This little piggy robbed the market.
This little piggy burgled homes.
This little piggy was a chicken thief.
This little piggy thought scams were fun.
Four little piggies squealed “Waaa waaa waaa” in jail, missing home.
We are the withdrawal
on a dappled day
White Vultures Swarm
bone dry is the day,
Now our lives are hasten
We are cheek by Jowl
Giant lies interlude
Secret tunes of cabbages and Kings
burgled routes to strawn away
In the last peek of love
A giant hope glistens to espy
A black fly in midwinter
has burgled the warm air of the kitchen.
It struggles for height,
a brittle-winged air-bender
reaching for plateaus,
higher footstools,
grasping for spice shelves
or the slope of a slick cooker hood.
The splutter
of an over-revved engine,
the bolted clicking of insectivore plates.
Up it lifts again
turning like a wounded helicopter
only to crash-land
on a dish of cooling porridge.
Mired, it scoops gravity out
from a clogged exoskeleton
staggers to a porcelain edge.
Heavy airfoils battle a steam laden air.
Its weight now cannot be sustained.
It falls to the hard kitchen floor
spins disorientated on its back.
A dervish dance.
Sibilant thunder-claps
of a now dismantled buzzing.
Will it try again
to lift its wreckage?
Between the paused silence
of a ticking wall-clock
a burnt-out fuselage trembles.
Nothing disembarks.
Two keys he had,
one to lock, the other to unlock.
He had carefully picked the mechanism
that latched the door,
to tomorrow,
a future he imagined only yesterday;
it could never again be disturbed
or entered,
never to be burgled by his eyes again.
Two keys he had
one he threw away that same day.
Even so he could still recall the crash
of residual trash.
'Then a hush fell over Jerusalem.'
The Autumn sun shone with golden magic
The warmth of the embrace was seen from afar
As I stood along the fence in the valley below
Inside the house are tales akin to tragic
A son had volunteered, never returned from war
The brother, when burgled, lost a limb & elbow
The mother took a job in the town's law practice
Came home too tired, to enjoy bird or flower
Tend her husband, then disabled son in back bungalow
This is the story of every house, of Al & Beatrice
Clark & Diane, Everett & Flo, by year, month, hour!
The house glowing under God's sun, hides tales of woe
A broad daylight spilled over my sleepwalking mind.
I popped out of a dream knowing something.
An alien from an alternative Ohio
had cat-burgled my consciousness.
I had been probed, not in a physical way,
just ransacked and rummaged
as if a strange mind considered me to be
a yard sale or curiosity shop.
I felt turned over, my stored stuff assessed
then replaced higgledy-piggledy.
The dust in my attic is still flying.
My junk is all tipped over.
I am not sure what the alien was looking for,
not sure what it made off with.
Something as yet unused has been pilfered,
and I will miss it when it’s time to find it.
Him a day-long star,
a cosmos circled his hips.
Done doubled up
as a short-order cook,
waltzed like a drag queen
yet he all man-child.
Older ladies curled
his hair, made him flex,
flutter slinky brows.
Thought he high-ranking
short changing, slick as sesame oil.
Thought he a cowboy
wrangling songs in a bad bar
until
one sweet thing
burgled his heart,
stomped his jazzy junk,
made him greasy
for her alone,
hitched him up,
wore his glitter in her hair -
and he not say one boo,
not one,
but moaned
‘yea baby.’
Why not be righteous, stay one of the best
Spill not your beans, keep cards close to your chest
Today you are bounding, fresh in your head
Tomorrow a mind change, you wish you was dead
Your brother is your best friend, you have loved him from birth
Then tomorrow, the world hears, he is the scum of the earth
The friend that you schooled with, that one of a kind
But now shes a slag head, another change of mind
Why tell the world of the things in your head
They don’t give a , if your alive or your dead
Bragging rights on holiday, living the dream
Photos from wine bars on everyone’s screen
A picture of happiness, sunshine and wealth
While they burgled your home, when you grassed on yourself
Emptying your cupboards from the baggage they hold
One minute your pretty and the next, you look old
Why tell the world all the thoughts that you think
What happened to the good days, the old pen and ink
The press of a button, the type of a text
Reveal your first secret, then reveal the next
Facebook oh Facebook, you sure got a hold
An headlock that locks round the young and the old
Facebook oh Facebook, well you ain’t got me
I got chocolates and cider and my colour tv
When a burglar ate some of my expired food, it made him expire.
