Best Rotund Poems
An ebon sky, darkness to light
Diamond stars, mosaic night
Bright lunar sphere of brilliant white
Floodlights a scene of will and might.
The Fiddler’s Cat, sips warm Bordeaux
Fiddle to chin, strong paw to bow
Rosin to bow on amber ice
Wide upward swing, long downward slice.
A rotund dish, the restless spoon
Race through the night below the moon.
Ah, Fiddler’s cat empties Bordeaux
Strikes violin strings, with Dante’s bow
He plays of sorrow, he plays for chance
As spirits soar, he plays to dance.
He plays of peace, he plays for hope
To love and trust, he plays the most.
Fading ebon screen, pale ginger sky
An exhausted shrug, a weary sigh.
A new ordinance decreed by spoon and dish
Keep catnip away when serving fish.
Un-nerved by formal sentencing assemblies,
Marks and Words, bound by conjunctive amenity.
The tried beliefs that short cuts speed words into action.
Made stuffy Old School feel out of fashion.
Punctuation board-slams her silver gavel;
“A shortened distance, yet far to travel.”
Marks are pushed into line to enter their plea.
Dash Dash Dash has trailing thoughts…
Comment remarks that it thinks too much.
Question Mark, curiously rotund and stout,
asks “What’s this meeting all about?”.
Proud Period, acquainted with the strident rituals of formality,
Quickly departs, leaving a daunting spot of terse finality.
Comma’s game of pause and snag,
grammatically adheres to one of tag.
Overwrought Exclamation Mark, nervously blurts:
“Unruly disorder can make matters worse!”.
Semi colon maintaining proper pauses,
Stays anchored between compelling clauses.
Colon fearful of growling barks,
snuggles closer to Quotation Marks.
Apostrophe’s like for word possession,
worries over changing word obsession
Oh, Oh! Oh? Oh…
These are shameful attempts to monopolize,
Even with trite words, of unassuming size.
.
Punctuation thinks her identity’s impaired
Might she be confused with the shrew, Grammar?
She calls to order a capitol thought.
sliding up to Exclamation Mark, shouts “’STOP!’
The object of this meeting,
Is not subject to self- beating.
No presence is here to criticize, or chastises,
nor harmonize.
If getting through is what stays true.
Will be understood by some , but always to you.”.
Written: November 12, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Woody
*****************
If granted the power to time-slip back—
not a scale of edits, just one clean crack
in the epoch’s obstreperous spine—
What would I convert? What moment, what line?
Would I sieve the tumult of history’s breath,
undo a war, a plague, a death?
Or would I vilify my own dwarfish past,
pluck one thread from the tapestry vast?
I considered Napoleon’s umbrella,
or whispering sense to a gin-soaked fella
who discern “Titanic” meant unsinkable fate—
But the glitch was mine, not the ship’s mistake.
I’d fly to the day I didn’t say “stay,”
when love was a lissome, vivacious ballet,
and I, a moribund, wan little rabbit,
Let fear swindle my healthier habit.
She stood in a nimbus of vernal light,
a pioneer of pleasure, a rotund delight.
I was a hayseed with embryonic grace,
a virtuoso of silence, an evocative face.
I’d evolve that. Just that. No replay.
No sesquipedalian excuses or rhapsodic decay.
Just one word spoken, one velvet touch—
not humdrum, not blithe, but just enough.
Let the empyrean writhe with ululation,
let the rubble of regret find its station.
I’d be her possessor of time,
a zoetic glitch in fate’s design.
And if the Nereids complain against me,
If the metaphor of kismet tries to unfree
My choice, I’ll redeem my soul with song—
a mellifluous farewell to what went wrong.
Memories accumulate with each passing year
Some dark with troubles, some marked with cheer
I would rather stay focused on the smallest of things
For these are the ones I can keep in control
When everyday problems have taken their toll
Outside the window is a little orange tree
The laughter of children is heard in the breeze
We can feel hearts surrender while looking at three
quirky round faces, that look back at me
There are three rotund oranges, lined up on the fence
Left from the children who were playing last week
They picked a few oranges right off our tree,
then painted small faces, … with smiles on their cheeks
They'll remain there, to remind us that the happiness never leaves
So strange it seems, some things are meant
such little things. of no consequence
are the very same things, that might soon fade away,
but remain close to our hearts, the rest of our days
______________________________________________
3/5/16
For United Colors: Orange Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
SPIRITS OF THE PARROTS
Two parrots, one red, one blue,
share one large, rotund zoo cage,
just the two of them.
There are plenty of perches,
yet they sit on the same one,
close together,
looking over a feast
of fruit and seeds to share.
They make no noise,
as if in silent prayer
before their meal.
Where are those parrots today?
Where is the cage?
Can we see their spirits
flying past the zoo, over the city,
up and down the state, across the country?
When they fly through clouds
and rest on phone wires,
can they see rallies on street corners,
counter-rallies opposite,
each group waiting for the other
to offend them, just so they can lash out
with swear words and name-calling,
refusing to even look for common ground?
No, most likely, they stay in heaven,
flying close together,
exploring the new Jerusalem,
eating fruit from the tree of life,
the red one and the blue one.
-Jennifer Fenn
I marvel at the tears of stars
that loudly blush as they pass Mars
Toward earth they fall in streams of dust
on cosmic winds that swirl and gust
No doubt it seems a madman’s tale
a rotund lie of cosmic scale
I ask you though, with much chagrin
please wake that child that naps within
Though hard to see with grownup eyes
The puerile heart unveils their guise
Near tranquil ponds where sorrow feeds
they land and spark among the reeds
CHARM SCHOOL
They found two heavy charmed quarks,
the other one, straight up for larks.
