Best Toy With Poems
I twist what you think that you already know,
I stretch you to soaring, shrink you to low,
I ripple your outline and widen your grin,
I toy with the edges that hold you within,
I flicker each time as you slip into view,
I dance with the shape that you think is you,
You laugh at the stranger I help you become,
I’m a thief of your shape till at last you succumb,
You ask what I am as I alter your frame—
The carnival mirror—I play the same game.
Our Boogeyman
There is a boogeyman within
this home of ours, we swear he's here!
He comes and goes to mess with us
and bring about a silly fear.
It happens if we're here or not;
he seems to go from room to room
to keep us guessing why we see
phenomena that brings such gloom.
It has to do with lights, you see,
the kind you touch to turn them on;
somehow this boogeyman knows how
to toy with us, and whereupon,
we find our touch lamps brightly lit
in rooms, we enter while we're there.
But worst of all, to find them on
when we've been out, and such despair,
to wonder how that comes about??
For sure, it doesn't make much sense.
Do boogeymen have fingers that
can generate capacitance?
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place~
Contest: Boogeyman
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 06/02/2016
True Story!
"Touch-sensitive lamps almost always use a fourth property of the human body -- its capacitance. [kuh-pas-i-tuh ns] The word "capacitance" has as its root the word "capacity" -- capacitance is the capacity an object has to hold electrons. The lamp, when standing by itself on a table, has a certain capacitance. This means that if a circuit tried to charge the lamp with electrons, it would take a certain number to "fill it." When you touch the lamp, your body adds to its capacity. It takes more electrons to fill you and the lamp, and the circuit detects that difference." http://science.howstuffworks.com
.
Spicy experiment!
Victoria secret bra
Love, toy with hidden pleasure
sweet surrender to my taste
grenade ecstasy.
----------------------------------
Spicy taboo!
Sticky forbidden kisses
buffalo breath down my neck
leak like a water faucet
time to get a fix.
~•~
Susie's pet name was Wanda-zilla
and hailed from jungles near Manila.
Her poetry was swill
so to pay all her bills
she did strip shows for native gorillas.
She went to merry old U.K.
To make more money stripping all day.
When folks voted for Brexit
they meant Susie must exit
to get rid of the smell right away.
BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Susie looked like an ugly gorilla
A cousin of that monster Godzilla
With flaccid pink lips
And wobbly fat hips
She appeared on the video ‘Thriller’
The director who chose her that day
Said Don’t put on your make up today” …
With no mask on your face
You won’t look out of place
And your dance moves will blow folks away”
Susie then thought she’d found the answer
She’d work as a naked pole dancer
But not one man would pay
They said please go away …
Put your clothes back on you fat chancer!
BY JAN ALLISON
Wanda-zilla is a great name for ugly, Susie
Always batting her eyes like a low-life floozy
Painted lips on a gorilla
Looking like Phyllis Diller
As a pole dancer she must've been a doozy
BY LIN LANE
Godzilla saw her and stole her away
I think he wanted to toy with her play
but she put up a fight
all through the night
and insisted that she had to stay
BY MYSTIC ROSE
She seductively ate a banana with zeal
But that day it just got too real
In her ugly mouth
It all went south
Her and a banana without appeal!
BY ROGERPAT ADAMS
The book and nook go hand in glove
and hold my hope inside.
The pages turn to fervent love
my corner can’t confine.
I won’t suppose a wealthy sir
can love a Jane like me.
And while my soul screams “Rochester”
I have no urge to eat.
This man can toy with me all day
and keep me up at night.
A fire burns behind his door.
I won’t turn out the light.
How can our love be ended now
with chapters left—fifteen?
He teases me with sullen brow.
My heart is lost in leaves.
No sooner, “Yes, I’ll be your bride!”
My veil is torn in two.
The wife you’ve kept, but cannot hide
has turned our niche to ruin.
I’ve gone too far to be so crushed.
And hours in one place.
When I arrive at happiness
I’ll stand and stretch my legs!
'2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18' Poetry Contest
For Favorite Contest
My experience reading JANE EYRE by Charlotte Brontë
DANNY BOY # 2
Here you go Danny
it is time to move and play along.
I am amused by your poetry song.
Sorry it had to come to this ..
Lets play with my Barbie's
Before you really get real pisssss!! : )
Danny boy, you got me so far way up your ass.
You remind me of a boy from my first grade class.
How he loved his hot wheels, and picking on me.
