Best Pickets Poems
I've constructed a picket fence around me to keep jackanapes out
Through pickets they can see me, but I never allow them to touch
private parts of me I keep concealed, and don't talk about so much
I keep whitewashing my fence, cleansing it from things left in doubt
When my boards become exposed to prying eyes that shouldn't see
I open another bucket of watered-down paint and reach for a brush
to cover the flaws, my faults within, and I am always in such a rush
to whiten and brighten the facade out front. The veneer veiling me.
There is a gate with well-worn hinges, but usually it's kept locked
to prevent invaders who would dare trespass on my every thought
Those who'd despoil my fence with graffiti and rip my boards apart
Hence, one reason why I keep a supply of whitewash well-stocked
I am the prismed reflection of my surroundings, including my fence
where no webs shall arachnids weave within my weathered boards.
I will apply a coat of whitewash to my palisade as the need affords
It is a beachhead between me and crawlers; my penury of defense
Twining around my picketed railings, grows a vine of climbing roses
The virtuous blooms are never cut to prolong each inculpable stem
They shroud malevolent fingers pointed at me that would condemn
I shrive every foible and failing that my whitewashed fence encloses
May 28, 2023
W T F Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Categories:
pickets, imagery,
Form:
Rhyme
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
Categories:
pickets, society,
Form:
Rhyme
What do you do with a fried lemon sandwich
when lavender leaves have messed up its hair
How to you cut it in two equal pieces
while no one is home and you don’t like to share
Why is it sitting alone at the counter
as saucers of milk perform on the stage
Where is the flavor when bland is in fashion
and comic books sing on the very next page
Will you surrender to appetites chanting,
crossing the line where the pickets are white
Shoveling corn flakes when it is not snowing,
flying a kernel instead of a kite
Serving a side that is right down the middle,
leftover vegetables mashed into paste
Like a potato but not very filling,
smothered in ketchup to drown out the taste
Do you like tablecloths made out of vinyl,
just like a record but square when they play
Nothing to spin when you can’t find a needle,
looking through stacks that are covered in hay
Cook books too heavy to fit in your diet,
checking your math while subtracting a pound
Running in place when you’d rather be singing,
wishing the dining room table was round
Can you believe that a poet would write this,
watching a hummingbird outside his door
Smiling from one ear but not to the other
feeling the pinch when his cheeks are too sore
Maybe his mind is a field of distraction
perhaps it is someone that he’s thinking of
It’s a safe bet amid all this confusion
the poet who wrote this has fallen in love
Categories:
pickets, humorous, love,
Form:
Rhyme
It wasn't my fault I didn't get it done
This has been a truly horrible day
I'm telling you it sure hasn't been fun.
Oh I tried my best to do it your way
The instructions got caught up in the wind
This has been a truly horrible day
Lost from the start, with nowhere to begin
My frustration makes a whole lot of sense
The instructions got caught up in the wind.
The next thing, I'm sitting on a fence
The white pickets ripped a hole my pants
My frustration makes a whole lot of sense
You're thinking this is, just a song and dance
It wasn't my fault I didn't get it done
The white pickets ripped a hole in my pants
I'm telling you it sure hasn't been fun
Excuses Contest
Categories:
pickets, humorous,
Form:
Terzanelle
The wants of her heart beckoned of lonely streets
Longingly,
Like the summertime wail of the Snow Fence
When empty winds through weathered pickets
Howl for the cold company it keeps
Categories:
pickets, lost love, love
Form:
Free verse
Disenchanted sandcastles
Alone on a silent shoreline,
sea breeze emotions paint my skin
Sands of time slip away as I count the stars
wondering why so many seem to smile,
when I don’t
Storm fence pickets stand straight,
weathered of years watching
Holding at bay the impending dunes
where my footprints once shared these moments
with another
Salt water teardrops fall,
meeting the beach in sorrow’d pools,
lonely silhouettes of my heart shaped shadows
empty and vacant, longing for that one
to forgive
Disenchanted sandcastles disappear with the tide
as do these words we compiled together
never to be written again, on paper or in the sand
Now I only watch my dreams fade into the horizon,
vanishing forever
Categories:
pickets, loneliness,
Form:
Free verse
Contemplating atop the “Great Wall,” was Neruda comparing similarities of this and “Machu
Picchu?” Was there more commonality beyond stonemasons craft? High stone walls ancient
cities, “great walls,” lesser ones (Berlin) are designated barriers between peoples/ideologies
for protection. Long standing cultural isolation results.
