Best Hooky Poems
I’m Huck, and my last name is Finn.
On the great Mississippi I’ve been
playing hooky from school
‘cause there ain’t any rule
that can keep Huckleberry caged in.
I bet that you’ve already read
about the fun life that I’ve led,
how I got a bad foe
that they called Injun Joe
and how me and Tom one time played dead!
I ain’t nothin’ special, just Huck.
In my boyhood forever I’m stuck.
Just one kid needs to look
at the words in Twain’s book
and I’ll stay alive - with any luck!
*My character, of course, is Huckleberry Finn, taken from the novel of the same title, written by a very witty humorist, Samuel Clemens, AKA Mark Twain.
Written 4/20/14 by Andrea Dietrich for the "Become a fictitious character taken from a book (or a movie) ! Free Poetry Contest" of Giorgio A.V.
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Flat,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
Pacifiers included
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
…
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
(SMASH!)
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
When I was a child everyone’s mother on my block corrected me.
Every adult in the neighborhood watched me vigilantly, carefully.
Watching for me to do something wrong,
So they could call my mother.
On the way to school I sometimes took a risk,
Knowing full well I’d get a spanking when I got home.
Sometimes it was worth it.
On a daily basis, I was called to a variety of porches to apologize.
This was the 60’s
In a small Iowa town.
It’s the way it was.
None of us questioned it.
One Wednesday Mr. Joe
Came out on his porch
And yelled, “If you don’t stop dawdling,
You’ll be late for the bell!”
We did not know what dawdling was,
But my sister and I ran to school,
Sliding into our desk seats seconds
Before the bell rang.
Mr. Joe had saved us from
Staying after school with the teacher.
We started waving at him every day after that.
“We are going to play hooky” I told my twin sister one fine day.
We were on our way back to second grade, after a hot bowl of
Tomato soup with a zillion crackers, and an ice cold milk I refused
To drink because I hate milk.
When Mom’s car pulled up
My blood ran cold.
My sister started screaming and
Ran right to her.
I was much more difficult to catch.
Neighbors ran out to tell her where
I was hiding every fifteen feet.
I got switched all the way
Back to school,
And decided I hated
Neighbors.
No child could have been
Snatched by a stranger
In my home town in
The 60’s.
They would have had him
Down on the ground under
A sea of knees before
He finished his first
Sentence to us kids.
We were loved, protected, and raised by everybody.
Watched as closely as caramel candy at Christmas time.
~ for JM Barrie ~
I’ll wait …
you know I will -
I’ll wait for you … here …
but not a single instant longer than forever …
I’ll ply the marshmallow sky for
the breath of you
(that aging world will be the death of you)
pixie dust trailing like ribbons -
satin pink to tie your hair
the flaxen strands so
often fell between our kisses …
my wistful miss is the
sun and the sea and the moon!
beg, fly here soon
or this wondrous place will turn ice
no more paradise -
no more mermaids or Lilies or Tink
just think of the calamity!
empty house, empty tree … empty hearts -
fits and starts
and no mother for The Boyz
no crowing noise - no bang-a-rang
just chill pirates, the Jolly Roger
and a Hooky ol’ codger
with a tick-tock crocky tail and his
vengeance for a sail -
(he needs a hand, after all) …
oh girl, return you must
with just a wee bit of fairy dust
and a tall tale or more -
maybe two … or fifty-four
“Home Sweet Home” upon the door …
just point to the morning, on
two stars to starboard
(never larboard)
and find your home … your boy
your me, your Pan - no fat ol’ man …
for I shall be here
with the wind ‘neath my heels
sprite sprinkles in my hair
(wear no wrinkles - dont you dare!)
oh, your girly flavor -
like marzipan savor on my lips
soft, tangy sips that
leave me thirsty for swallows
such sweet numberless tomorrows
yes … I’ll wait …
your lad, so clever!
but not one moment past ever -
still, Wendy …
leave your window open
all the same …
just …
in case.
Original - Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden July 2, 2024
Rewrite:
The Hooky, Cookie, Rookie
Dr. James E. Martin
©January, 2014
They say his nick-name is “Cookie.”
From school he’d often play hooky.
He was no fool,
Was actually quite cool,
It is evident he was no rookie.
Cows cuss under their breath during these winters
Being under a blanket is not warm if made of snow
Fish get expelled from their school playing hooky
Never learning to avoid nibbling on those jiggers
Forests are full of trees with being first issues
Worshiping the sun and boasting with their colors
Fire is always the brightest student in the class
Until water pours over to fizzle out their candle
A clever cookie and a good looky,
But certainly not a poetry rooky,
She always enjoys writing some,
Then stretching out in the Philippine sun,
Let's hope she never plays hooky.
You feel alone
And can’t sleep
Another hour passes
Finally your close your eyes
Dreaming of a place you’ve never been
At first you feel free
Arms swinging at your sides
Like a kid playing hooky from school
Just ahead is a
Worn path
A meadow is on your left
Fenced all the way
To where the land meets the sky
On your right is a forest
Dark green
Impenetrable
Quiet, not a living thing around
An unexpected breeze
Brings a sudden chill
But you walk on.
You walk and walk
Until it becomes dark
The road
Becomes hard
You trip
And curse the darkness.
Overhead, now is a cold
Uncaring moon
Yet you begin to sweat
Feeling it run down your back
You’d gladly give your soul
To catch a glimpse of something familiar
You really don’t know where you are
In the night what was once ordinary
Is now strange
Disoriented you finally realize
That you’re lost.
