Best Shooed Poems
Mother wore an ample apron
to cover her clean dress.
She'd tell you that's what it was for
if you asked her, I would guess.
But that apron had more uses
than I could even count.
It brought in eggs and vegetables
and could hold a large amount.
I've seen her use that apron
to wipe her dripping brow
as she labored over the big range
that's just an antique now.
Her apron could bring giggles
in a game of peek-a-boo
with her newest, sweet grandbaby
as she hid her face from view.
When we kids were hurt or crying
we'd run to find her lap.
She'd wipe the falling tears away
with a bit of apron flap.
That apron dusted tables
and shooed away the flies.
It did just fine as oven mitts
to take out bubbling pies.
But the greatest of the treasures
that old apron could hold,
was the endless love from Mother
abiding in each fold.
Some people wear baggage like a hat in church,
Still others could conceal it through a customs search!
Me? It depends on the mood that I'm in,
My frame may be thick, but my skin's super thin.
As a child, dysfunction was all that I knew.
Violence and alcohol increased as I grew
And the things that I heard and the things that I viewed,
I packed them all up with my clothes and I shooed.
And when I would meet someone, I'd try to disguise
That baggage as noticeable as my big giant thighs.
"You're beautiful," he'd say, but I knew the truth.
I'm fat and I'm worthless, and I've got the proof.
Locked deep in my psyche, but not deep enough,
Some poisonous, invisible gas out would puff.
And heaven forbid he got an ********!
My baggage was foolproof as a form of protection!
If he seemed too perfect on any given date,
My baggage would whisper, "belittle, berate!"
And so I would treat him like a much lower class
Then turn and retreat with my oversized ass.
But one day I waddled into a cafe
So weighed down with baggage every step of the way
That I knew it was time to this load jettison
So I dropped to my knees and prayed, "Help me! Amen."
The baggage still visits me now and again,
And I have to remind it we're no longer friends
I'm married and he loves me whatever my girth,
Reminding me daily I'm the fairest on earth!!!
Very many years ago,
In the land of rich men called NO,
Bobo, a poor man, had nowhere to go,
"Give me a little space to stay", he pleaded, but lo,
"Your place is out of the city," they shooed him and so,
Outside he stayed in sun, rain and snow,
Rainbows glowed, stars shone, sun rays blazed on NO and Bobo.
Reality was - All the people
In the land of NO
Benefited Out of Bobo's Woes;
For when Bobo died, (and 'twas soon)
The heavens cried, (so did stars, sun and moon)
All lights stopped shining, (darkness invaded)
The men started whining, (fear pervaded)
The rich men died, (one by one)
No one did abide, (no, not one)
NO was no more NO without poor Bobo;
The rich did never know that HE had been their Rainbow.
03/30/17
Mamma wore an ample apron
To cover her clean dress.
She’d tell you that’s what it was for
If you’d asked her, I would guess.
But that apron had more uses
Than I could even count.
It brought in eggs and vegetables
And could hold a large amount.
Her apron could bring giggles
In a game of peek-a-boo
With her newest, sweet grandbaby
As she hid her face from view.
That apron dusted tables
And shooed away the flies
And did just fine as oven mitts
To take out bubbling pies.
But the greatest of the treasures
That old apron could hold
Was the endless love from Mamma
Abiding in each fold.
Won a no. 1 in John's contest.
A spider traipsed onto my knee
While I was reading in the bath
Though most might jump and scream and flee,
I just gave a little laugh
A baby Daddy Long-Legs!
(Though really, 'twas just a son)
I shooed him back onto his web,
And continued reading on...
*title is a spin on "Strange Bedfellows" ;)
*Lessons in life are funny contest entry
~JustThatArchaicPoet
Have a Guiness and let’s toast St. Patrick
Whether laddie, lass or old codger geriatric
A bold gent with such clout
All Eire’s snakes he shooed out
Never has there been a saint so theatric!
Robert
I am an old codger geriatric
But I will raise a toast to ST. Patrick
For shooing those snakes
Away for our sakes
He definitely was Saint Fantastic
Beryl
Chances of precipitation zero. Chances of dew, zero. Chances of a raindrop, one hundred percent, as she was spotted in the sky about six seconds ago. If Adrianna lands here, how will we collect her? Who gets access? Where was the sighting? How accurate is the intel?
The ants had already dug a pond in their anthill in case she landed there. The beetles came around and tried to suck up to the ants, but they briskly shooed them off. The faeries were the tellers of the tale; the sighting, after all, had come from their high-flying ally, eagle. The faeries, like the elves, and nymphs, were pretending they might share Adrianna, knowing full well they would rather fight to the death than share her.
The owls had set mint cups out on their oak leaf branches, hoping she would land in one of them. The entire village was abuzz. No one had seen a raindrop here for twenty-two minutes, four hours, and sixty-three days.
One tiny raindrop – named Raindrop Adrianna was spotted in the sky, six seconds ago. Suddenly brothers and sisters were fighting, wrens and robins were not speaking. Faeries and nymphs were lying. It was not unusual for one little harmless raindrop to start world war six, which is why we always name our raindrops after women. The eagles and the owls had not been speaking for decades, over the last raindrop.
Raindrop Adrianna had turned the whole world upside down. She probably had no idea what turmoil she had started, as she had already landed on a grateful red tulip, on the other side of the village. We told Adrianna’s story until World War Seven, which was started by Raindrop Rhoda.
Written 11-16-2018
Contest: The Raindrop Poetry Contest Sponsor: Craig Cornish
There's wood for chopping stacked up near the door
to fuel warm fires in the kitchen stove
which Papa proudly bought when I was four,
long time before I left this house to rove.
A puppy lies contented on the rug.
He's bigger than the one I'd called my own,
that pet I'd named for what he was, my Pug,
who cheered me up when I was all alone.
Whenever Mama cleaned, she shooed us out,
and off we'd run down to the swimming hole.
Now Papa's dead and Mama's got the gout.
I rise to go outside and take a stroll.
I bid farewell to summers gone for good;
before I leave again . . . I'll chop that wood.
There is happy ado on the old farmstead as Yuletide draws nigh!
Wondrous things to savor as gales blow and snow begins to fly!
The tempest rages for days - they will surely be snowbound,
But a blazing fire warms the Victorian home - love and cheer abound!
Since early in July Pa has had his eye on a special evergreen tree.
It now graces the parlor and they dance about it with glee!
Brightly lit candles adorn branches of the perfectly shape fir.
'Neath lies The Babe - The Magi offering frankincense, gold and myrrh.
The boys have hefted armloads of wood from the oak tree grove,
For Ma and the girls to cook delectable fare on the wood-burning stove.
Titillating aromas waft from room to room in the gracious old house,
From the roasting goose, venison and tender prairie grouse!
Rusty the dog and Simba the cat lie snuggling nigh the fire.
The family gathers 'round the old pump organ for an impromptu choir.
Bellowng off-key, Pa leads them in carols, all ln spirited mirth,
And later by the hearth, Pa reads the story of the Savior's birth.
The ancient grandfather clock tolls ten- the kids are shooed to bed.
Ma and Pa place presents 'neath the tree in old Santa's stead.
With a twinkle in his eyes, Pa steals a kiss 'neath the mistletoe!
The excited kids scarcely snooze listening for Santa's Ho! Ho! Ho!
NOT FOR THE CONTEST
it was the week after Christmas,
the one when fate had granted me my fondest wish,.....
(a lustrous, ruby-red, Schwinn bicycle that sported a basket in the front, and a bell to ring.)
On that cold, late December night, I'll always remember how suddenly the sky was stained by the color of alarm
My young mother leaving her warm bed at three in the morning
without tying her robe, rousing us all with calm haste
Deep red reflections seeped through mud-splashed window screens
as she shooed us like sheep, down raw-grained stairs.
She pushed us from behind with her two hands,
out the door, and onto a frost-slick back porch,
into the wee hours of early light.
By then, wide-eyed, we stood and watched the fire from a safe distance,
as it consumed our garage. And, my bike.
From the frame of the doorway, and the top step's narrow slat
she enveloped me in her folds of chenille to keep me from shivering.
The cool of her hand on my shoulders,
watching my dad in his attempt with a hose,
to douse the inferno,
all the while, in a faltering voice, warning him to keep safe.
Sounds of sirens wailed in the distance
When I looked up into her face, with anxious eyes
I remember her soft, reassuring voice
"Hush now, don't cry"
"Everything will be alright."
I don't remember much after that,
except looking down, at her bare feet
turning blue in the cold
_____________________________________________________________
Tiny screams come wafting up and then just drift away,
As she scours down her bathroom, on a busy cleaning day.
Small voices in a panic; she hears them yell and screech,
While scrubbing down the place they live with smelly chlorine bleach.
She bends an ear to listen close, then hears a teensy voice.
“Mercy mercy, show us please. We know you have a choice.”
She thinks of spidey in her bath only days before.
She’d coaxed him up the shower stall and gently to the floor.
A paper cup left standing near, to trap all errant bugs,
She often shooed them out the door with everything but hugs.
Spiders, moths and aphids; one time a little mouse,
All were free to live their lives, but not within her house.
Just yesterday the life she saved was but a lowly worm.
Traveling misbegotten trails; his doom was her concern.
And now these many little cries implore her to be kind.
To put away her chlorine bleach and give them all more time.
Their pleading falls on ears gone deaf and sadly each will learn;
She’d rather give a bug a break, than spare one filthy germ.
Just down the gravel road a piece is an old-time country store.
On its saggin' shelves are things you won't find much anymore.
