Best Phoned Poems
My muse has been hiding out
And with no peep, squeak or shout
She must be sound asleep
No words, just counting sheep
Tired of the poetry drought
Oh where, O where has my gypsy muse flown
Seems she has left me to write on my own
I must not be too rude
She'll cop an attitude
And then taunt me like an evil old crone
Mine vanished after my last book
I've rested and changed my outlook
My brain ran out of juice
And my 'vowels' were loose
Twas quite a feat that my muse took
Honestly, I think mine is rebelling
But there is absolutely no telling
What my missing muse might do
I dare not call her a shrew
Or she'll never return to my dwelling
Upon my desk, I see she's left a note
"I'm on a vacation," is what she wrote
"Perhaps I should've phoned
To say I won't be owned."
Should I have mentioned her in a footnote?
Perhaps she's in a gypsy caravan
Seeking a lover, a Romani man
Living a nomadic life
If he takes her for his wife
I'll need a new muse and a new game plan
My muse is now knocking on my door
Searching for my words left on the floor
She is gathering my lines
Blending them like a fine wine
Hoping for a few new poems and more
Well, recently my muse returned
Her holiday was very well earned
I'll write sensible words
Not on pooping or turds
Poop poetry, my muse has spurned
My muse is back after weeks refusing
And now she can't stop yakking and schmoozing
Three muses have returned
But we're a lil' concerned...
What if we don't find their thoughts amusing?
*Collaboration of Tania, Jan and Lin
Categories:
phoned, muse,
Form:
Limerick
My muse has been hiding out
And with no peep, squeak or shout
She must be sound asleep
No words, just counting sheep
Tired of the poetry drought
Oh where, O where has my gypsy muse flown
Seems she has left me to write on my own
I must not be too rude
She'll cop an attitude
And then taunt me like an evil old crone
Mine vanished after my last book
I've rested and changed my outlook
My brain ran out of juice
And my 'vowels' were loose
Twas quite a feat that my muse took
Honestly, I think mine is rebelling
But there is absolutely no telling
What my missing muse might do
I dare not call her a shrew
Or she'll never return to my dwelling
Upon my desk, I see she's left a note
"I'm on a vacation," is what she wrote
"Perhaps I should've phoned
To say I won't be owned."
Should I have mentioned her in a footnote?
Perhaps she's in a gypsy caravan
Seeking a lover, a Romani man
Living a nomadic life
If he takes her for his wife
I'll need a new muse and a new game plan
My muse is now knocking on my door
Searching for my words left on the floor
She is gathering my lines
Blending them like a fine wine
Hoping for a few new poems and more
Well, recently my muse returned
Her holiday was very well earned
I'll write sensible words
Not on pooping or turds
Poop poetry, my muse has spurned
My muse is back after weeks refusing
And now she can't stop yakking and schmoozing
Three muses have returned
But we're a lil' concerned...
What if we don't find their thoughts amusing?
Categories:
phoned, friendship, muse, poetry,
Form:
Limerick
As biology goes, I'm surviving,
a few aches and pains and a cough
and I check every morning when in the bathroom
to see if my bits have dropped off.
Now, father time knows where I'm living
and likes to make regular calls
which I know by the strands of my hair on the bedding
that have come from my head and my nose.
(Yes, I know what that last line should be, but it's a family website)
The condition called male pattern baldness
is feared by men everywhere
and even I've tried all of the creams and the potions
to try and save my bit of hair
A comb-over like Donald Trump has,
using all of the growth that remains
was still not enough to stop that awful tapping
from every time that it rains.
I even tried growing my eyebrows
as long as I possibly could
to comb them straight upwards and over the top
but that didn't look any good.
A hair loss clinic was suggested
so I phoned them and gave my details,
but I bought myself one or two different fedoras
quite simply in case all else fails.
Then the hair loss clinic gave me an update
which I wasn't expecting so soon,
they'd found my lost hair on a Camel's backside
in a market just outside Khartoum.
Categories:
phoned, anxiety, hair, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
OLD MA.
Old Ma always gave the kids a nice treat
Always nuts and never anything sweet
But they soon found out why
Nuts were in great supply
Choc nut bars she'd only suck cos no teeth...
