Best Plods Poems
Its raven skin follows without a 'woof,'
no bark no bite,
darker than a shadow in sunlight.
It reflects in the mirror,
staring with 'Edgar Allan Poe,' ebony eyes.
At dawn it's at the bedside,
wanting to wander into the morning mist.
At twilight it rests its head on my pillow,
stalking, into my sleep.
It sits on the passenger seat,
without a seatbelt, unfocused,
unconcerned, like it has no need to exist.
It plods slowly around the office,
slumping forward, back curved like a 'jack knife.'
Colleagues ignore its obsidian paws,
sore from scabs, resting on the desk.
Its head droops with my sullen, dull ache.
Its tongue looks rough, no saliva drips -
a bit like my cracked lips.
We both seem to breathe in dry air,
as it feeds on my molasses mind.
It has no interest in sticks nor treats,
nor cares to leave my side.
A sinister magnetic faithfulness.
Unmoved, as I vomit black bile.
I wonder how is he a man's best friend?
Cant lift my eyes beyond half past seven anymore
Nay! I do not wish to see...
Past hyphens and inverted commas
Lies and more catastrophe
Ambidextrous clock with appalling brevity
The second hand throws away society
Caught on the hook of an apostrophe
Hit and run humanity
With what shall I beseech thee?
Amix with soot and grime am I today
I painted me....! I mascara'd me!
Not this... warpaint for smudges
A discard of society
Sunk in dank mediocrity
Left to dream on the periphery
Sacked and sold with all their niceties
And pensioned off into obscurity
Cascading through the fingers of our hands
Groans the running Namib sands
Camel plods along ignoring facts
Dali's clock is molten wax - a mystery
Certain as Terrabyte and Megabitten memory
Omits to call- forgets to visit me
Gentle as motherly wind, your sacred place
Children we are embraced by a warm caress
Oh Ave Maria, filled with love around;
Bestowing us gifts of peace through times blessed.
No unfinished trials here, or short mown days
As a guiding hand protects our daily tread,
While we implore the Angelus by heart
Your presence sprays beads of comfort overhead.
Feminine god of mercy, Crown of all souls
Your tender strength abides within, like the night
That imbues a power of wholeness in us;
Collecting our tears with serenity’s delight.
Though worries may crumble under seasons’ rain
Ave Maria, such grace plods hearts to row
By lifting us with a message from your breath,
A whisper that overcomes life’s Lent, we glow!
Debbie's Jesus or Mary For Easter Contest
by nette onclaud
The relay race starts with a bang as rain comes pouring down.
The starting runner, Spring, flies by in her bright flower crown.
Baton gets passed to Summer, who so glowingly appears
right at the very moment that the massive rain cloud clears.
The crowd all loves this golden runner, who too soon is gone.
The sun shines brightly on her as she passes the baton.
The third one, Autumn, plods through leaves and nearly takes a Fall,
then passes off to Winter, who proceeds at such a crawl -
for she showed up in sweatpants, knowing snow had been forecast.
Each spectator cheers loudly when the finish line is passed.
But when that race is over, then a new one's soon begun
with all the fans excited to see how THAT race is run!
Nature is an Autumnal thief; pilferer of clinging leaves
Each one rudely swept away, but a tree never grieves
Well knowing in Spring, buds will reappear as sheaves
Behold the dawn of sunrise as we begin another day
Enfolding us in the sun's warmth with every golden ray
Gray skies will often darken the horizons in our lives
Intrusive, yes, but with positive thoughts, one survives
Never give up, just start over, despite improbable odds
Nascence and a willing desire is the impetus that plods
Inside our hearts, leading us to pursue another direction
New pathways to follow, after soul-searching reflection
Garnering wisdom to regard the past as a mere bygone
Spurring us to a better life when it's time to move on
January 23, 2021
New Beginnings Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
I am chasing a galloping gingerbread, and the little old man and the
Little old woman and a rake and a fork and a spoon are helping me
When another villager begins yelling at the top of his musical scale,
“Christmas is here! Christmas is here!”
My eyes pop open. I am disoriented, not knowing where I am at first.
The galloping gingerbread cookie has turned into a galloping real-live-boy!
I must have fallen asleep on the couch, after sitting down for just a minute.
Three children in the form of sixteen battalion of horses
Hit those stairs like percussion instruments.
They have discovered that Santa left half of a frosted cookie.
Two are screaming while the oldest one devours it.
My husband plods in from the kitchen and smarter than Nero,
Forks over a chocolate-milked, double sugared, coffee. My hero!
I see you got finished, He says to me, the wrapping-present-queen
I nod. I was going to just sit down a second, before I came to bed.
He smiles, knowing how fast sometimes the energizer bunny
falls down in total exhaustion mode, in the form of his honey.
Max throws himself into my arms, warm pajamas and all.
A galloping gingerbread cookie, in the form of a live doll!
Written 11-30-2018 Contest: Christmas Cheer Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Incessantly it trods and plods
perpetual the pendulum.
So long before the abbey bells
tolled and told of hours passing
before the ticks and tocks of clocks
or shadows crept with solstice gods
no one to worship at its start
that knew not of a perfect love.
The kindest heart left drowned in tears
and wrapped in gross deformity,
yet sheltered by cathedral walls
in disrepair as much as he.
'til Esmerelda's gentle hand,
he knew no love, just hate and scorn
and like the brand from tempered flame,
it's burning love that made him strong.
So like the edifice was he,
an ugly house that held God's love
and Quasimodo's lonely heart
who'd toll the bells that silence hears.
Then in the end he found her dead
and sacrificed his mortal life
to sleep with one who truly gave
the only love he'd ever known.
Interred, yet not forsaken souls,
whose bones became entangled vines
that turned to dust when first exposed,
then blew to heaven ~ found in time...
bedouin camel
plods over familiar grains
bearing rich cargo
Michael McGregor Nursery Rhyme
Michael McGregor refused to bathe
His mother says: “You’ll be sorry!
A monster you’ll be when you awake!”
Michael thinks “Fun!” – a monster party!
Michael awakens all hairy and gross
Roars when he talks, slobbers and drools
Green teeth, foul breath, long toenail toes
No friend sits by him when he goes to school.
Michael plods home, tears in his eyes,
Looks in the mirror –horrific monster he spies
Jumps in the tub – leaves hairy mess
Sees Michael next morning – monster now put to rest!
3-12-21
Contest: Nursery Rhyme 2
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Based on poet's story for children - Michael Becomes a Monster.
Say good morning to the cold bathroom floor-
mouthwash tastes like a reused mojito
vomit erupting from a molten core-
in the sink, fermented blood starts to show
from sacrament taken on Thursday night,
my last supper. Judas, feel what I feel-
whiskey nailed to a cross, my final fight.
No more beer or tonics will make me kneel
genuflected for a porcelain god-
today I will rise steady on two feet,
not carried by a bouncer as he plods
to a dented cab in a smoky side street
My dear friend, you dined silent at my side,
But under your thorns I cannot hide
in silence
the shire plods his path
in footsteps of the past
Note: On holiday recently,we took a trip by canal barge pulled this way.Very evocative for me, as on my mother's side,her forbears were canal people,and thats how they happened to arrive here in my hometown.
I stumbled drunkenly through Stroud
Passed the kebab van on the hill,
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of ladettes – taunting the old bill;
Just for a lark, just for a wheeze,
Flirting and dancing, dressed to tease.
Bedecked with bling, drinking cheap wine,
A clowder of cats out to play,
Perfume and bags by Calvin Klein
All you can eat slapper buffet.
Looking for violence not romance,
Tossing the V’s in fighting stance.
The plods approached askance, as they
Ignored them and crouched down to pee;
The deluge nearly washed away,
The council’s prized floral display!
I gazed – amazed - at just how short;
Their skirts were and indeed how taut.
Often now – I sit down and cry
(Sometimes it puts me off my food)
When I recall what I did spy
The female form so crass and rude;
Those harpies in search of cheap thrills,
Stooped - pissing on the daffodils.
(apologies to Mr Wordsworth)
When the moon is new and casting little light
as the wind whispers through the leafy trees
and millions of tiny pin prick stars light the sky
this is the time you will hear hooves on the breeze
The ghost rider follows the trails ever searching
no fearsome ghost this, just a poor sad lost soul
ever hunting for his lady who's life was cut short
snatched from him in fullness of life by illness
He haunts the places they used to walk together
no peace or rest for him when the moon is new
his steed once fiery now plods tired of the journey
tied together to this mortal coil of loss and regret
Yet each spring solstice together they are seen
their horses galloping towards one another
and once more they ride and stroll the paths
lovers now again reunited in joyful passion
~ She fondly engraves her signature,’ My Dear Heart’
With poetry that paints pictures, a style setting her apart ~
Those hands gliding with decorative touches and lyricism
So vintage like her soul ~ a woman of depth and mysticism ~ ~
Yet ~ she is more than a top rhapsodist; she is a staunch friend
Inspiring me to dip the quill down to the gut; to soar, to bend
~For word scenes that are uniquely dramatic, funny or divine ~
And every chance we get online, she shares her love of all time
“This is how my day went," ~we laugh and frown about simple things
Making cyber world so warm, a space of trust that sweetly sings ~
Though I may be a ‘young’ souper, it seems we understand each other
Accepting our moods ~ and rising above petty site issues, rather; *
~
*Constance plods on while her melody swoons on renowned pages
Hosting contests quite strict with rules; but that’s how she really is ~
And now ~ I search for her in the forest of my withering dear heart
~ Wishing she would spring back; oh, don’t you think she must? * *
~ * ~
For Cyndi Mac Millan: Missing Souper, We Love You!
By nette onclaud
The donkey just brays
The elephant plods along
All spread manure