Best Nicked Poems
Calm, cobalt seas beyond the waves beckon
Baby Boomer surfer responds
he stands upon his nicked, red board
placing his precious cargo on its deck
tired arms paddle to deep water
where gulls circling the azure sky cry
and so does he, this tired, old man
he weeps as dolphins provide an escort
sunlight ascends higher on the horizon
salty spray stings his eyes and
uncontrollable tears are released
as he recalls his life with her
this promise he made
as she started to fade
weighs heavily on his heart
but he must fulfill this last act of love
“We’re here, sweet one, beyond the breakers
where you chose to rest eternally.”
carefully he bends to retrieve the urn
caressing it with his sun-aged arms
shaking the urn, he lets ashes fall
saying farewell one last time
slowly he turns and paddles toward shore
heartbroken and alone
*February 4, 2017
When Billy Bob Bunny turned one,
his mama said, “Listen up, son.
I’m sure you could get
away from a net,
but beware the guy bearing a gun!
If a gun-toting farmer you see,
you must hip hop away instantly.
If he has good aim,
you might end up lame
or worse yet, rabbit stew you will be.
So do please, Billy Bob, take good care
that you don’t end up being the hare
that loses his life
so Farmer Jack’s wife
has a soft rabbit stole she can wear!”
But it wasn’t Billy Bob’s habit
to listen to his Mama Rabbit.
Without using good sense,
he hopped over the fence,
saw a carrot and started to grab it.
Farmer Jack spied that rascal. Oh, my!
From a gun, bullets started to fly.
When a shot nicked his ear,
Billy fell down from fear.
Then he heard a small sound like a cry.
“Please don’t shoot at the bunny again,”
cried the farmer’s sweet daughter, and then
Billy could feel her
stroking his soft fur,
and at night he was placed in a pen.
Mama came to the pen and she said,
“You are trapped. I’m just glad you’re not dead.”
Though no freedom he had,
Billy Bob was not sad.
“I’m a loved pet,” he said, “and well fed!”
The moral of this story is: You can tolerate any condition as long as you are loved and well fed!
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
You see I've been misunderstood majority of my life
Its as though if living were war
then im the knife
Its not my fault society embraces suicide
Label me an aspiring mathematician
Cuz I have nothing to hide
but a simple substance I provide
for an affordable price
my life is nicked and dimed into a dynasty of ghetto capital
my product derived of natural organic matter
strategically cut and cooked for a simple way to provide
that get away you're after boo
Damage is collateral
See while you chase starts
I chase the dollars that make them
See I defy God and for a few
I can make you invincible
destroying your principles
Cuz ile have you feining for that next high
that next mucus mixture
with the snort of that booger sugar
Excess caked up til inhaled to the brain
that mental bugaloo
Cut into rocks of instacourage
for you weak pawns on a chessboard
checkmated before you had the chance
to advance to enemy territory
You've destroyed yourself
As I enjoy my wealth
Now whos the loser
When you look yourself in the mirror
and realized you've ascertained a habit you cant break
developed a hunger for a superficial utopia you cant make
You are
So as a businessman my product and I are one
but never mingle
So while you dibble and dabble with the snow
I create blizzards
Are you prepared for the cold cold life ahead of you
If im caught is federal
But you're worth the effort
Im just simply the man that makes the offer
And its crazy cuz when the streets were hot
and my product was mixed with soda pop
it was a shoulder shrug
Now I gotta hide my product
discreet with my customers
or metal bracelets will give my wrist
a colder hug
Load the slug
and aim it at your cranium
this is a ride youll die for
Literally speaking
No pun intended
It was more of a visual sentence
There is a small sliver of a piece missing; it is here somewhere
Waiting to be discovered, to be accepted. I search with my angel,
Determined to see what she has in mind for me, my heart leaps.
Effervescent crystal ball seems more mine now, more personal.
A tiny piece of refracted crystal now found, speaks to my heart.
Telling me things I did not know I knew, but I am convinced of accuracy.
Slivering off was a God-thing, this crystal ball needed to be nicked.
I readily forgive the instigator, for he was an accidental soul helper today.
He was unknowingly part of the master plan to enlighten me further.
I put my tiny nicked piece down onto ball's black velvet tablecloth.
She winks at me and blinks twice. Verification to my soul she is alive.
I am confident that now I will have all my questions answered.
How is heaven, Mother? The crystal's aura glows in rainbow colors.
Do you get to see father, Mom? She shuts down hard, turning dull.
