Best Shooing Poems
First light and her shadows angle silent, long as the crawling ivy
Tuck themselves away beneath, underworld of stem and leaf
My eyes so cold afrost, fall like flake or feathers lost, upon the yawning flowered garden
Up from yonder down a trelis, holding onto lasting breaths
Whilst my heart's love unspoiled like a buried treasure hidden
Wandering around my metaphoric dark, I gaze onto wilds, meadows of another life
Sun drops her drizzle, trickles shooing dews of remnant way
And the rising ball o fire's falsetto braises ends of petals silk and lace
But why does thunder strike not once but twice even thrice and on
Pierce as morning rays inward to reveal tis place which I thought to have been erased
To render hours faster, passing seasons after, leaving all instilled behind
And watch transfixed upon the dance of a single gypsy flora
Whos flutters velvet wings waltzing amidst palettes de pandora
Writhes and rhythms weaving in and out of dreams betwixt its currents
Resurrecting the yearns of man for chance, thus to be
As the innocence of tender grass beyond this stained glass window
Wearing clouds of happiness atop my head
Swaying with the she spirit of elements of independence
Categories:
shooing, happiness, love, philosophy, romance,
Form:
Romanticism
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
Categories:
shooing, celebration, humor,
Form:
Limerick
Susie Smith spent several summers swimming salty seas
Surfing seemed safer than slippery slopes on snow skis
Until susie was swiftly swallowed by swells of super size
and several sand sharks startled her in a shocked surprise
Susie Smith still spends sunny summers on sandy shores
shooing away seagulls that steal her scrumptious smores
Susie searches for sea shells and starfish in shallow shoals
squealing as sudden summer squalls soak her as she strolls
December 30, 2020
Tongue Twister Challenge
Sponsored by: Joe Sandler
Categories:
shooing, beach, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
There it stands, desolate and alone
That roofless shell where the winds
Still whisper of the past
When scampering children's squeals
And wheeling seabirds' cries
Rose thinly through the air.
A thatched croft from which a healthy living was scraped
A shirt-sleeved man, braces showing,
Bald pate bunneted against the sun,
Bent over to tend his plot
An aproned woman cheerfully shooing away the hens
To collect the eggs for the evening meal
Beside a silvery sea stretching
To the horizon
Hiding the city lights and its imagined pleasures
Until those dreams drew the young away
Watched sadly by the elderly pair
Their exodus damning
The island to its desolation
Where still the birds' cries squeal
And the wind through the grass softly whispers
Surrounding the now silent croft
In the salt sharp air
What homely pleasures such a life once offered
Now the graveyard of fading memories
While the once busy city streets
Stand empty drained of life
As the virus continues to take its toll
Categories:
shooing, bereavement, happiness, loneliness, memory,
Form:
Free verse
People like spokes of a wheel
Streaming in the church on a Sunday morning hill;
The preacher talks of the prodigal son,
While the gathering ends in a reverend song.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
The smell of the enticing pot
Of chuck and potatoes and onions, carrots,
Conjure memories of Sunday dinners,
Where a table was set for returning sinners.
And Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
Filled and sleepy I had to wash dishes,
And left alone with my own wishes
That I, too, could nap while the folks read papers,
Instead of stuck with cloth and scraper.
While Mama left the roast on Sunday.
My mind would drift to people foreign thin, hungry and hot.
In other worlds across the seas,
And my young girl’s heart would dejectedly drop
Like my recent church bowed knees.
Where Mamas don’t cook roasts on Sunday
And now that I am old looking back on my life,
I hope my little coins helped feed a needy child,
Shooing away some flies from its mother’s eyes,
I pray that I’ll remember why,
Mama cooked a roast on Sunday.
Categories:
shooing, christian, mother, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
My Muse
This muse – personal trainer of my pen,
This restless spirit pacing in imagination’s sanctuary,
Gathers fleeting moments into anticipation’s tabernacle
Swaddles divine laughter, brooding gloom and holy fire
With scented leaves from her perfumed garden
Hallowed space clothed in inspiration
Where my love and loss embrace in genesis
Shooing away paralyzed procrastination
To transcend into creation lyrics and lines
In a cloistered hermitage of rhymes and rhythms
Drifting through defiant midnight in dopplers
With ultrasound colors of fading rainbows
Like pinpoints of ice or fleeting romantic dews -
Drawn from vaults of the eternal’s benediction –
Waking my insomniac meditations
So in my deafness I may hear her abiding presence,
In mystical and magic lines like prisms glow
Follow through
Dusky passages of visions
Poetic shame tattooed in rust
Enthralled by
Her faceless sacred songs played in my heart
So we join hands
Then lift our tousled words in nude prayers and pleas
In the unbroken sacramental circle of life
Cried to the four winds, seas and oceans
To praise the infinite everlasting.
