Best Puckers Poems
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Do tell if you please
Is the one you depict
A glum or a tease?
Is the one you portray
A friend or a foe?
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You MUST let me know!
He seems debonair
She’s all sugar and spice
This one is too "wild"
But this one seems nice
This one seems so shy
This one is too bold
This one's SIZZLING HOT!
This one just seems...cold
The face that you show
Is that a disguise?
Is that blue or green
In those dazzling eyes?
Is the person who puckers
Real sexy or plain?
Is the one with the glasses
A charm or a pain?
Is Miss Beauty Queen
All pretty inside?
Does Mr. Kind Looking
Have demons to hide?
Is Miss Sultry Siren
Curvaceous and hot?
Is Mr. “I’m Cool!”
All covered in spots?
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Why are you a fruit?
Or a cat or a dog?
Does the character suit?
A scary faced monster
A symbol? How sweet!
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The intrigue's a treat!
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Don’t tell me…I’ll faint
Is my favorite poet
A sinner or saint?
Oh answer me this…
Are you really real?
These pictures I see
Do they breathe? Do they feel?
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I know you won’t tell
Your icons bespeak
A heaven or hell
Not one poet can peek
To see the REAL me
Avatar, Avatar...
That's YOUR mystery!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Keen on getting smooches
Karen puckers her lips
Kisses soon will come to
Kindle loves sweet passion
Keith gives her a long kiss
Knocking her socks off, give
Kudos to the french kiss
.
3/9/17
A man in his later years enjoys a cigar.
He holds a fat brown rolled stogie with his fingers to his lips.
He puckers at the end of the stimulating stump, pulling a large puff.
He lights his vice with a blow torch.
Blue, red, yellow flame jets out the end of a curved steel tube.
He is balding and grey with whiskers.
Puckering and squinting casually his skin reveals fine wrinkles.
A dark green frame with round clear lenses sets on a large triangular nose.
His clothes are plain:
a button collar shirt with tiny blue checks,
a dark blue puffed coat, a tan denim bib.
His hands are large with fingers like sausages.
He holds his cigar and torch like a gorilla enjoying fruit.
At times only a moment matters.
The best things in life are not always sophisticated.
Experience and simplicity allow senses to be the only luxury needed.
People relish their vices
after youth and excess have revealed what is common and uninteresting.
It is the process of feeling what is familiar and different about the moment
which drives people in later years to enjoy an awareness of their senses
rather than any perception driven by language.
Love, like a pomegranate can be bitter sweet.
Its tang lingers long after laughter swells.
The soul puckers pleasantly with each bite.
A luscious love, precious and unique, thrives.
Life’s enchantment surrounds sweet-tart living,
Likened to the whitest pulp around twirls of tasty arils.
The future surrounds a delicious serving of dreams.
Where seeds of friendship are consumed in sweetness.
The pomegranate willfully waits, wanting to be devoured.
Wildly proclaiming ecstasy since the butterflies’ first visit.
Fabulous fantasies frolic from first inklings to forever.
Reality rushes its rivers of waters roaring through rapture.
And springs forth this rare exotic fruit, ripe, raw and savored.
Budding beautiful love, which sings songs and satisfies longings.
Lively and luscious, unconsumed love triumphs over lust.
Spiritual passions simmer in life’s sizzling heat.
Tasting, like believing in enchantment, brightens beginnings.
Waiting awakening, flavors life like spicy pomegranate seeds.
Delightful daydreams dance upon the redness of love’s peel.
And reality races to anticipation’s castle in the sky… imaginings ravishing.
Faith hopes that happiness hovers where respect and honors hold.
Perfection placed where enchantment becomes reality and fears forget.
Love’s season is savored more deeply and sincerely as lovers learn.
That beneath the hard peelings in life, sweetness grows, everlastingly.
© August 22, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Momentary lapse of reasoning
behind exemplary seasonings
give way to life's spicy habanero
awesomesauce.
Life's seasoning of sweet-&-sour puckers
Sweet puckering of every souring breath.
Life's wicked stammer nailing it
like a swift hammering blow
squashing pinpoint accuracy.
Strawberry daiquiris fruity liquor quicker
of tasty wines staggers a peaceful
drunken swagger.
Two lips on a single stick licking
twice mythical tricks in a single smooth
liquoring trick.
Heavy Metal rocking chairs speeds
of metal God's playing power cords
of metal's overlords.
Liquor upfront an poker in the rear
get that ass moving in gear boy's
she's my favorite toy I plan to employ.
Aesthetics of fruity colorful abstracts
pathetic when listening to rhetoric
of rhetorical circles in circumstances.
Forget the rest a single success
I double the best with sweet success
I can triple the doubling time taking
out the best molesting their rhymes
with my words committing felony crimes
in aesthetics of synthesizing
provocative unique exquisite
designs in rhymes sublime
line's in contemporary design
of these modern times.
?U N I V € R S € ?