The next day I learned that an attorney was who I needed to hire.
They've sent me up the river for twenty years for manslaughter.
I've lost 50 pounds because they only feed me bread and water.
I wish that I had a bottle of Jack Daniels or vodka because I want to get soused.
What the hell has the USA come to when I go to jail because a thief burgled my house?
I hadn't gotten around to throwing my expired food in the trash.
Now I cry every day because my attorney took all of my cash.
Even though he took all of my money, he lost the case.
The prisoners lust after each other in this horrible place.
I can't take this prison any longer, my situation is so dire.
If you get arrested, my lawyer is somebody you shouldn't hire.
Once Harry, at night, won a trunk
That he burgled from Tom's filthy junk;
It was a real wonder,
For what he did plunder
Was gold put by owner Tom drunk.
Poems are chickens
They are early risers
The rooster is your masterpiece
Sandra was not the wife of Botticelli
Neither Sarah, Liz or Cherry
Who gave birth to Venus?
Words are fickle
Go to the north
They will kick on your ass from the south
A brain fever bird does not cost a fortune
A pen and a sheet of paper, a wrapper in winter
A cup of Darjeeling tea
All make a good poem " Ghost of Chicken"
Lord, give me space
Lord, give me pace
Lord, give me peace
Lord, make me night owl
I am someone's wolf in his belly
My new poem is RED HERRING
My house has been burgled
I have changed the name of my house FOOL'S PARADISE
A cat has nine lives
I have nine cats
How many lives they all have?
I am really confused.
A canvas for a painter
A sky for a poet
He only needs glasses
Three saints visit a poet
The poet says hundred dollars
He has lost his molars.
Trust
It is Life’s mundane must
To have someone to trust,
Someone we surely know
Trust or loyalty to bestow.
Should in this I have a say:
Best thing to trust is a key!
A key remains so true
Till burgled or broken through.
It will not allow in its store
A “thing” it does not “know.”
It will safeguard that trust
To the finis of “biting” dust!
JM
13th March 2014
Getting Help From the Police
By Elton Camp
Bob heard a suspicious sound
In irritation, he began to frown
He’d been burgled twice that year
It was happening again, he did fear
At the window, a figure he spied
“Go away!” he loudly cried
With a mask and hood over his head,
The prowler gave Bob reason to dread
A crow bar and gloved hand
Were more than Bob could stand
So emergency 911, he quickly called
However, the operator only stalled
“We’ve already more than we can do.
Help might arrive in an hour or two.”
Bob gave the response some thought
How to get the cops to do as they ought
The dispatcher he then called back
But didn’t allow time for any slack
“There’s no need to rush out here.
I killed the man so now all is clear.”
In two minutes, five cars in his drive
With cops, his yard was working alive
“I thought you too busy to help me,
But that wasn’t true as I plainly see.”
If you are thinking this to try
Don’t for there’s a reason why
You’ll find yourself in court
For filing a false police report
the wood would drift as driftwood would do
o'er waters nearly still, but still kept to move
and drift me away from being near you
alignment cast to space too swiftly removed
to horizon flattened and to curvature beyond
the voice, your countenance, your memoried scent
cat-burgled with fishes that quietly abscond
to drift past awareness to timed curve circumvent
i think i remember a certain crook of the toes
i hear catnapped-voice lulling to gentle snore
i see your mouth, your eyebrows, well-rounded nose
but their sharpness is blurred recalling before
time, the healer, has sanded memories drift
removing the longing, but too, taken the gift
© Goode Guy 2013-08-06
Goal of the Soul – Zamreen Zarook
Mind is a sole proprietor,
It function as our accelerator,
at times it is an acceptor,
Where as regardless the matter, it is our rejecter.
Frustrations peeps as we get failed,
When tension caught , it hard to get bailed,
Depression is again a big shot when it get bundled,
It’s all because the happiness got burgled.
People often get irritation;
it’s because leakage in sophistication,
Confusion again might lead to frustration,
better, take matters simple and have some relaxation.
Happiness is the ultimate goal of every living being,
It is the greatest achievement of every human being,
Despite of whatever screen,
It is solely every once well being.
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