1-4-23
Categories:
shooing, inspiration, muse,
Form:
Free verse
Four Short Poems for the Apocalypse
Poem #1 – “Reality Bites”
Feeling so hopeless.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I can feel it, but I don’t know quite where.
Reality bites.
Feeling so awkward and sad.
I knew it was bound to happen.
But still,
I can’t get it out of my mind.
The last time I saw her,
There in that stuffy smelly room,
She was shooing the demons away.
It is true.
The gods make those who are about to die
As mad as gadflies
Without blood to suck.
Reality bites.
Feeling so empty.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I thanked the stars the night she died.
Poem #2 – “Part Biscuit Part Bone”
I shiver when I think about it.
Getting’ up at four in the morning to walk six miles.
There is only one fool who would do such a thing.
My brain is sometimes cracked like my sidewalk.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
But when I walk in the darkness
The entire world is mine.
I am the only one alive
And I salute the ghosts in the shadows.
They want my soul
And I want their ethereal essences.
I shiver when I think about it.
Maybe death is like a walk at four.
There is only one fool who would think that.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
Poem #3 – “Baked Babylon”
Squeezing the forceps, handlessly
Like a pair of tweezers with no grip.
I groan and suffer alone.
Like Grover Cleveland back in 1892
When his cancerous jaw was dug into
By mustached doctors wearing pink carnations,
Digging and gouging and tugging
Like some gravedigger looking for soft earth.
Baked Babylon is my grease.
Let it smoke and oilize.
I want death for myself, no one else.
One billion children do not deserve the incineration.
Poem #4 – “Why Am I Thinking?”
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I stink?
Is it because I’m stuck breathing?
Why am I dying?
Is it because life is a game with no winners?
Is it because I seek pleasure in a world of pain?
Why am I crying?
is it because life is so futile?
Is it because death is the best part?
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I can’t help it?
Can’t help stopping the inevitable?
Oh death!
You wait for me over there,
Like a forlorn lover,
Behind shaded curtains in the night.
Categories:
shooing, angst, death,
Form:
Free verse
THE OLD COVERED BRIDGE
Late fall
Country scene
One birch, close by, already bare
With a taste of frost in the air
And this sturdy, old, covered bridge – this haven -
Strong tiled, tightly sided. A few slats still thrive -
Strips of weathered-green survive.
Late fall,
Looking far, from Terry’s Mount,
At distance she commands the eye -
Her autumn regalia, the peaks, gold-burnished dell
And the mill-side water’s ebb and swell
One’s fancy cannot help but dwell on a few histories
Imagining, within, the seasonal mysteries
Cowbells
The few been herded o’er,
How the boards did rattle,
The frightened, mooing-roar of cattle,
Stomping, desperation. And old herder Jim –
Yelling, shooing, face beat red.
Twas near the end of him.
Blizzard
I’m limping, all wore out,
We’re near a half-mile from home
Old covered bridge looked so good.
Inside, all was safe, and dry the sure-caulked wood.
Outside, the tempest’s blast, high drifts a fright
She saved us did old covered bridge that awful night.
Spring flood
Worst winter folks could remember
Storm after storm beginning early November
Come March, though, those roiling, boiling clouds abated,
Temperature soared, the record heavy fall quickly melted.
Old covered bridge, standing high, was tested, belted,
Floor washed away, but, in the main, saved those dreadful days.
By moonlight
I sit, thinking, 3:00 a.m., can’t sleep.
Pitch black, but the Moon kisses her silver tiles
What phantoms lurk beneath, what secrets does she keep -
All those midnight rendezvous, young men’s loving wiles,
All the rustic yearnings born of mere, solitary charm,
All those fond, romantic plans hatched within her kindling arms.