NO HIDING PLACE.
An old gangster robbed a bank and he ran
Flew out from Canada then onto Japan
The Mounties tracked him down
In old Tokyo Town
He was caught cos they always get their man...
A WARDROBE MALFUNCTION
Went to a posh restaurant called Vicars
A girl walked out the loo, there were titters
Her face turned a bright red
At what's every girls dread
She'd gone and tucked her dress down her knickers...
DOMINATRIX.
A dominatrix from the state of Maine
Enjoyed hanky panky out in the rain
She'd use a leather fetter
T'would shrink as it got wetter
And her clients would pass out with the pain..
A FRIEND IN NEED.
The outback two mates went to catch a 'roo
One got cut short and said "I need the loo"
A spider crawled up his knee
As he was starting to pee
And bit him hard on his digeridoo...
His mate phoned the flying doctor who said
"Suck out the Poison if it has turned red"
He thought to himself no way
His mate said "well what's he say?"
He said "in 'bout half an hour you'll be dead" ...
LOST THEIR WAY. For Gershon Wolf
Geese flew south they were honking and hinking
Snow storm came they were blinded and blinking
They had no way of knowing
Where the hell they were going
To see them sway you'd think they'd been drinking...
Written 21st October 2020.
Categories:
phoned, humor,
Form:
Limerick
This scribble has nothing to do with the famous song of Simon and Garfunkel. It's just a story I invented.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I bought a cottage in the middle of nowhere,
Right at the edge of the countryside,
Any curious men rarely visited it,
So I stocked it well with food
And worked all alone on my laptop
Electric poles provided current.
So I could enjoy the peace
Within the sound of silence.
I had left the cities full of noise,
Only songbirds broke the silence of the site,
But that I could bear well enough.
Within the sound of silence.
Winter came and soon I was snowbound.
That’s when a knock sounded on my door.
Reluctantly I opened up my place.
There, on the threshold stood a woman
All drenched up and with flimsy clothes.
Her beauty stunned me. I let her in.
My car has stopped, she stammered.
So I sent her up to have a hot bath,
Gave her my dressing gown and invited her
To partake in a hot chicken broth
and some ill-prepared food.
And all this was done as I stood
Mute but mesmerised by her allure
For it was the time for silence.
Bad weather kept her imprisoned in my home,
Few words were exchanged
But she felt the power of silence.
A week later, the countryside was clear of snow.
She phoned a garage to pick up her car.
Then I decided to take her on the river,
How beautiful she looked in her proper clothes.
We got in a boat and paddled away to an islet.
We disembarked and partook of a picnic she had prepared
We spoke little but we came close.
She smiled and timidly I kissed her for the first time.
I felt my heart throbbing but all was quiet
Within the sound of silence.
We married a year later and eventually
The cottage was soon filled
With the crying of a newborn sound.
We were elated and made such a fuss.
Gone was the sound of silence.
Categories:
phoned, baby, love, silence,
Form:
Free verse
A true poem of my own Mothers battle with Dementia. You were the best Mother.
Twenty Five years ago this week you died. It was such a shock I cried and cried
But deep in my heart, it didn't feel as if you had just died.
To me your illness took away my Mother.
And left someone else there, another
Someone who didn't even know the time of day.
Or even what day it was, Monday or Saturday.
You couldn't even make a cup of tea.
Let alone keep your flat, like it used to be.
You phoned me constantly day and night.
I tried to get to see you, with all of my might.
But I couldn't do it, not then at all,
then you had that dreadful fall.
You didn't know what Agoraphobia was.
I couldn't tell you well, because.
You hated the home we had to put you in.
But by then you couldn't do a thing.
Alzheimer's, senile dementia, I’m not
even sure what you had.
All I know is, it was very bad
It robbed me of my Mother so many years
before she actually died.
We couldn't get through to you
no matter how hard we tried.
You lived in a little world of your own
making us all feel so alone.
You used to be so clever, so strong, so true,
Then just look what this illness did to you.
You used to knit, sew all our clothes you did make
everything we ate, you did bake.
When you were younger such good jobs you had.
like ten whole years at the Nat.West.Bank.
before the war.
