Best Townspeople Poems
At the edge of town stood, a government research centre
It was heavily guarded, no unauthorised persons could enter
The authorities put down rumours, saying its just a research station
But word got out they were trying, to open an other dimension.
One night a massive blast took off the research station roof
If anyone doubted the rumours, here now was the proof
The gates of hell opened, with the sound of blood curdling screams
And out poured tall green creatures, only found in hellish dreams.
They were humanoid winged reptilians with eyes a blood red
The townspeople heard the blast, many of them were in bed
All the streetlights went out and the sky turned pitch black
Under the cover of darkness the creatures launched an attack.
They entered every house and mutilated everyone inside
There was pools of blood everywhere; hundreds had died
The police and army arrived and fired shell after shell
But they too were slaughtered by these demons from hell.
They kept coming out of the portal and went from town to town
They were annihilating mankind and they weren't slowing down
By the next day they'd invaded, across the world every land
No weapons could stop them, they had the upper hand
World leaders held an urgent meeting and agreed a strategy
But that strategy would mean, the end of humanity
The plan was to launch nuclear missiles, it was the only way
If mankind couldn't rule the earth then neither would they.
The countdown time was agreed and it was announced worldwide
Everyone told to stay at home, with your loved ones by your side
People were crying, religious leaders urged people to pray
Ten minutes later earth was vaporised on mankind's darkest day.
Written on 30th April 2021
A Poem of Horror Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama.
In the centre of the small town is a small town square. In the centre of the small town square is a small water fountain. It springs a joy to which the townspeople are magnetically drawn. The water below is clean and clear. This morning a young girl lay facedown. In the clean, clear water, where the small water fountain danced, and dances. In the centre of the small town square; in the centre of the small town. It seemed strange that she should be dead in a place where there is so much life.
I've known of her charm
We'll not dwell on her passing
It seems far too strange
1st July 2020
Legend of a witch who lives by the sea
spending her days making potions and teas
a mermaid or witch?
believed she can switch
No one knows, townspeople see her and flee
Intrigued by this mystery by the sea
I find her sea shanty, stop near a tree
the old lady on her dock
as I hide behind a rock
a mermaid is transformed in front of me
Sea Tales Limerick Contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
Ring size 8, purple
'Twas an ominous moment when rode into town
To its marshal defy and outdraw and gun down
A notorious, murderous varmint named Slade
Who had widows and orphans throughout the west made.
The next morning, as destined, they met on the street
To for title of gunfighter finest compete.
Marshal Matson, with duty to outlaw arrest,
Versus Slade, risking life in the ultimate test.
At a distance the townspeople gathered to see
The historical challenge that thrilling should be.
Two tall figures unconquered and stoic and brave,
With the loser interred in a premature grave.
Foes whose shadowy faces beneath Stetson brim
Wore expressions determined, ferocious, and grim.
Hands were poised over holsters attached to their thighs,
Jaws were set, hands were steady, and angry were eyes.
Doomed to sprawl in the dust would be gunslinger slain,
While the victor would toasted and honored remain.
Marking one more rash braggart whose lifetime is done
Would be notch newly carved in his pearl-handled gun.
No one knows who drew first for the blur was too fast.
Barrels blazed in a loud, simultaneous blast.
Then a second and third and again and again
Until chambers were empty, but still stood two men.
Errant bullets great havoc had caused all around.
Precious water was gushing from tower through holes.
An unfortunate, low-flying buzzard was downed,
Signs were dangling from hinges, and riddled were poles.
From the crowd that was watching arose a great roar,
But of laughter, not cheering as always before.
The combatants, embarrassed and hanging their heads,
Scurried back to concealment in brothel room beds.
All night long drunken witnesses filled the saloons
To guffaw, raise a rumpus, and target spittoons.
While on opposite ends of the town slinked away
Into darkness two shadows disgraced on that day.
So astoundingly awful and wayward was aim
That the pair's reputations were never the same.
Butts of jokes the names Matson and Slade have since been.
Still remembered for showdown that neither could win.
Ah, such a dandy with a girl on each arm.
Is it his flaming red hair, or his endearing charm?
Two more behind follow in family extension.
Nice young girls drawn by his questionable intention.
A talked-about scene as they walk down the street,
The townspeople are shocked by this amorous fleet.
Like a barnyard rooster surrounded by hens,
He lives in a fantasy where love merely pretends.
Then, one day, he met the New Age Jezebel.
Rejected, he continued his romance to pursue.
Into her web was where he stumbled and fell,
And for the first time he pledged that his heart would be true.
A single rooster was walking down the road,
When he circled a stone to see what was behind it.
The cock had been young, but he was now growing old.
