Best Hosing Poems
An old herbal gard’ner turned bard
dedicated and well-versed
now works his pen from his backyard
in plants and poems immersed.
His choice nouns engender meaning
cleverly minted with scents.
Rare verbs gingerly gleaning
from time’s savory essence.
Somewhat focused on composing
but nettled by a drizzle;
unexpected down-hosing
causes this poet to fizzle.
Lo! His inspiration now gone
like the ink upon his page.
Mrs. Bard calls from the lawn
“I just watered the sage.”
January 5, 2012
Sing to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock:
Summertime, summertime, summer time rocks.
Summertime comes and kids yell hurrah.
Bikin’ and swimmin’ at some park’s big pool;
in the summertime, no more school!
Summertime, summertime, summertime rocks.
Summertime’s fun when school is all done.
Playin’ and stayin’ in summer time’s mood,
good times are pursued!
Barbecue time is a great time
with family outdoors.
Barbecue time is the best time
to roast hot dogs and to have s’mores!
Oh what fun – here it comes – Fourth of July -
summer time’s big event.
Picnics, parades, and then watchin’ the sky
for the fireworks’ ascent.
Summertime, summertime, summertime rocks.
Summertime comes and kids yell hurrah.
Bikin’ and swimmin’ at some park’s big pool;
in the summertime, no more school!
Summertime, summertime, summertime rocks.
Summertime’s fun when school is all done.
Playin’ and stayin’ in summer time’s mood,
good times are pursued!
Disneyland or the beach – fun times for all.
Hosing down, lose those socks!
Baseball and snow cones and havin’ a ball.
That’s 'cause summertime,
that’s 'cause summertime,
that’s 'cause summertime rocks!
The Fifties were really and truly not all that square
Though that dullard Dwight D. sat in the Executive Chair
And his frumpy wife Mamie had really bad hair
Matching those dowdy, plain dresses she'd wear ...
While husbands toiled in obscurity for large corporations
The "Ugly Americans," reviled by most other nations
Their stay-at-home wives feeling mostly frustration
Downing "happing pills" daily instead of real medication
Their sons sporting letter sweaters, obedient jocks,
Their daughters in plaid skirts and white bobby socks
Penny loafers and saddle shoes were in for ten years
Along with white levis and coca-cola -- never rum, never beer
Yet how about Krushchev's dust-ups with Tricky Dick Nixon
What about Sputnik 1 and the panic it put us in
And remember George Wallace and old Lester Maddux
Hosing down *******, echoes of Crispus Attucks ...
The rise of brutal pro football threatened apple pie and baseball
Heralding the next decade's premiere spectator sport, i.e., 'spaceball'
Joe McCarthy dug up the dirt of a "red scare's" nitty gritty
In the work of the House un-American Activities Committee
Then there was Rosa Parks refusing to sit in the back of the bus
Championing the yearning for justice in so many of us
And the music, the music, so outrageously wild
Chuck Berry, Richie Valens, the Big Bopper -- that overgrown child
Yes, the Fifties were really and truly not all that square
Though we shan't heed the call of those who'd return us to there
Picking berries on grandpa’s farm;
watching him milk cows in the barn.
Getting chased once by swarms of bees.
Oodles of childhood memories.
Books that I read with so much to gain.
Walking down that long country lane;
Hiding behind and climbing up trees.
Oodles of childhood momories.
We had albums; one Disney song
Snow White sang and we’d sing along.
That dear pink bear I loved to squeeze.
Oodles of childhood memories.
Happy as heck, let out of school;
walking miles to the public pool.
Firefly nights with a cooling breeze.
Oodles of childhood memories.
Kickball, volleyball, so much fun
Hosing each other down in the sun.
My siblings and I so easy to please.
Oodles of childhood memories.
A pogo stick and bikes to share.
My troll dolls with their goofy hair.
Hoppity Hop I did with ease.
Oodles of childhood memories.
“Bonanza” time – popcorn our treat.
All the food I ever did eat.
Being the oldest and the tease.
Oodles of childhood memories.
Our vacations, Halloween and
Christmas parties that were so grand.
Sledding and skating; oh the freeze!
Oodles of childhood memories.
Slumber parties; each lovely friend.
Sisters, though, are friends to the end.
The four I’ve got make better these
oodles of childhood memores.
July 10, 2019 (Happy Birthday to my baby sister!)
For Julia Ward's 'Favourite Poem in Rhyme from July 2019' Poetry Contest
Mommy had a cold, now Dragon has it too. Oh woe is me! Woe to you, too!
Fire’s dribbling, fluidly from his eyes, as lava flows, in a nasty watery goo.
Coughs shoot in fireballs, as he coughs, with a non-tiring, and bitter croup.
Even his little bum, found itself, with the same un-erring problem, it’s true.
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
The house has finally imploded, so we have him floating on our big lake.
Hoping to bring his fever down, the water’s boiling, heavily in it’s wake.
So we’re now hosing water, from the shore, to cover him, in a soothing flow.
But now, the lava’s building an island of floating fire, in a bright red glow!!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
But Mommy won’t be stopped from comforting her widdle, bitty Dragon Man.
