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POETRY FOR POETS: i own this- edition

Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...

POETRY FOR POETS 
(I own this- edition)

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
manure

Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.

Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet

			though occasionally
		poems require		to be forged
	beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
	accurately placed
		ensuring they		will be nailed
			to their purpose

Pruned
dead words and metaphors 
selectively snipped away
stunning display

There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love


Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015


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I Am A Poet

The entire world to me is a stage
Every era and every age
Upon which my paper and pen can engage.
I am a poet.

Emotions I’ve captured in spheres I’ve explored
With parchment my shield and quill my sword
For all, who with me will come on board.
I am a poet.

In words I write of what I feel
Of a principle, moral or ideal
And sometimes it becomes an appeal.
I am a poet.

I ride on the wings of imagination
To take me to my next destination
And hope to gain your participation.
I am a poet.

Toward words I have an enduring leaning
I love to ponder their nuance and meaning
And strive to share the wonders I’m gleaning.
I am a poet.

The things of which to inscribe are rife
So many circumstances of this life
Victories, defeats, joys and strife.
I am a poet.

I know this incessant writer’s itch
Will probably never make me rich
But I don’t care, I’ve found my niche.
I am a poet.

6/2/18

submitted for Best Rhyming Poem April-July 15, 2018 Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
2nd place


Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2018


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View from the prism of 'ism'

socialism  communism  fascism   despotism
  buddhism  catholicism  hinduism  zoroastrianism  
territorialism  colonialism   imperialism   expansionism
positivism  relativism  behaviorism  existentialism 
  adventurism  escapism  negativism  nihilism
puritanism   fanaticism   extremism  terrorism
   sexism  chauvinism  ultra-nationalism  jingoism
hedonism  epicureanism ~ stoicism  asceticism
   patriotism  heroism  altruism  idealism
activism  idealism  individualism  exceptionalism
  atheism  deism  monotheism   paganism
optimism  pessimism  cynicism  romanticism
  atheism secularism  humanism  utopianism  
hypnotism  mysticism  exorcism  surrealism 
   ~ and what if there were a schism in each and every 'ism!'



Copyright © Gershon Wolf | Year Posted 2018


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YOUR BETTER END

Listen to poem:
YOUR BETTER END To be To stare To contemplate To risk To dare Once and again To trust To leap A Jump of faith To fall To land No one can say To forgive To forget Or try again To breathe To love Feel whole and place The fears The doubts To rest and then To grow To become Your better end *** January 20, 2017


Copyright © Claudia Polydoro | Year Posted 2017


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Trayvon Brown

Walk with me,

Don't...SHOOT, 
cuz I don't wanna die young, 
I wanna grow old and have 
a daughter or a son, or maybe both, 
to live a full life is my hope,
but the bullets in your gun 
are a noose around my throat.

Don't....SHOOT,
I promise you I wanna LIVE,
I wanna show the world everything I have to give
and it's a lot, and yea I might smoke a little pot,
but so Bill Clinton and HE didn't get shot.

Don't....SHOOT,
I got plans for my future,
that don't include a cop saying
stop and let me shoot ya

Don't....SHOOT,
my hands are clearly in the air
I start school next week and I wanna
make it there.

But you..... SHOT,
and let me die in the streets,
now my people want answers 
No justice no peace.


Copyright © Cairo Asikari | Year Posted 2014


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ONE STEP AT A TIME

adventure, growing up, hip hop, repetition, word play

A ONE STEP AT A TIME ©
Life is but a hopscotch path
Players vying for placement
Rules to follow aground
Tokens used for good luck
Practice runs lead to safe landings
Over ever-changing terrains
Hop skip and jump!

Land on a crack
You break your Mudder’s back
Marbles fill a bag of loot
Once directed into home holes
Missed turns are your takings
Marbled cat eyes forever coveted!
Crayons come in packs
Pick a colour to your taste
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Black is for rain clouds
Gone is a sun yellow

A is for Apple-
B is for Bunny-
C is for caterwauling
Letters up for a draw
Lettered tongues speak
The bad, good and the ugly
Making mountains out of mole hills!
Name-calling never hurts 
Pain hurts from thrown stones
Calling one to take a chance
Towards another hopscotch
With hop skips and jumps
One step, two steps, three steps more!



Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015


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Common Sense

Now I’m thinking, while sitting on a chair,
There is something that I would like to share
I fear my mind is dense
Can’t make out common sense
How come they call it common if it’s rare?

