Best Tent Poems
A park in downtown
Where the children play
A park for many events
Canada's Day celebrations
Christmas lights festivals
All through the park
A statue of Queen Elizabeth
Stands tall in this park
Many people come here
For lighting of the tree
Sing Christmas carols
A pond where the swans
The geese and other birds
Come to swim and cool off
Yet not at this time
It is tent city
These people camped here
They throw the garbage
Into the big pond
No swimming for swans
These people litter the park
The swans and geese
have nowhere to swim
These people are staying there
Until the month of November
They have nowhere to go
Tent pegs, burnt legs
Sun cream, ice cream
Swimming trunks, squashed lunch
Peeling tum, after sun.
Dusty feet, collapsing seat
Folding table, electric cable,
Sleeping pods, fishing rods
Guide ropes foreign notes.
Ground sheet, birds tweet.
Wind break, tent shake
Top box midnight fox
Sweeping floor, rubbish torn
Barbecue, dodgy loo,
Gritty toes, runny nose
Flip flops dirty tops
Backpack rucksack
Gas ring, bee sting
Bug spray, all day
Camping Gaz, not last
Airbed enough said
Glowstick picnic
Washing up, worst luck
Beard grown, photos shown
Journey home, money blown
"Let's go see the circus", he said with glee.
So we went, we kids, my mother, and he.
I didn't want to go. It was late at night,
But agreed to go not wanting a fight.
Though it was late, the tent was still standing.
"Look! See the circus", he was demanding.
There was naught to see and we kept silent.
Regretting this trip, we stayed compliant.
Suddenly there was fast movement and noise,
Then out ran a bunch of roustabout boys.
Quickly the last Ringling Big Top was gone.
All of us were tired and starting to yawn.
So I missed the last circus that came to town.
I only saw the Big Top being torn down.
There was a young lady from Gwent
Who’d only make love in a tent
When pitched in a field
She’d willingly yield
The farmer now charges ground rent!
Traditional Limerick Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley
4/10/18
Ruba’i*: Umar ibn Ibrahim al-Khayyam*, Omar son of Ibrahim, the tent-maker
Words awoke on the retina of the astronomer
Unknown aeons piled dark energy upon dark matter
Astral bodies all strung like sea shells in the firmament
What old Khayyam saw was not what was seen by the Maker!
• Omar Khayyam, d. 1131, was a renowned mathematician-astronomer poet of old Persia
• ruba’i (plural: ruba’iyat): 11th-12th century Persian self-contained quatrain of 14 syllables rhyming aaba made popular in the West through Edward Fitzgerald’s 1859 translations titled: The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
May the Lord please circumvent.
My new abode, an oxygen tent.
Of course, I won't pay any rent.
Illusions going heaven sent.
Manifest a daily toast.
Inhaling just a legal dose.
Believing its just the most.
What! you mean Depart my cave?
Don,t you know I,m well behaved?
If E>T> was humane he,d have it made.
Friends outside my tent would wave.
Inside i,d try with all my might.
To get higher than a kite.
Please wear no frown.
My feet are firmly on the tent ground.
I would work with little rest.
May these inventions please be blessed.
Deductions that fit your taxes.
City jobs not needing license.
Little pills, a cure for all.
All while causing no withdraw.
Paten-leather sandals with suction soles.
As sleep walkers up tall buildings goes.
Nite-caps with pipped hair-pins.
Protecting sleep walkers from crisp winds.
Comfort cloths pins that fit your nose.
Sprinkled with extra-strength no-dose.
Printing press that dollars churn-out.
Glowing candles that never burn-out.
Oh, You know the list is endless.
So please remember who your friend is.
Before I sign-off, may I say.
Have yourself a very, very merry day.
God Bless!
America has no caste system
but America has castes.
Like every other nation
America has its rich and poor
with everyone else sardined
in tight rows in between.
But America doesn’t have
Untouchables, as some people
in India are called.
Yet in Mumbai and St. Louis
there are people who live in tents
and use a bucket for a bathroom.
In India, birth determines caste.
In America, color of skin
determines caste.
No matter how successful
black or brown Americans
may be, they remain
black or brown even when
they supervise pale folks
they otherwise might
never have to meet.
What’s in their wallets
matters not if pale folks
can't see beyond skin
that’s black or brown.
Ask any American of color.
Yet some people black and brown
from castes in other nations
drown on the way to America.
They believe they’re free
to earn a living here
and some of them
are doing that while
native Americans, both
dark and pale, survive on
Medicaid and food stamps
provided they’re poor enough
to qualify for one or both.
