Best Rough And Tumble Poems
I am Tim
I am Tim
Tim I am
That Tim-I-am!
That Tim-I-am!
I do not like
that Tim-I-am!
Do you like
green eggs and ham?
I do not like them,
Tim-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.
CUT CUT CUT.....That's Dr Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham....now why did I start writing that...Oh I know must have been the 500 times I read it to my 4 year old daughter last weekend...I asked her older sister and two older brothers but no I did read them Dad-I-am!
A father of four and proud of them all
Youngest is still short, my oldest- he's tall
Give to them my time, wouldn't have it any other way
Playing tennis, coaching baseball or driving to ballet
Hard worker, they say, a motor that wont quit
Adapt with a hammer, chain saw or drill bit
Not afraid to get dirty, greasy, smelly or wet
Work sun up to sun down with barely a sweat
My friends are my treasures, I hold them real tight
Each one is special but they all are a delight
If they are ever in need, I'm there in a flash
Bringing comfort, happiness, and the occasional cash
I am quick with the wit and enjoy a good laugh
Not too into vanity, a quick shower no bath
I am a lover of woman and a lover of life
I am married to nature she is a great wife
Grew up rough and tumble, clawing for scraps
Volunteer, mentor, teacher, wore many caps
Wear my heart on my sleeve, shy away from a spat
Tim, Timmy, Timothy...I am who I am and that is that
I am contest
I am male
I hugged my sons today between the chaos and play.
They normally rush through the everyday hugs
(the quick pat, while they pull away, kind of hugs),
but I cried today, heard about too many sons dying today.
An everyday hug is not what this mother’s heart needs on a day like today.
I rarely think of my own needs in my day-to-day life,
but in these hours, as my world orbits far away from other worlds,
I need to embrace my boys, fully and completely curl
them around me for all the moms that will never again
hold their sons with an outpouring of maternal abandon.
I need to take my boys in my arms, snuggle them close,
feel their youthful glow within their wise, yet tender, souls.
I need to touch the rough-and-tumble scrapes and softness
of their boyish skin nestled in my arms and smell the lingering
sweet of shampoo as their hair brushes against my cheek.
I remember how I felt an indescribable, unconditional love
when they were born, the bond of mother and child
that even death cannot break.
I need to hold them again like they were babies wrapped in my arms,
to reach that part of them that is a part of me.
If I can, I will hold onto them a little longer for all the grieving mothers,
before they slowly start to pull away, asking, “Mom, can I go play?”
Written 6/6/20 for Craig Cornish's
Hug Contest
Ants are known to be industrious,
Bustling about the anthill
In lines and arcs and freeform patterns,
Intent on some important insect mission,
Minding their own business, thank you.
Of course, sometimes ants have to be exterminated
If they’re likely to bite a small child,
Or interrupting the flow of one’s flower bed,
Or just plain in the way.
After all, they’re only bugs,
Small and inconsequential and expendable.
Occasionally, small rough and tumble boys,
Full of bravado and challenging each other,
Will desecrate an anthill recklessly
Just for sport…
And to see the ants run frantically
In response to the destruction of their entire world
At the whim of a dirty-sneakered foot.
They look so small from up above
Scurrying about like ants
Tiny and insignificant from the height
Of a skyscraper, or a ski lift,
Or the windshield of a fighter pilot’s plane.
Tiny, and in the way
Because, as we all know,
Sometimes ants have to be exterminated.
Dawn seeps soundlessly in to scatter the darkness.
Around is silence and quiet and calm.
From my lofty balcony, I can admire the serenity
Of the vast immensity of the ocean, all smell of balm.
Let tranquillity invade my lonely soul, O Lord.
The arduous day will soon be full of all its pains.
And I am old, too old to face the vexatious turmoil
That surrounds me, for I am all aches and sprains.
How can I face the rough and tumble of this misery?
I need wisdom to discern all that is foolish and vain,
I need peace to avoid worries and other upsets.
I need love to forgive others’ injuries and bane.
Life is short and I’m much too old to bear pains.
Death will be a relief from all that troubles me.
However life is precious and I will live it through,
Only with your genial grace that comes from Thee.
Once I saw a lovely frame
Rough and Tumble was its name
It was a captured moment of freedom
A moment of nature at its peak.
I saw the waves in this frame
It's frenzy, won the dancing game
Beautiful blue waters invading brown earth.
The water is like a child; free
Always expanding its width
Yet it is nothing like man
Because It's freedom cannot be restrained
And it has no responsibility to chaos.
It wrecks the beach
Swallows the trees.
It is excited at its freedom.
Freedom again is as the wind
That raises the dust into my eyes
And scatters the dirt at the market place.
Freedom is the black cloud that
Travels with the rain scaring sunshine
With rumbling sound.
I was pleased how my mind's eye
Read the captured moment of time;
Nature in its reign
But I was glad because it was
Rather Freedom, in a frame.
Rough and tumble
Playing tricks and having fun
Picking on pig-tailed girls while
Tromping through the snow.
Boys are like that, yes they are,
Full of vinegar and mischief too.
Climbing trees and falling down
On unsuspecting human beings.
Picking green apples all day long
To munch until their bellies cry,
Rolling in the dirt with laughter while
Finding bugs to chase the girly-girls.
Rough and tumble they may be,
But when harvested men full grown;
Brothers are loving, loyal and protective
Turned into strong good men through and through.
Previously Published: Shattered Moonbeams 2016
Fire trucks and building blocks
Puppy poop and muddy shoes
These are the tools of boyhood
Gone too quickly to be of mind
Soon it’s cars and motorcycles
Football, rugby and hockey
Rough and tumble sports
Turn little boys into young men
Moms wonder where their angel went
And who is this man in their kitchen
Young maidens start a new chapter
It begins again with the next generation
Resting there, beneath the sod,
Lie two young, bosom friends.