You feel as though your heart will explode from your chest
An inner voice begs that the dream stop
Slowly you awake
To the sound of rhythmic breathing
Someone is near you
A sense of relief
Envelopes you
In a warm cocoon
Of blanket, pillow and bed
Taking a deep breathe
You are grateful
Not to be alone.
Skipping school to play baseball,
spending up all I got at the Mall;
having fun and laugh with girls
who love Coca Cola and burgers.
It's a day of fun for kids dripping with sweat,
if I'm lucky to hit a home run, I will freak;
Mario runs for first base, he doesn't make it:
we lose the game, our team was way too weak.
Now it's time for ice cream, we head for Carvel,
I spend all my saved money to pay for the bill;
I hope mom doesn't see the broken piggy jar:
she'll ground me, no playing on the monkey bar.
A red car pulls up the curb, it's ugly and clanky;
" Who's that lady with the straw hat? It's mom! "
" Come here, little brat; you're grounded,Tom!"
I just turn pale and say sorry for playing hooky.
Written on 5/17/2017
What can I do?
My brethren - Dank. We are
not fit to wipe the asses of
these sons of the star of David -
and yet, we crush their horrid
corpsed lives beneath Nazi-issued
boots. We want to live, too.
Say I actually approach my
officer, pout, give him my best
spiel, if you will. His hand will
grope the trigger faster than the
breasts of his sweetheart in
Barrack Neun during a roll call
hooky.
So I plug my rounds,
rotate a new traincar through
every Montag and Freitag.
And when I sit down to table
with the uniformed prison guards,
I take an extra drink -
and drink to forget.
This poem appears online at http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/07/pity-me-or-on-second-thought-dont.html.
Homeschooling myself. Unknown to you at the time. Sister playing hooky from school.
School she dreads. Both of us hide by staying home and shock one another, facing
one another as sisters, underneath the bed.
We quietly snicker. Faces guarded like Lurch while you were shaking your bum,
showing your god side singing your favorite religious records, dealing with church.
Two billion people are of the Christmas persuasion,
Two billion people celebrate that most joyous occasion.
If that is true, Santa has to visit 23,148 people every second.
Which really is an awful lot as near as I can reckon.
I know that magic plays a part of Santa’s yearly shtick,
But even taking that into account it really is a trick.
Because that one second includes travel time and chimney scaling
Note reading, cookie eating, and occasionally board game playing.
Even taking into account that there may be a temporal causality loop,
That allows for the suspension of time for him and his happy little group.
Imagine how long it would take in a reindeer driven sleigh,
To visit each town and stop at each house along his way.
And think of the toys that delight and make the children want to shout,
The number of elves that it takes to build them would really freak me out.
The logistics of this endeavor can really start to boggle your mind,
The importing of raw materials alone could set you way behind.
To us, Santa may seem a jolly carefree guy, but he never gets to play hooky,
To run an organization such as that he must be one tough Christmas cookie.
Kyd my cat played hooky from giddy-up to whoa
I had to send him to the land of Mauna Loa
He changed from bad to worse
By debits to my purse
"Papa","I am Cavity the cat boana boa"
KYD MY CAT/Limerick/fun/humor/nonsense/cat/
Copyright© RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
11/20/2014
I couldn't be prouder
than the day you were born
my beautiful little miracle
your tiny fingers curled over mine
your pretty eyes captured me
and melted me
I loved you then
and every day
since your
arrival from heaven
we won't talk about what I would do
to anyone who would ever harm you
but that's what I thought holding you
for the first time
my precious baby girl
and we won't talk about
any struggles raising you
(there were only a few)
all the tears and pain in the world
would never erase the joy
I feel when you smile
and, my angel
you smile so much
on my arm
on this day
I have to give you away
you are the most resplendent treasure
who wouldn't cry to see you
walking down the aisle
your handsome groom
whom I know loves you
as much as I do
can't keep his eyes dry
reading vows
from your huge heart
only makes it harder
warm love tumbles
down my cheeks
just seeing the sky
above you
so clear blue
a
wispy white lace
canopy of grace
etched delicately
over you
and that guy with whom
I like to barbecue
golf
and share a good shot of
whiskey
I love him too
and your little you
who lights up the world
she's only two
lucky you
experiencing the blessing
I had
well "have"
my beautiful baby girl
who's teeny tiny fingers
curled over
my callused hand
who
with her daddy
went on dessert dates
played hooky
and
hunted ghosts
in that old hotel
my favorite
fishing buddy...
...she'll always be mine
sun sparkling your gown
like magic radiating
from your soul
I couldn't be prouder
than the day you were born
but damn this comes close
my barbecue buddy
could not ask for
a more priceless gift
than the one whose
gentle hand squeezes mine
just before it lets go
soft fingers curl
tenderly into his
my precious baby
his beautiful bride
I was on my way to school when it happened.
You see, I never miss school and for me,
playing hooky has an entirely different meaning!
Well,
I was scrounging up some lunch along the way.
By the by, the Mississippi river is a great place to eat!
and I came upon what I thought was a great big
Seaweed salad.
Opening wide for my first taste, snagged!
my left whisker caught in a net.
Yes, I know what you’re probably thinking,
he’s still in school and he has whiskers?
I was really scared.
I for one, do not intend to end up
covered in corn meal, sizzling in a frying pan.
You know, I have aspirations. But, my mom says
stay in school so I have something to fall back on.
I can sing!
Sure, some may call it noise but hey,
there was Hootie and the Blowfish, why not
Codie and the Catfish?