Then seven years nursing the soldiers during the war.
After you married and had us two.
You still worked so hard, so much to do,
For years you ran the taxi business we had.
Throughout the good and even the bad.
I had to answer the phone at four years of age
(Haywood’s taxi’s) I would say,
Then our business folded through,
you still worked so hard' so much to do.
With my father you managed the Bridgford Wine stores
on Melton Road,West Bridgford, for many years,
Then on Parliament Street to
Smith Englefield you went
You worked there for many years
until to ( Gem ) you were sent
You worked so hard, all of your life,
A wonderful Mother, a wonderful Wife
You were the best Mother, anyone could have had,
until your illness, made everything so bad
So please God in heaven above.
Send my Mum all my love. By Pat Dring Nee Haywood
Categories:
phoned, absence, best friend, celebration,
Form:
Rhyme
The talentless, envious, plagiarist’s dream
Was to find someone’s ‘Works’ on a shelf or a beam
In a Pub, in a folder, alone and ignored
As the author lay slumped and as drunk as a lord
Stealthily taking those coveted sheets
He rushes off home via dimly lit streets
When his doors were all locked and the curtains drawn tight
He copied his windfall well into the night
First thing next day, not long after he’d phoned
He went to his agent with the stuff that he’d cloned
Dreaming of royalties and acclaim by his peers
But for him it was destined to end up in tears
There’s some gentlemen waiting for him in the hall
(His agent had asked two policemen to call)
“These poems aren’t yours, they’ve already been done
By that drunk in the pub, who is also my Son!”
So, if you aspire to a literary style
You should write your own poems or books but meanwhile
Twixt penning a story, blank verse or a rhyme
Keep your hands off my stuff or be Shamed for your Crime!
Categories:
phoned, poetry, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
I'll try to tell you without my usual cant
that all I wanted was to go sailing with
Sherry Saturday morning but I can't!
My hovercraft is full of eels!
The watchman phoned when I was lying
in bed to notify me of this.
I was shocked to find he wasn't lying!
My hovercraft is full of eels!
My good-will has been weakened
because of this horrid event
which completely ruined my weekend.
My hovercraft is full of eels!
These morbid creatures are serious
party-poopers. Remember!: Their
electricity is deleterious.
My hovercraft is full of eels!
My beloved Birthday present invaded by
these heinous monsters! I will have to buy
a new one 'cause to this one I must say bye!
My hovercraft is full of eels!
Ghastly! You don't know how this feels!
My hovercraft is full of eels!
Categories:
phoned, birthday, boat, crazy, fish,
Form:
Verse
I have loved him since I was young.
Through every cloud, he rose the sun.
His work was honest – one-on-one with land.
I loved this farmer and his callused hands!
Safe, strong arms would lift me to sit upon his tractor.
Picture boy and Grandpa - no memory could be happier.
Today, I took the inherited watch from my mantle.
Now the cherished timepiece accompanies my flight,
perhaps lending faith to my emotional plight.
Precious ticking in my pocket comforts my destination;
brings forth his presence and I will not try to stop it
for the watch soothes my driving desperation.
Steering, my feelings begin actively conceiving
wings in golden display soaring my car this day
thru prayer-filled air to timely see me there.
So many endless miles of thunder under my wheels.
Thoughts ever somber tumble various appeals.
I gasp down feelings he may leave before I show.
He stays in my heart’s eye while I consume highway
on burning, dedicated tires determined to fly
'cause Grandma phoned to say, Grandpa would soon die.
Categories:
phoned, death, devotion, grandfather,
Form:
Rhyme
He phoned the village bakery
And ordered a delivery
Loads and loads of tasty pies
Ate them all but at a price
He spent the night in misery.
------------------------------------
Contest: Plentitude of Pies
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Categories:
phoned, food,
Form:
Limerick
Woke up this morning - had a dreadful shock
I had not set the alarm on my clock
Swore until the air turned blue -
I’d missed my job interview!
My family think I’m a laughing stock
Got phoned this morning everything’s fine -
Was offered a job by a friend of mine
Any hours I choose
I simply can’t lose
I’m a ‘secret shopper’ my job’s divine!
