Best Squashes Poems
An oddly-shaped Thanksgiving bird:
quirky
turkey
What we call Grandma's mashed potatoes:
dreamy
creamy
How she adds volume to the main side dish:
fluffing
stuffing
What I always do first:
eat Gram's
sweet yams
Grandpa always slices the Thanksgiving turkey:
Harvest
carvist
Dad always brings a former Monkee's recipe:
Davey's
gravies
Aunt Natasha brings her vegan side dish:
Tash's
squashes
...as does cousin Reginald:
Reggie's
veggies
health-conscious Uncle Theodore is happy:
Ted eats
red beets
Cousin Jeannie brings her specialty:
teen Jean's
green beans
rustic Vern brings gourds from his farm:
bumpkin's
pumpkins
Great Aunt Esther sings an ode to the delicious greens:
salad
ballad
we all love her aesthetically arranged grains:
wild rice
styled nice
Brother Andrew provides chocolates for dessert:
Andy's
candies
Mom is always the last to finish eating:
savors
flavors
What I have after eating too much:
gummi
tummy
Written 20 November 2022
I prepare myself for a deep relaxing bath
but that dratted spider was out to have a laugh
As I pour scented bubble bath into the water
Spidey climbs the wall - he’d also bought his daughter*!
He raises a spindly leg as if to wave hello
that pesky crawling spider really needs to go
It's a living a nightmare, it isn’t a dream
So I emit a very loud ear piercing scream
My heroic hubby dashes to my aid
as my distress was clearly displayed
Whilst I stand their screaming like a stupid bimbo
hubby tosses the weeny spider out the bathroom window
Alas the daddy spider he has other plans
and wriggles his way out of hubby’s hands
Hubby drops the creepy critter onto the floor
spidey plans his escape, he's heading for the door
Hubby pounces on him at breakneck speed
and squashes him flat ... he’s dead indeed*
*A great deal of poetic licence – thankfully there was only one spider and he was tossed out of the Window* I think the warm weather is bringing these pesky spider’s out from hiding:-(
Follow up poem to www.poetrysoup.com/poem/i_confessed_to_a_cold_blooded_murder_1029155
6/9/18
Pumpkin, merry queen of squash,
regnant on accord.
With a smooth and ribb-ed rind
clad in pepo-orange,
two strikes to sever
from the vine.
Gourd!
*Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded by order of her cousin Queen Elizabeth of England in
1587. Detailed accounts record it took two strikes of the axe to sever her head completely.
**A pumpkin is truly the sovereign of gourd squashes. . Ironically, the word 'gourd' is also a slang
term for 'head' giving this poem a most appropriate ending whichever way you look at it!.
***The word ribb-ed in the third line is read as two syllables.
Indeed Columbus knew
Our planet isn’t flat
When in 1492
He found the missing half!
And beheld the land’s corn
And potatoes — unearthed
And green beans galore
That vegetated forth.
Wherein squashes of size
And tomatoes emerged
While the peppers surprise
Gave cuisine a surge.
At the same time, debuted,
Avocados, divine,
Sweet-potato root
And the pineapple find.
Moreover — vanilla,
And the strawberry gem
Plus chocolate, the thriller
— From the Americas, stem.
Plus peanuts in pods
Pecans and cashews . . .
Thus, let us thank G-d
For great recent foods!
In those tender hours before the dawn
I cry that I'm his tragic pawn.
He shreds my senses into tatters
then squashes all the hope that matters.
Yet I feel such a magical love
from him like he's sent from above.
My heartstrings play each song for him.
He fills my soul right to the brim.
Now I have made my tough decision.
He'll find me gone when he has risen.
Single and strong is what I'll be.
I grabbed the reins-set myself free!
written 1/16/2014
for contest Three or More Stanzas and Thoughts On Same Idea"
P>S> This is not my real life LOL !!
A pawn for a pawn, a crown to crown,
whom is Master of this Lodge in town,
this I enquire while preparing the pyre for you to retire,
my meddlesome mobility unabated, indicative of a congenital nobility,
configured to coral this clambering caravan of corrupted cargo,
like a sqaulid sailing ship mired by a dragging anchor
I will be the insensitive squall that screams and squashes
your spirit's resolve for immortality to which you aspire,
by necessity, your pirate army pines to encroach this backline of mine,
alert for advantage like hyenas on high ground,
but when the men turn round with countenances of lost children,
then the lead you must take and oasis forgo,
A final engagement cautiously commenced upon the carnage
of this conflict's first casualties, terrific testament of mortality,
gross scenes torn pale and asunder by torchlights,
unremitting images of the half dead bleeding,
their moans bare and last moments barren
like old channels of lost rivers,
raging exhaustion spurned and supplanted with a spontaneous summons
of a brazen belief that my foe is more weakened, warbled and wasted than we,
here in the middle, setting the endgame circuitously,
a defense is devised to deter like a pinching pillory,
my startegy is instinct, my ferocity diverse -
J.A.B. - Final Part -
Zoning by micro-climates my
Yards' spaces, and then
Xeriscaping them to conserve
Water because of the drought, I can
Visualize neat straight furrows
(Under colorful vines
Trailing red, green, and purple grapes)
Saturated with various seedlings:
Radishes, squashes, sprouts, etc.
