Best Hocks Poems
A is for Annie Apple Blossom she buds in the Spring.
B is Betty Baby Breath she's such a dainty thing.
C is for Miss Candy Tuft pink-cheeked with hair of gold.
D is Debbie Dandelion who never does what she's told!
E is for Easter Lily she's as white as snow.
F is Francie Fairy Bells who ring-a-lings where she goes.
G is for Ginny Gardenia perfumed oh so sweet.
H is Holly Hocks a Tomboy, she has two left feet!
I is for Inca Lily dressed in colors light.
J is Joanie Jump-Ups, Johnny's little sister bright.
K is for Katie Kangaroo Paw her nails are painted red.
L is Lila Lady Slipper who stays too long a bed.
M is for Merry Morning Glory dressed in pale blue.
N is Nancy Narcissus who trumpets ""toodeloo!"
O is for Olivia the Ox-Eyed Daisy dolly.
P is Patty Petunia, her pancakes are a folly.
Q is for Queenie Anns Lace her dresses all have ruffles.
R is Ruby Rose-a-lee who almost always shuffles.
S is for Sandy Snap Dragon tall and thin. petite.
T is Tallulah Tulip her clothes are so off beat!
U is for Uma Umbrella Flower, sweet and sunny.
V is Vicky Violet she plays with Easter bunnies.
W is for Wendy Water Lily she'd rather swim than dance.
X is Xana Xmas Tree in Winter she's entrancing.
Y is for Yani Yarrow, a girl so bonny fair
Z is Zelda Zinnia, she pinning Yani's hair.
All our girls are fine and strong, so beautiful and brave
Not a single one of them would think to misbehave!
Bio: Wise woman.
Competition day had arrived,
His muzzle twitched with anticipation
And in relation my feet tingled in a way like never before.
For the first time, we both doubted ourselves
But fear not, we must carry on
As I plaited his forelock in preparation
I took the time to appreciate how flat his withers was
How typically racehorse he was
I stroked his fetlock as I knew this could be it.
His hooves were oiled and shiny as ever
Ready for anything
And the 3 link that he loved
Made no difference in poll pressure
As we bolt across the course, aiming to be the best
“I trust you, boy”
As if to tell him that even though, 2 years ago when he was deemed
A mess with dodgy hocks and lumpy coronets
Who was a waste
He could do this, to prove them wrong and beat the best
Become the best
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
Today there are no eyes on me,
a puzzling curiosity!
Whilst riding through the town most days
so many eyes are wont to gaze -
admirers of my fine fetlocks;
my handsome withers, hooves and hocks,
my finely groomed and lustrous mane,
the smart red garb that foils the rain.
For I was bred for royalty;
Milady loves my loyalty.
Her husband is the Magistrate -
most days townsfolk enjoy my gait.
Today she rides with cool aplomb -
none look, except that tailor, Tom.
Why stare as though I wore no clothes?
Perhaps Lady Godiva knows.
Standing in the ankle high emerald green grass of my
great-aunts property barefoot, hearing the creak of wood
on steel.
My daughter and husband are in the house napping, dreaming tenderly about sweet things.
Creak, crick, creak, crick goes the wood crying against
the steel. The porch swing was in use, the steady motions
a lullaby of calmness that washes over me along with a
whippoorwills cry upon the gentle breeze. It's an enticing symphony begging for a jig and dance.
Watching the waist high golden wheat sway to and fro taking my mind to simpler times. I inhale deeply enjoying the intoxicating scent that has no name as I shut my eyes.
The smells meeting my nose were of pinto beans and ham hocks simmering away on the stove. The scent of freshly baked cornbread resting on a wicker pot holder placed upon the table. The sizzle of pork chops frying, the bite of pickling spices and brine indicate to me dinner is almost ready.
Peals of muffled laughter and chatter let me know that
the rest of the family is here. The sun has started its
descent to bring twilight o'er the land, o'er the crops and
various garden vegetables that have grown here for as long as I can remember.
Crick, creak, crick, creak...
