Best Pouncing Poems
Mini, musical meowing, eight weeks old, smaller than
Icicles hanging from the porch, she slips into the
Snowbanks, a frock of fluffed-out fur, dashes in, nestles on
Tissue paper, a tiny tiger with stripes of gray, now pouncing on
Lights blinking, there-gone, there-gone, where? her
Eyes a green mirror of mine, now she is
Tangled in tinsel, crouching butt-wiggle, batting
Ornaments and chewing ribbon, scaling our
Everest of a tree, my Christmas kitten I named Mistletoe.
12/19/18
I stay close to the ocean.
Its wild waters surround me,
And the thundering waves
Rant and rave around me.
I see the leviathan,
Screaming at me,
Charging feral,
Like an enraged beast.
It snarls at me.
It howls and yells.
In its deadening roar
In its pouncing gait
In its sweeping rush
In its pounding thud
I hear the wail of a banshee,
Announcing death.
I become so small.
I become so powerless.
A helpless doe,
Before a mighty foe.
At another time
The sea lies quiet like a babe.
Its violent tantrums lulled to sleep.
Its bosom heaving in peaceful slumber.
Its rhythmic beat, its magic, and the charm,
Its depth and beauty all combined.
I see the gulls in the air.
I hear them squeal.
I feel the waves over the sand,
Lapping around my feet.
I listen to their murmur and shout.
I glance at dolphins over the surf.
I watch them dance.
I behold ships over the waters.
I see them glide.
I hear the night air sing.
I feel the spray of water,
And sense its coolness,
I notice seashells,
Half buried under the sand,
I pick one from the strand,
To tie it around my neck,
As an amulet,
With the ceaseless whisper of waves
And the sea’s undying commotion
Shut and encased within!
tabby cat slinking
around the house, looking stealth
pouncing and prancing
lover, neat and sweet
purring for a stroke around
his silky neck
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.
King of sex,
the third gender
or hermaphrodite,
half male, half female,
existing on margin,
beheads the creator
to propitiate the deity of destruction,
starts a genocide
to create a new model,
new world, sexless, moonless
sunless.
How could you remain normal
when you were being robbed of every myth,
every truth?
And you were walking under the guilty sky
unmindful of the pouncing, long legged tarentulas
to bite off your elements?
All of your tongue?
And the heat will give up the slaughtered spring
dried up in eternal shade?
Within the memory will lie the pain
of million years?
SATISH VERMA
March middleness is much too fleet,
coming in on a creature’s feet.
Is it the lion which brings it on
pouncing with a roar on my lawn?
Or does it come with a lamb’s bleat?
Each March must swiftly meet defeat
when April brings her rains and heat.
There’s little time to think upon
March middleness!
Spring Equinox is such a treat,
for blossoms bloom which smell so sweet,
then March’s middle time is gone
by then - its time is brief as dawn!
We long for spring yet barely greet
March middleness.
April 18, 2017 for Dave Will's March Middleness Poetry Contest
The computer I am at right now does not allow me to scroll down
through categories. That is why I gave the label "art" to this.
April 18, 2017
Clean down to the bottom bill
Smashing gobsmacked cashless
Simply crass wealthy wanting more
The silent till awaits the masses
Pouncing plastic rapist rapture
Stripped!! The global bankers dream!
Control the dough by feckless reign
A reckless chain to pitchforks once again
The fire burns the forest
The scorched birds fly away to build new nests
The sky descends dancing to join the smoking fest
The ashes settle in blazed history to dowse and rest.
The anger burns the mind
The brazen thoughts run to find revenge blind
The soul ascends pouncing to blow soothing wind
The serene sanity makes singed senses calm and kind.
He stares at me with big brown eyes,
Causing me to think of stars in the skies.
He touches my hand with a cold nose,
Reminding me of how gently he goes.
He licks his chops whenever I eat,
Letting me know he’s there at my feet.
He always gets a few tidbits of my meal,
A little gift that lets him know how I feel.
He waits at the front door for me to pull up,
Always excited beyond any other pup.
He jumps up and down, pouncing for joy,
Showing his love as I smile, “that a boy”.
He runs like wildfire after a tennis ball,
Bringing it back to me at an indifferent crawl.
He barks at the tv and howls at the vet,
Giving me pleasure unlike any other pet.
He is a canine who has become a best friend.
There isn’t a doubt he’ll be with me til’ the end.
He creates a powerful pleasure within me,
Something no one or nothing else can free.
He may be a dog, but I think of him so dearly,
There is nothing to describe him very clearly.
He is a blessing, a wonder and a true prize,
Where would I be without the love in his eyes?
The Crazy Kitten
The crazy kitten purred.
Its soft and slender body
Brushed around my skin.
It meowed as it juggled
The ball of woolly yarn
All about the living room.
The crazy kitten leaped about
Pouncing on the little mice.
It wondered about the house
Seeking new places to explore.
It found a ball upon upon the shelf
The kitten jumped up to reach its new toy.
The crazy kitten fell down with a thud.
The vase above it shattered with a thunderous SMASH!
The poor and petrified pet
Scrambled under the nearest shelter.
Once the coast was clear,
The crazy kitten went back to play.