Contest- it was one of those mornings. Sponsor Sara Kendrick
03~05~16
Categories:
phoned, humorous, time, work,
Form:
Limerick
He loved a drink did ol'Johnny McBeal
And offered to cook the thanksgiving meal
All the trimmings with turkey
For their friends and family
His wife agreed but no drink was the deal...
On the big day he was up before five
But with no drink knew he wouldn't survive
Found a bottle of sherry
Then started to get merry
Guests arrived and the bird was still alive...
Johnnys wife said " you've ruined thanksgiving
The turkeys gobbling and it's still living
There is no main course
I want a divorce
I'm upset and I won't be forgiving"...
She then reached out for a sharp carving knife
Johnny was shaking in fear for his life
She wanted the turkey dead
Who ran out the door and fled
Johnny thought she is one demented wife...
Johnny was determined to save the day
And phoned Mcdonalds for a takeaway
Ten turkey burgers arrived
Ol' Johnny's marriage survived
Then before dinner they knelt down to pray...
And what became of the McBeals turkey?
He was found terrified up in a tree
His poor life was spared
By someone who cared
Now lives in peace in a bird sanctuary...
Written 16th November 2021
Categories:
phoned, humor, thanksgiving,
Form:
Limerick
Sunshine Smile one of my best friends on soup,
We started communicating within our group,
From the second month onwards,
And so we continued forwards.
On the 24th May I got
Her last email.
We communicated every day
In May.
Her last poem posted,
The 21st May,
"Children of the Earth",
She was sick
Very sick, had been into Hospital
For an operation.
And had to go in a second time
In an ambulance which took her to
Bergen in Norway.
She was terribly afraid, I have tried
To raise her so often on soup,
Phoned the Hospital and wrote them
A letter, not a sound, not a word,
Now nearly a month later,
Still no news, I know she has a
Daughter, but do not know her
Name or address, what are we to do,
I am so distressed, did not
Want to send out ripples of alarm,
But where to from here, does anyone
Have a contact in Norway who
Perhaps could go to the hospital
Or phone or speak Norwegian to them,
As they were not so forthcoming,
But to someone that speaks Norwegian
They might just respond.
Has anyone been in contact with her
in in the last four weeks or so?
We must do something,
PLEASE HELP. We must find
Anne-Lise Anderson!
Categories:
phoned, smile, sun,
Form:
Narrative
She sat on a small window bench
Her head resting on her hand
Looking out into the dark glooming
As the silvery moon rose to shine
On the rippling waves of the bay.
It seems she was winkling at her.
Telling her not to give up hope,
On the horizon sailed a large boat.
A red light flashing every now and then.
Was it in distress? Was there something wrong?
She phoned for help the harbour manager of the bay.
Soon small ships raced to the yacht,
The captain cursed himself for forgetting the flares.
Still with help of all, the yacht was towed to harbour
And all was safe and sound.
The feverous glow of growing sunrise,
Reminded the captain to thank his rescuer.
And what a sight it was to see the beauty
Spying on her luxury yacht.
She was invited to dinner on the boat
And love was in the air. And why not?
She was a Venus descended from up above.
Categories:
phoned, boat, love,
Form:
Free verse
This poem is dedicated to Souper Joyce Johnson! “The Greatest Generation” was penned by newscaster Tom Brokaw in 1998 and became a best seller. This generation is defined as people born between 1901 and 1927 who survived the Great Depression and World War II.
The Great Depression
World War II
Multiple epidemics
Assassination of a president
At 80 Joyce picked up her poetic pen
Joining Poetry Soup, way back then
Lifetime of memories and wisdom she shares
Musings from a woman who loves and cares
Surviving life-changing losses
Burying her parents
Losing her beloved husband
And all her siblings
As her century mark approached, a publisher phoned
Seeking to spread the perspectives Joyce owned
“Lifetime Memories in Verse,” a special archive
Joyce’s poems displayed to keep memories alive
History repeats
From past mistakes we learn
Our “Greatest Generation” is disappearing
Tap their wisdom now
*March 9, 2021
For Line Gauthier’s “Poetry as Legacy” Contest
Categories:
phoned, history, poetess,
Form:
Free verse