Best Kits Poems
This enlisted soul
At eighteen years old
Barely a man
Not even street wise told
From the proms, to the camp
He kits out tomorrow
His future he stamps
Never knowing bloodied sorrow
In just under a year
He's older and wiser
To a theatre so different
Says his military adviser
Overseas he heads
Thoughts of back home
What goes through his mind
In eighteen years old roam
Where could he have been
In so short a time
Colouring books
Making joining words rhyme
As he looks to his background
What does he see
An eagle soaring
In the land of the free
The statue of liberty
And the bill of rights
With the thirteen stripes
And the stars to delight
He is just a boy
In grown up clothes
Another one lost
To a cause we will loathe
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-4.php
Categories:
kits, family, life, war
Form:
Rhyme
Erector sets and wooden blocks
Dominoes and house of cards
Built way up to be knocked down
Scattered all across the ground
Model cars and airplane kits
Making sure each piece will fit
Snapped together without glue
Just to fall apart on you
Puzzles without all the pieces
Will not work and it decreases
The fun and joy of finishing
A picture without it's full scene
All these things can fall apart
Or not be finished from the start
Like a love without the trust
Which is a necessary must
So it doesn't break and tremble
And you have to reassemble
Two hearts with a solid glue
So it doesn't fall on you
From a height that is too high
To complete---you let it die
From a lack of love and care
Broken too much for repair
Categories:
kits, love, relationship, sorrow,
Form:
Rhyme
Remnants owlish wisdom wafts through nighttime’s purple sky.
Fox settles down with her kits, against a nurturing oak stump.
Meadow and forest perform their nightly slumbering rituals.
Vigilant deer mama is resting in a bed of fescue next to her fawn.
Fireflies blink sheer happiness, laughing in Morse code.
Owl’s successive tri hoots are followed by coyote’s excited yips.
Forest and meadow slowly close their eyes, under the bright stars.
The day relinquishes her responsibilities to night, gladly.
It is a magical time when day and night greet each other, happily.
Categories:
kits, 6th grade, 7th grade,
Form:
Blank verse
I remember those days when just a kid,
the old ten shilling note, and the odd quid.*
Teddy boys in their drain pipes, fur collars
smelling of nicotine, street wise scholars.
Conkers,* glass alleys* and comics as well,
bow and arrows, gat* to ring the school bell.
Electric tram, trolley bus and steam train
holidays in Blackpool, not yet in Spain.
Left over stew, dripping dispersed on bread,
a choice of marg or jam, not both was spread.
Roly-poly pud with custard, oh yes
school dinners, oh the ridicule the stress.
Journey in to space radio drama,
while bathing in a tin bath pure karma.
Medicals at school and nit nurses too
combing for the eggs, washing with shampoo.
No drugs, only cigs in small packs of five,
fifty fifty dance halls, old and new thrive.
Outside loo, oh them freezing winter nights
oil lamps, a candle to enhance one’s lights.
High street fish and chip shop charging nine pence,
potato crisps, tab* of salt to dispense.
Tanners,* hape’ny’s* and those threp’ny* bits,
meccano sets, clockwork trains came in kits.
Motorbikes, British pride on just two wheels,
Triumph, BSA, a nation reveals.
Alas long gone these balmy days of laze,
happy to have played a part in this phase!
*Quid:::: A one pound note (UK)
*Conkers:;;; Game played with the fruit of the horse chest nut tree.
*Glass Alleys::::: A type of Marble for the game of marbles.
*Gat::::: A catapult, or slingshot..
*Tab::: One brand of crisps in the UK, place a small blue pack of salt in each packet
*Tanners:::: A sixpenny coin
*Hape’ny’s::: A halfpenny coin
*Threp’ny bit::::: A Threepenny 12 sided coin, also called Thrupence depending where one resided in the North of England
.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Categories:
kits, nostalgia, school, old, old,
Form:
Rhyme
My muse had a good idea,
Let's flood the world with Ikea!
Dysfunctional kits, there and here,
For guns and bombs,
No one would care,
They would be assembling Ikea,
Each kit, four missing bits,
Wrong pictures to give them the blip,
Globally occupied with dysfunctional Ikea,
Now isn't this a good idea,
Peace on Earth brought by Ikea?
Categories:
kits, dream, earth, peace,
Form:
Free verse
There once was a fine buxom lass
who wrote poetry with real class
and though she was sly
real foxxy and why
that fair buxom lass was a gas!
Yes PD was not a late bloomer
her pages were full of rare rumor
she told bushy tales
of boys who ate snails
and ran from the po-po’s cruiser.
Well, foxxy ole PD’s so tart
she raised that low bar from the start
bringin’ on game
no man could tame
Unless, he’s N. Bone-a-part?
So, Linda we beg you to stay
do not leave us alone come to play
streak your hair red
get up from that bed
you know we all love your foreplay!
Tap that type, blow that screen, shred that page
yes, Miss Foxxy the world is your stage
I’m truly amazed
at your subtler ways
Your mischievous heart's all the rage!
What more can I say, I not her proxy
cause all of you know I'm not that foxxy
I’ll have to give in
end up with a grin
and beware of all the kits with her Moxie!
