Chicken Chuck Chiggers chose chances of Chow
Changing curly curd curiosities that happened now
Clamping clogging cleats, classifying clones of mad cow
Colorado’s colorful colonists commanding condos of wow
Crusty cramped crullers creeping in craggy crevasses so
Crispy cartooned crestfallen consonants following below
Caroling cartons carefully consternating as catfish grow
Christmas card carolers confusing craggy-topped snow.
Confusing collars commanding colorized classification
Creating confident compact colonel’s consternation
Colliding converse comparisons in curious colorization
Commanding calendars corduroy in cellophane colonization
Whenever I'm lonely
And wouldn't want to trouble my honey
I'll look for a place
Where I can travel out of my physical space
Into a proper solace
Where the hums of mosquitoes won't displace
Nor the buzzes of my babies
Often prompted by their cartooned fairy fantasies
Without hum and haw
I'm in a faraway land of relief where I poetically draw
With my quill full of ink
Instead of pencil on sketchbooks or brush in paint of zinc
Whenever I'm lonely in my precinct
And wouldn't want my troubles make me shrink
I'll proceed apace
To replace my sorrows with a scripture or a verse from my inner space.
motifs benday
pinpointed
raster dots
enlarged cliches
cartooned nuanced
in new dimensions
the familiar
fantasized
stylised
reorientations
in overlapped
matrix fields
of the moment
of thoughts
quickened
by inspiration.
Never had my own child name; I was a pair. An identical, three pounds each.
Deemed cute, and we knew it. Dancing and prancing; dressing alike. Yuk!
Sundays were spent at church and grandmas. I was outside. My twin was in.
My husband found me at six. Claimed he would marry me. I hated him.
Teachers despised me. I despised them too, no secret. Strong feelings.
School, a prison where I cartooned and daydreamed, hating it.
Married young, best time of my life. Three babies. Better times.
Unforeseen artist, poet, word player, came into my own in my fifties.
Now live my created reality in the country among faeries, butterflies and flowers.
Cartooning, daydreaming and still at school. Saving haters one at a time.
Written 9-28-2019
Contest: Story of my Life in 10 lines
Sponsor: Silent One
Wonderful smart—thinking Dr. Theophrastus
Has sold poetry books the utterly fastest.
His lines are tricky. They rhyme and dance.
His words are sticky. They preen and they prance.
His rhyming books make people insanely happy.
They are whimsical and fun, powerfully snappy.
With a whistle and a wink, they go along sweetly.
With a thistle painted pink, they are cartooned completely.
They make us laugh, they tickle our funny bones.
They brighten giraffes, who are asking for bank loans.
They make crazy people smile and toot and sometimes laugh.
Keep 4-H kids company while they are lying with their calf.
Dr. T’s poems are creative and fun, lively and jazzy.
They are head-spinning works of art, done amazingly snazzy.
They take astronauts and fling them high above the moon.
And toss whirly whippsy wiggins in yesterday’s monsoon.
They are lively and quick, understood by the common man.
They keep us shiny and slick, and help us love poetry at hand.
They delight all my locked up nephews and my stocked up nieces.
They thrill the cocked up roosters and owls, who love them to pieces.
Written 34-2019 Contest: Honoring Dr. Seuss
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner