Best Short Short Poems
the day I died
was a rainy one
but the sun came out
in the nick of time
I can laugh about it now
but it was a worry
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties tune—forgive me, I was born too soon,
Going to fake it anyway, and bring back yesterday.
Inka-dinka-do, that old soft shoe—and I danced with Georgia Brown.
Muskrat rag—“can you spare me a ***?”—
And the stock market came dow-w-w-w-w-w-n!
It’s A Nineteen-Twenties song, the decade didn’t last too long,
Nineteen-Thirties knocked it flat, like a Babe Ruth baseball bat.
Black-face minstrel on a white man’s stage,
Girl smoking cigarettes, it’s all the rage—
And New York made that music move.
Bath-tub gin in your coffee cup—
Home-town girl acting so grown up—
Those East Coast boys, her Mama won’t approve!
Scott Fitzgerald and his wayward wife,
She danced on the tables while he drank up his life—
And only Billy Sunday told the truth:
They corrupted the nation’s youth!
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties dance—
If you missed it once, here’s another chance.
Charleston, if you can—
Honey, swing that man.
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties beat,
Hotel ball-room, move your feet.
Flapper with the short, short hair—
Young folks, I declare!
Sweet, sweet Sue making eyes at you—
And a gangster named Capone.
Razz-a-ma-tazz, and that Dixie jazz—
And that famous slide trombone…
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties dream---
Make that sweet nostalgia gleam,
Press your ear to the radio—
Will Rogers says “Hello!”
Sexiest Legs Ever In Her Short Mini-skirt
Sexiest legs ever in her short mini-skirt,
new teacher's sexy appeal made we young boys hurt.
Sixty-nine and seeing more was a young lad's dream
we were all on that dedicated lust-filled team.
Three fantastic female teachers, each broke the mold
we were still naive young boys at fifteen years old.
Our sexual desires were programmed in too deep
O' what dreams we had in our fitful sex-crazed sleep!
Looking back, our lives were eager learning curves then
we knowing much but not yet able bodied men.
Magical thoughts of passionate nights interludes
with those young sexy new teachers, none were old prudes.
Our childish little lusting thoughts, trash to be burned.
Big changing world too big, so much to be learned.
R.J. Lindley,
July 13th, 1979
12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables: 180
Total # Lines: 20 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 129
Note-- In 1969, our school had three new teachers, fresh from college
hired to teach. Each one was not only drop dead gorgeous but each one
dressed sexy and wore short, short mini-skirts a couple days a week.
We freshmen, most 15 years old, a few at 16 -all were put into a frenzy
and often found it hard to walk to the chalkboard when called to do a math problem..
thunder crashes. . . .
near the fireplace I inhale
rain’s scent in your hair
you snuggle
warmly in my arms. . . .
I taste your mouth
For Charles Henderson's
Short Short Haiku Poetry Contest
rhythmic structure of a verse
study of metre prosody
patterns of syllables of types
stressed syllables at regular interval
qualitative
long short short dactyl
long long spondee in dead classics
alexandrine twelve syllables in french
five characters in chinese all rules then
people had lot of time to spare
sequence of feet is a metre too
stressed and unstressed like people
five iambic feet are iambic pentameter
paradise lost and sonnets
trochee is stressed unstressed reverse of iamb then
spondee anapest dactyl amphibrach pyrrhic
metric cousins
iamb in two anapest in three common modern english
unrhymed iambic penta is blank verse
bill and milton liked it rhymed pair of lines in
iambic is heroic couplet now for humor
BEETHOVEN'S FIFTH BY THE BOSONS
All the particles tune to play,
but in their quantum noted way.
They modulate a vibration,
in harmony with creation.
They will hit each note along the staff,
in vectored space they choreograph.
Joyous song together or apart,
they sketch for CERN their abstract art.
They dance in the lights of off or on,
and vibrate in a resonate song.
They have no care for an Orthogonal pair,
or in complex congegates performed with flair.
Instead they know just what is wrong,
and they compose, in short, short, long.
They voice the motif in notes of four,
It's a Symphony of Mass in score.
When Bosons play Beethoven's Fifth,
and though it's just CERN's Four One myth.
