Best Mousy Poems
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
Categories:
mousy, appreciation, nature, smile,
Form:
Alliteration
Inspired by Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”
Song for an Angel
So beautiful is my sweet girl
that she can’t even see.
She asks me if she looks okay.
She sure looks good to me!
She thinks her hair is mousy brown.
She wishes that her eyes
were a nicer shade of green
and she – a smaller size.
Chorus:
It’s not about the physical. Even if it was,
she looks phenomenal. She’s my girl because
her love is like no other’s; her grace I can’t resist.
Thank you, God, for showing me that angels do exist.
We go out to a restaurant
and I see men’s heads turn.
She’s the type for whom most guys
who seek a wife would yearn.
How glad I am to have her
right there by my side.
She smiles at me, and I can’t hide
the pride I feel inside.
Chorus:
It’s not about the physical. Even if it was,
she looks phenomenal. She’s my girl because
her love is like no other’s; her grace I can’t resist.
Thank you, God, for showing me that angels do exist.
We get home from our night out
and in her quiet way,
she leaves the room and comes back out
in a negligee.
To sparkling eyes and hair down loose
and loving arms I’m drawn.
I’m gazing at an angel as
I put slow music on.
Bridge:
Playing, I keep playing sweet and soulful music.
Swaying, we are swaying with the lights dimmed low.
Romancing, sweet romancing – always leads to more.
Dancing with my angel – love's made better slow.
Chorus:
It’s not about the physical. Even if it was,
she looks phenomenal. She’s my girl because
her love is like no other’s; her grace I can’t resist.
Thank you, God, for showing me that angels do exist.
May 19, 2023 for Joe Bonamassa And Influencers Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Robert James Liguori
Categories:
mousy, love, romantic,
Form:
Lyric
GISELLE AND MOM
My name is La Belle Giselle,
Round my neck is a bell,
Love my mom, who feeds me,
But sneak out for a midnight
Snack up our lovely oak tree,
Or wander in the garden
For a yummy
Meal, fill my tummy
Then feel content, fat and cool,
Marcelle knows what
I’m up to,
He’s no bodies fool.
He’s getting old, so sleeps,
Just sleeps and purrs,
Next to Dad, both of
Us have such silky furs!
I always bring a small tit bit
For Marcelle, but tonight split
It in two, one for you,
Which I always do,
Giselle whispers to Marcelle,
And one for mom
She will be so proud
Of me, no doubt!
My lips are all bloody
And my whiskers too,
Had to tiptoe back in, but clean
Any mousy or grasshopper
Blood or goo, too true,
And jump up on the duvet
You bet,
And knead, a comfortable place
Next to mum, my own space!
Killer by night and by day
Lovable kitty,
Mom always lets me have my way!
Next morning, rudely awoken
By screams and a yell
Last night I had found out how
To loosen my bell,
So mom couldn't hear
And therefore tell,
But I no longer felt swell,
For there was a nasty smell,
Come here kitty cat said mum,
As she refastened my loose bell,
Sorry, I wanted to say,
It was merely a gift,
To say wow what a great face lift,
But will never, ever deign,
Bring you a dead mouse again!
Poetry contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Write A Rhyming Poem For Fun Poetry Contest
Categories:
mousy, cat, love,
Form:
Rhyme
ASSUMPTION, PRESUMPTION , GUMPTION
I don’t enjoy been on a plane,
I find it scary and a tad mundane,
But last time I flew,
I sat next to a lady I slightly knew,
I was bored and wanted to play a silly game!
It was the same lady who lived across the street,
Her sandals were shoddy and she had ugly feet,
Her face looked bloated, red and big,
And every day she wore a new wig,
I thought she was also perhaps an adulteress,
A cheat!
I noticed that she ordered a stiff brandy,
She’s having an affair, she’s used to being randy,
Truly how could this lady attract a husband
And lover,
She was clearly quite plain,
What did either of them have to gain,
Even her hair was mousy brown and sandy!
We started chatting about this and that,
And told me she was on diet for she felt fat,
I’m no professor but have two degrees,
So noticed she spoke with intellectual ease,
I felt bad at what I thought earlier,
My thoughts had to somehow retract!
She was CEO of a well know airline,
But sadly had cancer of the spine,
Which she was hoping to beat
The cancer had also spread to her feet,
She could only wear sandals, I knew then
I was out of line!
I wanted to make her feel good,
My thoughts weren’t nice, that is plainly understood,
I invited her to join us on our luxury liner,
For as long as she liked, she was also a deep
Sea diver,
We became best of friends, and pleased her,
As only a friend could.
It turned out that the man I saw going
In and out of her house,
Was her brother, so she didn’t cheat.
On her spouse,
In fact they were about to repeat their vows,
Underneath the boughs,
Of an old oak tree and a river on which
They had a boathouse.