Constructing a fence of wood at Isla Negra afforded symbolic protection. Wooden slats
allowed words over and through pickets to the world beyond. If “Machu Picchu” was “a trip to
the serenity of the soul,” fences and “great walls” lie on opposite sides of that.
Neruda’s prolific poetry rose above politics unencumbered by walls, fences or dogma.
for contest on Pablo Neruda
Categories:
pickets, dedication, people, political
Form:
Narrative
On this landmark an image stands...
statue of a man.
Man of honor and talent,
admiration of any man.
Born with great love for country
Died with one heart of chivalry.
Studied in different schools,
aced all subjects in drools.
A man gifted with excellence.
Shared great works in pickets,
Cured many patients without wickets.
A man of great stature,
No man may be able to equalize.
A man of great sorrow,
Sacrificed himself for tomorrow.
Fellowmen freed to visualize.
So much more can be said
About a man of enviable skills
Young and old have all laid
Heroism of a small man...
Bigger, higher than hills.
Categories:
pickets, hero, memorial, memory,
Form:
Idyll (Idyl)
Now I lay me down to sleep… I pray the Lord my mind to keep…
Zombies are gathered all around, trying to keep me from my sleep.
They want to be the futures’ new symbols, for All Hallows Eve.
They brought their pickets to my door, and now, won’t leave. I swear!
You see, we were to do a play, and instead of Shakespeare in the Park!
We were to do a Jurassic World play, with a Halloween theme, of course.
But Zombies wanted to do a Zombie Vaudevillian play, so sheik! So sharp!
Where they’ll show off their ‘Thriller’ talents, show that they, totally rock!
They found costumes, on a great quest, raiding the cemetery, for it’s best.
Dragon’s fighting back. You bet! After all, he’s the shoo in, for the TRex.
We decided on a dance off, to see who wins, the theme next year, my dear.
I just hope, IF the Zombies lose, they won’t bite us, literally, in our rears.
Zombies are stubborn, refusing to lose, so paid the witches to see to our fall.
Who then bewitched us to nightmares, most supreme, bringing us, to a crawl!
Many nightmares later it seems, we decided to put them both, into the theme.
After all, if Dragon lost the part, his legendary hotfoots would make us scream.
So starting with Jurassic Park, the monster mash, where Dragon lit every torch.
His penguins, as raptors, jumped like lemmings off the stage, in 3’s, of course!
They danced up to, our security team, the Troll Frankenstein’s, you gotta know?
Then Zombies in the audience, jumped up, to Dance to ‘Thriller’, so Cool, to go!
The competition was back on, as all came back up to the stage floor, in force!
Witches’ fog covered the floor, as Zombies danced our raptors, off the floor!
Our Raptors fell like lemmings, off the stage, as Zombies cheated, so not to fail!
Now, Dragon, in retaliation, sent Zombies toppling off the stage, with his tail!
This might have turned rather ugly, but never fear! Little old me, was here!
I decreed, who won the most audience on their side, got the trophy, so dear!
Finally the Troll Frankenstein’s won the prize, as all ran in fear, to their side.
Then all took a bow TOGETHER! It was a Witch made miracle, I’m very sure!
I can now, again, lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord…My mind to keep…
So Beware of Zombies, Kind to Witches! And Have a Happy Halloween!...
In laughter made stitches...
Categories:
pickets, fun, funny, halloween, happy,
Form:
Light Verse
when you're in love
you write really bad love poetry
when you love a woman
you want to relive with her
every great moment you ever had
both of them.
clouds look like hearts, and a few look like ducks
you know, quack, quack ducks.
if you love someone,
you walk into the wrong house
you stain your tie during lunch
you walk into people
(a big guy peoples, he's not happy
you run...really fast)
to a man in love
roses look perfect
even if they're tulips
...sorry honey.
you build a white picket fence
with the pickets wrong side up
when you love someone
you take out the trash
from someone else's house
when you love someone
you quit your job as a superhero
you get rid of your trusty sidekick
you give away your bat mobile
you give your arch nemesis the bad news.
you write goofy stuff,
and mickey stuff too.
i'm in love
so i write really bad love poetry
really?
really!
really?
really,
i'm in love,
so sue me!
