Best Pinged Poems
My eager man bought me a wee thong
which I put on to best get along
but rubbing bugging attacks
soon whacked my fore and aft crack.
My pinged pong found his dingdonged thong wrong.
Categories:
pinged, body, boyfriend, clothes, funny,
Form:
Limerick
The rec was where we dug sandy tunnel dens
in danger of collapse.There I fired my catapult
on a group of three children some distance away
as I hid behind a willow tree
not far from the passage leading in.
The straightness and speed of the stone
surprised me. It struck a young girl
on her spine, someone unknown,
and as she swung her left hand back
to clutch at her pain I ducked to hide
and slunk aside in the shadow of the trees.
They did not see me as they turned.
I think of it now with shame.
There was no reason.
Much older, as I walked alone across a parking lot
in upstate New York someone took a shot
at me from a window of nearby apartments.
The bullet pinged the lamp post near my head
and I turned to scan the windows from where it must have come, but saw no one.
There was no reason.
Categories:
pinged, growing up, sorry,
Form:
Free verse
A request by a poet to write
About a pic she sent me tonight
I don't know what it is
Give me a clue, gee whiz
If I write, will it turn out alright
Dane Ann kindly pinged a picture of a plant to write about.
To be honest I never had a Scooby Do what it was, hence my Limerick
I'll be getting detention, amd a note saying 'could do better'
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-4.php
Categories:
pinged, funny, natureme,
Form:
Limerick
Stabbed in the neck, hammer to the head,
cracked ribs, broken jaw, left for dead.
Slashes to the face, body in a brace,
dumped in the river missing without a trace.
Bowled by a truck or even a car,
bits of bone and flesh smeared and mangled near and far,
Strangled, poisoned even being shot,
Poking with a cattle prong, Why? Why not.....
Being burnt alive, acid melting your face,
Pinged out on junk, attacked with a wheel brace,
these are just some............ of the ways someone can kill,
why would I make such a list, because they gave me a chill.
Living in the shadows, living in fear,
this is where paranoia can take you, I know because I was there.
Categories:
pinged, life,
Form:
Rhyme
From the twilight of absolution - he spoke in cliché, the fantasy of living his dream
having seen and done all the things he ever hoped to see and do, in moderation.
Yet, moderation, in and of itself, can be self destructive to the inquisitive self within,
fortunately, that nagging search of perfection which we all deniably seek, ended
for him, as the questions affectionately died in the growing of a new relationship.
She answered in riddles, softly smiling, relishing the thought of his consternation
a long distance friendship involving a badminton-like banter of wordmanship
a decade of age separated their experiences, yet, it only enlivened the language,
in all likelihood, they would never meet, surely, he had been part of a past soul group?
Day by day, words pinged and ponged, hopefully, into cyberspace, infinity and beyond!
Poetic Collaberation By Charles Henderson & Debbie Guzzi
Categories:
pinged, friendship, on writing and
Form:
Narrative
this sunday morning,
there were lesser chirps,
faded rays
and muffled words.
the refrigerator still reads,
"happy anniversary",
with a photograph of us.
the same date,
the same face,
the same love,
but a different year.
there were music bands,
there were long drives
to abandoned lands.
the kitchen fights,
the second pizza bites,
the mended heart
and then the collapse.
did you burn our Polaroid,
the way you flared us?
this sunday morning,
there were lesser chirps,
faded rays
and muffled words.
i lie down
on the kitchen floor,
holding his letter,
looking at the ashes,
tiny pieces
that are left of us.
"It was 12am and my google calendar pinged, Happy Anniversary. I was half drunk and almost raged. I destroyed the journal with your poems in it, only to realise our Polaroid was burning too.
I woke up and I found your letter in the mail".
piles of
all the letters
i could never send.
Categories:
pinged, addiction, angst, anniversary, anxiety,
Form:
Free verse
It was summer as I was walking along the dirt road of
my uncle's cornfield. I had to get out of the house because
I couldn't stand talking about how my grandpa's funeral
session was going to proceed. He had been a key person
in my life, one who believed in me as a person.
Hearing a car coming up behind me, I turned around to
take a look to see who it was. Then I recognized my mom
who was driving my grandparent's old tan Ford, four door car.
My grandma herself was riding along in the passenger seat.
The gravel pinged and popped as the tires hit the surface of
those pieces of grounded up rock.
Pulling to a stop along side of me they told me to get in, so
I climbed into the backseat even though I thought it was odd
that they were out and about instead of conversing with the
other relatives who were still back at the house.
The next thing I knew my mom started to drive towards
the cemetery. It was not even time for grandpa's funeral
to begin. I thought it was odd that we were headed that way
with grandma in the car no less.
"Why are we going this way?" I asked.
"Because it's time that we get there," my mom replied.
I couldn't think of anything else to say to that so I remained
silent for awhile.