Elsie got better, thank God,
Both she and I thanked Him, He was
Our rod,
I was really lucky to have found
Such a genuine friend high up, off the ground,
We both lived by the sea, had a picnic,
And watched the whales, a huge pod!
I have now learnt not to make any
Hasty assumption,
But to have gumption,
For I was horribly wrong,
I had come a long
Way, since that day on the plane, not to
Make any hurried presumption!
Categories:
mousy, forgiveness, friendship,
Form:
Limerick
I stand naked wrapped only in the truth
you vile, loathsome reptile.
My contempt of you is limitless
as I have been force-fed your hypocrisy.
Your postulations are lost on me
as my insight into your repulsive nature
is exceeded only by the palpable stench of your aura.
Eyes opened to their widest apex,
ridiculously lends support to your “jokerish”
smile overly exaggerated in a…
Carol Channing kind of muse.
It seems your purse a revolving door
to his wants, has an ideally broken clasp…
Your shoulder, a never ending
tissue to his every sorrow should be waterlogged.
Which stands to reason why your legs
stretched open as wide as the earth’s axis,
“she-doggedly-in-heat” sniffs attention from him
and remains open like an all night 7-11 just to
provide “respite” in the name of “friendship”.
You find joy in slinking and scurrying through
the misfortunes and/or gains in our life,
all the while professing your love to him
and masticating on a stolen covenant
you have orchestrated in destroying.
There is no sector of my day
allowing me peace and escape from your
treachery and continued debauchery.
Your hair once a mousy shade of brown
now waxes blond in your further attempt
to assure he remains suckled at your breast
knowing his lust for blond haired, blue eyed
women that are six shades lighter than my ebony hues.
There is though, an appellative to my anguish,
which recoils from my tongue at
any attempt to voice this rage.
Escalating anger marinates and broils within
my breast as your ubiquitous presence
in my life has finally left me little strength
and no shelter from the uncloaked
vicious pain searing me to the core
in this deep abyss I have found myself in…
Unleashed fury beckons me, reaching back beyond now
when day was night and night was only imagined
barely controlling this hate and
the exigency to extract myself
from this nefarious, cheap, vaudevillian
show, which no longer can be ratiocinated
through your insipid lies before I...
Can’t imagine your expending this much
energy with your own household or husband because
you’re always living and breathing in mine!
Contempt has a name…and its malodor is…Linda.
Categories:
mousy, black african american, lost
Form:
Didactic
My image was dull drab and dreary
(It hadn’t be changed for a while)
I thought that my hair had potential
... It was time I updated my style
But the last time that I’d had a haircut
I hadn’t been pleased with my “do”
I’d lost half my hair – though I’m certain I'd said
“Not too much – just an inch, maybe two”
So I thought “Why not go for a colour?”
No need for a salon for that
Just pick up a packet whilst shopping
and hang my head over the bath”
It was time that I tried something different
“Mousy brown” was my natural shade
But I wanted dramatic I needed a change
(and to knock several years off my age)
So I checked all the products on offer
“Nice and Easy” one packet said
Be it platinum blonde, jet black, (even blue)
just mix it and pour on your head
I picked one that said “Cos I’m worth it”
... I was worthy of glamour and glitz
I read the instructions, I did what they said
(I didn’t miss out any bits)
And the guide on the back of the packet said
My natural colour would mean
That my hair would have rich reddish wood tones
(with a truly remarkable sheen)
But the result that I got was quite different...
It was (without being too harsh)
Not “red wooded tones” but more “cowpat green”
(The colour of wet bogging marsh)
A disaster of epic proportions
My attempts at coiffure D.I.Y
I needed an expert to save it
(A stylist who could “Do or Dye”)
I rang a salon that could help me...
Said they’d soon have my hair looking nice
Which they did (…..after five hours labour
and a frightening three-figure price)
So when you see them all smiles in the advert
With glorious tresses in shot
Don’t be fooled when they tell you
“You’re worth it”…
I've tried it...
Believe me...
I'm Not!
Categories:
mousy, beauty, color, hair, humor,
Form:
Narrative
Tho’ the soft voice has an aristocratic tone,
the haughty attitude ain’t no street gutter different:
Being rude ... dropping shade
Dark keystroke mood,
shallow indigo indifference shown
Another bad online day made
Royal pain of a social media princess
giving good grief
With a sunny disposition staged
That same persona
is acting out in public again —
Digital tongue intoxicated by the viral fame
Drunken thoughts of superiority
are spilled on the laptop
As her mental runt rants spew more shame
But[t] always couched behind banal positivity,
trite emoji expressions
Mousy pooter loves to sphincter the blame
The same gaslight persona
is acting out in the public forum again —
Low heel clicks from lattice lips
Drama queen on a toilet spin,
gossip lovers say she has such a hater handle
Royal flush of a sent sewer clip
Petty web of inane intrigue
got much diva curiosity following her
A Twitter litter trail of trash-talking catnip
Different window dressing edit, peppermint vetted,
has the same bittersweet facade —
Hard candy hits from her gentle fingertips
Categories:
mousy, humorous, imagery, psychological, satire,
Form:
Tristich
Gather round all you little kiddies
Got a story I'd like to share
Bout a tiny mouse named Bartholomew
And a dirty big bear called Clare!
