black ...
as the vault,
those tresses
(your momma's ire),
and a universe beneath ...
smile to rival Sol
where hope dances,
and fearfully dark, those eyes -
a pitchy pool ever
deep enough to plunge ...
to swim through ...
to drown in,
(sadness disturbs its depths)
hips that toss killer
curves to any fool's gaze,
with a tempo to tame ...
and torture -
a sway to beguile the gods, themselves,
and transform a simple stride
into coy seduction …
oh, I'd give a galaxy of suns
to be your paladin ...
your Ferrix ...
your beloved
home.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, November 2, 2022
There once was a man named Little Jack Little.
Who sure could play a mean little fiddle,
He played with big Bix Morgan,
Who pounded his upright organ,
While eating pancakes from the griddle.
Tepid water from the bathroom tap
Washes my face with a flanneled slap
The water trickles between my fingers
My reflection in the mirror now lingers
Whilst I study the dampened brow
My face portrays the years unbowed
The morning’s call a morning news show
Tells me a lot more than I want to know
Microwaved wheat- bix and milk spooned
As I ponder the morning’s gloom
No anticipation of the coming day
Just a routine hum-drum not delayed.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name
For Love of Language
Cricket-Rounders
A new bloodsport in the town,
We call it Cricket-Rounders,
The bowler runs up to the pitch, (22 yard run)
And the bouncer surely crowds ya, (rising ball gets ya)
A cricket ball as hard as iron,
At a hundred miles an hour,
If it gets you in the head,
On ya grave we put the flowers,
So ya better wear head protectors,
Good gloves upon ya hands , (broke fingers)
Borrow Joel Garner from the West Indies yes, (world champ bowler, cricket)
He’d bowl ya outa the grand stand.
When ya run tween the bases, keep ya eyes upon the flic,
The ball is coming to knock ya down , with bruises bloody quick, (knock down yer out)
If ya hit the ball over the fence it’s a bloody six,
And to the boundary only four, so eat your weety bix, (3 strikes yer out)
11 men a side till they’re bowled or caught/knocked out,
Bruises are good for heroes, yes no bloody doubt,
A world wide game it is to be, a war on the field of battle,
Don’t forget to duck your head for sure,
Or yer brain might start to rattle…
Cricket bat or baseball bat for the batter. … Pad up…
Don Johnson invention 3-nov-11
Leon Bismark "Bix" Beiderbecke
(March 10, 1903 – August 6, 1931)
It was said of Bix
That his Cornet spat out notes
Like shooting bullets at a bell
And his solos sounded as sweet
As a girl saying yes.
Bix Beiderbecke was simply the best
He was at the birth of hot music
His light illuminated
The jazz age
His Cornet accompanied
The roaring twenties
He was a romantic legend,
The young man with a Horn
But in keeping with the character
Of the very best of youth
His flame burned very brightly
But equally it burned quickly
And like the most beautiful star
He burned himself out
All too soon
Bix lived for the jazz
But died for the booze
"Pops" is gone
Master of the trumpet
He dazzled
with his artistry
We listened
and watched
The man could rip
out a tune.....
But if the truth be told
He is gone
He's with Bix, Miles
and the others
"Gone from the world"
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.