Best Neater Poems
Walking my Tiger home, if only I had known
in the small print of the sale there was a claws
in a nutshell it was leading to instructions about feeding
if I'd have known I would have stopped to think and paws.
Fur this big cat ain't no Vegan it eats food like Becca Teagan
in fact any living creature roaming free,
which fills me with disquiet since the Tiger's fussy diet
means the only thing at home he'll eat is me.
In retrospect, methinks I should have bought a Lynx
it's much smaller and so are what it will munch
if I'd thought about it sooner I could have got a Puma
since there's cattle up the road he'd have for lunch.
And what would have been much neater is an elegant young Cheetah
since they leave us human people well alone,
much much better than a Panther, that would not have been the anther
since all there'd be of me left is my bones.
So the motion I have carried is to go off and get married
and when the Tiger's ate and belched and had his fill
get re-wed to some more wives, they'll have short but happy lives
and they'll help me to keep down my feeding bill.
For contest 'Walking my tiger home', sponsor David Lindsay
WINTER MAGIC
The first snowfall came unannounced
A beautiful blanket of white
Covered the grass now winter browned
And, oh, what a lovely sight
It clung to the tree limbs of a giant cedar
And I watched in anticipation
To me, there's nothing neater
Than the unfolding of God's creation
The dazzling beauty of each tiny flake
And knowing no two are the same
Made me wonder how God could make
Something so small glorify His Name
Yet He, in all His splendor
Was able to create
A scene so beautifully tender
And show the world how great
His imagery lays before us
So magnificent and so grand
And how He holds the universe
In the hollow of His hand
As you reflect on this picture of winter
And the marvelous joy it gives
Give thanks and praise to the sender
Be glad that our God lives
Think I'll dress in my one suit,
silk shirt and handkerchief,
pop in a breath mint
and shine up my shoes;
make that impression,
look good for the ladies,
with cash in my hand
what have I got to lose?
Yet I wish I felt better
more up to the task,
my suit's sure been neater,
my shirt has a stain;
you don't notice it, though,
when I'm wearing my jacket
and the hole in my pocket?
I'm not one to be vain.
CODA
There's no one to impress
for I'm the only one I'll see,
I'll roll on some deodorant
so I'll smell good for me.
A PICTURE OF WINTER
The first snowfall came unannounced
A beautiful blanket of white
Covered the grass now winter browned
And, oh, what a lovely sight
It clung to the tree limbs of a giant cedar
And I watched in anticipation
To me, there's nothing neater
Than the unfolding of God's creation
The dazzling beauty of each tiny flake
And knowing no two are the same
Made me wonder how God could make
Something so small glorify His Name
Yet He, in all His splendor
Was able to create
A scene so beautifully tender
And show the world how great
His imagery lays before us
So magnificent and so grand
And how He holds the universe
In the hollow of His hand
As you reflect on this picture of winter
And the marvelous joy it gives
Give thanks and praise to the sender
Be glad that our God lives
Curtis Moorman
22 November 2011
Zorro of the sorrow small,
kissed a lady in the hall,
coming back still feeling bliss,
caught the same girl, was a miss,
not Carmelita at all.
thinking she was,
Carmelita in the dark,
kissed her mouth,
hands did wander way on south,
had a pistol nothing neater.
panting sweet was Carmelita,
fire burning in her heater,
enraptured plunging, something sweeter
stayed until the time had come.
spent the Zorro's, brow did furrow,
coming to the candle light,
Where was the sweetest Carmelita,
some old shiela smiling bright?
Zorro said "oh good to meet ya,"
bounding on black Diablo, in flight!
Don Johnson 14-aug-11
SONG
Oh! well you take a beat .....
Feel the rhythm from your head to your feet
Lay it down with a form and a meter
Bring alive with a jive make it neater
And then you get some notes .....
Compose a melody that swings and floats
Put together in the major or the minor
Just one other thing could make it finer
You have a sound now - nice .......
Just add a little bit of flavour, give it spice
Get some words right for articulation
Sing them in this new delectable collation
.....................
You can pass your laws and fight your wars
Lay a siege shut out by walls and iron doors
There’s one thing can penetrate the layers of stone
A single air sung by gentle voice alone
With a song you have a magical creation
With the power to devour a whole nation
Bringing passion, joy and laughter, maybe tears
Deep heart resonance that echos down the years
3 January 2020
We had some neighbors with a sign, “Do Not Disturb.”
They’d vanished when a moving van came to the curb.
How thrilled we were to learn new folks were moving in.
Would they make that old house look neater than a pin?
Originality they did not lack!
They started painting everything, and everything was black!
We feared the value of our property would drop
next door to this atrocity. They would not stop!
We noticed many other things that seemed to us bizarre.
That pair would only paint by night and neither had a car!
The sign “Do Not Disturb” remains, so now we think about
the fact we’d never seen our former neighbors moving out!
Behind their house is where we saw them the first time.
We’d heard them digging in the night, but that is not a crime!
My spouse peeked out the window. Working fast, and with no sound,
that couple started planting bushes on a wide fresh mound.
It spooked us, and I pray they didn’t see our curtain lift
while spying. They’re at home all day. I think they work night shift!
Our house is now for sale; we stay indoors with our two cats.
Before each dawn, I swear I hear the sound of bloody bats!
