Best Mallet Poems
Fungus Solarium
mushroom
sun room
Give them Voting Rights
Shallots’
Ballots
To Crush it!
Shallot
mallet
Flooded Veggie
Spinach
in ditch
Romantic Invitation
Meet me,
Sweet pea
Don’t Let it Into Salad
Hard chard
is barred
Scarred for Life
The chard
was marred
Sweet-potato Grazers
Two lambs
chew yams
Stink Weed
Garlic
Charlock
Hello, Red Fellow
I greet
my beet
I am frustrated and annoyed by his ticking,
or perhaps it should be labeled the 'tocking'
By the never-ending tongue wagging clicking
in the language better known as 'clocking'
Must Grandfather Time command my life?
He so rudely continues without a thought
that his hammer yammering rhythm of strife
mocks the beating pulse of my human heart
What a wonderful fantasy my life would be
if for one day I'd not hear his unrelenting beat
I'd be stress free if time would stand still for me
for without his gonging life would be so sweet
In solace of night, I seek sleep and close my eyes
in need of escape and retreat from earthly chore
but I cannot find a moment of tranquil paradise
for his insistent knelling peals out once more
Each quarter hour his mallet chimes out to me
but his clappers sing off key in monotonous song
Not a lyrical lullaby, but a torturous rhapsody
whose tireless verses antagonize me far too long
I'm tenacious to put an end to his wagging tongue
and shackle the swinging motion of his pendulum
Each hour of the day and night would go by unsung
Being silenced is the price paid by the meddlesome
Parted curtains
puff of smoke.
Parlor trick
or cruel joke?
First a bat,
then human form—
eyes aglow,
fangs enorm.
And in the mirror,
no image there;
it stilled my heart
and stifled prayer.
But Drac was old
and suffered so;
his timing off,
reactions slow.
As he lunged
I stepped aside;
mallet ready,
his chest I eyed.
He lay there stunned,
at last my break;
I then asked how
he’d like his stake.
2nd Place, Poems from the Vampire, Just That Archaic Poet
The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.
Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.
Written: May 05, 2024, For Jaymee Thomas Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Incessant ticking of timepieces,
reverberating clatter of a mallet in motion,
the whole thing testifies to an illusion.
Time,
only a delusion
Its sole goal is to decay and degrade,
the surplus is as worthless as our frail cells
Inward metamorphosis is what truly entices.
There will be a sunrise
once you cease to exist,
but fodder for maggots.
Yet,
from their perspective,
your remains,
provide a sustenance for survival,
their growth,
and their eventual ascension
perspective,
an invaluable commodity,
yet,
stay ignorant of two sides of a coin.
tales spun from our ignorance abyss.
Is love a reality or a falsehood in society?
a tether to maintain their focus,
how can they hinder their whims?
what else might motivate them to squander
indulgences such as candies or blooms?
leverage of greenery,
similar to the cost of water,
twisted nature repulses my senses.
Being a societal outcast,
do I not deserve an ample resolution?
at the pinnacle of my tale,
will I be restrained with shackles?
due to repugnant acts of cruelty,
your detested species has wrought
on my turbulent figure?
Ignite your wake pyre,
should you require a tan?
BLOOD TIES
O Brother mine,
aeons, we bathe in fiery pits;
epochs, you quench your thirst,
from my wells of wisdom…
Broken by the mallet of Creation,
away you went.
Then came you.
Likewise, your seed…
Centuries you’ve suck me dry.
Your nests glitter with my blood,
atop my remains, your rivers flow.
My seed dammed to the Throne…
Bronze shackles, you gave!
As cousin Arabia fuels your rage,
Rage, rage, rage…
As for in time you’ll kneel.
And forgive I shall,
for your sins are mine.
O Brother mine.
Timeless clocks,
bring us together.
As in fiery pits, we bathe.
Our Seeds will bear fruit,
Love and Peace…
As to dust we wither.
Written: July 17, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: X F Lacasse
******************
From the anvil of solar eclipse flame ~
Sunsmith struck with a mallet lit by light
Blows hump the sky ablaze by molten might—
a yellow nepenthe for summer's shame!
Sapphire sea warbles hymns amid her name
cy(press) woods rostrum by a hedge of white—
shades turned long as time that denied the night ~
Below straw frame—time seems to be the same.
She wafts the fruit till flesh begins to burst!
unbuttoning the orchards one by one —
her breath is spice, her (kiss) an early thirst ~
a blaze baptized in laughter, sweat, and sun
Yet 'neath her crown, a melancholy hides—
a knowing nod to how the sear subsides?
I have some favorite tools I use,
Whenever I ply my trade,
From the hammer in my leather pouch,
To the retractable cutting blade.
I also love the spanners I have,
One metric, the other in inch,
When I use them to tighten to my car,
The small electric motor winch.
And the ratchet, socket and circular saw,
Displayed inside my shed,
I love these names said loud and proud,
From mallet to Phillips Head
And I use these tools every day,
I use the chisel, the grips, the wrench,
I love disappearing all the time,
By my old warn wood workbench.