Just like my mother used to shut down fast in front of our father.
I am amazed and delighted; the master plan is working well.
With its bite or baud or bit
It takes thick my stomach strict
When the mouse is there clicked
Then my brain is hard constrict
And my thoughts are in conflict
With my hair rough or slicked
I feel as a lousy kicked
By a mangy cat then licked
And my will completely nicked
Was by case so subtly tricked
That I am like a drug addict
Even though I am afflict
As deserving to be convict
In a way I can’t depict
Neither I can rapidly evict
Nor I want it be hand-picked
Insofar I can predict
That no penalty is inflicted
To this slapstic informa-tìc!
“He glides into my parlour with his shades a tad too low
Saying can you clip my moustache, I like whisk ‘n’ show.
So I take out my old blade and nip and oops I think I missed
Now he’s suing me for having nicked his upper lip, he’s pissed.”
“She says I tried to kiss her in the most sensual way
Full of Scotch whisky drunk just because I wouldn’t pay.
I saw the old blade heading for my throat thinking a joke
But this old queen pissed her off because I thought her a bloke.”
© Harry J Horsman & Mystic Rose
Since time immemorial, or so I've heared,
Mankind has struggled to tame his beard.
Was it Adam who imposed upon us this atrocious curse?
(I reckon I could sport a beard but to that I am averse.)
I've scraped and nicked my mug fer nigh on four-score years,
So I will share my shaving experience to educate my peers.
First, splash a generous supply of soapy water on yer kisser,
So as to arouse the attention of each and every whisker.
Apply a liberal amount of Burma Shave to ease the stress,
When with that wicked razor blade yer jowls you do caress.
Twist yer schnoz at an acute angle in order to shave below the nose,
Taking care not to nick yer double chins and any problems that may pose.
Once this onerous task is done, use toilet tissue to heal the bloody nicks,
Then apply a liberal amount of Old Spice to really impress the chicks!
(I must confess that I use an electric shaver to mow my intractable stubble.
'Tis so much smoother on my leathery hide and sure is a lot less trouble!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Twenty detectives all hand picked
Trying to find the knickers that have just been nicked
They have searched all day but nothing has clicked
I'm sure this case has got them licked .
They asked me for my pass
As I entered my class
They even had the cheek to follow me to mass
If they think it was me they can kiss my @*>
It seems because the weather had been fine
The knickers were hung on a washing line
in the back garden of a friend of mine
and now these coppers are looking for a sign .
They've looked in my garden shed
under the pillows on my bed
I was so angry my face was red
They were just eliminating me they said .
Now they've gone to have a crack
at the neighbours down the track
He's even made the coppers a coffee and a snack
While they're gone i'll put the knickers back,.
An Irish lad
Of seven or so
Bears witness to the hate in his fathers eyes
As the British with guns walked on by
Never knew a soldier who wanted to die
Especially one not seeking battle
Ahhh but if eyes could kill
That Brit be dead dead dead
Poor little boy to see this at all
Fathers breeding hate to the sons
That British lad carrying a gun
That helped him not a lick
As the bomb went off
Nicked them all that day
Ten more Brits in boxes like chocolates
For an Irish feast
A young lad in London
An orphan created by cowardly acts
He longed for revenge
Said one day, I shall make Saint Patrick pay
One day, I shall make me father proud
A paddy bastard I shall stab
And feel might righty proud
Well luck seemed to be full of four leaf clover
For those two lads of hate would meet
Far away and across an ocean
Where two solitudes already live and breath
In a summer camp of northern adventure
Why they had such times and bonded well
They had no idea of their respective bloody hells
They were boys of dreams beneath it all
Hate had not the chance to fester and swell
So when they returned to their respective colors
They had learned from friendships and love of life
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Clarification on:
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Hate should belong to no one, I simply meant that we could solve alot in this world if it wasn't passed from generation to generation!!
Notes:
During the conflicts in Belfast a group in Quebec ran summer camps for Irish kids of both Catholic and Protestant areas of Ireland. Much harder for the parents to hate each other when the children bonded and became friends. I am trying to find out what group organized this so if anyone happens to have any information love to hear from them. I know there was a group that did the same in Chicago but haven’t been able to find any info about the group in Quebec.
In Quebec, they often refer to “The two solitudes” meaning the English and the French here, oh the irony that such a place saw fit to bring another two groups of people together. The world is always full of surprises!!!