Bosons pretend with fun to hum,
that what they sing is Di-Di-Di-Dumm
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties tune—forgive me, I was born too soon,
Going to fake it anyway, and bring back yesterday.
Inka-dinka-do, that old soft shoe—and I danced with Georgia Brown.
Muskrat rag—“can you spare me a ***?”—
And the stock market came dow-w-w-w-w-w-n!
It’s A Nineteen-Twenties song, the decade didn’t last too long,
Nineteen-Thirties knocked it flat, like a Babe Ruth baseball bat.
Black-face minstrel on a white man’s stage,
Girl smoking cigarettes, it’s all the rage—
And New York made that music move.
Bath-tub gin in your coffee cup—
Home-town girl acting so grown up—
Those East Coast boys, her Mama won’t approve!
Scott Fitzgerald and his wayward wife,
She danced on the tables while he drank up his life—
And only Billy Sunday told the truth:
They corrupted the nation’s youth!
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties dance—
If you missed it once, here’s another chance.
Charleston, if you can—
Honey, swing that man.
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties beat,
Hotel ball-room, move your feet.
Flapper with the short, short hair—
Young folks, I declare!
Sweet, sweet Sue making eyes at you—
And a gangster named Capone.
Razz-a-ma-tazz, and that Dixie jazz—
And that famous slide trombone…
It’s a Nineteen-Twenties dream---
Make that sweet nostalgia gleam,
Press your ear to the radio—
Will Rogers says “Hello!”
Rapacious Itch
It felt things coming,
The undeniable bottom feeder reality,
Where thought had no credulity,
Where irrational emoting ruled,
Void of mind’s prep,
Blind of light’s revealing purpose.
Such remained
This well-rehearsed and produced
Pulp life infestation.
It remembered…
Once many clambered to the marble steps,
Where dreams born of teachings
Promised delivery of reward.
But today…
All that is found
Is perpetuation of schoolyard practices,
Where bullying,
Mocking,
And “my dick is bigger than your dick” war-cries
Intimidate life’s playground with slippery slopes.
Down 5th Avenue,
Up Park Avenue,
The viral contaminants parlay their wears,
A far more contagious disease than Ebola.
And it knows…
Unlike a possible cure for a biological virus,
This consumerism equation seems without solution,
Given little of non-material worth remains
Visible on the species’ blackboard mess.
Today’s squirming parade of absence
Is dominated by the pounding of urban-warrior chests,
Of Armani jackets atop unlaced “made-to-look-raunchy” boots,
Ken Doll fantasies courting the strut of Barbie Doll dreams
Clicking attention with stiletto heels
Beneath ripped shorter than short-short insecurity.
On it spreads,
Past the Wall Street reviewing stands,
Where unlike the fickle nature of society’s infection,
Market makers understand a fever’s ups and downs,
Vulnerability’s capricious norm endorsing today’s
Debauchery fashion to Trump-taste,
Loudness to drown out worthy music,
Shock to shatter the true awe of discovery,
And the drowning of excellence
As it continues its desperate clinging,
All while mediocrity’s narcissistic sell-off
Creates another closing-bell windfall.
The pestilence holds firm its lock on discernment’s immune system,
Mutating daily into a mind-shrinking captivity,
A synaptic virulence rapidly rendering this once simple discomfort
Into an insatiable itch that will never realize its pursuit of “Ah!”.
Aiyyo, Fuq him I'm so mad right now yo! For real, Fuq him!
