two gallons of pine needles
2 gallons of white vinagr
allow to saok for twelve days
disifecant
-----------------------------------
Euculypttus tree leaves
twenty peels from a lemon
repellant
--------------------------------
2 bottles of cayeene pepper
2 cups of boric acid
3 sugar
1 galoon of vinagar
4 T of Diesel Fuel
mix in a spray pump shake and use
Repellant
-------------------------------------
4 cups of olive oil
4 cups of green pine needles
4 cups of liquid soap
mix allow to mix for 7 days
strain use as a repellant
---------------------------------
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
Alas, old blog, thou dost baffle me
Art thou a banjo short a cord
An off-key piano, tortured
A homeless cat meowing in the dark
A shaken not stirred literary libation
Advertising the talents of its writers
Redundantly raucous rhetoric
Echoing down a dusty corridor
Gathering the featherless dreams
Of forlorn and wingless words
INDIVIDUAL IDENTITIES
impressions
visions
patterns
in time
&space
distinct
experiences
beyond
the obvious
Poets are amazing and these were the runner up poems. The site was NOT user friendly and did NOT let me list them so I only have poem titles of runners up below. Thanks again for your entry,
Blooming Beauty With Black Hair
Friendship
Thanksgiving Family Blessing
When the World Melts Away
Passions of Love
Rumors
Crescent Moon
Sunset by Lakeside
Butterfly
My Red Red Roses
My Forest Home
Passion
I Don't Want To Read Your Blog Brian Strand.
I just want to write a poem.
I'm done with instructions.
I'm done with obedience.
I'm done with the topsy.
Just give me the turvy.
Turvy, turvy, turvy all the time.
I'm done with repetition.
I'm done with repeating myself.
Give me two minutes and I'll make you a paper airplane.
Give me four minutes and I'll make your 2 paper airplane.
Our mouth is the hangar for all ideation sounds.
Then you have these vagabond words,
Escaping without an open hole,
Utilizing these stringy little fingers,
Doing some sort of Fred Astaire number.
Someone call the word plumber.
This be clogged.
(Reviewed by a snooty correspondent)
November dons her coats of warm terries,
tans, a few ochres, but surely not bright.
(Except for sneaky, red-coated berries,
peeking from bushes, agrin with delight.)
November's dress: pretty dull, never shines.
We prefer October's boisterous charm.
Branches bare, it's said limbs often recline;
sunbathe to keep their tans, and also warm.
Fashion designers often grow somber
and turn November into works of art.
Choosing russet offset by burnt umber
we find those dull colors lacking in heart.
Whispers of Summer heard in fashion parks.
Soon we'll write of a new bridal-white show.
Days ending sooner, dusk now wearing darks;
Winter waits coyly; looks lovely in Snow.
November 10, 2021
November or December Quatrain Contest
sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
The bulldog strolls again, looking for bully butts to bite.
Will all remain quiet or will they scream into the night?
To blog or not to blog, is that now the question?
When does an intelligent comment become a loser’s obsession?
The freedom of speech is a fleeting human right.
We are still entitled to our opinion there is no need to fight.
There are many bullies around that should have never experienced birth.
That is just my opinion, for whatever it may be worth.
Some feel joy and importance by bringing others down.
Never let a polished turd turn your smile into a frown.
You can usually smell them coming, quite pungent and not so sweet.
I trust they’ll remove this one, when others start to tweet.
More intelligent words of wisdom are brought back to our door.
It’s too bad they aren’t any better than the ones we heard before.
It would be a more noble mind to just ignore and move along?
Your negative comments aren’t welcome, and they really don’t belong.
The oldies blog
I know of a writer/poet who has dedicated
His blog to old age, being considerably older
then him, I think he is on the wrong track.
To write about a poet who couldn`t find his
Specs, his wife saw them in the freezer beside
The ice-cream is chuckling, but overall people
Don`t want to know about infirmity.
To write down what happens to an old person
On an everyday basis is not what young
Readers care about, say farting and trouble
With peeing, they want to hear about love and
The falling of love and the heartache it brings.
To see the object of desire talking to other men
The jealousy that gnaws holes in their heart
Old men should sit on a park bench, play cards,
Domino which is suitable for them but leaves
The rest to the young poetry belongs to them-
The place were I thought, I could unwind ,
Talk about whats on my mind,
But instead I meet someone who was unkind,
All because I didn't read between the lines.
How I wish, I wasn't blind
I should of read the sign
But I ignored what was outlined
'God', I hope my stupidity did not get me fine.
I am not ready to resign
Words is what I love to combine
So please remember to be kind
Because this Blog clearly outlines.
That before you sign
You should read all the lines
Otherwise you could be fine
So don't be blind.
No one wants to be unkind
We Bloggers just want to spend time
Expanding your mind.
Living is like blogging
Few posts(days) are happy
Few posts are sad
Few posts are revolutionary
Few posts are scary
Few posts are motivational
Few posts are funny
Few posts are poetic
Few posts are just random
write something, anything
Readers may ‘like’ some
‘Follow’ you in your progress
Readers may criticize you
Challenge you
Take it positive
Do not let that stop you
Write for you , if possible for few more
Write until you are happy,
Seeing your progress from past to present
Be your first reader,
Write in your own style
Fall in love with your writing(living)
Every single day, Every single moment ??
I slept with my guitar,
I guess was inept.
I was not in accord,
my guitar slowly wept
I slept with my piano
—such a torrid tease,
it tinkled with my tuner
and slew me with its keys
I slept with my bassoon,
it ruffled up my hair.
Un fétiche pour bouffant?
I didn’t really care
I slept with my recorder,
in between the sheets.
The score became discordant
but the music sure was sweet
I slept with tenor sax
kinky though it seems
Did I get the ax?
Or was it in my dreams?
the blog wars
hiding beneath and behind
the tufted heads of the nine tailed cats
awaiting the unsuspected entry
of inane innocence at large
devious despoilers – these demons
perfections faulted protectors
exacting a price they cannot pay
holding an ideal as a weapon
denying the truth of a single beauty
because it stands among so many
mocking the buds of beauty’s quest
as inept imposters to the throne
sticking the thorns of jealous roses
into the hearts of blooming daisies
hiding in the bulrushes of ego’s
self inflating fallacy
yet still intruders crash the gates
bold interlopers plodding onward
toiling in the trenches of a dream
unfazed by guardians failing scheme
John G. Lawless
10/12/2015
submitted to – Best October Poem – Poetry Contest
sponsor – SKAT A
George and his stupid acorns.
He has no sense of boundaries--
danged things falling on my head.
And Celia. She thinks she's all that
with her new clothes: red, yellow,
green, orange. How passe!
And then Baldy, the coward,
so afraid of winter he went stark
naked even before fall started.
And here come those helicopters again,
courtesy of Myrtle the maple.
They get into absolutely everything.
Sometimes I think I'm the only one with
any sense around here. You won't
see MY leaves going all psychedelic
or turning brown or flying helicopters.
Me? I stay green all year round, and
I don't go dropping leaves and nuts
all over the place. Sure, I have cones,
but they're actually more like accessories.
You can use them in arts and crafts
and as Christmas ornaments,
Speaking of Christmas, what month is it?
November you say? Late November?
Wait! What are you going to do with that ax?
Hey, let's talk about this...
8/24/15
No sand or tumbleweeds fill the street,
neither rotten boards nor busted concrete.
Cats won’t roam and children don’t play
amongst the structures now in decay.
It’s silent here; there’s no new poems,
no photographs sparkle, no music roams,
and like those ghosts towns in the West,
someone else’s blog has gone to its rest.
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