Ladies in bright calico barter with Mr. Draper their eggs and butter,
As they visit neighbors on Saturday nights amid the piles of clutter!
Menfolk lounge on benches in front of the store to discuss the price of hogs,
Argue the merits of John Deere tractors and who has the finest huntin' dogs.
The kids were given fifty-cents and shooed off to the movin' pitcher show.
Later they'll meet at Bruce's Deli Shoppe for ice cream and cups o' joe!
Shoppin' carts or computers ain't used in the store owned by Mr. Draper.
He grabs things off the shelf and totes the bill on scraps of butcher's paper.
Snoozin' nigh the glowin' potbelly stove is Spooks, Mr. Draper's hound.
His inscrutable cat, Wilbur, sprawls upon a barrel of pickles a-sleepin' sound!
Ah, the variety of interestin' stuff available in his store is so replete.
Fels Naptha, Oxydol and Lifebuoy soaps as well as pickled pigs feet,
Wrigley's, Black Jack, Beamans and Clove chewin' gums are on the shelf,
Plus Clark, Power House and Walnetto candies to satisfy yourself!
Farmers keep his bins stocked with fresh roastin' ears and sweet potaters,
Rutabagas, green onions, rhubarb and luscious beefsteak tomaters.
If you can tolerate squeaky floors and Mr. Draper's old-fashioned ways,
Drop by and savor the nostalgic ambience of his store one of these days!
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Just Down The Road" Contest
Our appetite wanted more
Bun and cheese, or potted meat sandwich
They were handed out all in a row
From his small room
Its front door slightly ajar
One unbelievable
Kind hand, fed more than four
Reginald led the way and spoke
"Mr. Drummings, yu hav anyting?"
It was rare not hearing locks unlocked
The ringleader was mostly welcome in
Four siblings, four sandwiches, one hand waving us on
He would feed himself in silence
Inside, where
Some unspeakable spirit lurked
Hunger was no joke to Reg. and us
His role of self-reliance
Modeled after same sex
Granny, and Papa, and Mama had no clue
One afternoon, it was just Reg. and I
In the twinkle of an eye, this opening
My stomach gnawed and caved
A chubby hand shooed me on with a wave
I walked toward St. John (our Primary school)
Felt a sudden sickening lonesomeness
Later, much later
The old man lived
In backyard he dwell
Beside body builder's home
His small wooden abode, seemed enough
It sat humbled, beside Reggie's concrete home
Was the old man eased, from his burden?
*
Dances with eagles in skinny oxygen
Silence is regal, time is an abstract
I humbly look up, at your majestic existence
So still, so cold, so proud, but so much like me…
So timid in the slap of the Northern winds
So in love with love
So much shaken by earthquakes of Human Nature grinning in colliding
plateaus with deep faults.
In the blind of darkness I only have your secret, inner warmth
Lava of our Souls perforates geological barriers,
Layer after layer of memories of past lives…remember?
Our underwater games, the Raising above our Black Sea level
The playful puffs of steaming magma cooling off dreams into Reality…
I see dances of eagles shooed by a deafening propeller
I float in a basket above you: I AM THE QUEEN OF THE WORLD !!!
…and I can fly in the eternity and beyond!!!
You remain smiling coldly , nostalgically still, endlessly Majestic
As I become smaller, and smaller, and smaller
In a minuscule Black Hole where mountains become Gods
As I turn into a still, cold, and proud abstract
in the Rotunda of my childhood Gardens back home…
for John's Contest
'Twas Christmas Eve and cheer abounded in the humble English cottage!
The olde house rang with joy since the children knew with certain knowledge,
That Santa and his reindeer would drop by for a visit later on that night!
Mum was fixing Yorkshire pudding and a goose for their Yuletide delight!
Papa and the kids had trudged through the forest to find the perfect tree!
It stood by the window brilliantly lit with candles for all passersby to see!
Snow flakes as large as ha'pennies wafted down and covered the roof,
To provide a smooth and soft landing place for each little reindeer hoof!
Later they gathered 'round the olde pump organ to sing carols of yore!
Papa read the Nativity Story since the kids wanted to hear it once more.
Mum served cocoa and biscuits with quaffs of hot cider in between.
No mere artist would dare capture with brush this cheery Dickensian scene!
The grandfather clock struck ten and the little ones were shooed off to bed!
They were tucked in bed after stories were read and their prayers were said.
They napped with one eye open when all of a sudden they heard much ado!
Leaping from their beds they tiptoed downstairs where they saw you know who!
'Twas jolly olde Santa busily placing toys 'neath their Christmas tree!
He saw them and said, "Won't you have some milk and biscuits with me?"
Santa smoked his pipe as they sat on his lap playfully tugging his beard,
When to their surprise it came off and the smiling face of Papa appeared!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Debbie Guzzi's "Happy Holidays" Contest