Best Pesty Poems
Our mayor was attacked out of town as he went for a peaceful little stroll.
There was an odor that wouldn’t go away, it was left by a pesty little troll.
Bullies come in all shapes and sizes, both male and female alike.
Here they are no longer tolerated, we will just stick your head on a pike.
I went for a short little stroll to check the perimeter outside of our town.
It appears that an old bitter troll left some puddles that are smelly and brown.
Maybe it was a drink with her father that gave her that extra little pep.
Those puddles could cause an infection, so watch each foot where you step.
Our mayor gave a call to old Wilbur, he’s a farmer who can shovel and dig.
He is pretty good at cleaning up messes, back at home he lives with a pig.
On the farm is a sign making spider, once famous but is now known as Jeb.
A few of you just might remember, he once starred in the famous Charlotte’s web.
Together they helped make a sign and then hung it by the Troll’s little shack.
It’s a reminder for this foul little creature, just be careful of who you attack.
Peace is once again restored in Soup Creek, that wretched smell is gone from our air.
Don’t mess with our good mayor Tom, he has friends who love him and care.
Boss, being as this is leap year
and Feb 29th is an extra day
do I have to work tomorrow?
tomorrow being an EXTRA day
He says, take your appeal
to the big man upstairs
he invented 365 days
and these pesty leap years
With all due respect, I reply
I thought it was the Greek culture
Not the the big man upstairs
that invented "time" as we know it
(I didn't REALLY say that, I just thought it)
BUT, I say, it's an EXTRA day
kinda like SATURDAY?
do you expect me to work
SATURDAY?
So he says, look at it this way
most months are 30 or 31 days long
so really, you are working a short month
only 29 days long
I have to admit
this crap makes sense
so I give up my appeal
concerned that I might
if I don't keep quiet
end up owing money in the deal
*Image of The Big Bang Theory giphy by CBS.
Coronavirus: COVID-19
A knock upon my chambered door, silence foregone, it goes ignored,
Too feeble I, coldness instills, lain I awry e'er filled with chills,
Vice convince spree goes on toiling, thrice has it been, owned its spoiling,
My eyes have seen, I've read the news, tried ears have be, shunned knocked sound blues,
Scores abound knocked chambered door, roars I cannot, for I am sore,
Then suddenly, a stillness had come, my chambered door, went silently numb,
So I, read on, of coronavirus, tis recent so hence be it naught an antivirus,
Kept abreast of things albeit online, inducement, the spread, signs, all be I fine,
Cawing gawked my chambered window, peering through midst raised crescendo,
A black raven tis annoyance it is the calling, disturbance afoot, perpetual cawing,
A chapter be read, of the ailment, fear breeds in verses, amongst confinement,
As a bird scrutinize, belittles my illness, with a litany of awk, pesty nuisances,
Fatal passages beset home and town, beat I the averages, best all around,
A door and window, be I immune, alas, a dreaded raven befalls its lampoon.
2020 March 12
*2nd Place*
Coronavirus COVID-19
~~Team PoetrySoup: Judged 2020 May 12
Not at once, but gradually at my feet
random leaves, brown and brittle
carpenters diligently march in
leaving my bark somewhat non-committal
Furtively, up grow the undesirables
the weedy weeds and the pesty pests
erstwhile friends in the summer sun
the heavenly snag inviting inquests
Wounded tree under forest affliction
how to water; too little, too much
scarred by the bear claw and lightning strike
yielding to the woodpecker, chickadee and bluebird clutch
Where only warmth now lingers, the flame once fired
stands the smiling woodsman cleaning his plate
glistening against my trunk in the wink of a rising sun
a sharpened ax waits and waits
Number 15 rumbles a regular route,
Whining about the dew-drop hours.
A friend used to hang on and shout,
"Top-of-the-line!" Sucking fruit sours.
Underrated, invaluable, civil necessity.
Removing debris for the wasteful Whos.
Salting and plowing the frozen density.
Protection from plagues of pesty refuse.
Garbage to be his last embrace.
Toxic weight on asthma lungs,
While indulging a smokey taste.
I say, "Shoot it all into the sun!"
I hail from the green land
Really green for sumptuous serenades
But too many grey lepers lay on the succulent carpet
And the milk of my land mills through rotten breasts
The windfall of power brings pesty prongs to her nipples
Let me tell you my sad story
Not the blues from the evening guitar
Listen to the pulse of time’s recording
The many moans of mangled voices
And the jubilant choruses of their silencers
Those now mangled, the lathers
The jubilant mounted through our greenest height
Let me tell you my story, sad
The blues, not from the evening guitar
We talk tough for change
They lay languid in old robes
Expectant of business as usual but
The beastly beards are shaven from goofs while asleep
Change soon sweeps through this clime
While the silencers snore off
Let me tell you my story, sweet
From the blue wake brass, not the night grey gong.
I tested negative a few days ago,
the virus has yet to find my ink
to write another obituary.
I hugged my family and invited
friends for dinner, drinking, dancing
and singing, making the old days
return sooner, at least for a night.
Children have no monopoly on
childish thoughts. I imagined the virus
disappear one day like a miracle,
superstitious or not.
Then as I was cooking a nice meal and
thinking of walking my pesty dog round the bloc,
got a call from a medic trying hard to
pronounce my name correctly, with
deep and since apology informed me of
the error: my test was positive. I know what
comes next, my step-sister will think the
worst, accusing me of intentional homicide.
But, I 'm not dead yet, it's not too late,
to invite her a second time, to make sure
we'll both die in the same hospital -- the heroic baton
I cannot reward myself.
Do You Wonder How You Made It?
By Franklin Price
1/16/2015
Do you wonder how you made it
If you're past your youth and grown?