So I rowed out sitting in an ice filled boat, as we had a brilliant, big, game plan!
I waas putting ice on his forehead, as others are trying to row out more, to me.
But the ice was instantly catching fire as it hit his forehead. Oh NO!! Woe is me!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
Surprisingly! Singing to him, has put him soundly, and amazingly fast, to sleep.
So now I called the Vet, to save my widdle Dragon Man, as I soundly weeped!
But much to my surprise, Grandpa Troll and the Vet steadfastly, did totally agree.
Dragon’s in no trouble, for you see, fire is a kinda, Very Normal, Dragon Thing!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
WHAT! You’re kidding! I said in Alarm! He’ll be fine? So just let him sleep?
But NOW he’s blowing fiery bubbles that are floating off high, into the air!
And every time he hiccups, they’re getting bigger! Do what? What did you say?
Get a gun!! OH, to shoot them from the air? And he should be fine by morning?
Honestly, a Momma’s job is never done, as the fever did finally pass at dawn.
As we exhaustedly, all took Dragon home. Well, to what was left, of it, that is.
But Momma had her widdle baby Dragon back, and that was ALL we did want!!
My prayers were finally answered! So Dear God! THANK YOU!! and AMEN!
Written by Carol Eastman 4-8-2016
Lend me a listen
And hear this tale of woe
The life and times
Of a man 'called' Joe
Keep still, keep quiet
Hush, listen to the sound
The silent footsteps of a man
As he walks his native ground
Joe was born long, long ago
Across the waters blue
In a land of plenty
There, Joe the babe grew
Five generations deep
A lifetime of needs supplied
Hard work, respect for self
Full of heritage and pride
Now, Joe's given name was 'Shakka'
A father, a husband, a strong man
One day while hunting
Was snatched from the 'Motherland'
In a ship made of wood
With white sails full mast
Joe and fellow countrymen
Were in the deep below casted
Please, listen a little longer
Can you hear the pain
The fear, the confusion
The frustration of chains
Landing on the auction block
Stripped of humanity and pride
There, Shakka's name was lost
And all his rights deprived
The years were hard, the master cruel
In a strange and foreign land
With obstacles to suppress
Still Shakka (called Joe) remained a man
The whip couldn't break that freedom spirit
Held deep within his soul
Joe vowed that freedom dream
His people someday restore
Listen, can you hear the silence
As his people struggle on
Keep still? ...Keep quiet?
Has all the work been done?
Remember:
Joe's dreams
Shakka's screams
Mother's crying
Children dying
Policemen hosing
Prison doors closing
Dog attacks
Refusing the back
College sit-ins
Integration begins
Malcom's plight
Martin's fight
Jesse's stand
RESPECT, DEMAND!
Mandela's victory
Apartheid's history
A borrowed ear, Joe's tale's been told
Yet the struggle remains
Speak Out! Shout Loud! the time has come
Total freedom we must regain
A dvice, many seeds on a flower
D eciding to choose which vine to follow
V ery carefully given thought, very carefully given choice
I n your best intentions stated at the heart
C hosing which blossom can become an art
E very seedling can change the color of your path to chart
©Holly P. Moore
February 2013
each thing living on
Murdth ‘sorbs water chiefly wet
backards of arid-
zona an’ the holmby hills’
chlorine romp ponds drawing the
scant as blue blood for
the thirsty altar as a
mercedes to the
mccam bridge carwash on
la cienega for the
hundreds…each living
thing like coke water classic
from botswaniam
pools It’s the real thing walking
miles like dropdeadery girl
camels for a drink
sugary & refreshing
like rape…we miss the
nyc streetsweepers
for the bristletanks nosing
& hosing down street-
sleepers in the dross It’s a
lawn time in the ‘burbs
between iced long island teas
cold as charity water
from their potable
portalets…to scorches of
torrid pachyderms
...global conflict wars
for water not indeed
be in the solution!...
elephant you say tnaphele say I to
your circus mind say
is that your real nose bulbous
red like a churl beyond the
watering hole drunk
frolic’d sunned an’ bathed with the
peaceable kingdom
not less than once have you been
to thought fraught thirst to ‘nother
trunk?
H.e.m.-H’H.
12.15.MMxi.
ST
Rondelet: Don't blame India, the land of the 64 artful Kama-Sutra positions
for the Punjabi Lady in an all-night jogging bus
Don't blame India
For a thousand three hundred years
Don't blame India
Bored by repetitive Kama
And pedologic incest - tears
In iron-hosing buses - cheers!
Don't blame India
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, 2013
Babies cry, sleep, change nappies, feed. Toddlers drink water from cups. Younger brothers, younger sister, older brother, older sister, small town, large country.
One lane roads, one lane bridges, unsealed, 60mph, in the dark. Bush covered gorges, rail lines across the river, small waterfalls, windows down, no seatbelts in the back seat, lying down, sleeping on the rugs, stopping for carsick ones on the edges. Mum singing, Dad driving, children counting dead possums.
