Best Prickly Poems
The gifted house and the ghost of his Grandmother trapped him. Her presence clung with the leftover nicotine to the walls of every room. A childless marriage and a rancid divorce left its bile in the scum atop the kitchen counters—rust-rings on the bathroom’s porcelain. The horse chestnut tree outside the door stood as an overt warning, pelting anyone trying to enter. As his lover, I disregarded it.
wisteria
uproots the moss-laced lawn:
a pet’s gravestone
With steel wool and a strong arm, I whitewashed the house. Grandmother’s spirit smiled in the spring when new bulbs rose. But, the antique cannon in the front hall still aimed at the door. The man was too used to his darkness. Love was not enough.
trespassers
are shot on sight:
empties on the stoop
Published by KYSO Flash 2015
Clustered cactus trees sprawling, reclining in the summer heat
where agile pollinators dart among gorgeous silky blooms.
Day by day the prickly pear fruit swell and mature.
Already the mind conjures visions of red,
magenta, pink, yellow and white.
thriving on spring rain
deep-rooted fantasy
mellifluent desires
Experience has shown that the best time to pick prickly pears
is early morning before the sun’s rays become too hot.
A steady half turn with thumb and forefinger
gently releases the ripened fruit.
The bucket soon fills up.
dewy prickly pears
at break of day
impotent thorns
Rinsed under running water, the fruit waits to be disrobed.
Both ends of each fruit are cut off with a sharp knife,
followed by a long vertical slice along its body.
The thick skin is then peeled back, the
fleshy coloured fruit revealed.
prickly pears
in a glass bowl
naked temptation
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: “Haibun”
Sponsor: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
©17th July, 2017
Prickly pear cactus
Beautiful yellow blooms, sticks
Thorns, gives food somehow
I recall when my son went to grow his first mustache.
After the manly thrill, of shaving once a week had passed.
He'd spend an hour in the bath, gelling hair so straight up it would stick.
Then he'd come down to breakfast, strutting his upper lip.
I tried not to laugh, while biting the inside of my cheek.
It looked like a Porcupine on his head, but his stache was weak.
It looked like a cross between peach fuzz and a prickly pear.
As if they drew straws, to see who, on his lip, would stick out where.
He'd stroke his lip with thumb and forefinger, to draw attention to it.
He'd turn his head this way and that, so from the light, the few hairs were lit.
Well, time has passed and his stache manned up along with his beard.
Although it will never be of Mountain Man caliber, I fear.
But he does do "scruffy" well and the girls all seem to like it.
And you know, my girl charming son, works it to his benefit.
For my oldest son Jesse.
Just something to embarrass you with.
Hey, it's my job.
nine rare **** lickers
In Kim’s windows
Sitting on thorns
Ah.....Sew! poem by Deborah Guzzi (Contest)
impaled am I
want as pierced as need…
thorns of your soul
Ol’ Prickly was dead, shot down with hot lead, and all of his friends did grieve—
But so it now seems, they fell for his schemes – he owned money before he did leave.
“In that dern cuss, I put all my trust,” said Rod, “but he up and dies just like that—
He borrowed my horse and my saddle, of course, and now he’s still wearin’ my hat!”
“He promised to marry,” cried sweet little Sherry, “he told me I was the only one.
But at the wake hall as I started to bawl, in walks three wives, ten daughters and a
son!”
Now I ain’t got no truck in yer bad luck,” said a tall man to all of Pete’s ex’s—
“But that dern dead ol’ Pete tied me up real neat by sellin’ me half of Texas!”
“Oh, please,” the pastor begged on his knees, “can we not speak ill of the dead?
Surely there was good in this misunderstood cowboy whose life has now fled?!”
But an hour was fleet as they spoke of ol’ Pete, who lived by the lie and the gun—
Hearin’ more tales of Pete’s travails, the preach screams, “Let’s burn this dirty ol’
son!”
Then just in a bit, as their torches were lit, sweet little Sherry faints in a swoon—
For sittin’ in the casket like fruit in a basket, Pete says, its jest a flesh wound!”
Then he done said, “All reports of me bein’ dead, has done been exaggerated—
I seen Saint Pete before, but he warn’t no cure and ol’ death is over-rated!”
They chased Pete alone from the funeral home and he’s never been seen again,
But no one did care, just so he wasn’t there – he claimed no kith, kin or friend.
So it goes to show if you’re dyin’ to go, its better you take enough lead—
‘Cause if your name’s Pete, life ain’t complete until they’re sure you’re stone dead!
There was a rumor that I heared ‘bout Pete
Goin’ and committin’ matrimony—
But that’s likely as ol’ Scratch getting’ beat,
And who said it is full of baloney!
But John-Bob done says he was the best man
And shore nuff Prickly went and tied the knot—
But I cain’t see Pete wearin’ a gal’s bran’,
So I done thinks it’s just as likely not!