I could still hear the crunching of the tires as the car made its
way along the gravel road.
The car itself made a whirring noise, a whirring noise that made
me think that maybe I shouldn't have gotten into that car. Not
that my mother and grandmother would harm their own kin, but
it's just that my grandmother sat so still up in the front seat, that
in itself made me uneasy.
A few minutes later I looked out the front window of the car
and there was a long black hearse which was in front of us
going towards the old small country cemetery. Now I was even
more nervous for sure.
The car that I was seated in started accelerating so that it
could catch up with the hearse.
"Why are we going so fast?" I said in a slight panic.
"Its time to catch up to him,"my grandma said as she turned
to look at me.
That was the end of the dream.
The only thing I could get out of this at that moment, is that this
life is fleeting and so very precious and that we must never take
life or our loved ones for granted.
Categories:
pinged, dream,
Form:
Free verse
Cleaning out the attic I found an old clockwork car sitting in my toy box
It was old and rusty the wheels still went round and it had plenty of knocks,
There was a small hole in the side that was rusted around its green tin sides,
A little square for a key and had two seats to take my toy soldiers for rides,
So that was it, I was hooked searching high and low looking for the right key,
But then I saw it hiding under an old chair it was dark and it was hard to see,
Now the excitement kicked in happily and I fitted the metal key into the slot,
And wound it up round and round it went it was a bit stiff my thumb hurt a lot,
It finally stopped winding it was ready so then I put the car down on the floor,
But it just stayed where it was, not rushing off like a bullet, not like before,
So I got thin winder and forced it to give another half turn and gave it a bash,
The useless car still did not move it just sat where it was and it did not dash,
Desperate measures were needed, decisions there was only one thing I could do,
I would have to take the car apart, carefully and fiddle about with the screw,
So I levered the the side and scratched some paint with my trusted Swiss blade,
The rotten old bottom bottom pinged off and flew to a corner it was poorly made,
I finally got to the main spring it was a bit rusted and it had been over wound,
So losing my temper the car got shouted at and I bashed the car upon the ground.
Something gave it rattled so I shook it and made all the little windows fall out,
Again deeper in frustration I tapped it with a hammer then I gave it a real clout,
To my surprise the hammer blow worked but a little red man flew across the floor,
With just a torch I searched the attic but he was lost and I will see him no more,
There was still no movement from the clockworks so this time it was a softer tap,
Then pain shot through my foot with only socks on I just stood on the poor chap,
It came to that time when it was do or die so I gave the car a great hard whack,
I had hit it too hard and the top caved in now the bloody thing will not go back,
After my assault on the tin racing car there is just a pile of tin on the floor,
Grabbing the bits throwing them in the box now bored I will play with it no more.
Categories:
pinged, satire, car, old, car,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The escape commenced.
The endless drive from middleclass suburbia
ala Levittown; across hill and dale,
packed in a 1947 black beauty
of a Lincoln Continental; to the land of Peyton Place
and Steven King; Maine.
Lemon up and tangerine down, Dad drives.
We wiggle and whine, Mom scolds.
A leg cramping journey made longer by
one too many pee brakes.
The dirt road pinged rocks of the chrome bumper;
we near the amorphous clapboard dream.
The violet light of the dash shows nine o’clock.
The ramshackle ashen white farmhouse
full of kissin cousins, cows and chickens;
Madonna’s home. Uncle Ken a mere decorative necessity;
Uncle ken who could charm the pants right off ya,
and obviously had, voila; cousins Georgie and Wayne.
Uncle Ken of the sweet smile and Chiclet teeth;
beer bottle in hand with his concrete company hat cocked to the side;
one long, tall, strawberry blonde, drink of water.
He was a God to us, two little girls, Snow White and Rose Red.
His only rival his son, gorgeous George;
Georgie boy, first cousin, first love.
Nights saw us hunker down under patch work.
Kissin cousins in twinned rooms.
Meeting for body heat in the frosted dawn
in a single wrought iron bed, scrawny eight year olds.
Heads under quilts breathing in and out to warm the pocket of air
we were the only heat on the second floor. With a mighty dash;
reminiscent of our favorite mouse [Mighty]
a charge was launched across the unfinished attic
to the backstairs to country kitchen.
Barefeet dodge raised square nails and splinters.
Bark bits impress frozen soles, as the stove's in house woodpile is jumped.
Twin dynamos skate across the linoleum to a copper kettle's whistle.
A white Windsor landing achieved, Aunt Madonna pours
cornflakes in porcelain white china bowls with a laugh.
Categories:
pinged, nostalgia
Form:
Narrative
From the twilight of absolution - he spoke in cliché, the fantasy of living his dream
having seen and done all the things he ever hoped to see and do, in moderation.
Yet, moderation, in and of itself, can be self destructive to the inquisitive self within,
fortunately, that nagging search of perfection which we all deniably seek, ended
for him, as the questions affectionately died in the growing of a new relationship.