The ways into town run through a long winding gorge or a longer winding coastal road, both prone to slips. Nearest cities Christchurch, Nelson, 200 miles away. Only referred to as the Coast, with its own dialect, only belonging when born there.
Biscuits four trays, oven
Bread hot water cupboard rising, Dad late
Holden Kingswood written off, dead bull
Packs, boots, carbide lamps, white fizzy hosing down leggings, parkas, gumboots, bikes, back porch full.
Flames warm quality coal
Sheet lightening children’s window race
Nothing more calming than the thunder of the rain.
~~~~~ THEN ~~~~~
How does a house change, though still brick
still imposing ~~~
Same roots below grass, same garage and
cracked garden hosing ~~~
Same dinner bell, same function of rooms
same wooden floors and now
old, tattered brooms ~~~
~~~~~ NOW ~~~~~
Though new roof, rosebushes around
refurbished piano provides
beauteous sounds ~~~
Which proves respect for future ones
to ease burden of needed sums ~~~
Living room carpet replaced, kitchen refaced
changes made day by day
much progress thus far ~~~
HURRAY !!
~~~~~~ BUT ~~~~~~
How does the ambience of a house change
nothing to do with
things rearranged ~~~
How does an empty house now feel so full
with no physical presences
just old souls ~~~
An empty dwelling, once thought pretentious
now feels peaceful
not contentious ~~~
Air no longer tense so take a deep breath
and inhale ~~~ LOVE and FAMILY ~~~
~~~~~ TILL OUR DEATH ~~~~~
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~
No more water hosing or truncheons beaten on bare feet,
no nightsticks cracking skulls on Bowery streets.
No cold water straitjackets or rubber padded rooms,
no laudanum doses sweeping minds like a broom.
Now its pretentious centers deluxe
brazenly charging big bucks
for twenty-eight days of schmoozing
to turn off the boozing,
and swallowing mega-vitamin pills
to ward off the chills,
or sit in circles with stories to tell
from like-minded survivors of hell.
More humane we're trying to be
even offering treatment for free
but it is still a choice at any cost.
To choose a sober life or, to an early death be lost.
While Finn, was on his front lawn
Giving it, a good hosing down
McGee next door stomped out his house
Fist clinched and wearing a frown
He violently opened the lid
To his mail box facing the street
Then slammed the door, just as fast
While making a bitter retreat
It didn't take long at all
For it to happen again and again
And seemed extremely odd
To an ever more curious Finn
So when McGee, emerged once more
And on his way to the street
Finn walked over to meet him
To ask him, while being discreet
"I've noticed McGee, a behavior
I have never witnessed before
Why is it so, you come, then you go
'twixt, your mail box, and your front door"
McGee stopped and turned, while acting concerned
With a complexion that looked rather pale
"It's my computer you see, It talking to me
And telling me, 'I have got mail".
Wibble wibble wobble is a typhoon of trouble in a whirling mist of beautifully arranged but mediocre sand castles. Sand castles are great to live in. They carry the might of the ocean. The deep depth of tidal spore. And the secret passageways of the sea whisperers. But sinking to a island that was once erect is very very very interesting indeed for information of indoctrination is merely a symbolic training map to ensure that the human brain is not elevated to it's primeval logic and the capacity therefore is closed, shut, and generally imprisonment is a format through the chains and charms of entertainment booming through rays to hypnotize and halt and to wave a bended stick to stir a non used recipe. When the fortresses of Neptune are discovered by a Neptunian the possibility of an ice cracking is quite a lucid idea. Much akin to a pass the parcel game on a massive train that tootles along over historic trails. Disturbed migration. Destroyed deities. Designed by demons and dug out dignity. But the princess is the royalty from an underscore that has been ignored but soon to enlighten even the most rockiest of landscapes. In hearts. In souls. And primarily in a souk. Wearing a pretty sari and carrying a nine eyed serpent. Good. God grabbing Gaia greedily. Gestational germinations gaming. And a turret talking to a rampart. Fantastic news for a pretty little eight inch worm on a boat journey down and up the river that resembled a hooded cobra when above the earth. And jt is at this point that the figures made will be adjusting the landing strips for the era of the evening is an evening of an earthly effigy. Efficiently placed. And a time of tick tock tick. So take rosin and whirl around the buildings. Hahaha swim suit on a suitcase swimming. Hahahaha beany bran. Xxxxx restitution z. This us the p Y Q REPORTING ON THE GROUND live from 89.0 in a hail of hoses hosing horses. La la Lola. 670,001,300,201. X z x z c vb fjfkrk
I smell hamburgers on the grill
their sizzle sounds scrumpdillyicious.
And I can't wait to sink my teeth
into a rare barbeque treat.
At my favorite picnic spot
I smell hamburgers on the grill.
And my skin gets tanned by the sun
as I walk shirtless on the beach.
The flowers are all in full bloom
spiking the air with summer scents.
I smell hamburgers on the grill
and my mouth begins to water.
My children are playing baseball
and my wife is hosing them down.
But, I'm off in my own world...for
I smell hamburgers on the grill.
(Quatern)
June 14, 2018
Summer Fun Poetry Contest
Nayda Ivette Negron