But lo and behold in rides ol’ Prickly
With a purty gal all strawberry blonde—
But ol’ Pete, he is lookin’ might sickly
And of his nose ring he just ain’t too fond!
Then right in front of the whole dern ol’ town,
Stoney, smilin’, he just pops the question:
“Is you hitched Pete? With yer feet on the ground?
Or is we dreamin’ and you’s still our bastion?!”
Ol’ Pete, he climbs down back to earth and yells:
“Not many call me a bastion and live!
I ain’t never heard me no weddin’ bells
And here’s a passel of advice I’ll give:
“Never jumps to them conclusions, mister,
That even your eyes may lead you to see—
Ya see this here is my dear young sister—
And all you cowboys better let her be!”
Well, all the town folk done apologized—
And there sure weren’t no ring on a finger—
But we gets to thinkin’ that they had lied
When their kisses did linger and linger!
“Well, gosh dern! That proves it!” Stoney did say,
“It’s shore nuff somethin’ that ya jest cain’t miss!
If Pete and that gal married up OK—
An ol’ married couple wouldn’t still kiss!”
So I reckon the moral here ain’t neat—
Don’t jump claims or to no dern conclusions—
Specially ‘bout the ol’ cowboy called Pete
Or you’ll wind up with just more confusions!
Tie a knot and find the spot. Stick it in and soon the fun will begin.
It’s a synch, a tiny pinch, a little cough, and whoosh you’re off.
Just stick with me I’ll take away your misery. Old young used and new there’s
nothing I can’t make them do, a few more hits and I’ll have you to.
Now are you ready? This is it, prickly poke, your life the pain now one big joke.
You crawl, you jump, you steal, and you flee, you will do it all to be with me.
I am tomorrow. I am today. I am regrets of yesterday, while at my feet you waste away.
Your friends all tried, but too much you’ve lied. Your loved ones cry as they pray for you to stay alive.
They threw you out, your filled with doubt, but don’t worry I won’t ever let you go without.
Every day we will play till all you have has gone away.
You’re nothing now, the streets you prowl, forever before me you will bow.
Remember once when this was fun, but look at you, now too tired to even run.
Get on your feet; with you I’m not quite done.
Your life with me has just begun.
Your love, like cactus fruit
its tiny teeth sharp and taunting,
needling the flesh of my soul
you hide behind bold hues
and a spiny point of view,
failing your tenderness
but there's nothing sweeter in nature,
I've tasted its core,
my tongue dribbling succulent sips
of slipped slurs and
sappy sentiments
so I will gather myself beneath moonlight
and pluck petty prickles,
like a woman stupid in love
If anyone supposes
That life should be a bed of roses
How boring this would be
With no diversity
Roses have prickles the blossom exposes
Prickly Feet.
Along they scurried, with their prickly feet,
Across the grass, quick as a heartbeat,
Into a huddle, the pointed noses went,
For the meal, at her door, they assent.
Little grey noses, sniffing all around,
It was the dog's food, they had found.
To get there first, they did aspire,
Before Mr Fox came out of the mire!
Not many, of us left they thought,
But at this house, they had sought,
some kind food, through the winter,
It’s all they need, plus shelters of timber.
So a few days later back they came,
And now there were four at the door.
So the story ends on a happy note,
Conservation and hedgehogs get my vote.
Ol’ Pete he had a new gal friend that he wanted to prank—
His idear was to shoot her silhouette like Buckskin Frank!
It was Frank Leslie that first shot holes all around his girl—
So Pete thought he’d do it too or at least give it a whirl!
But what he did not count on was the mettle of that dame—
After he pulled his little trick, he never was the same!
He did not know her fuse was short and she practiced with knives—
And that her list of beaus was long and how most lost their lives!
So when he commenced to shootin’ round his new love, Molly,
She done started throwin’ knives and ‘bout clipped him, by golly!
Pete learned his lesson as she sat down and played piano—
As he pulled out knives thrown south that near made him soprano.
And Prickly swore that nevermore would he shoot at his mate—
At least not wives that packed sharp knives and would likely castrate!
He ain’t prickly, he’s my brother I said.
Full of quills though, right? Asked my neighbor Fred
Not awful, tolerable actually, cushy even,
This was thrown in by my best friend Steven.
You mean you ride on his back? A little one queried.
Yes I said, and I am not one bit worried.
He is young, so his quills are not intolerable yet.
I am not fearful at all, for these things I don’t fret.
I glimpsed a funny sight the other day;
A cactus with a mindset of its own,
Which seeking out a horizontal path
With comic singularity had grown.
The poet,with a self-reflective eye
Considered this quite unexpected course
At times she too had wandered from the path
And deviated from the true light source.
26.09.20