Now Clare wasn't the least bit happy
His name sounded a wee bit girly
Had a wee mousey friend Bartholomew
Who's name sounded strong and burly!
So hulking big Clare the unhappy bear
Asked his mousy friend Bartholomew
If he'd be so kind and wouldn't mind
Switching names, that'd be so cool!
Bartholomew said he wanted some time
To check with dear Cynthia his friend
About this idea of switching names
On her opinion he would depend!
Cynthia said, “If you want my opinion
Your name doesn't sound like a bear
But if Clare wants the name Bartholomew
We're still friends but now you'll be Clare!”
A name doesn't change the person you are
You'll be the same friend in the end
So forever after Mr. Bartholomew Bear
And wee mousey Clare stayed friends!
A moral?
Categories:
mousy, trust,
Form:
Ballad
Her slender little form adorned in smoky grey.
She was very quiet, never had much to say.
Friendly and sweet, her personality quite warm.
Adorned in smoky grey, her slender little form.
She was fairly shy, rather mousy I would say.
She had no friends though they worked with her all day.
Her one-word answers to their question made them sigh.
Rather mousy I would say, she was fairly shy.
No one really knew, she was quite the introvert.
Timid and so sensitive, she was susceptible to hurt.
Watching them so friendly, she wished for friends too.
She was quite the introvert, no one really knew.
The workday complete she would go home by train.
She wouldn’t be home long, and she would go out again.
A new set of clothes, no grey from her head to her feet.
She would go home by train, the workday complete.
At the club she was well known, her clothes outrageous.
Dancing until morning, been doing this for ages.
Happiness and laughter, her excitement well shown.
Her clothes, outrageous, at the club she was well known.
She just loved to be seen, she was so outgoing.
With the splendor of her colorful clothes, she was glowing.
Wearing colors of the rainbow, she was the Color Queen.
She was so outgoing, she just loved to be seen.
Categories:
mousy, dance,
Form:
Quatrain
I just want five minutes, just to pitch
My killer screenplay for a killer film.
The hunt for a serial killer
By glamorous profilers, nothing grubby
Or exploitive. Some partial nudity,
(Only if required). There’ll be a sexy
Enigmatic hero. First a, er, sexy
Sombre saxophone sighs; on a soccer pitch
Lies the first victim. Tasteful nudity
Reveals one poignant nipple. Open eyes film
Over, dead as moon craters, her grubby
Legs disposed like spoons. She was our killer’s
Anonymous mouse. Our glamorous killer’s
Eyes showed her useless terror. Our sexy
Hero runs a slow hand through his grubby
Hair (Cares too much to wash.) Things touch fever pitch
When the next is abducted. We will film
Her wide eyed writhings. Classy nudity
Perhaps. Some brief tenderness; nudity
Of course; our hero and his wife. (While killer
Stalks a frail, thinly sketched female. We film
From his point of view her private sexy
Underwear clad body.) I want this pitch
To emphasize our Fincheresque grubby
Vision is totally unique. Grubby
Walls connote moral decay. Nudity
Is not exploitive. Our hero pitches
An unorthodox solution. The killer
Is secretly his cross-dressing sexy
Partner. Twisty eh? Never seen on film.
Dressed to Kill? No. Nobody’s heard of that film!
(Who remembers the 80s?) In a grubby
Climax, the mousy cross-dressing, sexy
Basement stalks saxophone solos. Nudity
Washes its private underthings. Killer
Underwear is arrested. That’s the pitch!
Contains grubby scenes of sexy violence.
Contains killer nudity and mild scenes of extreme peril.
Contains high pitched screams and discarded spoons.
Categories:
mousy, film, humor, satire,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
The cows is lowin' in the old corral and all the evenin' chores is done.
Hank scraped the manure off'n his boots 'cause he's a fastidious son-of-a-gun.
He drew his pay, jumped in his pickup and headed fer Clyde's Saloon,
To quaff some brew, grab a gal er two and dance to the fiddler's tune!
There was a hoedown at Clyde's where cowpokes met ever' Saturday night.
There they danced, boozed and let off steam that usually ended in a fight!
