Best Kidded Poems
My mother’s hair hung thick and to her waist.
But seldom did she wear it in that way,
for always in a bun she had it placed
til it was loosed and on her pillow lay.
She sometimes tells me how I'd kidded her.
When I was small, I said, “Your hair is pink!”
From how she tells this story, I infer
I must have caused her tender heart to sink.
She aged, yet grey was sparse upon her head.
We said, “An older woman cuts her hair.”
Mom acquiesced and lost those locks rare red
she’d humbly worn for years when young and fair.
She’s nearly eighty now, bobbed hair turned brown,
And how I miss her once “pink” glory crown.
By Andrea Dietrich
Aye 'ee is fierce and hale.
Four mile to work,across the vale;
No slommakin' slattern 'ee,
Okkard as an itching flea.
Eee'd fetch hosses to boss's yard,
Garmed with mud,as thick as lard,
Cla'holt of 'em wiv a rope,
On is own,allus could cope.
Niver sees 'im vexed,or aggled,
Even if drenched and bedraggled;
In lightning 'e wore niver frit,
Though the whole sky wore fork-lit.
Grew peas that kidded well,
Allus 'ad a tale to tell.
Dialect from around Aylesbury Vale ,England in 1940's
Listen to me read this in this dialect on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
We are not perfect by no means at all,
some are too skinny, some are too tall,
I was always the tallest in my class,
until High school, then I found my match.
5' 7'' kinda tall for a girl,
then I decided, I wanted to twirl,
The football players always kidded with me,
but I knew they were flirting, they really liked me.
My hair was long, and blonde as can be,
they told me not past the shoulders, little Crissy.
I had to pile it up, but it never stayed,
stringy haired twirler, out on the stage.
Now , I think back to those football games,
remembering those memories, of my High School
Days.
Aye 'ee is fierce and hale.
Four mile to work,across the vale;
No slommakin' slattern 'ee,
Okkard as an itching flea.
Eee'd fetch hosses to boss's yard,
Garmed with mud,as thick as lard,
Cla'holt of 'em wiv a rope,
On is own,allus could cope.
Niver sees 'im vexed,or aggled,
Even if drenched and bedraggled;
In lightning 'e wore niver frit,
Though the whole sky wore fork-lit.
Grew peas that kidded well,
Allus 'ad a tale to tell.
Dialect from aound Aylesbury Vale ,England
hear me read this on youtube @ http://youtu.be/RfQCyNiNDAY
II
You had said when I kidded you? After all I'm not going to be far away? Now you are put to rest?In a place dug and slabbed for you alone As if you were not going to rest for good ?with all the others?
It is a place to a side in the pebble-strewn sidewalk ?against the wall ?your feet to the east ?all the other feet to the south ?As of a general standing to a salute from his army
There was no sight of you ?The golden chocolatish-pink of your casket ?made more glittering the cross? I couldn't guess if you would have wanted the Church's ornament then the feeling of being out-of-place? thoughts of you in a cloud
We talked in suppressed tones? about you of you ?trying to be polite and succeeding among uneasy fellows? here and there some unwanted details slipped in through nervousness ?yet none felt your hand tremble on the racket
You were the master of the court ?as now you mastered your going by the low sleek slate-grained marble? in sharply polished angular correctness ?amidst shy upright cypresses and neatly cut passage ways of chipped stone
We sprinkled your tomb with Church water ?Neither rain nor snow you remember could keep you from finishing your game? Already as we turned in a column the voices now louder in the distance? They were arranging the roughly hewn stone slabs ?before the marble thickened your bed
You may at last be at rest ?with no one to challenge you to a test of strength? your referee's whistle holding its un-disputable silence
You came with the spring ?Now you go in cheery spring ?Your sollicitous voice still lingers in our courts ?You knew us all by name and style at play ?long before we met under your critical gaze
(Jean Franco, born in Morocco of Spanish stock, was an Income Tax Inspector and in his spare-time an International Soccer Referee for France. We often played tennis at the Tennis Club in Fresnes-94.)