One up and two splendidly rotund,
you ain't heavy, you're a baryon.
A poised new baryon in inner space,
you’ll define and describe your place.
What flavor is there for today,
in your fleeting quick decay.
Collided winks in mass array,
a subatomic burst display.
A glimpse of lithesome spinning up,
with your two roly-poly pups.
On binary cycle mass to mass,
heavy bits just moving past.
In pas de deux the lithesome one,
sails around the chunky ton.
Your four times heavier than most,
a source of energy is not your boast.
But may the Strong Force be with thee,
as we foretell in Q C D.
We just hate what you’ve been named,
It’s greek to us and so untamed.
Called: ka-sigh-see-see-plus-plus,
I dub thee, Hippo-part-icus.
-Edlynn Nau
Written: October 7, 2017
©April 8, 2019
This was after this new unusual particle was discovered in July of 2017 and I’m just getting around to finishing it. Dedicated to the team of the LHCb experiment.
Oak no longer wears verdant cape
Which clings to each branch rotund shape
Upon each branch in shapely pairs
Verdant cape oak no longer wears
A tinge of frost, lands and touches
'Pon summer's nests, but gone the clutches
Who hatched and left before they're lost
Lands and touches a tinge of frost
Russet colors adorn those leaves
Large in number, but naught achieves
Winds blow them away they're airborne
Those leaves russet color adorns
Bare limbs exposed, skeletal oak
Chilled by northerly wind uncloak
Hope in spring? I truly supposed
Skeletal oak, bare limbs exposed
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest: Swap Quatrain
Date: 09-21-2022
First time doing one of these. Not so easy.
I used rhyme zone. Syllable counter.net. On some I could not figure out how to have only 8 syllables. Going to check with Grammer checker also.
I would like to share a tale with you
About an ongoing Spud feud
Between two potato families
And the shenanigans and antics pursued
We have the Tater Family
An extremely large family indeed
Round , robust, varied , versatile,
Availability always guaranteed
The Sweeties are the other family
Long, oval, tapered , also versatile
Orange and a little softer on the inside
Availability, sometimes quite the trial
Now, the Sweeties think the Taters common
Often heard yelling ‘You are rotund and quite frankly cheap and crass ’
Many of you are a shade of ugly unripe green
AND~
You are always getting smashed!
Well… ‘HALLO’ , responded the Taters
Have you looked in the mirror of late?
You are certainly no oil painting
AND~
Whats that weird hairy bit at the end of you mate?
The Sweeties retaliate with fervour
Well, at least, we are healthy, special and sweet
Popular, sought after and make a delicious pie
Known as POET-ATO …..a favourite with artistes!
‘Yeah right’ ….reply the Taters
Did you know we ARE known as the people’s spud?
Always available and at hand to help
AND~
To be quite frank Sweeties
When the male spuds wear their jackets….they are considered quite the Stud!’
Now, this feud may always continue
Their differences may always be their fuel
HOWEVER~
There is one thing they will always agree on
SPUDS RULE!!
I heard of a woman whose hubby
was somewhat squat, rotund, and chubby.
The might of his thrust
was rightfully just
overcoming the short and stubby.
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise – thee are not
For you wobble when you walk
And gobble – gobble - while you talk
Oh thee! Of stubby legs
Neck hanging in a bag
Of skin that sags and sags
How can you face another day?
Oh thee! With girth rotund
With wings of nearly none
Your flight is but a funny run
Some chase you just for fun
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise - thee are not
As you lie on chopping block
Ending up in cooking pot.
But come Thanksgiving Day-
Everyone will gladly say
You are by far - the finest bird
That God has ever made.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George of Canada
When first I swayed her eyes a perfect round,
With hair that fell so circular and dark.
Spherical girl -- not rotund or fat-bound,
With curves that flow in wide expanse of arc.
By dawn the night does wane to working day.
With awe I fill her every need profound --
A pup to fetch and run the word, obey.
My Summer's smile augments a love unbound.
Yet, smiles are few and eyes a glazing dim.
No touch returned for softly warm caress.
I beg her, please, recount my every sin:
"Nothing," says she, a wisp so vaporous.
Summer left a tasteless void of season;
Autumn blows a gust of destined reason....
September 19, 2016
Movie Mania - Romance - Poetry Contest
Inspired by the romantic comedy,
500 Days of Summer (2009)
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Last year I resolved to lose some weight
To be more careful in filling my plate
It lasted three days
Then back to old ways
Next year I’ll just accept my so rotund fate….
I don’t think New Year’s resolutions are such a bad thing
It’s like planting ideas and thoughts to bloom in the spring
If even small changes are made, who could ask for more
But forget that weight thing: lose that one before reaching the door...
Forgive the mixture of forms, I couldn't resist.
12/19/15
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise – you are not
For you wobble when you walk
And gobble – gobble - while you talk
Oh thee! Of stubby legs
Neck hanging in a bag
Of skin that sags and sags
How can you face another day?
Oh thee! With girth rotund
With wings of nearly none
Your flight is but a funny run
Some chase you just for fun
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise - you are not
As you lie on chopping block
Ending up in cooking pot.
But come Thanksgiving Day-
Everyone will gladly say
You are by far - the finest bird
That God has ever made.
Inspired by: Donna Golden’s contest: Tribute to the turkey
2nd Place