I abide by
(Bull crap... I still have a hankering for lies)
Nine or three to the second power?
(Guess I'm more and more OCD by the hour)
Eight is just fine with me... it's the month I was born on
and I haven't regretted it since
Seven days in a week...
(why should we choose only one to worship the Lord?)
Six billion hamsters in a cage (we run like the wind
but still keep in place)
I could give a high five as a gesture to cheer up
(but it's always back to the doom and gloom with you)
Four limbs and each one aim for the shackles and heavy chains
(I thought slavery was over?)
Three things: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost...
(what more do you need to know?)
My brain is cut in two, I'm on my knees screaming
"WHAT DO I DO??"
But one thing I know for certain
is that I got YOU
NOTE: Lines 13 & 18 seem a little contradicting, but I did write this before before 2013 and before my 18th birthday.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
The wind is quite blustery on our short walk to grandmaws
Hankering to have some chocolate pie and dressing
And see the new baby boy!
Never get to spend much time with the family lately
Kiss 'em all and get a hug
Stress out over all the germs we shared
GOD grant us blessings all the days of our lives
IF the heartburn doesn't kill me tonight, praise Jesus
Value of family --priceless$$
If brother can hobble he will make it ok
Next year will be better
God grant brother a new hip by Christmas
Drop off some new teeth for granny
Ann, she needs to chew her food good
You're faithful and just to grant our needs!
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2010
surrendering to passion
hankering for more
curse rhyme or reason
allow your heart to decide
elbow fear aside
seize the moment and hold on
surrender to it
January 28, 2012
Copyright © Diana-Marie Bombardieri | Year Posted 2012
Waft in the ether
Hankering yearnings in your sanguineous veins stream
Awakening the enthusiasm to wake up each morning with a sense of purpose
Copyright © Nayda Ivette Negron | Year Posted 2016
Throbbing trances hankering
for raindrops of devotion,
I stood frigid in cold logic,
Melted with warmth of his
leather jacket on my shoulders.
Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2013
The tempter is a master of persistence
desiring you to stumble and to fall
but from the things he offers, keep your distance
and you will overcome and still stand tall.
Do pray, into the snares you won’t be led
strive to please the Master every day
rebuke bad thoughts that come into your head
from enticements quickly run away.
Allurements, like a magnet, they can be
ungodly source that’s pulling at your soul
put space between the hankering and thee
the magnet’s pull will not win the control.
Joseph, day by day, he was provoked
Potiphar’s wife tempting him to sin
Running, the response by him evoked
Sometimes that’s what it takes to not give in.
To follow his example, we’d be wise
when by sin charmed, we must put up resistance
don’t’ let temptation lead to your demise
between it and yourself, just put some distance.
Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017
NOT A QUEER QUEERY
Must I beg half of my life to read my tome
The sensuous one with whom I share my home
She claims to already know each chapter written
From now all the way back to when we were both smitten
A lover I had found yet silently I advised her to run
And that would only be chapter one
No one knows why she suffered all the lies which I would orate
And that query would become chapter eight
While pages turned and a plot was developed
There had been many embraces in which I was enveloped
Yet she refuses to read the book she claims to know by heart
However, I know why it’s a novel she just won’t start
She says she knows my every move
But there are so many things I shouldn’t have to prove
When you found that stranger’s lingerie under our bed
The bed I defiled with others due to the lies you were fed
So read my tome and and if you care to leave home
Because I have a heart and a hankering to roam
But the truth is I would be frightened without her in an empty fog
And that there is the epilogue
Copyright © jeffry cohan | Year Posted 2011
No citadel’s too tall for mortals like you.
Even acclivity of mounts fear of bipeds like you.
Adam’s ale in its ampleness has lost its meaning.
And only with your condonance,
do the flowers un-bud and birds do sing.
But let’s see, if this almighty can pass in my little catechism;
And a test it is; shouldn’t be misconceived with any criticism:
So, in the unfolding, will you also make the butterfly to unfold,
its hued aileron as per your yearn and control?
And As per your hankering, will you as well repaint,
the black calamus of the cormorant?
What has been quenching the thirst for years,
will now go from blue to black?
will you do all this to everyone and
Then save yourself the flak?
Will the new clock scoot a tick?
The viaducts have no brick?
Will the berdas rumble and the cougars sing?
Will the off-springs dummy up their begetters in the forthcoming?
Succumb or give an answer, are the only ways you’ve got!
Cause’ what you’ve been doing, I dub it as prying.
And there exists no amnesty for what you’ve been trying.
You’ve been a fine jeweler for the prime;
Validating the originality of a corundum’s been your style.
So how come you changed your vogue; negative appraisal is all you report?
Since when were you born with the power to transmogrify?
One could not get to azure, if you ever denied?
It’s never too late for home, even if you start back today,
You’re never too late for home, if you grow into a new You on the way.
You’ve been vexing the orb for years and yet go on, cause it owns no speech.
Narcissistic you are I hate to say; You never did as you preached.
But you still get a chance, to outweigh all your flaws,
Capitulate to the architect; cause he’s the only one who knows,
How the orb would relearn to live and the art for the orb to re-grow.
To bend is not for the anemic; But for those who aspire to learn.
Meek you’re not but strong enough to have ‘to be transformed’, as what you yearn.
Believe me when you reach home today,
they will get to see the stronger You.
For yes, I’d still like to admit
No citadel’s too tall for a mortal like you.
Copyright © Raadhika Sharma | Year Posted 2012
Imagine a small frail girl,
Sitting in the darkest corner of a poorly lit room,
Only lit by the cautious sunlight that rebelliously shines through the crack in the curtain – if she dares
And thank God for that brave beam of light,
That ray of hope that reminds her,
That though the sorrow may last for the night, the Lord’s joy comes in the morning – for He cares
But please remember this little girl,
Before she discovered the very existence of hopefuless, faith and grace,
She had marks all over her body, memories, each one with a story, begging to be shared– if she dared
In the sinfulness of the night menfolk would come and entice her mother,
Tempt her mother into practicing the secrets of the night,
Time and time again she would watch as mummy would repeatedly,
Repeatedly give herself to such ungently men, who lustfully enjoyed her company.
Our little girl always hid when these hankering knights of the night came to,
‘play and pay’,
she just wanted to stay hidden away,
until one day
when the hem of her nightgown,
was visible beside the chair, her cover was blown.
She would never forget the words he uttered, “how much for her?”
She still cries nocturnally,
Remembering his perspiration and dampness all over her tiny frame,
With every roll and satisfied movement,
she felt her soul crush gradually into powder,
only to be bullied and chased away by the wind.
And the next morning,
After being left like an abused and neglected puppy,
She would wake up with the bruises round her waist and between her thighs,
She would have the sour taste of his manly solutions,
that had been drowned and gargled down her pint-sized throat,
And she would cry, as she saw her mother counting the money,
The money her little girl had made,
And that damaged petite mademoiselle,
Would return to her corner, she’d sit and tremble,
Knowing there was going to be another visitor that night, and the night after and the night after that,
For God knows how long
At a young age I learnt the power that a man takes from a woman,
I saw my mum morph into a slave for those sinful sons,
I saw how she gave of herself, dusk to dusk
and let them take any bit of sanity she had left within her
this insane mindset that she remains in her till today as I write,
has been the root cause of my scars,
but has always fuelled my motivation, to one day reach the stars.
Men took a woman and brought back a monster,
Men took a woman and somehow transformed her,
From a trouble soul to a ruthless imposter,
This is the end of part one,
I was that little girl,
I’m the narrator.
Copyright © REGINA OLADIPO | Year Posted 2013