You know what, I smiled that smile to get his attention
Needless to mention I sprayed that perfume to get him reminiscin'
I put on them high-healed shoes and the short, short skirt
Fuq him and the oil I put on my body
See, I'm a woman who loves her man, and Fuq him if he don't love me
Got me frantically crying eternally
Dialing six numbers and hanging up on the seventh
Dialing seven numbers and hanging up on the first ring
I'm dialing seven numbers waiting til' he answers and
Just plain hanging up
And Fuq him if he don't love me
He got me calling up old flings to change the scene and
Hanging with friends to make me seem happy
Going to the store just to be busy
Reading this book about love that reminds me to
Fuq him cause he don't love me
I want to holla at anotha
Just so he can see
I want to holla at anotha nigga
That expects the best out of me
I proceed to holla at a nigga but he don't hear me
And see It's not that he don't want to holla,
He just never heard me scream, Cause
"Deep In my mind, I’m only dreamin'”
I would wake wit a thought of this nigga
Then remind myself saying Fuq Him
Cause he don't love me
Curl my hair to keep shiit right for this nigga
Pretty underwear to show at night for this nigga
Trimming all kinds of pubic hair for this nigga
At one point, thought I’d give in quick for this nigga
Even though I know I should forget this nigga
I want to hold and squeeze and love this man
Though for this man I have portrayed a fool
Wrung myself out into a puddle of silly putty
And I make more than him So...
It ain't about the money!!
So Fuq that! I love that Nigga!
you would have turned 31 today
and today i feel so sad
because you was only with us
such a short short time
then you went away
i remember the day you was born
and as we watched you grew
but your life here on earth cut short
devasting those you knew
you was the sweetest person
and your heart was generous and kind
although you,ve gone to be with our loved ones
your always in our hearts
and on our minds
so happy birthday scotty
it,s a day we,ll never forget
we wish we,d had more time with you
thats something we.ll always regret
I’ve scraped together peace where I could find it
When sorrowed, I no longer feel the need to hide it
I’ve played the role again
Of a child’s favorite toy
Cherished for a short, short while
Then forgotten and cast away
Well, i no longer care...
Life will ever be unfair
But it goes on, so I should too,
and I’ll have to play this game
without you.
sorrylittlesharky.com
We will be together once again;
Lining mongst heaven’s host;
Meet in the spirit;
Presently future tense terrific;
Hallelujah;
Eventually in a little while;
Meet in the spirit;
In a short, short while;
While all the while in a twinkling of an eye;
Meet in the spirit;
We’re be together again ;
Meet in the spirit;
8/3/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2022©
Here where there`s reason to mourn
Here where the rivers sob at all times,
Who would enter the day with a song?
Who would look at the glancing sun?
Who would dance where misery`s the beat?
Who would laugh where sorrow`s the joker?
In this place of ours
where the fear of the unknown
rages without end,
where misfortune pours upon our heads
her lover`s oil,
where all we do is die in short-short slices;
Who would rest?
Who would slumber?
Who is able to drink of sleep`s cup/
The Sitter
Nothing disturbed the tranquil air,
The tick, tick of the time-worn clock.
The sitter in the wooden chair
Not hearing the gentle, gentle knock.
An old, old man by the broken door,
Breathed in the still, still air.
The sitter looked but did know
The man who entered there.
‘Who are you?’ the sitter asked,
‘I am Memory?’ the man replied
As the quiet, quiet sitter gazed
Upon a face once recognised.
Memory, seeing no thought to share,
Lingered a short, short while
And the sitter in the wooden chair
Smiled a faint, faint smile
And the clock measured the stillness
As the man left the calm, calm room.
And the sitter sat in silence,
Alone in the still, still room.
Barry Stebbings
22/04/2016
If only we could keep them,
Insulated from the world,
As protected as those first nine months,
When beneath our hearts they’re curled.
We would keep at bay, intruders,
Who would separate our child,
From the safety of our loving arms,
Where his life is undefiled.
But a mother only has him,
To herself a short, short while,
Until temptations find the way,
Her sweet child to beguile.
So while he’s small, she’ll teach him,
The very best she can
And pray that he’ll remember,
‘Til he grows into a man.
For a mother’s love is strong enough,
To stretch across the years,
Even though sometimes the road is paved
With sorrows and with tears.
So all you sons of mothers,
And all dear daughters too.
Though the world may turn against you,
There’s one place you can turn to.
Though it be in memory only,
There’s the safe spot that you knew,
Where protected by your mother.
Not a thing could trouble you.
Turn once again to childhood,
And remove that heavy yoke.
Recall the sound of your mother’s voice,
And the loving words she spoke.
Try once more to remember them,
And the wisdom they impart.
For no truer words were ever heard,
Than those from your mother’s heart.
By: Joyce Johnson