Best Imp Poems
Tussled hair, bruised knees, toothless, lop-sided grin;
Ma is so thankful her dear little imp wasn't born a twin!
She likes things running smoothly, like a finely-tuned violin,
But her little boy marches to his own drum, much to her chagrin!
To begin the day he feeds his breakfast oatmeal to the dog.
Opening a drawer, Ma lets out a screech, finding a slimy frog!
He encourages a fight between Rusty the dog and Simba the cat,
And 'round and 'round they go, in raucous heated combat!
The preacher made his periodic call and settled in his seat.
A whoopee cushion made a lewd noise, startling him to his feet!
He mumbled a hasty good-by, and headed for the door,
As the little imp, choking with laughter, rolled upon the floor!
Ma made treats for her bridge club, saying they were not his fare,
But on bridge day, lo and behold, she found the cupboard bare!
He pestered his little sister unmercifully with never any slack!
"Mommy", she screamed, "he put a slimy worm down my back!"
Tho' he drives his long-suffering mother up the wall,
She wouldn't trade him for any other little boy at all.
After his prayers at bedtime and seeing his sweet, angelic smile,
Ma plops in her chair seeking repose from another daily trial!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The Imp sat atop the dresser, unmoving,
in the corner of the room, I waited, pen in hand.
No sound did he make, nor his locus improving,
as his bloodshot eyes, my attention, they demand.
In days slipped past, he spoke in lulled timbre,
for years he abated the fears that I had,
his mind so subtle, his thoughts so limber,
but through each day my questions he forbad.
I wrote each word, every syllable, every notion,
spoken dark or tender, whether thou or thine.
He laid before me his songs of emotion
and I stole each one and made them all mine.
In his voice, I claimed, all of his treasures,
without a thought he'd discover, in time.
Yet, now he speaks with words always measured,
and burning glares that scream of my crime.
Does he know I've used him to privilege my psyche?
Does he know how his rhymes have impassioned my soul?
Would he care if I offered to proffer my ego,
or pay, with my heart, this immeasurable toll.
“Living In The Dark ,“ so easy he spoke this,
while together we lived each verse, he and I.
Darkness foreboding, for he, was in bliss,
but for me pure terror as his words I decry.
He laughed at my fear and smiled with derision
as my name I placed at the end with the date.
His eye slowly narrowed as if changing his decision
but I watched as the dark made these feelings abate.
I gather before me his sonnet's solemn lines,
He allows me to name it,"Fire," seems right,
as his bitterness taunts me with each phrase he entwines
leaving visions of me in the sallow dim light.
I live in his blindness through eyes of midnight.
The coals of his vision, burning embers of fright,
but the words he has spoken I endeavor to requite
for they linger and fill me with horrendous delight.
Each syllable I have written, each turn of a phrase,
I owe to this Imp as he glares from the dresser
but silence, now, while he sits in the shadows,
how I wish again to become his confessor.
10/07/2020
My beautiful ginger haired goddess faerie
Thick curls down her back, floating against her
Dainty cellophane dragonfly faerie wings.
Translucent, alabaster skin rarely seen even in a glimpse.
My delicate ginger haired goddess faerie
Enjoying woodland's most endearing sunrise.
He is awed by her beautiful, enticing loveliness.
Unconcerned, she massages her dainty faerie toes.
My selfless ginger haired goddess faerie.
Took a silent dip among the lily pads this morning.
Not wanting to bother forest creatures in repose.
My gorgeous, sincere, beautiful ginger haired goddess faerie.
I watch from the shadows in awe,
Careful to not alert or frighten her.
from a challenge to use a random set
of unconnected words in a poem)
The syncopated rhythms of my
infatuation with you have left
an indelible mark
on my metrical heart.
I am M'Adam to your "Y'ves,"
biting into the luscious apple of temptation,
while Lust, with his pitchfork,
prods us from behind.
