Best Snorts Poems
I am what I meet in
My mirror; a reflection
Of perception, an idea
That’s me. I am a bunch
Of parts, named like
Constellations of stars
Real enough but labels all
The same. I am me and this;
Fleshy bipedal creature
That snorts and dozes and
Walks and talks and wonders
About, well everything.
I am a legacy of things gone
Before; the result of aeons
Of complex activity, of which
I am ignorant. I am what comes
Before things that will happen
Of which I am ignorant. I am a
Paper boat, riding a stream
Catching glimpses of dreams
That pass me by as I soak it
Up so much that I dissolve
And finally die!
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
(Why I'm Still Breathing)
When the cow was dry, she was compliant.
When she calved, she turned vicious
and no fence could hold her,
but she gave milk in abundance,
and Dad refused to sell her.
She chased Mother 'round and 'round the barn
until Mom panicked, climbed the corner logs,
and perched under the roof,
clinging like a cicada shell on a weed-pod.
Beasty pawed and bellowed until Dad came home.
"I could gain on her on the corners,"
Mother said, "because I could turn faster,
but she gained on me on the straightaway."
Plug-ugly tore through the fence,
into the garden, where Mom and I worked.
"Run, Cona Faye, run," my mother shouted.
How did she know? The cow passed Mother
and thundered straight for me. I ran.
At the fence, snorts filled my ears. Hot breath
steamed my back. I saw myself stomped,
pulverized into the dirt. I turned, screaming
at full volume, and flailed my arms
like a windmill in a strong wind.
That old red cow locked her front legs
and skidded like a freight train on full brake.
I seized the moment, and scaled that rail fence.
Ah, ‘Love’! a lover’s repeated mantra!
I see me mutter it, just now, very now.
Sigh I high, a busy, burning furnace,
scrolling lines with aching, grieving woes;
she, a charmed worm, wriggles, snorts,
while floating on a fluffy, velvety cloud.
Is this repeated mantra pricier like a jewel:
a sapphire, a diamond, pregnant with
quintuplets? I know she never touched,
- she grieves! - a sapphire or a diamond.
Even necklaces howl at her golden neck —
It’s only a dream: a fluffy, airy dream,
A snorting, never wakening, dream.
When I say, “Love”, LUST - in me
SMILES: luscious, vicious, LUST —
that stays like a cat-snake, light-red,
cool inside “Love”, coiled - hiding —
its head in mid of his slithering body,
and approaches its prey - the victim
of love – STRAIGHT! - straight at night.
Jealousy, the quintuplet brother of Lust,
chuckles on hearing my mantra, "Love",
“There exists a hairy thinness between
Love and Me. We’re quintuplets”.
On my face, jealousy reads sky-rising
Flames in Troy and in an ivory pearl,
And I see Theseus puffing a mount
of flames at Hippolytus
and Love drowning in rising flames —
and other two quintuplet brothers moving,
blindfolded, round and round the dazzling pyre.
*A 3rd Place* in the following contest (Judged on Jan. 5, 2021)
Jan. 4, 2020 (originally posted on Dec. 2, 2020)
Your best free verse 2020 Poetry Contest
Contest sponsor: John Hamilton
* A 2nd Place* in the following contest (judged on Dec. 10, 2020)
Dec. 2, 2020
Catharsis Poetry Poetry Contest
Contest sponsor: Silent One
Inspiration from my own poem, “Jealousy” (published in 2018)
Santa snores
Chin bobbing
Teeth whistling
Elves laughing
At the sight
Rudolf snorts
Awakened
By the noise
In bad mood
Contest sponsored by Charles Messina
Charlieku 3-3-3 contest
Penned 16/12/2018
My darling Bertha, all people agree
Is the ugliest= mutt they ever did see
She squeaks and she snorts
She has whiskers and warts
But she's the most charming of ladies to me
2/27/23
It caught her when she didn’t expect,
Attacking her in a tight whirl,
It came at her from out of the blue,
To put her into a swirl,
And there was nothing at all that she could do,
Nothing to stop the snorts,
Nothing to stop her belly ache laughing,
From laughing at the silliest thoughts,
These fits of laughter they had their own plan,
Ignoring her every desire,
To stop them, calm them, pack them away,
Instead her laughter got higher,
Each nerve in her body had gone to a party,
Her body became a little bit wild,
When the littlest joke was said to her,
When her lips went off in a smile.