She answered in riddles, softly smiling, relishing the thought of his consternation
a long distance friendship involving a badminton-like banter of wordmanship
a decade of age separated their experiences, yet, it only enlivened the language,
in all likelihood, they would never meet, surely, he had been part of a past soul group?
Day by day, words pinged and ponged, hopefully, into cyberspace, infinity and beyond!
Poetic Collaberation By Charles Henderson & Debbie Guzzi
Categories:
pinged, friendship, on writing and
Form:
Narrative
The brave boy stole the heart of mine,
On our first met we shared wine.
Everyone knew he was a handsome,
His smile was troublesome.
One fine day he said his eyes were searching me all the time,
Though he had seen me only few times in hotel lime.
He pinged me up that night,
And made my life bright.
Oh boy! You are my rain,
And you always wash my pain.
I love you boy.
Categories:
pinged, i love you, love,
Form:
Rhyme
It was the pinging of the phone that awoke him.
He noticed it was half four in the morning.
Nothing good happened at half four in the morning.
He ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.
The phone was insistent and made its anger known by pinging again.
The message read.
HE DIDN'T MAKE IT.
There were many ways you could read into that, he thought.
He didn’t make it to the airport.
He didn’t make it to the shops.
He didn’t make the appointment.
He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t.
The black tie had made its way to the top of the drawer.
Soon to be joined by its closest friends, white shirt and black suit.
He walked down to the church and was joined by six others.
Solitary greetings made the day blacker than it already was.
A lifetime condensed into twenty minutes.
Barely a hymn to console, black tie remarked to white shirt.
It took longer to get ready.
He walked the journey home, stopping by the river.
Black suit began to panic when the hand entered the pocket.
Never again, never again, would he take that message.
The phone pinged for the final time, entering the river, barely making a splash.
He made his way home.
The whisky filled the glass, and he toasted another farewell.
Black Tie entered the drawer and said goodbye to his friends.
Categories:
pinged, death, deep, funeral, time,
Form:
Free verse
From sunup to sundown
it was indeed a weird day;
it seemed as if the sun rose
wearing dimming shades
and as if the wind had been
blown off course or locked out.
The bold-green leaf trees, hedges,
shrubs, and lawn grasses just stood
there motionless as if they were
aping their canvassed or woven cloth/
plastic counterparts that year-round
highlighted the locations of graves.
In the dimness of it all, even shadows
had a time with their shading reflections;
and the bi-polar tempt had fun teasing
t-shirts and sweatshirts with a strange
“lukeness” that was neither hot nor cold
nor warm or cool. A special Virginia trait!
The scary-like graveyard silence
of this weird lingering day was
pinged periodically by echoes of
hidden birds in trees and sometimes
the echoes of ducks in a distant pond;
it seemed as if no other sound had
the echoing energy to pierce the silence.
As this taunting tired day slowly faded
into the coming darkness of night, suddenly
I realized that nothing had happened to me
Throughout this weird incomprehensive
lingering day, and that my heart was beating
with a shooing rhythm of allegorical awareness.
This day of the week too had been one
that the Lord had made with his undying love
and had blessed me to be perpendicular in it;
thus, it became apparent to me that I need
to rejoice and be glad to be a part of another
day of God’s imaging shared beauties of life.
In gratitude, I now share this day with you
that like me, you too may understand that
although it may seem at times that God does
not give us what it is we want, he has never
failed to give us the things we’ve had needs for.
Categories:
pinged, allegory, extended metaphor, introspection,
Form:
Prose Poetry
A mediocre mealworm was sat on a hill eating a sandwich and drinking some tea when along came an elongated machine with a red face and elastic eel ears which pinged and ponged. The mealworm was confused. Surely not here he thought. It only occurs elsewhere. But elsewhere is neither even, exact or existential. It is to be said that the tunnel the meal worm then dug spread out under ground for several acres. No screws were needed. Just dig dig dig. In fog in sun in snow in hail basically all weathers. Now safe to sip homemade barcadi which had steeped in preparation for this day. Turboprop opera drowned out the booming from above. And the little dove sang sweetly as he supped his well deserved beverage. Feral fragrance frankly feels funnily fished. And after such a hard days work of sitting on that hill the mealworm could laugh and laugh at the chaos above safe in his chambers and surrounded by female earthworms in their bikinis. No ha no x and no z. Representational
Categories:
pinged, adventure, allegory, angst,
Form:
'Poetry' pinged me
I shiver and cringe
I know what she wants
With her probing syringe
To prod me with metaphor
Simile and eloquent imagery
Line, foot, iambic pentameter
Assonance, consonance
trochaic hexameter
But I'll have none of it
Cogito, ergo sum!
Here a bit of free verse
There a dash of rhyme
~ May 'Poetry' fume
Categories:
pinged, me, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme