Best Pokes Poems
Immigrants why do you come?
Whether you are spiritual or mathematical etc. This is our Karma:
Isacc Newton’s 3rd Law
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—Sir Isaac Newton
Tact is the art of making a point without making an enemy—Sir Isaac Newton
I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people—Sir Isaac Newton
Dangerously nearing a very steep precipice –ran by the shadow in thy kings tarnished soul, he proceeds with his paper kingdom—I Am Anaya
Do not be fooled by the power
of the king, by the shadow he’s enveloped
Open your eyes to the shadow
He pokes, pricks, and stirs the fear inside
Drowning in remorse, regret, and sorrow till
nothing remains but the hatred
Hatred has the king for his paper kingdom
A tyrant evolves
Fragile like the house of cards
Tis but origami paper
meticulously folded
with patience,
is his castle
Immigrant why do you come?
Immigrant you must have dire reason
You’ll only find division, malice
and disfunction
So many dwell under a rock
blindly leading blind
Toward the precipice
Tis this charade! The king’s been tricked
As he parades his symbols
Dangerously close to the precipice
How do we choose
Who will vie for king?
Riddled by the law
not founded on solid ground
after all
The two dimensions
The jack-ass consistently
kicks the lion
discombobulating him
Heretical in families
misjudging the way of the world
Nothing ever resolved
In his paper kingdom
how should society work?
Whose ethical ideas?
Whose ideology?
Spectrum such as the left,
the centre or the right
He begs me to come, but he's run out of luck
You won't catch me dead in that beat-up old truck!
It was painted blue...now the color is rust
But you can't be too sure...since it's covered in dust!...
The engine must idle, (about an hour is good)
You can feel the vibration, around the whole neighborhood
A life is at risk, if you go for a ride!
The windshield is broken, and leaks rain inside
It makes a weird noise, rides bumpy and rough
The dashboard is littered and covered with "stuff"
The seat cushion's torn, and it pokes at my rear
The dog sits beside us and licks at my ear
There's no place below us, for resting my feet
There's a hole in the floor, O my God, there's the street!!!
The windows don't close, so there's more than a breeze
Wrappers from Twinkies, a Burger King box...
One lonely old sneaker, and smelly old socks
Half a stale donut smashed down on the floor
Darn!! The dog beat me to it, and is looking for more!!
The muffler is loose, you can see the sparks fly
Dirty looks from the folks, who get smoke in their eyes
When we drive by the neighbors, I duck my head and I hide
I'm no Prima Donna....but I've still got some pride!!
He loves that old truck, he calls her a gem!
Make him choose between us??? ....I'd be out on a limb!!
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For Verlena Walker's Slamming Battle Contest
STILL LIFE WITH FRUIT
In spite of the orchard
A far white moon dominates
Its sick room presence lifts the eye
Still life with fruit –
Crescent dish with bananas, apples, pears -
A wrinkled bed spread falls off the sky
In all an angular canvas,
A drowsy cubist squint,
Imposed shapes, lines – Picasso pie
This pointed, silver vase pokes through
Its ample gift of flowers,
Destroys the view – Oh, my!
I’ve come to, limp right arm yet hangs over,
Attendant tells, “Breakfast time. You hungry?
Let’s sit up. There! Good guy.”
Dave Austin
1.
they say everything here is
somewhere in the middle of the road
where names get bleached and keys forget about their doors
and there is something we should dig our coated nails into;
the layers of regret and anger
that our mothers tell us to peel off
2.
but the sun bakes us too hard and rancid
laying down on styrofoam mattresses
where someone pokes their thumbs through the plastic
watching nothing but empty bubbles reflecting
and life is faded, glossy pages of a magazine
with a worn bar stool with cigarette burns thrown in between
3.
and we all carry this restless, tormented beauty
that gets up and leaves
as soon as they say
it will settle down
© Gry W Christensen
POTD is often filled with sadness
Not often is there joy and gladness
Not much laughter fills this world
Little humour gets unfurled
Little gratitude for what one has
Woe is me I'm lost and sad alas
Lets have some days of poetic jokes
Lots of fun filled jolly pokes
Great medicine comes from laughter
Lifts the spirit for hours long after
POTD sometimes filled with glee
Are there others or is this invitation only me
Perhaps at least one day a month a Sunday
to be reserved for a POTD humour fun day
In the centre of the silence, a giant fills the space
He carries but a trumpet and a battered old suitcase
I watched with bated breath, the street was dimly lit
He puts the case upon the ground but holds on to his trumpet
His monumental hands unscrew a tiny little jar
The contents seemed to dance and swirl and glitter like the stars
He tips the foggy matter into his blowing device
Then pokes it through a window, I don't dare blink my eyes
The dream that he has captured, collected, then released
Now floating in the mind of the reciever as she sleeps
The giant, big and friendly, satisfied his job complete
Picks up his battered suitcase and moves on to the next street
*I took inspiration from Roald Dahl's 'The BFG' book.
19th Jan 2012
GARDEN
Two haiku after a painting by Russell Gordon
flowering dogwood
perched and pert, a tanager
harkens to the wind
flowering dogwood
perched and pert, just listening
scarlet tanager
………………………………..
this plaster statue
she’s naked, white and demure
looking at a rose
her round, yellow hat
casts a shadow as she picks
transformation bloom
all is wet and wild
garden cowed by wind and rain
tortoise pokes its head
Repost
summer’s backward glance
reluctant to say adieu
one lonely white rose
Dave Austin
A.S.D.F……..he typed,
Retyped,
Again did it, again, again………
Tick….tick, tick….tick……minutes sicken.
Soon his nearby seat she took,
A new student with hairs black,
Just a glance,
Next day, a smile, sprouted silent roots.
She got up and turned;
Her shampoo smelling hairs patted
On his face,
By chance.
That night on red bed his,
Fancy dress contest of fancies.
In love birth pain,
He does roll, twist, turn…………
He is earlier student, day next,
In attires newest.
But she came never,
Vanished in the life clouds.
Slim…..brown…..gentle…..
Still lingers shampoo smell.
His solitude pokes the sensorium,
Recollections….tick….tick, tick….seriatim.
(Set against shy rural background)
FABIYS M V
I may slap you, curse you, smack you
Don’t get too serious honey, its monthly fun
I am PMS ing and my trauma is true
Be my gentleman and Pass My Shotgun
I may hate your friends and knock them down
Be any handsome man or cute chick
Don’t get them here when I am around
I am PMS ing, People Make me Sick
I may laugh out loud at your silly jokes
And the very next moment won’t find them funny
That catastrophic emotional trauma pokes
I am PMS ing, its Psychotic Mood Shift honey
Every month, within me I sense this ruinous storm
It’s not me honey, this phantom is Premenstrual Syndrome
"Caleb, go fetch me some dewberries from the fence row," Momma says,
as I polish off my Saturday morning breakfast. "I'll make us a cobbler."
She stands in her humble kitchen, the light of a country morning dawns
on her face. She's beautiful. I'd be happy to walk a hundred miles to
fetch her berries, or anything else. She hands me an old milk carton
with the top cut out of it. I burst out the door, running for the fence row
with the dog close behind. "And watch for snakes," she hollers after me.
As I round the edge of the 40 acre soybean field, I take the time to thank
God my dad doesn't have me hoeing weeds out of it.
toes peek out
from the canvass sneakers –
milk mustache
The dewberry vines meander beneath the line of fencing in between
the posts. I poke the undergrowth with my walking stick, trying to shoo
out any snakes! The berries ripen early this year in the Arkansas heat
wave. The stickers get me good where my big toe pokes out, I wince.
It’s too late now to go back for boots. The berries are real ripe and juicy,
staining my fingers as I drop them into the jug. “Two for me and one for
Momma,” I laugh and a passing Jay mimics with a caw.
Momma's call
carries down the row
stomach growls
Poets: Caleb Smith & Debbie Guzzi
See About the Poem
As thephilosopher readies for his p soup anniversary
Remembering he found this place last Christmas Day
Surely the best gift he did receive
Now for some holiday fun, DON”T LEAVE
Denise Narayadu I can't end the line with her name
To mispronounce it with a bad rhyme would be a shame
Her writing has very much intrigued me
In her poems often it's myself that I see
Of Anne Lise Andressen what can I toast
She's in a contest of which Debbi G is the host
Of who Santa Clause is her knowledge has a lack
If she asked I could easily have told her it's Jack
I mean look at Jack, white beard, hair a jolly feller
If my put my original line here, I'd be locked in a cellar
Any American could mistake Canada for the north pole
It's cold, I've never been there and at times there's a lot of snow
Jack Ellison in his Santa role this time of year
Oh from the straight and narrow often does he veer
Constant approval from the p soup ladies, I know he smiles
If I was Santa his naughty list would stretch for miles
Andrea D secretly a hater of the Villanelle
That’s atrocious what’s my basis you say
She hosted a contest and a thousand forms she will allow
BUT a max of 12 lines leaves me saying CHINGADO
PD, the SWEETEST poet destroyer she told me
A philosopher asks how sweet a destroyer can be
The poet in me reads her work with much confusion
The imagery addicting but my understanding a delusion
Becca Lucas the girl who lost her muse
If she had schizophrenia she may have several to lose
However several other problems this would pose
If one of them was mean I may be a victim of her prose
FJ Thomas gave me the wonderful gift of the Fibonacci
She might deserve a song but my muse isn’t Liberace
She wrote the Art of Being Broken, a deep piece but not long
Did some guy really leave a comment quoting a poison song
And finally I will close with Richard Lamoureux
If you haven’t seen his clerihew read it TODAY
Quiet humorous, he pokes fun with affection
His first clerihew was a work of perfection
Yes on a few new names Wayland did call
Unfortunately he still hasn’t got to them all
Some he intentionally won’t mention
It’s Christmas Eve and he seeks no dissention
Facebook is a website we can talk and play
Many applications to while away the day
I have made many friends some new and old
Many conversations and stories are told
You are never lonely when you visit the site
You can stay there a minute or all the night
You can visit friends without leaving the room
If you go to work you can come back to it soon
There are many lovely people out there
People who love you people that care
If you have problems they will help if they can
Many groups set up so you can become a fan
Play games with friends and chat with them too
They will always be there on facebook for you
If you’re feeling down it won’t be for long
Friends cheer you up and you feel you belong
Hatchlings and smiles are little aps
Or a virtual farmyard for you perhaps
Kisses and pokes you send to your pals
There are aps for men and aps for the gals
A heart for close pals that goes down well
Most friends will like that i can tell
It’s a sign of friendship it means you care
You can talk to people anyplace, anywhere
So all you need is a pc that’s on-line
Friends will be there for you all the time
A place where friendship never ends
This is a tribute to my facebook friends
Inspirational beauty, comes to life every spring.
The baby birds in their nest, to their mothers still cling.
The hibernating bear, still asleep in his den.
Will soon wake up cranky, so we'll let him sleep in.
Many creatures of beauty, some big and some small.
They thrive in the forest, well into the fall.
The bunnies and squirrel, the lark and the wren.
They know to be quiet, by the sleeping bears den.
But here comes a rat, with a stick in his paw.
Knowing his intent, a raven shrieks in caw.
The rat pokes and prods, the air smells foul.
They wait to hear the sleeping bear's growl.
The rat continues, along on his schlep.
The bear now awakens, poked where he once slept.
We are extremely jealous of her sandals, the ones with the glitzy silver rhinestones.
She has worn them twice this week. But who is counting?
We scoff at her apple decorated tennis shoes, who would wear them in public?
I hate those damned ugly fur-lined boots she drags out for snow, my mate says.
I snicker.
We hear footsteps, and get quiet.
Humans get weird when the shoes are talking.
The closet door opens a crack.
Someone yells “Are you ready yet?” The husband, we think.
He never comes in here.
The door opens wide, making me blink due to the bright light.
I feel like I am in a police interrogation room.
Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! My mate begins to chant. I shush him.
I can hear him still thinking it from his corner of the closet where he was thrown
Upside down and backwards last summer.
I am sitting under a garbage bag of clothes, so why am I laughing?
Our woman reaches for my mate. I can feel him smiling. I try to scoot closer, so she can see me.
She pokes around a bit in this hovel from hell, then she drops him. OUCH!
She picks up the glitzy rhinestone sandals, and the door shuts.
“I hate YOU!” my mate yells at me.
We are in the dark again, in the furiously maddening darkness.
I want to kill him, but I cannot move, squashed under this damned garbage bag.
Below deep snow snug and cozy,
Waiting for winters final bow,
Miss black eyed susan,
Pokes thru nosey,
Her face to love kowtows,
I Rescue her from the nights chill,
Her beauty will not be still,
In my vase,
On display,
She sheds a single tear,
A cry of thanks and not of fear,
"I love you Susan",
She knows this girl is sincere.
~Vickie Thayer~