I opened my eyes hearing someone call my name. The yard vanishes, the smells dissipate, sirens pierce the silence of the room. My heart aches. For a place that is no longer.
For a familial experience like that again.
My heart aches for home. And as my husband and daughter are my home. I yearn for the home I had, wanting to show them that it can be.
Sunday suppers. Sitting around playing cards.
My heart aches for a legend long forgotten....
August sun,
Leaves smell of heat,
You can hear the holly hocks turn to seed.
The pile of trimmed twigs snap as they dry.
Sister paints the cross pieces
The top of the board
The flat
And the underside
I come behind and paint the broad, flat boards
With long strokes up and down,
Back and forth.
Paint drips on my hand.
Hair tied back in kerchiefs,
Hot,
Sweaty,
The paint smells hot as the sun dries it.
Huckleberry Finn’s fence,
But Daddy had girls.
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.
Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.
We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.
I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.
You're calling my name? Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my? Have you answered my plea?
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!
~
For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.
When you're a sheep and feel unwell, it's also often true
When dipped into your medicine, you come up feeling blue
Blue from your woolly noggin-lid, down to your woolly socks
And inside from your woolly brain, down to your woolly hocks
So when you are a poorly sheep, and feel in poorly form
You're gonna feel off-colour, 'cos off-colour is the norm
And both insides and outsides are tinged with shades of blue
There's only one thing left to say, and that will be, "Poor Ewe!"
(a Four-verse Cinquain)
Parched
red roses
bow their heads
in pain filled surrender,
finished.
Faded
holly hocks
give up hope,
too sad to care,
colorless.
Wilted
sweet peas
loose their talons,
shrivel, curl in sorrow,
die.
Healthy
white pine
sucks up moisture
and grants no mercy,
thrives.
Mary, Mary how contrary
why does your garden grow?
with old tin cans and frying pans
and muddy boots all in a row.
Car piled high with spider's webs
Their spindly smiles, their lovely legs.
Come and say 'Good mourn ye all'
'We live here now and have a ball'
Inside your hut a homeless man.
You gave some tea and made a plan,
To wash his socks so he could go
And get a job and flat and grass to mow
Golden Wonder, Blenheim Blush
A tattie feast chipped, mashed and mushed.
A field of spuds your Mam would cook,
You now don't need your gardening book.
Pippin, gala, Brae burn and Cox,
Fat round red spheres their crunchy Hocks,
Harvest in a late September
To make the wine for next November
Seasons come as turning bicycles
Protecting flowers from biting icicles.
Feeding plants and changing hedges,
Thick hanging blooms, fruits and veges.
Mary, Mary not contrary,
I know how your garden grows.
With careful plans and gardening hands
and many years in the Know.
Blackeyes and turnip greens on New Year's day.
That's what we should eat, or so they say.
With pork chops or ham hocks glazed with honey.
Eating all this is supposed to bring you money.
This is tradition in the South where I live,
to eat such a meal, but this secret I give.
If you're eating this meal to gain riches untold.
Then my friend I'll confess, while waiting you'll grow old!
For Russell Sivey's Good Luck Meal contest
They were on the summit of the hill as if poised in a portrait.
The breeze ruffling the stud's forelock and mane as he arched his head
responding to the reins he moved on as his rider leant forward and
rubbed his poll in affection. Tensed up his withers quivering he sprang into
action careening down the slope pulling up lame. His rider dismounted
and ran his hand down his legs finding some heat in the fetlock. Lifting
his leg he found the cause a stone lodged in his frog, using his hoof
pick he dislodged it thanking his lucky stars that it was not a pulled stifle.
Checking his hind legs for heat in the hocks and gaskin he found all to be well.
He patted his croup in affection and re-examined the front leg still a little heat but his coronet seemed fine. A week's rest should put him right allowing the bruised frog time to heal. It would be tight to keep him fit for their big show in three weeks time but a strained stifle would have put him out of action for at least six weeks. On foot he lead Silver back to the stables and there applied a poultice to his hoof which he would change daily until the frog recovered, leaving Silver munching happily on hay. He walked into the tack room and replaced his tack and stood admiring the rows of rosettes that lined the walls.. The upcoming show would give him the final proof of how superb he was and then people would flock to bring their mares to him and his line would be perpetuated long into the future.