You’ve got to have a certain knack
when opening your Silly Sack;
the beasts within will soon attack
with no hold barred, no turning back.
Now these are not the monstrous sort,
it’s just that they do not comport.
Of mischief, they are never short,
treat mayhem like it is a sport.
Prepare for giggles, snorts, and laughs,
guffaw at awkward giraffe gaffes,
where pigs with dirt soap take mud baths,
where self-signed cars give autographs.
Juno the dog is in there too;
you know what she likes best to do.
She’ll give horse rides, and when we’re through,
we’ll see our parents at the zoo!
So loose the drawstring, open wide;
heck, you might even jump inside!
A Silly Sack’s the place to hide -
with imagination as your guide!
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I wrote this as quatrains first, then remembered the contest and wrote it as limericks - frankly, I like the quatrains better...
Written: February 26, 2025, for Antony Biaanco Contest
*************************
City hum drifts through spurious ways,
teeming in a wild, woody ward.
The jasmine vine twists down to
a jagged sill for a moment before
sinking into a cool, katabatic pit.
Early rush-hour sounds—farts and snorts—
cram the air, moments blending
into the drive-by without a stroll,
as rain-soaked, worn stone slabs
Mark the corner store—
where you used to grab milk,
soap, or other staples.
The chill of an icy night—
gives way to a sun-kissed morning glow.
Sitting at my desk, chatting on the phone,
canceling appointments for the boss.
He’s staying a little longer in Honolulu,
musing over which states—
the neighbors moved to.
Do they remember how
crabgrass took over?
The streets are empty except—
for a fridge that somehow
made it to the avenue,
lingering there,
its story is low and uncertain.
Does this questionable life count?
We can’t amend it,
it won’t yield precious plums,
only a mournful structure,
shadows lurking,
and worn trousers that tell tales.
The horizon lies obscured—
by haphazard highways,
stretching into stark,
barren spaces,
where even the flowers have wilted.
Countless scorched dreams,
strained savings,
and buried letters—
linger in forgotten corners.
The fire hydrant no longer
cries out for the world.
"Honky Chateau" continues to compel—
as it meanders the sporadic streets,
streets cloaked in anonymity—
and emptied of life.
The dwindling dirge of
a forsaken place hangs heavily,
with dreams dangling—
in line for food stamps
and community cheese.
Buildings shatter, splinter, and crumble—
crashing, crushing, collapsing
submerged with rivers of fire within.
Crisis tamed,
calamity curtailed,
the police stroll in pairs,
collecting discarded shopping carts.
Dust gently falls—
as yesterday's laments hush
the pigeons to sleep,
mold mingling with the memory—
of barbecued ribs,
those hardened bones
left since last year.
How free I was, I did not know.
Growing up in Chicago, oh
Police in blue, protected streets.
Life was sparkling and sweet.
Verdant lawns were so gleefully mowed.
Evil forces now have grown.
Satan snorts with glee from this throne.
The Prince of Peace, is overthrown.
How free I was, I did not know.
Lord, I fear for our tomorrows.
Streets, hold human blood and sorrow.
Come back, I plead to your great earth.
Crime is rampant, as is hurt.
Restore our bright tomorrow's.
How free I was, I did not know.
12/17/2020
Why do they say money grows on trees?
I don’t know I admit
Her eight-year-old eyes look into my soul.
They kind of do though because money is made of paper
And paper is made from trees, right?
I guess so, I say.
The conversation continues.
On and on and on and on and on.
Have you met eight?
I finally say, “I have a money tree in my yard.”
She snorts, snickers, laughs.
She does have a money tree, her seventeen-year-old sister says.
Her face changes; it is an unfamiliar expression of hesitation.