INT€R »°O ? N S £ € F°« CONN€T€D
Pen's Ink broadcasting
21st century's #Poet
#WickedRomacer
#poetry #rhymes
(to be read out loud)
I'll eat the nibble naggle nooky nickel
nipple nappy mum mum mum
I'll chew your gooble gobble giggle gaggle
gimpy grampa's gum gum gum.
I'll call the wimpy wappy wiggle waggle
wacky wobble wum wum wum
I'll drink the wiggin' wimple whoopy whacker
wookie worker's rum rum rum.
Woo wow wee wah
Geegaw mee mah
Hee haw hoo har hey hey hey.
Mao moo mud muck
Wigwam poobah
Mad mook mick mack yay yay yay.
I'll have a murky muddle maple maggot
monkey marbles chum chum chum
I raised a ticky tacky tinky tonka
tailor's tiny thumb thumb thumb.
I'm really punky pickled pooka puckers
pitter patter dumb dumb dumb
I hear my diggle daggle doggy dingle
diddle daddled hum hum hum.
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
Tempting balm tonics reposed fantasist,
Panacea liquifies mirage views,
Crafts allusive lofts energies persist,
Twain heart's favor lips a desire to schmooze.
Elixir defines the gist of lovers,
Exposes the length of listed measures,
Hearts and souls, supernatural pleasures,
Cascade gifted juice as meant lips puckers.
Charts a course of innumerable sips,
Bottled refinery impatient lips,
Passion extremes supple to its excess,
Forward sweethearts immortal kiss access.
Tinctured herbs ripen souls remarkably,
Drink-filled lovers strengthen eternally.
2019 October 15
Rhyme scheme; abab, cddc, eeff, gg
howmanysyllables;
14 lines x 10 syllables per = 140 syllables total
There is this bunny, you see
Who lives right next door to me
I haven't figured out her/his pronoun yet
But I can tell that he/she would make a grand pet
What I find cute about the bunny is this
It hasn't yet learned how to kiss
This morning it sidles up to a cat
And puckers up its lips oh-so-fat
But it closes its eyes, then Surprise!
The cat slips away, it falls and ---
Now, why would you think I'd write 'dies'
What kind of 'grand pet' is a dead bunny
Especially one you can't kiss
And can't tell if it's Mr. or Ms...
Well, sure hope I've made your day sunny
Even if there's no playboy in the bunny
We took no notice of a sky turning gray
Upon the ever changing, brooding afternoon
The rain at last, that finally tiptoed in
We almost missed the laughter, but for leaves
That murmured quick surprise along the eaves
And tapped with chatter on the window-pane
But having heard, we left our cozy place
And stepped outside into the evening air
To feel the slope of rain upon our faces
And could even hear the rustling trees
Pitter patter, dripping laughter
With song of raindrops in the night
~
prelude to bedtime
rain comes as a child
behind leaden eyes
and indignation
sky puckers up
with an angry brow
and brooding face
sputtering
with warm tears-
howling pleas
day weeps
til’ night
sleeps
~
Do not cry or lament the rain
Just look for where the rainbow begins
~
a sobering sky
spills a tear upon the dust...
earth's quivering chin
~
Free Verse/Nonet/Crystalline/Haiku
(Tucker’s Wet Dream!)
It seems ‘twenty-four/seven’ Republicans choose
to subject us, our nation to “Screw O’Clock News”
as if Truth’s all that exits their Trinity holes!
What they say is pure gold! You have doubts? Check the polls
that Fox scripts and then pays for (though fools do resist
who are closer to monkeys - most dark-skinned!) Sun-kissed
to pick cotton, from day’s dawn till dusk (if poor’s genes
chafe a bit, most are blessed by such labor). It means
they’ve served ‘Light’ (in a way!) For a ‘Darkie’ it’s play!
Yes, Tuck Carlson “hates” Trump (In his soul! Gosh! Who knew?)
though he puckers right up when Trump’s rump is in view
AND Tuck’s paycheck gets bump! Sure, Tuck smiles (swells with pride),
his tongue forked like a snake’s! Proof he’s on the “Right’s Side!”
The Conservative’s Mantra’s that taxes deserve
to be paid by the poor for they’ve less to conserve!)
Watch how wealth dribbles down! There’s more cotton to pick,
when the rich hoard their gold (the truth’s poor don’t get sick!)
Poor man’s liquid desert – faux gold trickle, not spurt!
Long Tooth
March 14th in 2023
Clutching
The end of my Zebco rod and reel
As the cast of tackle is flung
Like a small knot of costume jewelry
Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River
Dragonfly rattling awry
The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand
As if I had cupped an angry bee
Until the swivel hook and sinker
Puckers
The river’s muddy surface
Splash
Swallowed soft and thick
On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn
Thread on hook
Weighed down by an ounce of lead
Waiting
For a big greedy carp
To come by and fight to the death.
Tim and me we got that bait
From a stolen can of corn that used to sit
In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator.