Imp-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty
Once peach of a Teach on beach tried to preach
The art of closing the reach in a breach
The Coast-Guard drew his gun
Shot a hole in the bun
Now Teach leaks through breeches during Speech
Teach then placed bets on a horse called Leech
Before Whistle-Blower could cry « Impeach ! »
Leech took off in anger
To smite Whistle-Blower
House closed down for lack of bets on Leech
Whistle-Blower held breath to teach impeach
Upper House closed the breach to foist Leech
Said Teach : « No more bets, please ! »
Leech learned to trot with ease
Then Teach rode Leech without a screech
Teach then said : « Place all bets out-of-reach !
This race will take first place : Each-to-Each ! »
Twenty-two trillion debt
The pit is full and wet
Whose finger will dam dike in the breach ?
(to be continued)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, December 17, 2019
IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY - II
Coast-Guard droned and whined striding on Beach
« Who dares to teach me how to close breach ?
Hand over the saddles !
I’ll dump them in puddles !
No-one , I say, rides bareback on Leech ! »
Peach of a Teach lay bareback on Beach
Counting on four bets to counter Leech
« What if Coast-Guard turns coat ?
Calls no bets after vote ? »
Who’s to reach for reins to saddle Leech ?
Hocus-Pocus ! POTUS ! Teach Impeach !
Who rules as Leech trots on beyond reach ?
Now we have hung Jury
ImPeachMentAlIty
No more bets, please ! Beseech not Teach to preach !
Leech filly chairs G-20 ! O ! Screech !
Vice-POTUS heifer draws 50G bleach !
High stakes family fun
The World is a top spun !
Will POTUS filly rule from the new breach ?
(c) T.Wignesan - Paris, January 15, 2020
Estranged to a lonely room
Littered with trash and splattered gloom
Fettered and sentenced to early doom
Distressed and distraught to a sordid mood
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
To make sure the windows latched
To make sure the door to match
Hope to God to soon to catch
Before settling to an unworldly nap
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Late night battered darkness broken
Metallic taste in my mouth beholden
Bathroom rush with my mouth open
Rinse the mouth and nose thus salted
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
I never see the imp come or go
Only disturbance in light or dark shadow
Low to the floor slither and flow
Dash under the bed, I don’t really know
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Maybe it is up on the ledge
Or under the bed or behind the case
Or cowering in a corner or place
Peeking out from a closet embrace
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In my dreams I see a sordid face
Withered and shriveled and contorted with hate
Laronian imp with purpose of fate
In my mouth it squirts the paste
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Again I wake and bolt for the sink
From the corner of my eye I see the imp
He disappears in wink or a blink
Invisible to the man with a limp
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Pint sized demon un happily born
Raised to hurt and kill with poison
Never seen in a man with reason
Punished in a life of torture and scorn
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In the darkness I see a leap
Up to the ledge an amazing feat
For a tiny thing at most two feet
Hiding until I fall asleep
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Needles inserted into my feet
Slow painful sore legs they do retreat
Hope to lord my soul to keep
Late at night in darkness deep
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
In the blackness I hear a click
Grab a sword and after it
Under the bed in a squealing fit
Damaged with a warbling tweet
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Should I slowly pass away
Hopefully my children remember me
Horrible taste with it at bay
Awakening to a brand new day
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
Should I survive to tell a story
Of terror, pain and faith and glory
Unbelievable unreasonable stodgy and gory
Peering in as I swoon with sedated foray
Creeps and crawls and stalks at night
The sea, precociously sails, toward shore.
A curious imp of a child is he.
The waves, like whirligigs, with laughter roar.
There’s no other place i’d rather to be —
where sequin splashes, touch the wind then flee.
With precious charm, his true blue eyes foresee.
With strong limbs, wrestles monstrous whales, and knocks
over huge sandcastles, built with small hands.
He blows on boats and slides under their docks.
Don’t turn your back on him! He’ll wave his wand!
Still kind, he stops, befriends the suntanned sand.
Resolved to do his part, he trims the land.
But role of dad — the king releases calm.
The impish sailor shamed, dropped in time out.
This pampered teenage child, hears preach from mom:
“Draw out wild waves, from deep, to crest and mount!”
Her misty eyes know what this life’s about.
“Reign well, my son! Swells held up high, froth clout!”
With thirst, I turned away to grab a coke,
then crash, swept off my feet —the wave it spoke.
1/26/2018
Laura Loo’s Urban Sonnet Contest
Rhyme Scheme: ABABBB- CDCDDD- EFEFFF-GG?