*6 Foxxy Limericks
Categories:
kits, friendship, funny
Form:
Limerick
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
Categories:
kits, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
Categories:
kits, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse
Mocking the dead, is that a thing?
How many ways can one be disrespecting?
Laws that cause offenders to be free?
Rape kits that exist only to be not breached.
Little lies and big divides of right and wrong genocide.
Our forefathers could not ever predict
We would be as disrespectful as this.
Ancestors bones surely roll like river
As the wicked become powerful while weak lips quiver
Fowl language and worse ethics morale and actions
Political powers that endorse for private satisfaction.
Mocking the dead what about the little kids
Who inherit the earth in the shape of it
We enjoyed youth clean air and water
And dirty it up for son and daughter.
Looking back only with limited views
Erasing the truth of ill will and abuse
A country started by taking from the natives
Blended into a melting pot of many races
Mocking the dead playing music head like fiddler
Warming the red bed of fire for Hitler
Are we so pompous we can never admit faults
Until it is too late and we too are lost?
Written 9/21/23 For Mocking The Dead Contest
Sponsor Silent One
Categories:
kits, america, betrayal,
Form:
Rhyme
Remember when grandma would boil the eggs?
There were no fancy color kits to buy.
She used crushed berries for the royals, purple and blue,
tea or coffee for sunny shades of yellow and orange,
and spinach for gracious green (the only way I liked it at the time).
Glorious golden and regal red – from onion skins! Oh my!
If she had eggplant or red cabbage, she made precious pink and purple.
What passionate pastels emerged and earthy hues of neutral nature!
colors of nature
repurposed from the heavens ~
two times the blessing
No chemical dyes with eggs swiftly finished and decorated in one sitting.
Grandma’s eggs took gathering the eggs from the nest,
food or food scraps, a couple of days, several helping hands, various
utensils and implements, and make quite the mess! A perfect process!
humble beginnings
after a long abstinence ~
a welcome reward
Oh, the love and joy from decorating those eggs.
No kit can ever compare.
Categories:
kits, childhood, children, environment, food,
Form:
Haibun
We purchased a shed for our yard.
To fill it was not very hard -
The sleds and the bikes
And the things no one likes
With a flimsy old lock standing guard.
To mice, it's a winter retreat
And last summer, we thought it was neat
When a fox made her bed
For her kits there instead
Of the groundhog, who left in defeat.
All the shed holds is useless old junk
And this fact gets my spouse in a funk
But it gives us a peek
Of some wildlife unique
And at least we've encountered no skunk!
Categories:
kits, home,
Form:
Limerick
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of the truculent muckrakers,
the yellow iron caterpillars.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
Slips between the stringy and tall,
if there are no forested ways
he ambles where the wind ruffles.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the bosky bedfellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow man – he is variegated and verdant,
a green man for me and thee
at least for now.
Categories:
kits, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
A pair of tiny orphans
in haystacks their mother made,
near an orchard by a lake,
with pine tall as an arcade.
Sheltering them,I brought milk
to the lonely kits each day,
but they wouldn't show their faces
till I hovered far away.
In time they learned to like me,
and slowly joined running games;
one brown-furred, one white bundle
Sugar and Puff... their nicknames.
Hearing my voice from the door,
the kitties would run so quick
right up my tummy to the neck;
playing cuddle- and- frolic.
They hopped about the garden
wearing blooms like a shawl,
and I seemed content to ride
my pets till break of nightfall.
One day, Puff and Sugar left
not marking sign of contacts...
the fun of souls well relished,
how my heart misses loved cats.
------------
I Love My Pets!
Laura Loo's Contest
1/25/2016
Categories:
kits, animal, devotion, friendship,
Form:
Rhyme
the mother red fox
snuggles in warm den, feeds her kits...
a-oo-oo-oo-ooo
the owl in the tree
on a pitch dark moonless night ...
who-who-who-who-who
the mother red fox
says shhh, shhh, shhh, to the owl....
kits just wow, wow, wow
the crack of dawn breaks
a sunrise of red and blue ...
zzzzz, zzzz, silence speaks
I get a kick out of the whole song, "What Does The Fox Say"
but I dedicate my poem to "Fraka-kaka-kaka-kaka-kow"
Written February 21, 2014
Sponsor: Skat A
Contest: What Does The Fox Say
I did some research on the Red Fox and they make a sound
somewhat like the Tawny Owl and other trisyllabic sounds
like they are talking to each other..
They are mostly nocturnal
Categories:
kits, fun,
Form:
Haiku
SIGNS OF SPRING
The lawn is riddled with robins
A bevy of bluebirds too
Finches on the finch socks
And sparrows, more than a few
Three pairs of cardinals feeding
I count a dozen doves
A sextet of crows all cawing
Chickadees circling above
Buttercups blooming in profusion
Along the roadside, beautifully arrayed
In my lawn I see the furrows
The digging moles have made
There's a pretty bluebird couple
Building a nest in the bluebird box
And the flash I saw in the bushes
Was two kits and a mother fox
Yes, wherever I look it's Spring time
My favorite time of the year
Trees are blooming in all colors
I'm glad Spring time is here
Curtis Moorman
10 March 2013
Categories:
kits, spring, spring, spring, time,
Form:
Rhyme