Wait a second, she says, “You told me that you lie, right?”
Sometimes I admit.
She looks relieved.
“You don’t have a money tree, right?”
Right, I admit.
Shaken down by a determined, serious five-year-old.
Hank had cowboyed on the Triple T Ranch fer nigh on fifty years.
He'd rode the range herdin' beef peerin' betwixt his hoss's ears.
Durin' cattle stampedes he'd broke bones and many a time was throwed,
And he'd been astraddle his saddle so long that his legs was stiffly bowed!
He loved the cowpokin' life but he didn't become rich by any means.
He'd even come to savor Cooky's usual grub of bacon, taters and beans.
Durin' brandin' time he roped and branded many a steer's scruffy hide.
He was a master with the brandin' arn and he wielded it with skillful pride!
He liked lollin' 'round the campfire a-jawin' with pards beneath the stars,
Sippin' java that smelled like old socks, smokin' roll-yer-owns and ceegars.
He pulled many a nighttime guard duty in sleet, snow and peltin' rain,
Blowin' on his harmonica to calm skittish herds which was quite a strain!
He'll miss huddlin' 'round the bunkhouse stove as storms blew driftin' snow,
While he and his pals listened to Tex sawin' away with his fiddle and bow.
Hank hung up his scruffy boots, tattered chaps and sweat-stained hat.
He'd already given away his well-worn saddle and his 44 caliber gat.
This was Hank's last roundup herdin' cattle to Abilene up the dusty trail,
Cussin' and sweatin' to get 'em loaded up to ship on the Chicago rail.
He stopped by fer a few snorts with the boys at the Long Branch cabaret,
Then cantered off into the sunset on Old Dan his trusty hoss, callin' it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
swishing tails
snorts and shaking manes -
siesta's plague
One ticket admission to my home z o o!
SO many creatures, don’t know what to do-
a turtle and a bunny,
a stinky pug so funny,
a Golden Retriever who lost a s c r e w!
The bunny likes smelling the dog’s behinds,
too bad he will NEVER know what he’ll find!
a grossly dingle-berry,
something hairy and scary,
“GO find a carrot you’re way out of line!”
The pug snuffles and snorts through out the night,
then I’m yawning while I’m struggling to write-
the turtle has a long neck,
I’m always like, “WHAT THE HECK?”
then he basks while choking on a termite!
You may think my family is distressed,
and maybe we NEVER get any rest-
a million bucks I won’t take,
we have a bond that WON'T break,
we do love our z o o that’s quite picturesque!
Syllable Count: 10-10-7-7-10
Animal Antics Contest
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Dedicated to my beautiful zoo:
Bo-my sweet Golden Retriever age 11 (dying of cancer :(....)
Mugsy-my stinky Pug age 12
Lucky-my white fluffy bunny age 3
Pebbles-my long-necked turtle age 2
Date Written: August 18, 2016
twas a cold and cloudy day
nippy in nature with trees in sway
that time in winter when days were short
the kind of day when a grave digger
would take a snort
to warm the bones, so to speak
a few more snorts to make it neat
but dig the grave ready for the next day
and the grave digger would earn his pay
it never bothered him that he made a living
digging graves
sometimes he wondered why people were afraid
it's just a place where dead bodies are laid
as long as people are dying
there's money to be made
on his way home singing a song
living in a world where nothing was wrong
or so it seemed
but while he was walking'
one of the thorny briers latched
on to one of his shoe latches
and in one step the bow was gone
unknowingly the grave digger
kept moving along, singing his song
like nothing was wrong
unaware that he could slip
never minding that he could trip
the old grave digger singing his song
without a thought that something was wrong
he reached in his pocket
for a pipe that was'nt there
and was sure that he had droped it
somewhere back there
his search was so intense
it took him all the way back to the grave
but just before he got there
he steped on his shoe string
there was nothing he could do
falling head long into the grave
where a broken neck was waiting
and also his pipe laid
so we'll end this story like Esop ends his
there is a moral to the story
for all the growing kids
smoking is bad for you