--------------------------------------------------
Quote: “Common sense is very uncommon” 
                    (Helen Gurley Brown)
            "Common sense is not so common"
                            (Voltaire)
--------------------------------------------------
Contest: Dumb and Dumber Personal quotes
Sponsor: John Freeman



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015


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Spoonerism Poetry: She's Too Titty

She’s too titty to be a preacher.
She can’t even bead a rook.
A rental deceptionist?  Maybe.
At my teeth she once look a took.

As a wean clerker, she’ll never do.
I once caught her nicking her pose.
She doesn’t even hash her wands.
And she chews the tails off her nose!

For this lad sass, I see joe knob.
No mouse or honey has she.
Her life has not one pun fart!
I’m glow sad I’m shot knee.

Written march 25, 2016 for the Contest of Roy Jerden


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016


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Alchemy


How do you change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using unverifiable proof
First, you take a sick, dirty lie,
and doctor it up as truth
Whitewash and scrub it clean,
then jet power it with unsubstantiated verbal steam
That should make the lie thoroughly sanitized
Then play a continuous sound byte loop,
uncorroborated and fact-free
Present the fake news with a five-star salute,
then say secrecy is the true path to liberty
This rings eerily like New Age alchemy,
bell-tolling Faustian chemistry
If that ain't a manufactured alternate reality,
then somebody is lying to us obviously
How do you do this, change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using fabricated proof
Next, you take a package,
and deliver it to the people,
with a Trojan horse message inside
But the people don't know it's harmful,
because they labeled it with a lie
See, that's the beauty of deception,
they don't call a lie a lie
Instead they choose another word,
as they place the pirate patch over their eye
Misleading, false claims
Plausible deniability
mis-remembering
Choose whichever words you will,
a lie is a lie is a lie still
Changing a word won't make a falsehood real
Taste the propaganda spoiled sauerkraut;
as alternative facts are trotted out,
and disinformation is bandied about
Know that immoral alchemy is being performed
by high wizards of the dark arts
Frankenstein experiments in need of more body parts
Don't be bewitched by lying craft,
don't get (con)fused by this manipulative graft
into a cancerous body politic
Changing a lie into the truth
is the ultimate alchemist trick


Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017


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Thoughts On MGK diss, it's just what I noticed

Beard looks weird,
that's a lyrical genius to be feared,
you wrote a 6 year song and got the facts wrong,
fired with the hair and safety still on,
I guess that scope's just a tele,
with sights and hopes on the tele,
Machine Bun Shelly, 
initials, MBS, Caps empty,
Mostly Bull Sh……
a superficial sipping soup to his belly,
or is it breakfast for a serial prodigy, 
steadfast out selling cereal probably,
problems with his intellectual property
so he's just a prop to stop and see.
6'4 and standing taller,
picking on a man, his wife and his daughter,
who needs protection ay,
you're a big and bad ball-less brawler, 
that's the shallowest level you can resort to,
and though it's none of my bees wax, 
you did it to be witnessed and receive plaques,
but it was easy and witless like corny flakes,
the business doesn't need Autotune fakes,
forcing the rhyme like all you want is a smoke,
not literally you'd choke, that's such a weak joke,  
clearly begging for your songs to be bought up,
as if we went from Shady please stand up,
to Kelly put your hairband up,
and yeah I admit some of it was good, but look,
with 6 years to write it should of been off the hook,
your best and you took as long as you could,
when your next hits out you'll remember when you last stood,
and you'll be mocked by the only line that was any good,
MGK can't stand up,
that'll get you like Cranbrook,
from Cleveland Ohio,
leave now and fly home.

Note the depth and the many double entendre in this,
written within an hour of hearing that diss,
MGK's peak, now for the diss-appearance,
I've heard you can't write your own lyrical sentence,
that's dense, how you ever gona go the distance,
now go into the distance with your spoon and bowl,
you had your 15 minutes so back to your hole.

Part 2: Picking the rhymes apart and taking a shot, on my page to read now.