Categories:
pickets, fun, funny, funny love,
Form:
Free verse
Drip, drip
Drip, drip
Melts the soiled soul onto
A dusty field of abandon
Fenced in by human limbed pickets
Yanked from the graves
Of broken hearts
Skeletal branched silhouettes
Clatter above the bloodless
Hole in the ground
The Ravens hide in the shadows
The shadows hide behind stone crops
The crops provide bountiful skulls
What is the illusion without a live audience?
Who, or what heard the solemn incantation of
Abra-Cadaver?
Categories:
pickets, death, horror, magic,
Form:
Free verse
It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclops' smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.
It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.
For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.
It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.
Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked Christian flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of *****sapiens?
(c) Nyonglema
Categories:
pickets, bereavement, christian, hate, islamic,
Form:
Blank verse
color pickets
match the days away
when hours fade
there's no feel left to persuade
you know more than me
that you do
But i know who it is
beneath the scars
the fancy lights
the impervious dark
no matter what your poetry says
it's undone
and your songs will sing themselves
unfinished
until they become desperate enough
to turn to vinyl plagues
and if you were to feel contagious
i guess i could move you along
and if you were to feel contagious
I guess i could shoot you a call
no sense in wishing
what you cannot say
i kiss you well
curse me
your days of hell
to see your thoughts unshelved
is a catalog i've wanted less
sidewalks and broken bones
unskin your knees
the little fees
that bring about such doubt
color pickets
match the days away
i'm holding on to
all i've ever known
little thoughts of you
incase you move along
and if you were to feel contagious
i guess i could move you along
and if you were to feel contagious
I guess i could shoot you a call
move along now
move along
"you see the chalk, I see the paintings along the way"
Categories:
pickets, adventure, life, music, peace,
Form:
Lyric
Winds cry
Shiny slimies
I see you
A fuzz fringe fizzing
Across peek-a-boo moon
Croo croo night
I love you too
Heart thumps with the
Crickety crickets on the
Brown fence pickets
Pounds with the sounds
Of warm, neighborly chatter
Dishes clatter
Here we go
A B-22 coming' in
Out of the black
I am gorgeous
Cry the winds
2/6/16
Categories:
pickets, animal, nature,
Form:
Free verse
What a year – Tim was just a little boy of 25 – naïve and
Lost in ‘innocence’ a critical time bomb waiting to happen
Blue-eyed he listened to Nena’s 99 Red Balloons flying high
While Band Aid wondered whether They Know it’s Christmas
Sticking plaster for an ignorant conscience
Plasters cast for broken souls and hunger
Summer Olympics in Los Angeles the world disunited
As the Soviet Union boycotted the Festival of Youth
Hollywood and Universal Studios Footloose competed
With The Killing Fields for consumption and Oscars
Dancing in full view of the Apocalypse
Khmer Rouge and Holding Out for a Hero
Miner’s Strike in Great Britain with Margaret Thatcher’s
Heavy handbag crushing legitimate opposition’s pickets
Reagan became ‘acting’ president and Space Shuttle discovered
That we have only have one lonely planet so we must muck it up
Cold War awaited nuclear freeze and
Hiroshima was declared a minor aberration
Metallica roared Blitzkrieg inferno and Armageddon
Iraq fought Iran and guess who was supporting whom
The US supplied Saddam Hussein with poison gas while
In Afghanistan they supported Taliban and Mujahedeen
‘The enemy of our foe is our good friend’
Coalitions must change freely in axes of evil
George Orwell comes to mind with Eurasia Oceania and
Eastasia altering alliances but then history must be forbidden
It can mislead young minds and wars have to be waged
For the sake of gory glory and self-righteous delight
Who reads books anyway and why and for what
They might seduce us to hail love and compassion
In 1984 Tim longed for flowers in hair scribbled Peace signs
On flare bottom jeans 20 years past The Sound of Silence
Had not mustered the courage yet to challenge the inevitable
Collusion of his inactivity with happy murder for money and oil
Slowly though he finds his belligerent voice and
Concludes that the 80’s offer more than nostalgia
Categories:
pickets, conflict,
Form:
Free verse