I wonder why he's searching. I just hope he can find it
12/22/2023
In the softest, snowflaked, winter moonlight she walks
The townspeople peered out their frosted windows fora
chance peak.
Not a precious feather moves, and she is not stalked.
All knew not to mess with her, for she is their hope and
not a town freak!
Rebelloisuness courses through her throbbing, silent.
robust veins.
She dreams of a world in peace, free of all govermental
intervention .
A must,is that, on any writer, forbidden foreever, any
attempt to dare their pen to restrain,
Streets for all, to walk without dark fear, a world sparkling
with open, jubilant communication!
I went through the alphabet and wrote the first word that came to mind in alphabetical order then I put them into a poem. I think it’s pretty funny. Read it and reply…
Alternative, Barracuda, Catastrophe, Eventful, Dramatization, Faithful, Gruesome, Harmful, Jubilant, Kaleidoscope, Lemon, Maniac, Norway, Opulent, Precise, Quirky, Resentful, Shameful, Tantalizing, Unfortunate, Victory, Warranted, Xylophone, Yearning,
Zany
Playing With Words
As an alternative to dinner
we decided on the barracuda
which turned out to be a real catastrophe.
Without a full dramatization
of the eventful season we had, simply put,
we have been forever faithful to the cause.
Albeit gruesome or gross,
there were no concerns of harmful fish bones,
and we were jubilant when we
looked into the kaleidoscope
to find a lemon yellow redfish
with the personality of a maniac.
Much to our delight when took the fish to Norway we were
pleasantly surprised at the opulent and fanciful ways of the people.
We were extremely precise in our movements
around this quirky little town
not wanting to attract any resentful stares
while parading around in our shameful ways with our fish.
Our tantalizing habits drew much scorn
which was an unfortunate way impress others.
We heard a xylophone play in the distance and
had to resist our yearning to
overpower the townspeople with more zany
written rhetoric.
Buck was a tough man
very fast with his gun
always just one step
ahead of the law
He rode from town to town
never staying all that long
because as soon as word got out
the young gunslingers would come
Now Buck was not a man
to go looking for trouble
but it seemed that some how
it was his middle name
Really all he wanted to do
was marry his sweetheart
and raise a fine family
to live peacefully with them
He had a small hideaway
high up in the Rockies
a simple log cabin
where he could hole up
Not the place to take a bride
far too isolated and bare
talking to Betty he asked her
to purchase some land
Make it down in lush valley
he told her, we can raise cattle
a few horses to start a herd
maybe some hens and geese for eggs
Betty found a prime piece of land
with a cool bubbling spring
trees to shelter and give shade
sweet green grass to feed them all
Buck and Betty got married at last
soon built a fine house and barn
with a corral and stables
yet all too soon their bliss shattered
Young gunslingers heard where he was
dropping by to chance their luck
ending up in wooden coffins
because Buck was real fast
Until one day the townspeople
rode out to see Buck
they wanted him to be their sheriff
to protect them from the bandits
Buck agreed to wear the badge
and rid the town of the bad guys
each day he patrolled the territory
many baddies he lay to rest
Yet he felt he had no real peace
that his life was on borrowed time
he wanted to live his life quietly
tending to family and his ranch
This seemed a wistful thought
as still yet more gunslingers came
one day he knew he'd meet a faster gun
and end his life face down in dirt
One day while build a nursery he got
Betty to chop while he held the logs
well Betty missed and got his fingers
cutting them clean off only stumps left
It was his gun hand that was hurt
soon the word went around
the young guns stopped coming
no sport for them now
Buck finally got his dream
and lived to a ripe old age
siring five fine children
and many grandchildren
Against all the odds
he died quietly in bed
his last words to Betty were
"That was the best miss you ever made"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Headed for the tower
Watch the legs supply the power
Using a simple two-wheel device
Spirited competitive ride healthy and nice
This athletic mechanical dance
Traveling the scenic villages throughout France
Checking the rural roads
Letting everyone know
‘How is it holding up after the mountainous winter snows?’
Twenty-one stages to do all this
An international spectacle not to be missed
Late June and into mid-July
Townspeople applaud as the colorful circus goes bye
Bringing neighbors together
Sometimes enjoying beautiful weather
But when it rains
No one complains
About this strategic cyclist game
Yellow, green, polka dot
Shirts note which riders are winning and are hot
Tour de France is arriving at its destination
City of Lights gearing up for the championship presentation
Under the arch
They glide not march
Thirsty and parched
Knowing soon the accomplishment will be real
Proclaiming well done to the peaceful pedaling deal
Gargoyles stamping the approved entertainment seal
Hitting the end line
Everything finished and fine
Ready to pour the victory wine
While success dines
On time
Using the sponsor's dime
And listening to the Notre Dame bell’s chime
With nothing to fear
Until next year
When they come back here
For the Tour de France cheer
Cherry blossoms bloom;
the townspeople sing, laugh, dance:
hope springs eternal.