Written 9/12/2015
SIXTY EIGHT
For years I’ve lived with being a soixante-huiter
Although my wardrobe’s more fastidious and neater
Those heady days are not beyond recall
The nights and days when we first did it all
But sober work and ethics have combined
To make a settled bed my truest mind
And catalogues and dictionaries my woe
To understand what happened long ago
Far flung days have their own allurement
But nothing beats the logic of procurement
And adventitious loves have gone the way
Of all youth, to say it’s had its day
I daren’t even call myself a woman sweeter -
Past perfect indiscretions tend to tweet her.
Little Black Sambo
Dance Sambo Dance!
You knoe you are a pancake!
The little black sambo ran around the tigers,
until they blended into batter.
Ewe see it does it matters.
Dance Sambo Dance!
You knoe you are a pancake!
If you even make just one mistake,
the tigers they will eat you.
Dance Sambo Dance!
You knoe you are a pancake!
Unless you can out race them,
the tigers are so fast.
We would rather that you eat them.
Dance Sambo Dance!
Prance and add the butter to the better batter there.
What could also be much better so much neater.
Dance Sambo Dance!
The tigers are just pancakes.Sambo is the eater.
Sambo Danced.
With eloquent verbosity,
and pompous grandiosity,
he'll voice his bellicosity
to show his intellect.
Devoid of any symmetry,
he'll pass it off as poetry,
but may I beg to differ,
though I mean no disrespect.
Blank verse is what he'll call it,
but no matter how you drawl it,
Mister Webster says that verse
means metric writing.
Since blank means lack of color,
I'll bet two cents to a dollar,
it's not poetry at all
that he's reciting.
Way back when I wore knickers,
there were even then traffickers
in this beat-less rhyme-less writing,
goodness knows.
But things were simpler then, you see.
We never called it poetry.
If there's no rhyme or rhythm,
it's just prose.
They say I'm no romanticist,
and surely I'm no fantasist,
but somewhat a semanticist,
who loves to turn a phrase.
I like to rhyme in meter,
and for me there's nothing neater,
than a rhyming meter-beater,
bringing back those good old days.
These rhymes, which flow and beat,
must throb with iambic stress
to this line and repeat
the measure, more or less.
They must have lines and rows
that move with good meter,
to feet of highs and lows
that's nice, tight, and neater.
They, too, must be short-writ
with not so lengthy song,
so restless ears hear it
in notes which don't prolong.
(Albeit, nonetheless!)
'Tis good to end these rhymes
with a farewell address:
"Adieu! More pleasant times?"
I ask—so, please, nod “Yes!”
They danced and they turned and they tumbled
In wind, how it sighed and it grumbled
With force, how it howled in its fury
But still they bore no trace of worry
In cool autumn winds they cavorted
My foot! How they laughed and they sported
They flew through the air just like pheasants
Till set in my excellent presence
“Red Leaf,” quoth I unto the leader
“To fly, there is nothing more neater
But weren’t you the least bit affrighted
As thus from the breeze you alighted?”
“Dear sir,” quoth the leaf as he flitted
“To fear, for a leaf ain’t permitted
We’re taught from a bud in the cradle
That even a crash isn’t fatal.”
“I say,” quoth I unto the yellow
“You seem to be such a neat fellow
I wonder how likes you this sporting
Or if you a damsel are courting?”
Quoth he, “All this sporting is splendid
The days of my courting are ended
My lover has flown to the northward
While I am constrained to fly southward.”
Before one more word could be spoken
The peace of that moment was broken
Away flew those leaves o’er the treeses
Borne by the chill autumn breezes
October 25, 2012.
For the contest, Up in the Autumn Air. Second place.
While we're eating, please be kind,
your manners and mine should intertwine.
And if you promise not to burp,
I'll do likewise and not slurp.
My mouthful of food, I will not expose,
but, you must NEVER blow your nose.
Our future may be long and great,
it all depends on how we ate.
If your habits are disgusting,
there will be some sharp adjusting.
For, how can one love a sloppy eater,
I'd have to find someone much neater.
Should you cross me on this date,
a short goodby will be your fate.
Moral of the story:
Never judge a man by how high he makes you fly,
when it all comes down to it,
count the food spots on his tie.
I hope someday to write a perfect sonnet
instead of this absurd excuse for meter,
with gentle touch of elegance upon it
and not insipid rhymes as brain cells peter.
Another time I’ll switch on my computer
then type away to keyboard’s friendly clicks,
I’ll finish with a flourish, a sharpshooter,
no longer this dispenser of old tricks.
But maybe I am still a hapless dreamer
whose trite expressions drone to no effect,
a man without a muse, a hopeless schemer,
still not an ounce of talent to detect.
When scansion throughout does not read well;
pray God, grant freedom from iambic hell.
Peter met Rita
He was so pleased to meet her
They went on a date, so Peter could treat her
On the date, Peter challenged Rita to a game of cards
(He thought he could beat her)
In the game, Rita was beating Peter
Peter called Rita a cheater
He said “Rita, you need to play neater”
You are a big cheater!
“Rita, you are a big, big, big cheater” shouted Peter
(Peter was a repeater)
The following week, Peter met up again with Rita
Peter told Rita, he was sorry to call her a cheater
He asked if they could meet up again
(Him being a repeater!)
They later enjoyed a night out
With a litre of Margarita