(alternately titled one me silly more till manufactured
from go win addle American
non refundable private parts)
each set of twenty three chromosomes
the basic biological building blocks
of life came out cervix
when second hand of analog clocks
barely and scarcely swept across dial,
wrought offspring appearance
as a pier a docks
closely resembling a monkey
perhaps...hmm...
maybe mother mated with a chimp
assimilating chromosomal flox
genetic combination brought about add hocks
viz bouncing baby boy skinny and fair game
as a pluperfect future target for jocks
when I took first gasp of air sputtered
like an old engine that knocks,
now just easing into ma deuce score
and xix year with hair reed locks
twittering, snorting, rattling nonetheless
became precious human dependent
with mat chew anti body mox
see for father and mother
to care despite expelling nox
shuss gas out derriere, which profuse flatulence
natural immunization
kept away infected kids with pox
nicknamed little buttock blaster
now sits in a comfy chair and rocks
reminiscing about boyhood
and a pooch named Socs
who told time applying faux paws vox
like tum make sounds resembling tick tocks
Nowadays every potential mom and dad
disappointed unless offspring(s) feverish follow fad
decreeing qualified as gifted birth of lass or lad
go wing great lengths to prod and push
progeny until a genius to be had
rather tubby thankful and gratefully glad
regaling robust surprise
packaged traits of yore
inheriting genetics descended
when early apes did de tour
terrestrial virgin earth
anatomically complete store
reed awesomely astounding miracle from spore
sized fertilized ovum (healthy
and sound baby boy or girl) hood roar
if lionized, which feline bellow mew might mean
change my dye ya pore
and pamper me sum more
gnome hatter wailing mama or papa ignore
thence nurturing baby pipes por favor
kinship knits omnipotent bond evermore
where tis instinctual to adore.
Fast as an atomic banshee, he roils sacred halls
of White House clutches levers with brass balls
American powers remain unrestrained when he calls
Armada to exorcise imagine aery dragons,
he inarticulately falls
non-communicative, faux eruditely generative,
and heartily galls
toward this introspective kickstarter male,
and most likely others he appalls.
-------------------------------------------------
My inner guru hankers to share voice
amidst increasing din
and clamors in reaction to insidious machinations fin
hushed via Machiavellian offal prince,
who unleashes clout with Cheshire grin
unconcerned about population, chaste,
from their wells Fargo wing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Most every citizen banker, and kin
stared down vis a vis fierce-some intimations
catapult escalating, spin
laughing at rigged voting outlook
gratefully inflicts populace with monstrous win
doomsday soldiers -
art of the deal book not writ by said urchin.
-------------------------------------------------
Though regularly affiliated with top notch
kudos to virtual soapbox platform
re: all poetry to express Bing averse
toward ill feted Barron settlement
of United States government tossed like scotch
on thar hocks, thus an uneasy angst
also invisibly grabs me by the crotch
cuz das Trump power monger,
I fear rubric of democracy, he will botch!
-------------------------------------------------
This poem alternately titled -
harbinger of political debacle wolf find antipode
where toxic brew at crack of 12 a.m.
January 20th 2017 doth bode
doctored pregnant swollen tidal anarchistic military toad
deeds sheepishly shape into battalions
in tandem - fraternal order of police erode
Civilian protesters unite with ordinary citizen bankers
crowdsource sing metallic ca clash to goad
Beside the old house
on the northern side,
where Granny's flowers
did abide,
Red roses flourished,
orange Poppies too,
and tall Holly Hocks
of crimson grew.
Dahlias, Iris,
Snap Dragons of blue,
plus beautiful Asters
covered in dew.
Great hues of color
with greenery fine,
I'll always remember
those blossoms divine.