The Waiting Room
The April weather shifted high to low,
Exposing those early clout casters
To the concluding bite of winter;
Footsteps full of foreboding
Trudge their last legs up the inclined driveway
To the Doctor’s old house.
A hotchpotch of chairs and wooden benches
Cling to the borders of the waiting room
A ballroom of romance for the sick.
In varying degrees of ill-health
A gamut of the townspeople
Chorus a cacophony of coughs
Sniffling and wheezing feverishly,
While the readers’ digest stale stories
From the well-thumbed publications.
Eyes darting around the room
Surveying the afflicted to kill the time
Conjecture at the probable cause and severity;
Childlike comparisons to ones’ own condition.
A new mother fails to stifle a yawn
Spreading contagion to the assembled
Her flushed snoozing baby
Unaware of her blaming chatter.
Life-weary pensioner invited to the inner sanctum
Chilled to the bone, sciatica stricken,
Accepts the decree of the medic
Without question or comment.
His framed degree, long faded,
Enough to stifle her to silence
His stethoscope, as a Priests garb
To her, underpinning his status.
Two codgers still await their summons
More regularly neighbours at the bar
Boisterously chatting across the room
For the oblivious benefit of the throng;
Socialising symptoms best supressed
Public bravado before their private hearing,
Selective honesty, the order of the day.
Quiet couple with obviously hidden issue
Whisper conspiratorially in the half lit room
Embracing the background murmur
And the dimness, aid to their privacy.
Vice-Captain of the junior team,
Fit, and embarrassed at his minor disorder
Conjures up exaggerated “near death” vocabulary
For future reportage to the team
His shame cajoled into the ether
By his twisting of the physicians’ imagined words.
And all the while the waiting room remains
Constant, a silent witness to all ills.
What us the matter with the young people of today? Could it be computers?
Stop and think, everything involving young people today has to involve MICRO CHIPS!
things were far different when I was coming along. A street light meant get your ads home right now. We had friends we saw face to face and played every day. Made a sling shot out of tied and stretched rubber bands. Played half rubber, or what the northern states call stick ball, checkers, or maybe chess, monopoly, Risk. Take baseball card and clothes pin and do the back of a bicycle, man you thought you was evel kneivel......these days if if ain't a cell phone or microchips or texting some other kid half way around the world kids don't dig it....I worry....what will the next generation of townspeople have for " their thing" God only knows, and I don't want to."
An Old Man's Elegy
All the people went home;
There was no place to go.
Shadows laughingly mocked them,
As they made their way home in the snow.
They sold the old man's house,
To the highest bid.
When the gavel came down,
It sealed the final nail on the lid.
The poor man ruminated
By day and by night.
The townspeople had done him wrong;
And there was no way to change the wrong to a right.
Something sinister ensued, that terrible night;
And nothing could ever make things the same.
One by one, in the shadows of night,
His final elegy in state, to clear his good name.
Morning broke early in the fog and the mist.
He had slept in the wood completely alone.
For all his righteous sins this old grieving man -
He would wholly atone.
You see what he did was to pay them threefold;
In precious gems and a handful of gold.
He told them his house was his life and his home;
Never again would they sell it nor would he ever to roam.
May 20, 2016 Contest: Any Poem You Ever Wrote NOT for A Contest
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.
On one Christmas Eve
To those who believe
News was declared
Honest and fair
Information needed for those trivial pursuits
About the red outfitted man wearing snowy black boots
“This is to be proclaimed
Santa Claus has a middle name!”
Bellowed the communication crier
Reading from a royally documented flyer
“What is it?
Does it fit?”
Townspeople asked
About the imaginary facts
Wondering if this was a wise act
Handled properly with tact
As the name was announced
Faith it was pronounced
Creating such a buzz
Describing exactly what Santa Claus does
A magical spirit
When one hears it
Conjuring up invisible power
Having strength not being a coward
Energizing a special force
Assisting in dealing with adversity, of course
Changing things for the better
Reason enough to write a letter
Explaining the trouble
Behind the burst bubble
While asking for peace and joy
Which appears in the form of a hand-crafted toy
Truth be told about this lesson
Where faith is addressing
Combatting the problem that is the mess
Forcing the enemy to confess
Santa exists
Equipped with a warm, loving Isotoner wearing fist
Guiding us through life’s cold blurry wintry mist
Giving the gift of understanding
During a time when things are demanding
Disrupting all the planning
So, go off and pray
With a simple request to say
“I am not scared,”
Remember to show the Santa stare
“Warning don’t you dare
Faith is inside me
Now let us enjoy our afternoon tea.”