While we keep our eyes keen
To the taps and shivers
Of the delicate tips of our poles
Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks
Stuck in the dry embankment
Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge
And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud
Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine
Their screeches and laughs rising and falling
Like hooks scraping against cement.
We stroke the knives slung in our socks
Wary of them.
Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA
To have lost its first war.
I don’t know.
I say that my parents think that Watergate
Was worse for us
But either way they say
Things will never be the same.
Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday
For parking his bicycle too close
To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am.
We share a plot of revenge.
We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul
Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium
“And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…”
We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub.
The experienced river fishermen
To avoid snags and the false pull of current
Must trust the placement of his bait.
Sit and wait.
The Grand River makes no sound.
Has no reflection.
These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind
For a lifetime.
Horn Hilarity Hiaku Tree
If away all my
Time I have spent where in world
Has all of it went?
If I did dipsey
Doodle would I do it with
Pekinese or Poodle?
If Southern was way
I had been talking will I
Be hard of hearing?
If twilight it was
Nearing are you glad that I
Will be disappearing.
To run over most
People I have to and must
Go from coast to coast.
If an old Brit I
Happen to be then who will
Have to care for me.
What if Almighty
Were female will she then be
Probably flighty.
Being obnoxious
And big-mouthed would my bad breath
Have been atrocious.
Person who puckers
Will they do it for breakfast
Lunch and their suppers.
If slave to each thought
And from store things were not bought
When will they get caught.
If by now you are
Not laughing or smiling should
More poems be writing.
Horn Hilarity
Haiku Tree it sure should be
Such a sight to see.
Jim Horn
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Tell me now please
Is the one you depict
A glum or a tease?
Is the one you portray
A friend or a foe?
Avatar, Avatar
Please, do let me know!
He seems debonair
She’s all sugar and spice
This one is too wild
But this one seems nice
This one is a shy
This one is too bold
This one is SIZZLING HOT!
This one seems cold
The face that you show
Is it just a disguise?
Is that blue or green
In those brilliant eyes?
Is that person who puckers
Really sexy or plain?
Is the one with the glasses
A charm or a pain?
Is Miss Beautiful
Also beautiful inside?
Does Mr. Kind Looking
Have demons to hide?
Is Miss Sultry Queen
Curvaceous and hot?
Is Mr. “I’m all that!”
All covered in spots?
Avatar, Avatar
Why are you a juicy fruit?
Or a cat or a dog
Or a partial birthday suit?
A scary faced monster
Initials short and sweet
Avatar, Avatar
To my mind you're a treat!
Avatar, Avatar,
Don’t tell me…I’ll faint
Is my favorite poet
A sinner or saint?
Kindly answer me this…
Tell me, are you for real?
These pictures I see
Do they breathe, do they feel?
Avatar, Avatar
I know that you won’t speak
Though your images lie
For I’m not strong but weak
Not one poet can peek
Past you to the real me
Avatar, Avatar...
So full of mystery!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
The way to a girls heart
seems to be sour candy?
She loves the way it puckers her lips.
She get's talkative, "as if", a Sleeping Beauty.
Awakened by gumdrop of her seize kiss.
She is a slave to the sassy
kicked up notch of flavor rainbow hyper-twitch.
You are a slave to having treats on hand
and obey her every bossy command.
Her eyes light up, ignited in an electric glee,
Unleashing her inner child with a key.
With every tangy explosion,
comes a remembered idea or notion.
It's as if the world around her fades,
and all that's left is the zesty escapade.
The way to her heart may be simple and sweet,
though the power to move her
cannot be beat.
For true happiness lies in the simplest of things,
Like rewards and laughter and all the joy
that they bring.
So don't underestimate the power of a treat,
it can awaken a heart and make it seat next to you,
in solidarity.
Although, when she crashes, she may get grumpy, then go to sleep.
But just look at that lil candy dream !
For in her mind, she'll roam free,
a girl again in a world of candy and sugary glee, safety and family things of memory.
In that moment, you'll see her soul,
Unencumbered by worry,
a rare sight to behold, let alone coury.
So when you give her a piece of candy,
you're not just giving her something bland, savvy?
You're giving her a moment to escape,
and yourself too,
vicariously.
To find joy and happiness,
and reshape that spirit,
as she salivates upon it,
intraveneously?
Like a Viking Maiden, or Dragon
protecting a treasure in a cave.
A cat guarding it's dish with claws entrenched,
growling, stay away.
"You shall not pass" and "Eye Of Sauron" mixed in a frightening way.
"Taste the rainbow of my fruity fu****wrath",
she might say.
Though skittles may be small and sourly-sweet,
an insignificality.
A token holds the power to make a heart
skip a portaled beat.
For in that moment, she feels alive and free,
all thanks to that simple little treat,
given lovingly, in a cheer to her memories.
Reminders, hopeful omens
and thoughtfulness's zing.
Doorways to the finer things.