Chasing one another was such a blast.
Until that one day I kicked his ass.
That is what he gets for trying to kiss on me.
Now here comes a new Danny boy slamming my way.
Danny I am older now so careful with what you say.
By the power of grace skull.
Was your way of making me laugh.
Danny stop pulling my piggy tails.
Every time your shooting gas.
What is that move you played, when you stung like a bee.
Last time you call yourself a butterfly girly boy.
And by the way your he-man slam had nothing on me.
I am just waiting here for you to destroy.
I will give it to you again one more time easily.
In the next round I am not going to toy with you boy
I am going to hurt you and make you realize you just got trashed.
I am going to make you cry like a little boy.
Step on your hot wheels, until they are completely smashed
Your sugar and jam is a set up for my next decoy.
Danny your hot wheel by now are burning ass
I will keep burning your rubber, to see how long you last.
Here's another head on collision for you to bash.
Buddy all hot wheels come to and end when they crash.
The Poet Destroyer is sending you a warning of a small whiplash
Fingers toy with my nearly worn out bank card.
Not too confident, I hold onto my nerves, hard.
Ahead, petty items in her trolley hold me slowed.
The cashier stops, lengthily examining a bar code.
I glance around at the growing queue, blindly.
I bump into him, behind me, and I apologize kindly.
I let him precede me, my morals climbing high.
He hesitates with three items, as if not sure which to buy.
I tend him a basket which he aloofly ignores.
Disconcerted, my eyes divert to the store's doors.
The cashier waits for the cash, visibly well trained.
He fishes in a pocket then empties another, unrestrained.
Some coins roll and find the cashier’s impatient fingers.
But she waits with smile fixed as he lingers.
At last he finds his notes, all bundled.
His shaking hands proudly tug one crumbled.
He peers at it and slowly returns it back to place.
Another he places, unsure, in hand tended with grace.
Suddenly he pulls it back, deciding it was not the right one!
Now this, he checks carefully; it is a larger one.
He gave it away, not looking very happy.
The cashier’s patience is waning, visibly.
But she amounts the cash and helps him as he packs.
Then he gets annoyed as his long bread roll cracks.
He halts and decides to break it into three; it goes into the bag.
The cashier turns with a bright smile to a queue in lag!
Dear snake charmer, i see you brought your lucky charm
Go ahead and tame the poison in my bloodstream
Quell the anger in my snare, do the impossible and tame time
Make the audience clap for me, or you
Who cares anyway? as long as we steal every ounce of their attention
I just wanna play a little, fool around without sinking my fangs into your warm skin
I forgot how to kiss so all i'm left with is a hiss
Toy with my body but make sure i don't wrap myself around you
For the last time i hugged a charmer, i stole the life out of his eyes
Play me a song with your flute but ease up on the volume
I wanna hear your heartbeat as it echoes in the air
Say a little prayer for me, maybe you can cleanse me of the sins of my father
The one with the lethal tongue that lied to the children of eden
So how about you play that song for me
JGM
A serene succumbing through windows pane
In morning solitudes of the secreting scarlet sun
Where love penetrates partitions of the past
Riding on the refulgent rays of luculent light
~~~
Orbs of passion permeate the twilight realm
As they tease & scintillate the nocturnal night
Lustrous luminants that toy with our lament
In the end, giving in to our deserving desire
~~~
Love, what have thou brought me…unaware?
For I am a slave to your thespian thoughts
A mere mortal capable of salving seductive sin
The carnivorous consciousness encroaches still
~~~
Within paleolithic promiscuous planes of plight
A vixen Vesuvius volcano erotically erupts
I am engulfed by the luscious lingering lava
Now petrified, entombed by love’s Majesty.
Feb.01.2019
"Something Bigger Than Myself"
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
Like a secret confided with his last breath
Dangling from his every syllable
He draws me near whispering in my ear
Reaches in to the depths of my soul
He holds my beating heart
In the palm of his cold hand
The demons lurk in the thick murky fog
On my walk at dusk thru an ill lit park
They toy with the last moments before sunrise
While the city seems to still sleep
I’ve said my goodbyes to the tune of violins
Stirring withered brittle leaves as death circles
Cold winds whirl and no one sees my tears
I’ve swayed to my last waltz
I can finally forget the insomnia that has me
In the grip of darkness devoid of guiding star
AP: 3rd place 2020
Time…
I see that time has spoken by the shadows of the light, though the changing of the seasons brings me more than just the night; and the night brings more than shadows as it creeps slowly ‘ore my door, for nothing holds back time as it steals the soul I bore.