Categories:
shooing, nostalgia, old, autumn, old,
Form:
Free verse
Spring has grown old on the brink of summer
the swallows having arrived in time have finished
restoring their nests now jump up past my window
to their home above right under the roof they love
dashing down for speeding on dancing and yelling
shooing off the clouds to make way for the sun
young once again is the world and the Green is new
lush devoid of the dust that will have gathered when
nights will be growing like the main fruit of summer
and eventually colorless blossoms will open and bless
the world with the magic of White lulling nature to sleep
till the time when light grows and starts a new Spring
Categories:
shooing, seasonsworld, time,
Form:
Free verse
< Yellow Belly !
Bees, Bees, the dancing machines
Polinatators that bite me
Gift biogenic amines
How you make me swell
Yellow belly tarnations
Clinging Clanging to butt's cheek
Cursing swating and shooing
To sting destroyer
* Story: A yellow belly flew into cars window and landed on seat and of course
I had to be the one to roll on it and get stung in butt lol
Written by
Katherine Stella 4/8/12
Entry for
Linda Marie's
Bite Me Contest
G.L. All
I Bite
Destroyer-Poet LOL
Categories:
shooing, adventure, education, fantasy, fear,
Form:
Dodoitsu
I've been called itsy bitsy,
and it's true I am quite small.
But that's just in relation,
to you, who are quite tall.
No one stops to realize,
how hard my life can be,
I'm an itsy bitsy spider,
Matilda, that is me.
A hairy back and eight long legs,
sometimes I get the blues,
especially when I have to find,
four matching pairs of shoes.
I spin and weave my web,
it's my home, it's where I stay,
then you with broom or vacuum,
sweep or suck my home away!
I have no fridge or freezer,
I eat no eggs or cheese.
My web it snares my supper,
of flys, ants, moths and bees.
Sometimes I am quite lonely,
I haven't many pals.
You boys all try to squish me,
and I terrify the gals!
But I will not try to bite you,
I don't mean you any harm.
And if you'll stop to chat with me,
I'll turn on all my charm.
So the next time that you see me,
or one of my many kin,
instead of shooing us away,
why not invite us in?
By~Michelle Lacey
Categories:
shooing, animals, children, funny,
Form:
Light Verse
I was once yours
Take this photo for instance...a toothless girl on the back of two legs.
The folded side is you!
That day we shared an ice cake sitting on the bench.
Then I went running, shooing the birds feeding on rice grains in the swept yard.
On another day, we scoured the forest for dry cinnamon wood
and you reminded me of Christmas.
The casuarina branch we cut trailing behind me like a fat broom.
We sang our songs which echoed off the trees.
I kissed the coco plums before eating them.
Something in me grew silently then, but not around me.
Madness came with the absence of serenity which in you lurked.
Emptied my belly of all fire, feeding me with myself,
more than rage and spite.
Many kisses after that bore no sweetness.
I kept looking for sincerity in rivers where everything plummeted down,
where tenderness holds no hands and hearts are debris in crazed currents.
Then, I remembered, looking through the glass,
this is the day you scooped me up, the day you pushed flowers into my seams.
And we went trudging again, telling tales of dragonflies in the rain.
Categories:
shooing,
Form:
Free verse
It's morning and just turning light.
The streets are still of traffic
without a soul in sight.
The milk as been delivered
and papa's letting free
the horses from their harnesses
then he'll set himself for tea.
He hates to make the effort
of getting up I say,
of milking dear old Bossie
and shooing hens away.
For they scratch and dig in mama's garden
a thing they shouldn't do.
But Jim has left the gate wide open
and let the bunch get through.
Now Jim is oft to school
to to learn his p's and q's.
He's getting rather upity
he thinks he's rather cool.
Not right to let the hens come in
to scratch in mama's plot.
He wouldn't like it none at all
if I took his toys to play.
He wouldn't like it none at all,
but I think I'll just do it anyway.
Categories:
shooing, growing up,
Form:
Rhyme
(09/11/2011)
One day in September
I lie awake on a couch try to remember,
Where did I buy this cracker?
I believe it was last night when I was sober
Duh! I’ve been way much better,
It must be the drink or whatever
So, it couldn’t be when I was ‘up’ whatsoever
The cracker is not bad however
Tenth of September,
Munching cracker while still in hangover
After last night shooing anger
For Brian Strand 'September' contest
Categories:
shooing, on writing and words,
Form:
Rhyme
If it fits where the
arch less fall in step shooing
upper sinner souls
Categories:
shooing, funny,
Form:
Haiku