©T.Wignesan 1992 April 21, 1992 - [from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
The ox and the moron kidded each other
with crazy questions one lazy afternoon:
"Tell me, oh, witty Moron,
what is an oxymoron?"
"That's easy, owlish Ox,
why, it's a paradox."
The ox shook his head and mooed:
"Guesses are far too many,
but the only answer is irony."
To which the moron gamely retorted:
"I disagree. Using hot flatiron, to me,
that is irony!"
The ox stood his ground, grinning:
"Oh, yeah? And a paradox
is but a solo parade of an ox?"
They laughed till they cried, till a deafening
silence exploded and died,
Meekly, together they asked the afternoon,
"Aren't we the oxymoron?"
A French Visit
Early they arrived, my relatives, unpacking of suitcases,
kissing, jubilation and breakfast, during which all the latest
family gossip was shared. Then they all went to the beach
leaving the house in utter chaos. When returning we had
prepared a buffet, they had brought their wine, the French
are skeptical to wine not made in their country… god, how
talked. I have a small house had to sleep in my study, got up
at four working, but I liked the silence of people at slumber.
About five there were stirrings, people going to the toilet
and murmur of voices, I went back to bed or on my sofa.
Woke up at ten, they had already breakfasted and ready to
leave, kidded me for sleeping so late. Then an intense late
talking, like everything had to be said and crammed into
a few minutes, good byes lots of kisses and the old house
settled back to its usual quietude.
re-post inspired by Constance D form contest
A BUCKS BOY
Aye 'ee is fierce and hale.
Four mile to work,across the vale;
No slommakin' slattern 'ee,
Okkard as an itching flea.
Eee'd fetch hosses to boss's yard,
Garmed with mud,as thick as lard,
Cla'holt of 'em wiv a rope,
On is own,allus could cope.
Niver sees 'im vexed,or aggled,
Even if drenched and bedraggled;
In lightning 'e wore niver frit,
Though the whole sky wore fork-lit.
Grew peas that kidded well,
Allus 'ad a tale to tell.
In my local English Dialect
“Loss”
I had such a beautiful house
that I ceaned to make myself real.
Such peace and quiet there,
shattering loneliness and no people
A deck which held my tinkling chimes…
sound so empty, it hurt.
Plenty of food to eat,
my brain starved, my heart starved
I thought I was in partnership
How could I have kidded myself?
We drove places together
So what?
Shared about the distance between
my sons and myself.?Did I even know who I was talking to?
Cold blustery winds outside
I couldn’t get warm inside for anything.
Because I existed there
did not make me loved or loving.
Talking about my sons
wasn’t bringing them any closer.
I made salads from beautiful ingredients
which did not mean I was a wife
I trusted with everything
an example of my having been an abused child
never understood boundaries
who was safe to share with or not…
So often I spoke of redemption
my words were cast off casually
I needed to make things right
It was as though I spoke of the weather.
My intention became to end my life
out of the frustration of being
in such a wrong place and so far away.
Even that became a comic joke.
Next door neighbors cherished one another
yet I was as alone as it gets
and could see no way back
to being my real self again
ever.
I didn’t know the difference
Just knew I was miserable
and wanted out…whatever it took
White Eagle
On my walk, I saw a big, white eagle with an enormous
wingspan, flying low and in circles as it was looking for
Something in the bush landscape. It the steadfast
the gaze of a seraph that had to judge angst ridden souls
which claimed the meant no harm when they had sinned,
it had been with humour and fairness.
It flew higher and in wider circles till it disappeared and
blended in with the afternoon sky.
Back home I told Ernesto I had seen a white eagle, he had
never seen one, though it was a pity I didn`t have a rifle
to shoot it, His Maria, was more severe, said I had seen an angel,
crossed herself, wore a shawl over a greying hair and
Went to mass. Ernesto and I went to the bar; he told regulars
I had seen an angel; they kidded me greatly
At home, in the night, sitting by the fire – spring evening
can be chilly- where I live, seeing the flapping fire wings
of burning aromatic olive wood, I said to myself; wouldn’t
be nice if Maria was right?