Quietly absorbing sunlight, and
Pushing roots deeper into my
Organically amended soil.
Nasturtiums, previously planted,
Misdirect insects away from my plants.
Ladybugs, and other predators, help
Keep down the hostiles that got through.
Jumping forward from Spring to Fall,
I can imagine picking tomatoes from the vines,
Harvesting football-sized zucchinis,
Gathering various root vegetables, and
Fruits from bushes and trees.
Eating unwashed sweet peas
Directly from their pods.
Cooking pies from mixed berries I grew;
Baking pumpkin bread or zucchini bread.
Agonizing again over what to plant next year.
I woke up from a nightmare into another nightmare
As the lights swooned and the clouds became clear
I thought morning came
But it was the beginning of another nightmare
The sun shines, the wind blows, birds are singing, farmers are farming,
I thought morning came
But it was all another nightmare
Should I not have woken up?
Should I have stayed in the first nightmare?
Do nightmares become better?
Or it gets worse?
The brightness gives the assurance that a bright new day is here
But the nightmare continues
It squashes the hope I have.
But I need to sleep,
I need to continue sleeping
No matter how long the night is
No matter how many times I fall into other nightmares
I need to continue sleeping
Because
One day, I will wake up
I will wake up into a bright morning
I will wake up into a new day
I will wake up
And it would not be another nightmare
I would have really met the morning.
What squashes Peace worse than War?
I feel the heavy quakes by the angry booms
Coming from left and right, behind and before.
Peace zooms off from all souls, bodies and rooms.
I run. Peace runs too. We both pant;
I hate the pattering of the souls of my feet.
Guns quarrel, the air filled with their rant.
I hide nearby a bridge to avoid the heat.
Regularly, strange sirens zoom by and wow,
Plunging our feet to unprepared races.
World and world jam and pow each other now,
Detonating our planted hearts in their places.
This very morning, I am slightly asleep
When from nearby guns begin to stutter.
I become scared. Some sound as if they weep.
I run to the river and dive and hear it splatter.
The world wails when War and Peace wrestle;
When War emerges and missiles shrill,
Peace becomes deaf and hears only a little.
And so shatters the world's wonderful will.
I am now in love with it when it becomes dark:
Peace find more peace; less weapons clatter;
More oxygen to inhale; much less fires park;
It temporarily quells the two worlds' batter.
DATE: 13/07/2022
CONTEST: ONOMATOPOEIA POETRY CONTEST
SPONSOR: EMILE PINET
Please bring back paper bags,
I cry in genuine pain.
Those tight wrapped plastic covers
are driving me insane.
With scissors, knives and razor blades,
I hack and cut and snip,
trying to get the product out
from its clinging, shroud like grip.
I think I'm there, its giving way,
I've made a little tear,
I put my finger in and pull,
it jams, its a rabbit snare.
I cannot move my finger,
and worse it starts to bleed,
its got me trapped inside the thing,
but I will not concede.
I wave it round, I give a shake,
I slam it on the bench,
then tighten it up in the workshop vice,
and grab a mole grip wrench.
I jam in a screwdriver,
to ease the hole a bit,
and force the mole grip jaw in,
and wangle it to fit.
The grip now covers my finger,
but I'm too stressed out to see,
I use all my strength to lever the tool,
and shriek when the grip squashes me.
The plastic wrap is still attached,
and I think I might use a saw,
but my fingers are very dear to me
so the idea I quickly withdraw.
My neighbour comes running to aid me,
when my screaming hits top note,
and he sizes things up in a moment,
and fetches a length of rope.
He rigs up a block and tackle,
that he uses on his boat,
and with seaman like knots and rigging,
to the task his skill he devotes.
After greasing my finger all over,
and fixing a hook to the pack,
he calculates the angles and distance,
and on the rope he takes up the slack.
With the rope's end tied round his body,
a shanty he started to chant,
and he heaved as he sang out those stirring words,
that sailors of old did chant.
The rigging was working its magic,
the packet was starting to shift,
and with one final plop I was freed of the thing,
as the pack could no longer resist.
A Tale of Two Bugs
Two bugs go strolling along the road one day
One is named Joe
The other is named Bo
Joe told Bo he knew of a great hangout around the bend
He called out to his friend and invited him along
Joe began to hum a happy tune and asked Bo to join him
Two happy fellers off on the side of the road
Singing their hearts out as though they had no cares in the world
Joe instantly remembered he had left his wallet at home
So he headed back in the opposite direction
Bo merrily followed him
Along the way they picked up two toads
Who helped them make up time in record speed
So there you have it
Two bugs and two toads alongside the road
Next a big semitruck rolls along and squashes one of the toad’s front legs
Now there were two bugs, one able-bodied toad, and one hippity hoppity toad
All singing along the old long road
Next the four see a walking stick up ahead
The walking stick says to the injured toad, “I will be a handy crutch for
You. Just allow me to help pave the way!”