All by me scurvy seafarin’ self
Me pouch be empty; nicked o' pelf
th' curvy wench tha' warmed me berth
lef' nary one ol' farrrthing's worth
On cap'n's orders bin swabbin' decks
seekin' sawder, spit-lickin' specks
afore ebb-tide 'til high neap-tide
but nary me own scurvy hide
In me head me digs and delves
me gums a-flappin' ter theirselves
in skew tongue of 'em sea-borne folk
lament me cravin' fer a toke
Nowt else ter savour; embrace th' drum
seek solace in th' wretched rum
toxin me liver 'n toss overboard
th' gloom yer absence in me wrought
TO FULLY UNDERSTAND THIS POEM PLEASE READ MY POEM 'HELLLPPPP I'VE LOST MY BANANA' AND DARREN WATSON'S POEM 'FUN GAMES'
Good folks of Poetry Soup you may have read of my dilemma
My Banana it went missing – it was nicked by this lovely fella
Darren invited me to join him in some fun and games
I don’t call him big boy for nothing its one of our pet names
Darren has confessed to me he stole my juicy fruit
I’d sapped all his energy he was worried I’d give him the boot
So if you don’t see us here for a while it’s down to the roll of a dice
If he wants me to play his games I won’t have to stop and think twice.
Jan Allison
15th May 2014
Poem was written after reading Darren's poem 'Fun Games' and is printed with his permission
Unquotable quotes (More Cricketing Jargon) – IV
A « wide » is a ball aimed by the bowler at some absent-
minded fielder.
The « silly-point » is the fielding position so close to the
batsman that the captain forces his rival to occupy at
the risk of receiving balls on the head, solar plexus
and balls hit at over 300 m.p.h.
An « inswinger » is a bowled ball which changes course
in mid-air and gets round the batsman to nick the
bails.
An « outswinger » is a bowled ball which the batsman
thought he connected for a six but which merely
nicked his bat to reach the safe first-slip’s hands.
A « run-out » is given when batsmen running between
wickets wish to get back to the pavillion in a hurry.
To get « one’s eyes in » is to see cricket balls the size of
foot-balls.
A « partnership » in batting occurs when one batsman
does all the stroke-playing while the other hurls abuse
and advise on him.
The « night-watchmen » are batsmen sent in with
blankets to keep the pitch warm at the end of the day.
The « opening batsmen » always take their own sweet
time between the pavillion until their crease rituals.
The « one down » is the batsman who makes the ground
look like an empty billiard table.
The « top scorer » is not the cousin of the official scorer.
« Clean bowled » happens when the batsman is looking
at a blonde in the pavillion.
« Hit wicket » usually occurs when tall batsmen choose
long-handle bats for their centuries.
« Leather-hunt » takes place when one ball takes to
visiting all corners of the field in quick succession.
A century or two could very well take just half-a-day
these days.
The « hat-trick » always occurs when the umpire is
dozing after lunch.
« Good shot » means no one has dared put a hand out to
stop the ball.
« Medium-paced bowlers » are fast bowlers who have
been hit once too often out of the ground.
The « leg pull » always catches the leg and mid-field
talking to one another.
The last batsman always takes a wild swing at the first
ball in the hope that it would land on the captain’s
head.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Its like being nicked
or narked,
Being triggered to spark!
Being filtered out of your mixes that pair well with high speed art,
if visions of passion release your greatest remarks-
how come your *****es aren't snitches in places that are dark?
Its because the new future has had a start,
20 years ago, but who's counting,
are you a happy old fart?
So where to be nested or invested or even confessed to?
At the bar! ?
GO AND GET NEXT TO YOU!
Send out the best to be viewed!
Treat the bets well,
'cause you're already in a sweaty smell,
they have necked into your vest and stretched out the lapels.
But winged birds are pests don't you know...
Don't be a germ, just do your best -or got to hell.
Flagrantly you've made your bed, and had all the time in this world...
Go be a girl!
Cause men's jobs don't need your opinionated help.
I loved him in a Summer's breeze,
though Summer ripened into Fall.
His Winter arms, a cooler squeeze,
a chill became an April squall.
A season's moment left ungrasped.
I thought of love, but love is blind.
Its daydreams easily unclasped.
Untended, quickly they unwind.
He left in Summer, with no glance;
his mythful "white horse" ran away.
My heart, he nicked with paper lance.
I can't recall his face today.
Promises penned in Summer's air
are lost as they waft everywhere.
March 20, 2023
for "A Simple Poetry Contest" poetry contest
by John Lawless