They shared the joys and toils of life,
From childhood, down in Texas,
To this grassy knoll where their story ends.
Now, the mysteries of life and youth
Are hard to understand.
Especially in times like these,
When winds of restlessness and change
Are blowing wild across the land.
Both, Tom McQueen and Billy Barnes
Were fine, but reckless boys.
Bill had a fiery temper,
While Tom just lived for teasing--
Jests and jokes were his favorite toys.
Though friends, they often mixed it up,
In their rough and tumble way.
Billy's boiling point was low,
And Tom, who only spoke in fun,
Always knew which words to say.
Their tussles never lasted long,
Though sometimes they were rough.
They thrived on scrapes and bruises,
But no grudge could come between them;
They were made of tough, forgiving stuff.
They joined us on the cattle drive
When both were seventeen.
They pulled their weight from dawn to dark,
And I never heard them once complain.
No braver lads I've ever seen.
--continued...
Days of Forever
With every day,
we plant a bit
gather a bit,
use a bit.
Time’s waning irrigation
renders dry many tributaries.
From high in the ethos-sphere
some of purity’s regeneration
meanders down rivulets of calm
while certain regrets clamor endless echoes
from mind’s canyon to canyon.
Some may ask…
What of the times
when fragrance fills the air,
when Alpine’s flower reverence
dances its season beside trickling brooks?
And lest we forget our concrete avenues
where stanchions of glass and steel
hold mysteries aloft with lessons’
East side to West side,
seeking out willing listeners.
We always remember those rough and tumble planting seasons of growing up,
when sunlight seems clouded
and food for flesh
momentarily begets starvation of thought
Yet with temperance of satiation,
we arrive at harvest time
and suddenly new sprouting appears,
the cycling conundrum of time blinks open again,
the bard’s handiwork resounds: to be or not to be.
For such breath-held moments of question
ushers out the darkness of sleep,
begetting the radiance of sunrise,
the waking from Nature’s perpetual dreams,
opening eyes to harvest from those of seed.
A friend in a pinch is seldom a cinch
to be found in a world uncaring.
Some might offer aid, then want to be paid,
with an attitude overbearing.
Friends made from the heart will never depart
though the way may be rough and tumble.
They stay at your side through a rocky ride
to help you go on if you stumble.
When myriad woes attack you like foes
or obstacles rise up in doubles,
those loyal appear to assuage your fear
and bolster your spirits in troubles.
Once it’s clear to you that a friend is true,
you possess a most precious treasure,
with rewards that grow far more than you know
or a jeweler’s loupe could measure.
If you’re tempest-tossed and find yourself lost,
shy of courage to make you bolder,
or your cherished hopes fly out of your scopes,
you can lean awhile on their shoulder.
Whatever the rhyme or reason or time,
by silent accord in friendship’s creed,
true friends will be there, your fortunes to share.
A friend in need is a friend in deed.
Aye, friends of this sort are a special breed.
A friend in need is a friend indeed!
~ Harley White
I get a little bolder
getting older
since my unravel,
voice travels
to my Beholder.
Rough and tumble, rolls along,
but you’re not wrong
if you are shrinking,
not thinking
lyrics to a song…
————
A Streambed Quintet: 7a:4a:5b:3b:5a
There were infinite shades of green.
A few angelic-scented cascades.
A pair of brown birds sang to me.
I tossed a bit of chocolate on the pine needle carpet.
They pecked the pieces and quickly flew off.
Somewhat ungrateful-I thought.
Breaching the tree line, the apron was next.
Thick-necked marmots played alpine flutes.
With rough-and-tumble attitudes.
The pikas were shy and very difficult to find.
(furry headed stones against the talus gray sky).
After hiking a dozen switchbacks.
I came upon a crushed emerald pond.
Granite-lined and orchid-shaped.
Living off winter's froth.
I decided the pond
wouldn't be nameless after all.
I'll name it Noah.
I finally reached the pinnacle.
I was greeted by a shiny gummy bear.
At elevation, it looked like a yellow gem.
Another hiker boasted that he was the second-highest thing
in the lower forty-eight. (He was taller than me).
I was too fatigued to say anything.
The panorama was humbling/the air was pinkish and pure.
I was nearer to God than I'd ever been before.
I re-entered the forest, sipping a cherry soda.
That night I slept as if I were orphaned from death.
Dreaming of chocolate birds and giant yellow bears.
When I awoke, I was no longer the tallest of anything.
Common sense if learnt,season to season
Excels all intellectual reason.
Treading life through its rough and tumble
Tossed into its deepest abyss
Find myself face to face with
Those limpid pools of adoration
Assuaging my ruffled emotions
All dads make daughters feel special
Mine being no exception
He walks in step with me
Flying down from Heaven.
Earlier submitted
Date Oct 17 2016
Resubmitting for Contest 260 max 38 lines
Date Jan 7 2017
It’s fun time
Election time
Don’t say
I don’t care a dime
If this is so
You’ll miss
The highs and the lows
Some call it
Dance of Democracy
But you see
It’s no graceful dance
But Shiva's ‘Tandav'
Pulls, pushes and shoves
This is politics'
Rough and tumble
You have to screech, scream
And not just mumble
To be heard
Above the election din
Slander, abuses and accusations- no sin
Calling each other names
That’s the game
And, as for the voters
Election season’s prize catch
Those who can
Make the leaders
Win their poll match
For them
It’s raining freebies
They know
They are being pleased
By something called
The party’s ‘manifesto’
They can see through
Your's 'All truth'
The other's 'All lies'
Now, let’s wait
Till May 23
To know
Which way
Rolls the dice.