* the second line is a double entendre, 
a serious comment about Eminem and a sarcastic one about MGK, you know, cus rhyming beard and weird is amazing haa.
* Hair and safety clip on
* Just a tele, a telescope
* Initials - cus MGK initials but Eminem doesn't M&M
* Caps empty - Capital letters in MGK, I'm calling him Caps as he uses them and he's out of ammo, bullet caps empty
* Machine Bun Shelly - cus of the bun and the bullet shells


Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018


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On The Bottom Shelf

He made me ponder my greatest fear
not ghosts nor goblins grinning ear to ear
The one that I really fear most 
is the one peering back from the mirror
Is he real or will he just disappear 
Will anyone remember he was ever here

That person I present
the one white washed and sanitized 
representing the best of me
So I become a dim copy rationalized
Manicured, self fantasized
Will my true self ever be realized 
Or am I destined to be compartmentalized
packaged pretty, thoughts pasteurized 

Does anyone else worry 
what others might discover
A mother wife sister or brother
The dark thoughts that make us shudder
that choke the brain and threaten to smother
If they could see inside would they run for cover

So we protect them and ourselves
keep bits hidden away on shelves
Screaming for release but afraid 
what might happen if someone tells
We ain't always pretty, stagnant water smells
Instead bang the gong and ring the bells
If it's inside release it with yells

What will happen if we face our thoughts
Is it really us maybe it's not
Are we just scared boys and girls tied in knots
Trying to push it all down deeper 
that stuff we've been taught
Take aim, release those expectations
another life can't be bought
Make the best of the one you've got!


For "What you Fear Most" contest.


Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016


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Poetry Thoughts

Poetry Thoughts

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to my vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Words given by ancient gnarly trees
echoes embraced from tumbling seas
Sounds of silence in forested glen
far away from greed and wiles of men

Cry from distant stars or cold stone
shadows dancing by moonlight shown
Fleeting grabs at moments of serenity
promising future gift of infinity

I am giant tree reaching to the sky
spreading my limbs out and so high
Mirror of Life's fantastic desires
a creature cast from heavenly fires

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to a vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Imagination brings sweet words to ink
volleys from ship impossible to sink
Heart beaten into indestructible bell
Sounding red rose, eating its smell

I am a river, flooding poetic page
servant of Nature, slave to my sage
Erupting volcano spewing heated ash
darkness that dares to live to smash

The great joy of seeing a newborn son
elation of finishing a marathon run
Memories of dancing in pouring rain
blessing of finding lost love again

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to my vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

__________________________
April 30, 2016

Rhyme

For the contest, Poetry _________ Fill in the Blank
sponsor, PD


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016


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WEATHER FORECAST

December 2017

Extremely high winds are forecast due to an influx of sprouts over Christmas . My New Year’s resolution to avoid chocolate is not the only dark cloud on the horizon

January 2018

We have eaten the last of the sprouts so the prevailing winds have subsided! The air pollution warning is now on amber alert.
Many areas of the country will be suffering from deep depression. This is due to a heavy cloud of debt lingering after a cyclone of over spending during the festive period

February 2018

I’m in the doldrums as the period of deep depression continues, for some people it will last for many months. A blizzard of bills are expected and it has dawned on me I need to observe a degree of self control next year

March 2018

Arid conditions are felt in my wallet and I’m under pressure to pay off the monsoon of bills. The pressure is rising and I can feel the chill factor if they don’t get paid

April 2018

I am continuing my diet so there are nor’easter eggs for me

May 2018

My neighbour is expecting her baby so we have advanced warning of flash flooding, which may occur at any time during the month. The baby is to be called Gail. We are hoping she will be a ray of sunshine and not wet and windy.

June 2018

I am going to be child-minding Gail so I expect a lot of damp patches and prevailing wind. I hope Gail is temperate as I don't think I could cope with a howling Gail!

July 2018

We are due to get a visit from the icy mother in law and are predicting a degree of turbulence. She breezes into our house and always gives us such a frosty reception; it takes a long time before she thaws. I can only tolerate her in small doses, I hope she backs off otherwise I could reach boiling point.

August 2018

I’m going on holiday and will be found sunbathing on a beach in Hawaii. I am hoping for sunshine, as I do like a warm front!

September 2018

From past observation there will be a tide of Christmas tat on the shelves. I will promise my hubby that I’ll curb my spending on my current account and not eclipse last year’s hail of debt.

October 2018

Hubby has issued me a severe red warning not to overspend this year!

November 2018 

I have reached saturation point with the tsunami of cards I have to write … I hope the postmen do not have another lightning strike this year.

December 2018

Yippee! Sprouts are back on sale in the shops. More strong winds are predicted which may reach gale force at times!