I want not to be discouraged with what time has sent to me, but ‘ere to be searching what it hides within its plea. While both the wicked and the good stand equal in their place, time is ‘ere the master with none to steal its place.
For time cannot be captured by the hands who seek it out, to command its ceaseless wanderings without a sense of doubt; yet time is ‘ere to change as ‘oft the winds do blow, sending one and all to fill their graves while itself does yet to grow.
The desire is ever endless to those who think they can; for to toy with one’s own future was not given ‘ore to man. To what end does desire cease when destruction is its friend, the grave will claim its destiny as is the silent end.
The aged hand still works the day while looking on with care, hoping that the future is still able to forebear. The simple glimpse within the veil leads us ‘ere to venture on, with promises to stay our course until our final dawn.
Time is ne’er to be captured like an image in our mind, but pushing ‘ere onward until the end…of Time
We are all going to wear khaki pants to the parade.
What’s khaki? I ask, knowing, but wanting to see his reaction.
He is new, and I love to toy with the new guy.
“You know,” he says, “Um, tan, plain, dull, plain, tan.”
“I don’t have any pants like that,” I tell him, “But I can do purple.”
I read his face, his cheeks pink up fast.
I am going to have fun with this one.
“Oh, I am sure you have something khaki,” he says confidently.
“No, she doesn’t!” all three of the others in the lunchroom shout nearly simultaneously.
His nose is pink now. He looks down, and I realize the minute it registers that
I am wearing my red, orange, black, gray and purple owl pants.
“Do you have PLAIN?” he asks hopefully.
They are all shaking their heads ‘no’.
I am so proud as I leave the lunchroom,
They know me here!
Ah, morning glory, such internal blush,
defy the penetration of brash sun.
Oh linger, trumpet of dawn in the dim
haze of mid-morning, do not be undone.
Oh, fairest of the fair, your milk white core
bleeds forth to bloom a brim of violet poise,
unembarrassed on the cheek of Sol's dawn.
Unfurled, you toy with youthful joy employed
upon the aged arch your vines entwine.
Rough cut the cedar arbor drips delight
as heart shaped leaves drowsy in the sun
weave between like fingered hands and unite.
Oh, bless the day that births such pert posies,
bless the royal hues of our Morning Glories.
[starboard port]
the ocean—an onyx plate predawn—
somnambulant ships preen with a swag of
warning lights
massive hulls: cargo ships, flotillas, tankers,
passenger liners loll; red lights buss
the somber slate of sky—spangled strings of
bawdy bulbs on the riggings—pole dance
beside the quay—ridged, behemoth smokestacks
toy with the flames of gold and white
[cabin’s lav—occupied]
waiting, my mind trundles to funeral pyres
Viking ships, then returns to marvel at
on-coming airport pot lights which
upstage the walled gasps
[very occupied]
the exodus to Singapore crescendos
we land—manned the plane performs
a ritual slide—ash and steam spew from
stacks of the other perpendicular
members
Touch down.
[the door opens]
First Published by Shooter Literary Magazine Spring of 2017
From the very moment my Mom taught me how to use a spoon,
From her mouth was uttered that old familiar tune:
"The kids in Asia are starving, now Bobby, clean your plate!"
Her admonition was final and left no tolerance for debate!
I tried to foist upon the hapless dog a helping of bony fish.
Even he would gag trying to swallow that vapid dish!
I'd toy with them and try to hide the tasteless peas.
I could barely abide them, even in bites of twos and threes!
Even tho' Mom concealed them with cheese, I had my doubts,
About a malodorous little veggie called Brussels sprouts!
I'd surreptitiously sneak them on to the plate of little brother,
Thereby, avoiding the reproof to clean my plate by my Mother!
There was the delicate matter of dealing with broccoli and beets,
Okra, spinach, turnips, hominy and other such disgusting eats.
In my feckless youth I thought such fare rather untoward,
But soon learned that to survive, you ate what was on the board!
When side-stepping along the chow line in the military service,
They often slopped mysterious stuff on my tray, making me nervous.
When I joined the service, I hoped never again to hear Mom's old cliche,
But, even those mean old sergeants screamed, "Private! Clean your tray!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for No. 1 in PD's "Any Random Poem" Contest - July 2011