The injured toad joyfully accepted the walking stick’s offer and walked
More gracefully along the road
Next on the journey the caravan of friends approached a mud puddle where
several lady bugs were bathing
They offered to help them out of the puddle and jumped in themselves
Well, all of them except the injured toad and the walking stick
They stayed on the edge of the puddle til the swimming party concluded
Splishing and splashing they merrily sang wishing they could be forever friends
What is the moral of this story you ask?
The moral of this story is two fold
The best friends in the world are the ones who are the most unique
And the one’s who help you when you are down on your luck
The second moral is that if you are traveling along a dangerous road
It is better to travel as a friendly caravan
Gwendolen Rix
7-14-14
Dedicated to Melanie and Leslie
An unmade bed smothered in pillows
The corners of the quilt brushed onto the
Floor sprinkled in kitty litter and cat hair
Shoes cluttered around throughout the entire
Length of the studio brought out from
The closet after the closet got straightened
Cockroaches peaking their heads out from
Time to time checking the cat food bowls
And scurrying when sensing any motion
Unused wires, foot fungus spray, speakers
A dog chain, empty picture frames,
Luggage bags, and a key board all in reach
The spin inside air conditioning vents
So loud it quiets the sounds that shout
From the street during morning rush hour
Only one lamp that blazes light into the Ceiling,
Its scream driving brightness into every corner
Of the space bouncing off glossy white walls
the lack of space cramps my imagination, but
solitude is the only way I’ll have enough
creativity to express conditions and reason
the filthy disarray squashes comfort
but starbucks would feel impersonal
and unpleasant, the busy clouding focus
As I write I dream of the perfect place
To create that is broad and sane as if
I could be better with a bigger space
I search my mental rolodex to see
If I have any rich friends that could
Let me borrow their living room
or even a patio and I picture feeling
relief enough to inspire greater work
and I see myself writing well
I look at the poorly folded gym shirt
And the empty cherrios box
Left on the counter 10 feet away
I ask myself, would my work better
if I could have live this short day dream?
Maybe someday I’ll find out, but for now…
Embracing Poetry
Freedom on the lam, where the poet sings
To hearts that are imprisoned against their will,
Inspires the bereaved mind to spring to life
And uplifts hearts to bloom and burst liberated
When the pain of incarceration ceases.
“Gloria excelsis” in the world.
Frolic away, poet, and tell the world,
Encouraging bosoms to join in song,
Birthing new beginnings where weed growth ceases;
And let fresh hope generate unfalt'ring wills
Smothered with deeds abounding with liberties;
Death is certain, but poetry is life.
Martyrs forced into cages forfeit their lives
While conquerors plant flags around the world,
Stealing wealth, and curtailing liberties,
And muzzling the lips of those who would sing
Of freedom’s great joy without broken will,
With gladness boasting liberty’s song ceaselessly.
Were I to stretch the cage’s bars ‘til strength ceased
And purge authority aspersing my life
And mock their failure to immure my will,
As I sail poetic rhymes in the world
With hearts of fellow poets yearning to sing
Vociferously with new liberties.
But destiny’s path squashes liberty,
And lungs collapse when inflation ceases.
If evil is not rebuffed, who will sing the babe
To sleep with dreams of a future life obtained
Through sacrifices for Erato’s world,
Inheriting bold character and will?
Still, they rehearse scripts to truncate my will
With mulct and abrogate my liberty,
But not you, dear poet. Nix not of this world,
Whose toes skip over bloomed fields while mine cease
To dance in delight to the verse of life—
Ill speak they your name, forbidding me to sing.
Ere my will dims, indulge me with a song
Describing life’s passion for liberty;
Let my heartbeat cease in joy from the world.
***
Notes:
Gloria excelsis (Latin): Glory in the highest.
Erato: muse (Greek mythology) of lyric and poetry.
Urania: muse (Greek mythology) of music, song, and dance.
whoever lives in only a world
takes a swig from buised boredom's gourd
taunted time squashes churning chance
leers lanky lusts, tuning trance
I live in sundry worlds yet on a spot!
sometimes imaginations shelter shot
eerie empire in spiritualism as well passion
then meagre music leases mondo mansion
that when boredom plunges porous shelter
salient soles bear me to empire thither
wanky worse, mansion lures lodge
that snarling snow, rustic rain make me no pawn
build many worlds in a whooshing world
that when one sucks, other provides gourd.
'20:05:26:18:20
Note: Of damp decision.
I prophesize that I haven’t a clue what’s going to happen;
While the heavy air squashes my brain like an unresponsive idea.
I ask, what’s the sense of effortlessly trying not to strive
For the impossibility of always fulfilling your potential?
Is that too hard to ask even though I know the answer
Has tumbled all the way down to the tip of my tongue?
Can I make things any clearer on that puzzled face of yours;
The one where all the pieces are locked together in disarray?
So please, for the love of Pete who is despised when displeased;
Don’t ever toss up ideas like so many frivolous cannon balls.
And yes, that lesson learned is a forgotten experience which
Will always be remembered, like a prediction that can never occur.
For Juxtapose Oddly contest