FICTIONAL POEM

Weather Forecast 2018 contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley

12/30/17


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017


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Kung Fu Wisdom

"Boards don't hit back"  (Bruce Lee).
"Boards do hit back" (Bruised Knee).


Copyright © Ray Gridley | Year Posted 2017


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Clique



Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a gun
Low self-esteem wanting popularity,
gather together in small clusters
Grapes of wrath ... attack anybody 
who try to break the bind
Verbal popping every moving target
in the movie theater line 
Estrogen cries when the dust clears,
another reject cherry fell off the vine
Teachers can’t separate the sisterhood bond,
boyfriends ain’t nothing but pretty toys
Cat fights and tussles are only loud noise,
a lot of ugly ducklings swimming in the pond
Clique ... clique
Squeeze off another round
Mile high dreams everybody in the group got,
but somebody is creeping ... talking behind their back
A poser is in the midst,
and the leader is gonna handle it
Put a cheesy lip rumor in the mouse trap,
throw a house party and hire a band
Thieving eyes which covets your man,
catch ‘em in the act, give ‘em a double tap
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a gun
that’s loaded with angst bullets
And everybody’s been shot by one
Lip blasting every moving target
in the stadium ticket line 
Testosterone cries when the dust clears,
another reject berry fell off the vine
Parents can’t separate the brotherhood bond,
girlfriends ain’t nothing but pretty toys
Fistfights and scraps are only loud noise,
a lot of ugly ducklings swimming in the pond
Clique ... clique
Squeeze off another round
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
Give your friend a cigarette,
urge them to try one
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
Give your friends the bottle of hooch,
urge them to try some
Clique ... clique
Peer pressure is a smoking gun
So hit the brakes hard,
you little Bonnie and Clydes
or your life will be in for
a shoot ‘em up, bang bang ride



Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017


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Rhyme God

Enter the Everest that devastates as he never ever rests and demonstrates, 
his quick wit picnic of traits, that place, with lickety split flicks on the page, 
the tricks of a contortionist wrist that emits embers at pace, 
as he commits and performs on the centre stage, 
with the impact of a storm from the biblical age, 
the act of an adorned prolific rampage. Irresistible talent abundantly apparent, 
you thought you'd witnessed ability but until now you hadn't, 
when the rest in the business appear to be unskilled and transparent, 
as their best rhymes diminish right here to be unfulfilled and redundant, 
thus divested of finesse while it's clear to see you're thrilled in this moment.

Rhyme Battle XI Contest of Juli-Michelle 3/11/2018.



Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018


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Knock Knock

Knock, knock who's there in my bathroom?
Jan the princess of posterior interior transfer

Knock, knock who's there not in my hot tub?
Cheryl the magnificent moonlight moon pie muncher

Knock, knock who's there in the pickle barrel?
Dale the satisfied stickler for the wife of the pickler

Knock, knock who's there flushing eyes for 15 minutes?
John the Master of Disastrous WD-40 tears

Knock, Knock who's there walking around all comfortable?
Maureen the anxious advocate of flat, wide, comfy, shoes

Knock, Knock. Who's there out in the forest?
Kevin the observer of the great grizzly wet haired bear!

Knock, Knock Who's there on the highway
Julie the crazy copper hating motorcycle driving lizard lover!

Just who dares to talk about normal poets names
Pat the shameless poet names dropper is to blame!


Copyright © PAT Adams | Year Posted 2017


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Never Surrender

I'm a grit teeth beginner breaking out the cage,
growing strong and fitter with wit coming of age,
squeezing letters out of lemons got me in a rage,
but this bitter will get better and steal the stage.

I'm out to lay a new way suitable to a renegade,
angrily squashing this yellow fruit into lemonade,
using the skin to pave a golden route in the trade,
writes rooted in the age of this transitional upgrade.

No scourge can submerge the courage I preserve under the surface, 
that purrs with an urge to hand carve words with power and purpose,
this marvellous occurrence undoubtedly surges to resurface, 
and repeatedly emerges delivering perfectly superb verses.

Attempts to pull curtains on my spirit,
only teach knowledge that I inherit,
I react and catch before impact to my merit
and you can't collapse the soul of this poet.

Everyone falls but my core's impenetrable,
and my mental resilience is unbreakable,
they can't remove something unshakeable,
trying is a mistake that'll make you miserable.