But even if they qualify,
some find themselves in time
with a bucket living in a tent.
Donal Mahoney
"Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me.
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free."
Wm. Shakespeare
Loving you, my tears fell
in that fast-food Miami restaurant
after we had the news your sturdy heart
was failing. "A matter of time,"
they said, locking you into the check-
out line. "I'll pitch a pup tent on
the other side of the river,"
you said in all seriousness, "and
I'll wait for you." Fool that I
was, I bought it.
Everyone has a special talent
Everyone has some special skills
Nothing is eternal under the tent
Everyone is entitled to some special deals
Who are we to prejudge or judge?
Who are we to refuse to budge?
Once in a while, comes a little surprise
Most of the time, it is no good to surmise
No one is the same, no one is perfect
We all have to do our best, to be correct
There is only one first time
No one has the same shade of paint
Lemon is yellow, and different is lime
Everyone has a different talent.
Copyright © October 2016, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
Facts were sacked and positions made vacant for speculative trends,
evidence slowly cleared its desk, a victim of gossips truthful cleanse,
Rags stuffed full of fiction masquerading as hard facts,
our logic and understanding at its root suffers attacks,
building shaky foundations for the bricks are made of foam,
and when cerebral dwellings fall in realities rubble we will roam
Yet what grieves me more than storytellers disguised within truths scent
is that this focus on bread and circuses removes the world outside the tent
I have tasted new lands as I’ve traveled this Earth,
would leave prejudice (often) with dust shoes pick up.
No, not loam like the Dust Bowl knew (God knows our shame),
the clear-cutting of forests, Paul Bunyan (with Blue
Ox named ‘Babe)’ (1) tried to trade! ‘Whites’ own much of the blame,
though for rape of the planet, dark thoughts they’re God’s race,
when Christ’s color was darker, church clothes splashed with red!
Each one’s skin is a tent that they wear! Is God’s mirth
that skin’s not our design, and it’s fragile? Our “cup”
may “run over,” but “Grace” is its content. We ‘name’
things around us. Is God a Creator Who ‘knew’
I’d write poems before Earth congealed, knew I’d ‘tame’ (2)
Souls around me who’d trust me to ‘serve them,’ not chase
skirt’s illusion, trust their ‘will’ would ‘serve me,’ God’s bread?
Each new day’s a full suitcase ‘God?’ gifts us at dawn
as our future flows toward us, frame dreamer’s repasts
for one sleeping’s not absent, their spirit gains ground. (3)
Our suitcases have boundaries, intellect’s GIF
that we nourish (don’t own or define)! Fates are found
as they pass us (not dreamed with known tool kits) that hint
there’s an infinite mind (one no mortal can grok).
Thought leans forward or backward (for logic’s a rock
that survival deems potent)? Soul mocks views that TINT
faith’s belief ‘we can know.’ That’s why faith’s so profound!
It reflects on God’s leading (a heavenly riff?)!
Faith in logic gets tested, its truth is not bound
to what fools think is true, Earth’s not center that lasts
though high priests kill their foes. Such truth fades with a yawn!
Brian Johnston
3rd of April in 2022
Poet’s Notes:
‘Philosophy’ that lives, gives breath
to thoughts that lead to better death.
(A paraphrase of Cicero)
(1) Paul Bunyan’s tales are American Folklore about a mythical
logger and his pet Ox (who helped him move felled trees.
(2) To “tame” someone is one process of making a friend as
described by “The Little Prince” in Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s
book of the same name.
(3) REM sleep (with its dreams) refreshes the brain and seems
to help us meet both old and new challenges.
Under The Big Tent
Under the big tent the circus came alive
Cotton candy lady gave the clowns a vibe
She grabbed one hand
To her marching band
One clown a sucker is worth two acts to arrive
connie pachecho
9/8/17
Camping in your best gown
There was no request turned down
For the funny clown
By Robb A. Kopp
crescent moon over
northern pines
tent for two
AP: 1st place 2022
carnival treats consumer psychology 101
bought a ticket
...forever ago...
crowds have changed
...the turtles always slow...
achilles loses every time
...it's a mediated belief...
consumerism means debt
...and needs relief...
leave that concept tent
...walk away...
break free
...become abstractly objective...
observe the observing
...they believe the consumer is slow...do you...
their ticket sales are booming
...wake up people...
the carnival concept tent owners/managers are typically psychopathic
...it's they who destroy/destroyed the world...
all for their own wealth gain and survival
stan