With what emotion
does she peer with wide green eyes
as her two hands cup her face?
Behind those hands with
nails painted a vivid red,
she conceals an impish grin!
9/11/17 For the Poems that a Picture Contest of Silent One
IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY - IV
Leer on face droning phony his Speech
Coast-Guard nasal-ed win bareback on Leech
Triumph of Demo-Crazy
World aghast by Lunacy
DEMOCRACY strappado-ed on staid Beach
Lone Life-Saver shed ONE tear on lost Beach
While Leech kicked bareback biting hand of Teach
Peach tore to shreds SOTU
Corona-Virus-ed YAHOO !
Now POTUS sons romp and riot on Beach !
POTUS Son-in-Law Prophet Peace Preach !
Indicted Jockey borne aloft by Leech:
Gold-grab Land-grab God-grab !
Blow this World up so drab !
Let the Self-CHOSEN-Few reign with Leech !
Shame ! Shame on US ! Last bastion of Speech !
The World held its breath hoping YOU’d us teach !
Your sons laid their lives down
To uphold righteous Crown:
Empty words rot on Omaha Beach !
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, February 3, 2020
IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY III !
Holy Smoke ! Odour of incense on Beach !
Trainers marched with saddles to straddle Leech !
« SILENCE ! » Dull as Thunder !
« Under pain of locker ! »
Grave mist hung low on Life-Savers each !
CJOTUS kept clock arms for each to preach
Who summoned Founding Fathers onto Beach !
« This race is no Trial !
Draw horse blood in phial !
Drink ! » said Chief Life-Saver Nation to teach !
Coast-Guard in Cloak-Rooms begged bets to reach
The magic number to put to sleep Teach
« Hold back horses until
All bets are in the till !
I’ll let none throw law-books on my Leech ! »
Indicted Jockey rode-off bareback on Leech !
To save face while saddled Life-Savers preach:
« No Nuts ’n Bolts-on, please !
This fake Trial must cease ! »
Come November who’ll lose this race on Beach ?
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, January 29, 2020
There's an imp that lives inside of me
I simply cannot control.
It often whispers in my ear,
"Go ahead....be bold."
It knows when it is naughty,
and has gone too far.
I must say I like it.
To me it is a star.
If frees me from the ties that bind.
Social mores it leaves behind.
Stuffy rules and regulations,
to me seem so unkind.
We only pass this way but once.
No chance to recupe.
Days fly by in the blink of an eye.
So I'll be bold until I stoop.
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
Down in hell, that stronghold of sin.
strange things stir, but let me begin.
I'll get to the point. Some details I'll skimp.
I tell the tale of a mischievous imp.
Of two imps in fact, to be more precise.
If trouble occurs, it may occur twice.
If on earth bawling kids cause a terrible mess,
why should imps in Pandemonium do anything less?
The Devil at last said in a voice low and gruff.
'I can stand it no longer. Enough is enough.'
The Devil's secret agent went on a search
so as to place the imps in a suitable church.
'Lincoln cathedral will make an excellent choice'
said the wily demon with a whispering voice.
And so it was that the imps were sent packing,
a bagful of tricks and pranks never lacking.
At Matins and Vespers funny noises soon sounded,
pews, the lectern and even the high altar got pounded.
Such nasty smells could no incense repel.
In the belfry at midnight who tolled the bell?
Bad things increased, becoming day to day eerier,
till monks and nuns were slapped on the posterior.
The archbishop exclaimed 'Enough is enough.
Holy water must end all this devilish stuff.'
The church warden's face turned stony and solemn,
when he saw one of the imps perched on a column,
where he remains in full view to this very day
if to Lincoln cathedral a visit you pay.
There he squats, leg on knee all alone,
without any motion, now turned into stone.
The second imp sent a draught dank and chill
around the cathedral and, some say, does still.
Scantily skipping imp,
Feet floating
Like an electrified shrimp,
Shoe sole flapping
Like an unpaid pimp,
Flamp-p-p
Listing limping imp,
Toes knotting
Like a ballerina chimp,
Shoe tongue flopping
Like a deflated blimp,
Flimp-p-p