There was a band with drums, banjo, fiddle, bass and a steel git-tar,
And the pianer player Mike McGurk (when they could pry him from the bar!)
A gal named Mousy Bush sang with a voice that quivered like Robin Hood's bow.
That's where Hank hung out Saturday nights to blow his hard-earned dough!
Hank was dancin' the Texas Two Step and havin' the time of his life,
When an incident occurred that occasioned another night of strife.
Some dude splattered a Coors on Hank's new Calvin Klein shirt and jeans.
Now, stuff happens and normally this wouldn't amount to a hill of beans,
But this got Hank's dander up and since he never held his hootch all that well,
He punched the guy, bloodied his schnoz and began a-raisin' hell.
A grand brawl ensued with ever'one tossin' punches, chairs and tables.
There was a heap of cussin' with patrons lablin' others with tawdry lables!
Hank arose Sunday mornin' with a poundin' headache and two black eyes,
But he'll be back at Clyde's Saturday next to enjoy a hoedown with the guys!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
(Not for the contest)
Categories:
mousy, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Squeaky and his buddies resided somewhere deep within the church's organ.
That elusive rodent was the bane of the pastor, The Reverend Doctor Morgan!
The reverend almost lost his religion a time or two dealing with sneaky Squeaky,
Since he and his troublesome pals at inopportune times could be rather cheeky!
The doughty Ladies Aid Committee "religiously" prepared the communion bread.
There were 500 saints at The First Baptist Church whose souls must be fed.
For Communion Sunday, each Saturday they stored the bread on kitchen shelves.
'Twas an invitation for Squeaky and his squad to "commune" and gorge themselves!
The formidable Miss Freda Wringerhands had been the organist for forty years.
Hitting a wrong note on the old pump organ was one of her greatest fears!
She was puzzled by a strange "mousy" squeak that was occasionally heard.
The reverend doctor gave her a very reproving glare whenever that occurred!
Just as the reverend doctor finished his prayer and prepared to preach,
A screech awoke Mr. Clyde Backslider who shouted, "son uvva beech!"
His wife Grace fled down the aisle screaming, "Lord, have mercy on me!"
Squeaky had abruptly scaled her panty hose and was playing about her knee!
The Reverend Doctor Morgan did all he could to bring about Squeaky's demise,
But his kith and kin multiplied and produced generations of impish mice!
With the antics of Squeaky the tolerant congregation was somewhat bemused,
But the long-suffering Reverend Doctor Morgan was not at all amused!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
mousy, funnyprayer,
Form:
Rhyme
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The one that make you obsess,
why they're one hour and-five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You know what I mean)
In the end, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
Categories:
mousy, death, family, funny, loss,
Form:
Free verse
Originally titled Diary of the (Un)broken
I wrote down what you did to me in detail,
That way I can't confuse it
I know I did not give my trust
For you to abuse it.
How's a man to hurt a woman for his own amusement?
That makes one of us laughing,
But leaves me trying not to lose it.
And for a while,
I forgot how to feel.
I lay in bed and let my blankets shroud me in denial,
And I'll admit,
I almost let myself believe you When you said I wanted it.
When I tried to push you off me,
I wasn't strong enough.
And when I thought that you were done,
You hadn't had enough.
Yes, it's been rough,
And the replay running through my head
Isn't helping.
But I have to be strong,
For me.
I have to hold on
To me,
Though I may never be the girl I used to be.
I know it's not my fault,
And you are a bastard
For making me master the art
Of falling apart and faking a smile for the masses.
And the most disastrous part,
I've known from the start,
Is that from the pain in my bed came a pain in my head and it haunts me.
I just want peace.
I just want peace for myself.
And not to be weak, or meek, or mild, or mousy.
I want to rage.
I want to break free from this cage
And this pain you have caused me.
I want to be free
Of my mind and my memory.
Here lies my memories.
Categories:
mousy, abuse, betrayal, dark, loss,
Form:
Out of the hills of St. Catherine and the plains of Linstead
emerge a warrior princess…
A victor not a victim of her circumstances, struggles or plight
Miss Claris
With warm, loving, industrial hands she raised a large bunch of children…
Curry saltfish, roti, curry goat, fried chicken,
Mackerel run-down, roast yam, bammy
She could cook it all…
Miss Claris
Fierce, blunt, tell it like it is –Miss Claris
She has an endless list of alias for everyone-
Miss Uptown (that’s me), Dunnie, Baugh, Tony, Pauline, Junie, Mellow, Mousy, Sueie, Manchin, Chu-cho, Lovene, Darkie, Sam, Tin-Tin, Troy, PAULINE
Miss Claris
A fantastic sense of style, unconventional sense of religion, devotion to family and friends and a beautiful smile:
Miss Claris
Categories:
mousy, family, grandmother,
Form:
Free verse