Motor is nudged to life in an arcing motion, arm pulling
cord. Vein-furrowed hands grasp the fishing pole,
slinging bait and tackle beneath one arm. Another
arcing motion, arm casting pole. Bobber spins
a helicopter course through sun-nipped air.
Loons call a soulful greeting, the moans of centuries'
separated lovers in mourning. Time trickles through
the notes of their songs. Meanwhile, bass glide
with their loud-mouthed sass,
perch and blue gills play tag. A lone
blue heron bills the murky depths for lunch.
Man baits his hook, readjusts his hat. Eyes squint
into the dark undertones of the pond. He casts
his pole, a fermata in the song of the loons. When this man
was a boy, he drove the spires of the Rocky Mountains,
frequented the five-and-dime, nuzzled
a nightly routine next to his wife, who mothered six children, raised
in a house far away from any pond. They bustled themselves
along through school as well as any fish pouncing on
supper-flies, dabbing napkins to the corners
of their mouths. This fisherman sliced their steak, knotted their ties,
held their hands crossing the street
until they were old enough to
mail college resumes,
pay for first dates.
Five years,
fifteen years,
thirty-two years and here is Granddad,
with his child's toddler learning to walk in the bowed
belly of his fishing boat. They stumble,
clanging clumsy feet on the metal, frightening
the fish away. The old man bends low,
a note in the song of the loons.
He places the toddler on two feet, guides her hesitant steps,
each pendulum swing carrying them a moment
further toward separation. In twelve years, the grown child
bends low, a note in the song of the loons, to kiss her
grandfather's forehead, as he casts off on his helicopter
course of afterlife.
A KIDS FUNNY BEE BUZZ POEM
The fuzzy, wuzzy bumble bee
a fussy, hussy bee was he
because he lost his buzz you see
in a muggy, buggy mushroom tree
On mushrooms bitter, boggy black,
he planned an aerial attack,
but bouncing, pouncing skills he lacked
and failed to get his bee buzz back.
Now this fumbling, stumbling bumble bee
searched helter, skelter frantically
for a bigger bee to help him free
his bee buzz from the mushroom tree.
But no bee ever came around,
searched high and low, tree and ground,
but his buzz was never found,
a buzzless bee without his sound.
POOR FUZZY, WUZZY BUMBLEBEE
Liz Labadie-Reilly
October 18/2015
A midnight ship with silver sails
And hoisted flags with scarlet tails
Is whisked by winds of golden gales
Descending from the skies above.
And though the decks are wet and soaken,
Still the hull is swift and oaken
So the course remains unbroken,
Trailing wakes of turtledoves.
With storm departed, then no sooner
Comes, unseen, a pirate schooner
Neath the nighttime, light and lunar,
Pouncing with a push and shove.
Though hope seems lost, a cyclone saves
Dispersing foes and other knaves
With frothy foamy fisted waves
Which strike like leaden leather gloves.
Secured, the ship has safely landed
- Left behind, the pirates stranded -
Passers-by are smiling candid,
Knowing not the worth thereof.
For hidden in the wooden hold
Is treasure bursting unforetold
- Far more than diamonds, thyme and gold -
It brings unbound a brother’s Love.
Robin Hood
It was in the time of John
In the days that have long gone
When the plight of right and wrong
A test was set
It took a man of iron will
To battle on until
A nation he would thrill
They’d ne’er forget
For John was all consumed by greed
He over taxed those most in need
Pleas of the peasants wouldn’t heed
How they’d shout
Though against his deep belief
Robin became a famous thief
To muster hope and some relief
For those without
Stepped forward Robin Hood
With his motives understood
He set out to do some good
For the poor
To his side a band of men
Some of sword and some of pen
Gathered round him, planned and then
Evened the score
High adventures, escapades
Among the woods and leafy glades
As Robin led his daring raids
He did surprise
Pouncing on the shallow rich
From every tree and bush and ditch
Relieving them of every stitch
To equalize
When the news to John was brought
He ordered Robin must be caught
Example to the people taught
To keep them bound
Soldiers he sent out in the wood
Blundered about, it was no good
No sight or sound of Robin hood
Was to be found
With a price upon his head
Wanted both alive or dead
Not a clue did one man shed
As to his lair
For all good men could plainly see
Through his selective robbery
It was the way it had to be
To make life fair
For their king old England yearned
And when at last Richard returned
He found a lesson had been learned
Of how to rule
Of your people earn their trust
Let your reign be fair and just
And remember that you must
Ne’er be cruel
Though a saint he’d never be
For he’d robbed to set men free
From the awful tyranny
Of evil John
Still he’s hard not to admire
Whether surf or land-borne squire
To his height try to aspire
Everyone
When he knew that he would die
He shot an arrow through the sky
Where it stuck he wished to lie
Next Sherwood oak
Though the truth may now be faint
And the story old and quaint
He remains a noble saint
To all good folk.
A predator's rapier claws;
keeps my cat in good health.
Midnight black, she blends with shadows
and stalks her prey with stealth.
Pouncing at nearly lightning speed,
she's a featureless blur.
And yet, when cuddled in my lap;
Death wears the softest fur.