I've learnt to benefit from attempted attacks 
aimed to prevent the way that I vent and act,
catching the weaponry and adding to my stack,
I've a determination that I'll never let crack. 

I'll elevate as I stimulate with flow
and levitate the audience to show,
I'm able to continuously demonstrate
that my work is something to celebrate,
even though my opinion will make them hate.

Coming back is what I do,
don't make me come back for you!


Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018


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A Plate of Disorder

A Plate of Disorder

Are you ready to Disorder Sir?
What can I tempt you for a starter,
May I recommend the Turmoil Soup?
Garnished with Havoc Green Tartar.

For the main, perhaps our house speciality,
Goujons of Chaos and Sweet Bedlam.
With a Medley of Confusion and Mess,
Served on a bed of Smoked Mayhem.

On the Dessert Trolley tonight,
We have a Disarray of Cheese Cake,
A delicious Rhubarb Anarchy,
Or Sticky Turbulent Plum Bake.

Please enjoy your hearty and Riotous feast,
May it temper and fulfil the agitated beast.


Copyright © Kevin Shaw | Year Posted 2017


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My Poetrysoup Recipe

I write my poems in a brown leather book
Simple and neat like the food that I cook

My ingredients are simple, no words too small
My vocabulary is easy, so I can use it all

I live at the beach and I play in the sand
But inspiration doesn’t come from this sun-soaked land

I was born in the mountains and there I roam free
As my stories will tell, that’s where I long to be

So I add some spice from my hillside past
And a dash from my families impoverished caste

I’ll throw into the mix a good joke or two
A little humor about an old mountain shrew

Maybe a pinch of the Gospel to remind me why I’m here
And a little bit extra for the non-believers to hear

Like any good food, it tastes good raw
But never watered down, you can’t drink it with a straw

It has to be chewed and properly digested
If I’ve done my job right you should be deeply affected.


MY POETRY SOUP RECIPE - Poetry Contest 1/18/17


Copyright © James Andersen | Year Posted 2017


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A Man from Duluth

There once was a man from Duluth
whose habit was spinning the truth.
He had told the same tale
(every day without fail;
'twas getting quite long in the tooth).

He sat down to drink in a booth
then ordered a double vermouth.
He said a tornado
shaped like a potato
had taken his poor wife named, Ruth!

The men in the bar yelled, “Forsooth!”
But one woman thought it was truth
(the gal was a newbie
who'd just smoked a doobie)
and sent more vermouth to the booth.

“The first time I ever saw Ruth,”
he said, toasting her with vermouth,
(Though usually crisp
when he drank he'd a lisp),
“wath back in my youth in Duluth.

“She'd one perpendicular tooth.
When she withled came her pet gooth.
It wath love at firth thight
and we wedded that night
with her gooth on top of a mooth!”

“We honeymooned outthide Duluth
in a cabooth, just me and Ruth.”
He then heaved a big sigh
(he was getting quite high)
“And of courthe the mooth and her gooth.”

He took a big swig of vermouth
and said that they never found Ruth.
“Just an arm at the mall
and her foot on a wall,
pluth one thingle tooth in Duluth.”

He wept as he pined for his youth,
so the gal ordered up more vermouth.
Then the telephone rang
and the bartender sang,
“It's Ruth, your ex-wife in Duluth.

It's I telling you the sad truth
about her and 'who goothed the mooth'!
Now she wants a good check
that won't bounce, you old wreck,
like the last at Bank of Duluth!”

The new gal cried, “Cad, You're uncouth!
You gave your eyetooth it was truth
of poor Ruth and her gooth,
the cabooth and the mooth
in Duluth, and all for vermouth!”

The man said, “The truth in Duluth
and why I keep hitting the juithe
ith that Ruth and the mooth,
the cabooth and her gooth
were a nooth I had to cut looth!”

The new gal cried, “There weren't no gooth,
nor mooth or cabooth in Duluth!
There was just poor old Ruth
and some nooth that was looth,
plus a drunk who soaked up the juithe!”

The man from Duluth knew the truth,
“Thereth no more vermouth. Whath the uthe?”
So he crept out the back,
but the rest knew the tack:
he'd be back next day for vermouth!


Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2018


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Indie Anna Jones



Foxy ponytail got a sharp tongue,
her pretty jade eyes blink-blink lashes 
really cut to the chase

Keep the skirt hounds on the run,
obsession scent spur their mad dashes
Her pause give ‘em all a digital trail erase

She cracks the estrogen whip ...
let cheeky fools taste the pointed quip,
if they don’t mane macho lying back down

Amelia Earhart flygirl cool attitude, 
soaring pioneer spirit     air-to-ground
Indie Anna Jones'  outback boots 
love kicking the salty sea dogs around

Never yet met a man to meet her match;
to strike her fire
with a sincere,  fingertip touch

Self-reliant souls   are the hardest catch,
free space desire
oxygenate a bonding kiss rush

Indie Anna Jones
is looking for the next archeology dig site 
to soul carbon date

So dust off the adventurous bones,
have a hopeful heart that’s gonna do right
And you just Dr. Feelgood might
be her perfect mate




Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018


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Bad Poem

One day I delivered a poem
one that seemed to be premature
so I swaddled her up
and set her aside
to grow 'til I felt reassured

How she yowled and howled for attention...
how she cried so piteously!
How she coughed and she sneezed
whimpered and wheezed
then threw up all over me!

Still I tenderly tended her bedside
and lovingly nursed her along
determined to sacrifice everything
to raise her up healthy and strong

As she grew and recovered, she wandered
and crawled over everything
and I found I had trouble containing
my rambling, unruly offspring

She became an inexcusable bounder
a wayward and bratty ingrate
who despite all my love and affection
refused to make sense or read straight

She dallied in questionable places
she idled and shiftlessly shirked
lazily lagging, ignoring my nagging
while I selflessly, endlessly worked

Firmly applied discipline to her
and structure, and meter, and rhyme
but she bucked, and rebelled, and bit me
and stayed up beyond her bedtime

We wrestled, and wrangled, and brawled,
bickered in bitter altercation
if I didn't do something quite soon
she would ruin my good reputation

At length, I decided I'd had it
we had reached the end of the road
and although she clung like a wet paper towel-
I flung her and flushed the commode!


Copyright © Rhona McFerran | Year Posted 2018


Details | Word Play Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Writer In Me

Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls

He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips

Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage

The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps

They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon 
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs

Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing 
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle 

I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind

© Raymond Ngomane 


Copyright © Young King sa | Year Posted 2015


Details | Word Play Poem | Create an image from this poem.

RENEGADES FOREVA

  Renegades Foreva!

Renegade teenage rage babes 
thinkin’ they all grown, all knowin’ 
when they seedlin’s barely sown
bleedin’ teenage angst with teenage crankst
always rhymin’ and mis-timin’ some poetry-crimin’  
mis-mashin', diss-bashin' 
word-clashin' song 
heard on some half-sappy, sex-happy, 
yap-rap, smack-attack vid 
made by some brotha who’s just anotha 
angry angst-ridden 
wannabe gangsta kid

With a street beat
they be hummin’ or singin’ along
repeatin’ the deceit 
not knowin’ curse verses 
are just plain wrong and mostly maligin’   
while grownups in earshot 
takin’ all them swearshots
wishin’ them words had sweeter rhymin’ 
or that kids be more discreet 
would take their claptrap, 
no-class, crass-crack lyrics 
and just tweet ‘em or mime ‘em

But if ‘dults could go back, meet themselves
when they was punk teens 
fittin’ into pre-shrunk his or her hunk jeans
listenin’, partyin’ to poppin’ rockin’ 
unusual musical junk boy band scenes
and lettin’ out star-struck 
super-charged
groanal hormonal 
no-one-could-understand gland screams    
then they’d be amused ya know, 
might change their views ya know 
cause remind ‘em not so pristine 
when child and ‘dult they was in-between

Kids always lookin’ to find 
who they are and who they be 
imprisoned involuntarily 
in their youthful penitentiary 
no matter what century they be from you see            

So if  thinkin’ rap sucks cause 
it’s just no-class hurls and low-class slurs 
then fire-up that flux capacitor of yours, 
head back to yo’ past and meet yo’ younger him or hers
see your own rebelling mis-teen-stakes 
then rapping notions you might reshape
or rapping judgments remake
or least maybe now tolerate new-age teenage
rapping outbreaks and in-yo-face ear-quakes 
realizin’ that come whateva or wheneva
that all teens now, before an’ where-eva 
will evamore and eva be 
natural renegades foreva! 

© 2014 all rights reserved


Copyright © Andy Richards | Year Posted 2014