Spring Cleaning
Closet doors open,
Sweeper to adjust,
Housecleaning today,
Yes, spring cleaning is a must.
Windows to wash,
Cabinets to clean,
Dust mallet to swish,
Even on outdoor screen.
As soon as my laziness passes,
My deeds I will again tackle,
First to by a new pair of glasses,
To attack dust again and cackle.
I haven't a magic wand,
To swish all about,
For of it I would truly be proud,
To clean more easily without a doubt.
If I were a Jennie in a bottle,
From my lamp I could clearly see,
For daily I would wiggle my nose,
And the glass it would then be clean.
Linda Terrell
Feb. 25, 2010
Gee! If only it were that easy! Hope you like my humor of cleaning tasks that I formed into
some these what rhyming verses.
The plane approaching Rio sights
The God-man on the mountain
in the sunlight-- that cold tremor
just between the shoulders strikes;
we see the arms borne up by love
and reaching to the traveler,
the city, and the earth.
Then from below, the pilgrims mount
the heights to see the features
of the Cristo...first, the railway,
then the stairs climb higher
in the quest--
anticipation, breath and blood
now pounding in their hearts--
there comes the turning at the parapet
to watch the mists brush by his face,
gauze curtains breaking to reveal
that intermittent, scowling
countenance of stone,
once emerging in austerity
beneath the mallet, now
beyond the shadow of Elijah's peak
is seen again, and lost,
else one would need to look away--
before this stern, and re- transfigured God.
The city plays beneath his watch.
just as the drama of
an immanent, transcendent deity
erupts in silent declamation, then to part
in a reprise of his ascension
in the cloud.
~
A ball of twine, a washing line
A bag of peat, an old dust sheet
A rope
Some wire
An old flat tyre
A roller-skate, a garden gate
Some dry grass seed, a millipede
A sack of sand, one glove, left hand
A torch
A mallet
A painters pallet
A cracked fish tank, a broken plank
A headless gnome, some dried out loam
An old bike bell, a snail shell
A spade
A fork
A champagne cork
The dogs toy bone, a traffic cone
It's cleared away, it took all day
I find it is, quite safe to say
It used to fit, But who knows how
My garden shed is empty now
Jerry was running from Tom
The day it all went down
A mouse had the upper hand
And one cat wore a frown
On a quest with his mallet
As good as being in dark
That mouse was hard to get
Evading without one mark
Things were good for Jerry
He could always run away
Tom did what he always did
Plan for yet another day
The alarm hits me over the head like a rock
Extra scoop of exhaustion, work-related
Timer says it’s Cranky-Past-Grump O’clock
But fear not, the remedy has percolated
The mind is so thick, chunky, and addled
My thoughts are completely jumbled
The dim world seems so utterly scrambled
Not quite sure what the mouth just mumbled
The glass carafe is impatiently steaming
Very soon there will be no more drooping
In a relative way, I’ll be quite beaming
And shortly thereafter, I know I’ll be…whooping
The heart pumps with the steaming mug
For so many ailments it fills the need
Mind verily hopping on this legal drug
Not sure why anyone bothers with speed
Then a brief time later, the predictable scare
To the throne room, I take hasty flight
Slamming the door to avoid the brown bear
With comforting knowledge I’ll re-emerge light
O! Coffee! Your pleasures not limited to the palate
Nor the great, salutary jolt to the mind
That gentle whack on the head with a mallet
And the large intestine not far behind
While I thrive on that mental clarity,
Look forward to that sublime daily lift
It’s that reassuring sense of regularity
That is the hallowed bean’s greatest gift!
4/11/16
Start
The great tennis legend Roger!
Watching his game is a pleasure
The first service is a bullet
That hits the court like a mallet
The adversary is confused
Just misses getting bruised!
Challenges the absence of line call
Replay shows the trajectory of the ball
Referee’s verdict, ‘ball is in’
He grumbles and calls it a sin
To use the racquet as a gun
Denying the opportunity to run
His returns are the best in the sport
Ball is directed to the corners of the court
His drop shots are precisely done
Ball just crosses the net heavily spun
If the opponent manages to return it still
He’s crouching at the net ready to kill
There are times when it’s not his day
All his game plans go astray
He struggles to turn the game his way
That is when pretty Mirka starts to pray
Seated in her box she closes her eyes
Appeals to God with her silent cries
Lo behold! The game turns around
Everyone in the court is astound
The final score board says it all
Liebling Roger no longer with his back to the wall
He acknowledges cheers for his guile
With a clenched fist and triumphant smile.
End
A moon interrupted;
riles the social class.
A native sense comes of age.
Piercing stare becomes rarefied,
unbuttons the peaks and
kills you with a mallet.
The scared mask falls
off the divine embrace, lets
free the pigeons from the golden cage.
The forked tongue will
speak only truth. Blood
was the only stain, washed easily.
I will get the tan
in moonlight only. My scars
will remain invisible in silver.
Satish Verma