Was there someone who helped you along
Were you ever on your own?
For me there were so many
That I can still recall
Pulled me up when I fell down
When they could, cushioned the fall
First there were my parents
They were always there for me
Took me to church and raised me right
Taught me right from wrong to see
My brothers and my sisters
Often took me 'neath their wings
To help the pesty youngest
Could have been doing other things
Then came the time I went to school
With teachers all around
Although I was quite flighty
They kept me anchored to the ground
Never had a bad one
Nor one who didn't care
I think teaching was their calling
And for me were always there
Scout leaders who didn't have to
Helped me further to grow up
To be the dog I am today
From an untrained, frisky pup
The military service
Taught me how to heel
You have to get the job done
No matter how you feel
I could go on forever
For I never was alone
Friends always there to help me
Never farther than the phone
Now I'm old, retired
Have the best help of my life
My best friend for many years
Always there, for me, my wife
I could never really understand
Why some women
Won’t give me the time of day
And seem to look the other way
Or I feel like I’m being hunted
And I’m their prey
I just don't get it.
I get so confused
You either win
Or
You lose
And it seems I don’t always have the right
To choose
I’m not exactly George Clooney
But sadly
More like
Micky Rooney
Sometimes when I go to town
I get the feeling
I’m being followed
Around
Maybe it's a deranged psycho killer
And once the huntress spots her prey
I always know what’s to come
They stick to you like barnacles on my bum
Every time I turn around
There she is again
Giving me the eye
But I never caught it or took it
I didn’t even try
Is it my aftershave
Or the way I walk?
Maybe it’s my wallet
In my back pocket
Or the smooth way I talk
Or they're blind short-sighted
I don’t know.
I thought my Mother bless
Was my biggest fan
She taught me to be respectful live life and have fun
But she never warned or taught me
About strange women and about barnacles, on my bum
When I was younger I’d go drinking out in town
Another thing I never understood
Why boys would go outside
To fight over girls
While I was inside with the girls?
They can make you feel like a rockstar
Or make you feel like a falling star
Then it becomes a shame
When they don't even know who you are
Or even know your name
Usually, I take life as it comes
Of course, I like women
But I only want that special one
And not one after my money
I turn around and she's gone
You can go to bed with Priscilla
But without her makeup in the morning
She may look like a gorilla
I like to get to know one
And have a choice like some
But not like those pesty
Deranged but sweet
Barnacles on my bum.
Peter Dome©2024.
They're gathering their broomsticks
and sharpening their hats
Found catching little spiders
and feeding them to rats
Down pesty little fruit flies
and swiftly soaring bats
All mixing in a cauldron
for temptous gloary vat
And tasty to the forked tongue
of glecious gloried glum
While mixing to the tastebuds
of racious roary grumb
And taking home our vest lines
of ivy, flora, spum
when making it their best fun
of Halloween has come
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
Diaphnanous singing in the sizzling heat
The white maggots turn black with wings
Dead flesh melts through a solvent treat
Festering on wounds of paupers and of kings
Something more here than this pesty buzzing song
Some deep possession ladles joy
In an office so darkly wrong
The gift to heal, mostly maligned will destroy
Even the parting prayer of a poet
Waiting for her Charon to come
Becomes their carrion before the last breath:
Pale page closed on that plagued kingdom
For every one a thousand more eyes lens us
Wing throated monsters full of crave
Sees us and everything as sweet detritus
And mark our channel to the grave
From their choir superior triumph rings
Over man, these our flitting foes
They live a lunar cycle, yet conquer kings
Time's brevity no meekness shows
I study flies to tell the epitaph's gall
We measured out on spooning tongues
We, locked in vanity on the spining ball
Hear their wet buzzing in our lungs
I fought one piggish Titan and I won
As if that devious Leech existed not;
Sealing the very firy nose of his gun
With ball-like rags to sap every shot.
A long-lionized mogul of giant name
Slew my low fists by a magic stroke;
Vilest Judas glossing in pesty fame,
I his two-timing fang spookily broke.
I know not if such a scheming villain
Fickle arms dim for want of glut gain,
Ever shall by Time's rare marvel floor,
And ink selfsame serendipities more.
May the Highest Star your ochre clip,
And pelt plagues and fates your ship;
Until Hades her filthiest minion finds
Sulfurous frying betwixt fallen minds.
May your fiendish bow of foxy veneer
Snap mid-hunt as looms hugest deer,
And life's fave tooth turn fatal sore;
Your daintiest morsel tartest grow!
Arriving at the space
Where everything hinged
I saw it...flapping in the wind
Around and back, again
I took out the pin
And watched matter
Fly in all directions
Motions and potions
Casting out for perfections
Stuck with the pen
Trying write a program
That will return power
To ideas that must form and live
Within every passing hour
One prick of the pin
Blood will surface
Those hungry to eat, will rise
Gathering nothing more
Than pesty flies
To the pen
....SPIRIT WINS!!!
Written by Trudy Schrader
It's September again,
Cool, September,
Aloof September,
With her haunting memories.
I refuse to get out of bed today!
There will be no laughter or music and
I have closed the shutters to block rays
Of the pesty sun!
Oh, September,
Goooooo! ... and
Take my blue days with you!
The Fox
Sly fox with pointed ears upright
With snout twitching and lips smirking,
And crafty eyes intently watching
For prey location revealing.
White chest and cheeks in a red fur coat,
Sporting a bushy tail for balance and warmth.
Sneaky predator, night stalker,
And pesty threat to poultry farmers.
The vixen with kits hides in the den,
Waits for the arrival of the dog out hunting,
Who gives chase and pounces on a rabbit,
His eyes expressing a satisfied result.