I grew up a child of the ’60’s
together my life and the hippie movement dawned…
now when I look back at that time I wonder…where have all the hippies gone?
Those long haired tie-dyed idealists who walked around with our feet bare
who grew our own organic vegetables…who wore flowers in our hair.
Who sang and danced and laughed…who kidded and teased and joked
whose spirituality was enhanced by all that grass we smoked.
Who ate our share of granola…who drove an old VW van
who believed in peace and love and Woodstock…
and who would never listened to The Man.
Who were excited by the universe…who were filled with loving thoughts…
who lived for today and for each other and…did I mention all that pot?
Where have all the hippies gone?…all those innocent…free-spirited pups?
I imagine what happened…happens to every generation…we hippies all grew up.
Our long hair is now white or gone…our jokes are shared in tweets
our spirits aren’t as free as they once were…and we now wear shoes upon our feet.
We still like organic vegetables…but we’ll also eat at delis
and the only pot we carry now…we carry around our bellies.
Most of us drive comfortable cars instead of those old flowered vans
Oh, we still eat our share of granola…but now we throw on a little bran.
And we certainly don’t dance as much…we never know when we might slip
for there is nothing more humiliating…than a hippie with a broken hip.
Never fear however! It may be a little harder to pick out
what was once our claims to fame
but despite the ravages of age…we are hippies just the same.
Sure life has a way of interfering and our priorities rearrange…
but I believe the spirit we brought to our generation
and our ideals have never changed.
So here’s a toast to all the hippies out there…we may be heading over the hill
but we still believe in peace and love and I’m guessing…
we always will!
Jesus was skeptical of his tribe, as a trainee carpenter
so lousy couldn`t even make a bookshelf, they kidded him
for that and Jesus took umbrage and criticized
the priests who served the Romans.
He took to hanging out with a group of radicals of the day
and since he was good with words, became their leader.
They had groupies too, one of them was Magdalena and
Jesus took a shine to her without saying so, but them all
knew from the way he looked at her.
Being admired by his flock, Jesus thought he could take
on the establishment, like when he chased money lenders
out of the temple; he was wrong.
When the Romans mocked him and crowded him a king,
he thought the people would come to save him, no such
a thing happened, he was strung up (Crucified).
The women came to his rescue, healed his wounds and
sent him to France where he took the name of Pierre,
married Magdalena had seven children and was
a much-respected Goldsmith
After being caught ,
doing everything funny ,
giggling hillairiosly,
I jokinly kidded,
lovinly Mocked,
Nothing Obseen,
Perfectly Quoted,
Respectfuly Sighted
Tastefully United
very well xaccuted
yamering Zeil..
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE BOY
Aye 'ee is fierce and hale.
Four mile to work,across the vale;
No slommakin' slattern 'ee,
Okkard as an itching flea.
Eee'd fetch hosses to boss's yard,
Garmed with mud,as thick as lard,
Cla'holt of 'em wiv a rope,
On is own,allus could cope.
Niver sees 'im vexed,or aggled,
Even if drenched and bedraggled;
In lightning 'e wore niver frit,
Though the whole sky wore fork-lit.
Grew peas that kidded well,
Allus 'ad a tale to tell.
The View
They were climbing up a mountainside to get
a better view of the sea.
she reached the top before him, and he
breathed hard when he got up.
She laughed pleased she had won he smiled
too but was short on laughter.
He was strong, slim and looked athletic but
a doctor had told him his heart was weak
and not put strain on it, by too much sport.
His friends kidded him for his reluctance to
partake in long treks in the woods and
sleeping under canvas... slowly they drifted away
or rather he made himself absent because
he could not tell his friends about it they found
him cantankerous said he lacked the spirit of youth
and fun. Boring, his girlfriend said before walking
off. He was so big and strong, but didn´t have
the strength- or was it vanity - to be one of them.