A thousand simple things make me smile...
The sleeping form of a precious newborn,
A child's drawing in his own artistic style,
Pastel shades of the sky in the early morn,
Fairytales written about a magical unicorn.
I am amused by hair with corkscrew curls
on heads of adorable little, giggling girls.
By puppies tripping over their own feet,
Watching moonlight's glow as night unfurls,
And a surprise kiss that's incredibly sweet.
Someone falling should never make me laugh,
But quickly, I'm chuckling out of control
Then sincerely apologize for my social gaffe.
I wildly cheer when my team scores a goal.
I've heard that 'Laughter is good for the soul.'
In a spontaneous moment of outdoor fun,
I've jumped into a deep snowdrift at full run,
I find great pleasure in setting myself free
to share the taste of cotton candy, finespun...
Life is sweet when I make no excuse for being me
**********
there had been no warning on the flask
no caveat for self-inflicted poisoning
just a devilish delusion of filling the void
it was not the corkscrew that messed it up
but bottle to mouth resuscitation blacked out
all emptiness until surrender meant hope
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
Daze and days of penmanship
Potent perhaps a touch of sun
Shipshape warming of outlet ink
Ishmael invites a tale; I say: “stowaway”
Stop all blubbering; just get yammering
Yo ho soupmates, we must steer the ship
Stir golden pot of disbelief and brass tacks
Torrential corkscrew pasta, perhaps?
Pish posh of the alphabet riding the waves
Wending its way, each letter to the crew
Conspirators of sonnets, limericks and dust
Dangerous alliteration, elevation and descent
Decidedly dizain, free verse or blank; thats it?!
To spill one’s guts ‘tis hard to do ~
though the pressure's like a tight corkscrew
Woodsman on a prowl
Sneaking around like an owl
Noticing innocents getting a fright
Watchman you are a good knight
Defending partiers in a plight
Battling a monster in a murderous fight
Erich you guarded them all
Despite the rainfall
Where thunder clapped
Lightning snapped
Spotlighting your heroic stage
Heralded by the girls maturing in age
Until your deadly scripted page
As we reflect surrounded by campfire mist
Who should be on the angelic list
Mr. Anderson may not have received Brad Clooney fame
But we knew your look maybe not name
Reminded the rat was Ben
While the chopping mall no longer needed Ken
RIP mechanical hiking buddy
Protecting those from evil not really funny
Make it sunny
Heavens will be brighter
Since you are now a soulful fighter
We all down here
Are in it for the scream and cheer
Toasting Rob Dier
With a corkscrew and beer
Lord, save this unholy Baptist!?
Her lactation, like mother's juice,
slakes thirsty tongues with creamy gist.
To flush her slick love-chamber's sluice,
with corkscrew thumbs, and practiced wrists,
like a gander she mauls her goose!
If hairy chest stirs those supple breasts
in whorish barns (near lover's inns),
then with my cock's erectest crest,
the buttocks (of her cleft nether-chin),
like meat pies, I durst hurry test,
lest I, limp, err in deadly sins!
But I pray Thee, O holy Godhead!
I durst not be so thus content'd,
when, like dogwood, is my sainthead,
when goes my pizzle unlament'd;
and, like Pan, to c*nt the nunhead,
I've foregone your grace, unrepent'd.
The cat wants in
dark spiraling clouds stretch
to grab at our throats,
the cat has made a fort of its
spring-loaded
corkscrew body.
There is no distance now,
just this on-rushing rumbling
a sign that we have mislaid
our past
in this brick-walled moment.
They say when it tracks us down
it sounds like a train,
the heart ducks below its own pounding,
thoughts become
a sensorium of beheaded sensations,
ears are left to ring on their own.
The term ‘Tornado’ does not cover
the many reasons to run blindly
or stay hunched in a bunker of reason.
Wide-eyes search out
nests of kindred heartbeats.
Then there is the wait,
the explosive ticking of electric moments
that shake both bones and faith.
You may not know it
but your bent body is praying,
your mind
has become a begging bowl.
Then the banshee whoosh
and clatter
of a near miss.
No flying cows cross our eyes
just a frigid silence
between the loud drip-drop
of a spent and broken rain –
then
hands reaching.
"Pipeline: Hawaii's North Shore where Championship Surfing Meets are held, remains the deadliest since records began in the 60s."
Golden shores surfed duo gift essence new threshold,
History made two by sea,
Footprint holds their granule sunk traces, queues the bold,
Long woods wee came two by sea,
Boarders store their sea tools drift faces, cue behold,
Fantasy dreams two by sea,
Reckon calls pair home schools feet races fuel's the sold,
Handily swims two by sea,
Loop unfolds those who rules hunk intense corkscrew rolled,
Gone absentees are two by sea,
Fathom pulls remain cool surfaces, two consoled,
Breathing-free crawls two by sea,
Jettisons beached dual shift places cruise controlled,
Rest at ease lays two by sea,
Ponder hauls twain unspool whiffed graces schooled withhold,
Bended knees pray two by sea,
Covered boards bros no fools--but in case, 'Win the Gold',
*Pipeline be? Two if's by sea?
*HMS; Anapestic tetrameter.
Enough already, there's ample sufficiency
We're up to here, there is no deficiency
I grumble and moan with growing proficiency
Please somebody, Stop the rain !!
The housework's done, its never been cleaner
The wife's as happy as I've ever seen her
This forced confinement affects my demeanor
Can't somebody, Stop the rain !!
Here in Spain we're not used to such rain
Another day starts and its pouring again
I don't walk the dog, we both aquaplane
I'm begging you, Stop the rain !!
But hold on a sec, the sun's peeping through
The clouds are dispersing, the sky cobalt blue
Break out the bottle, the glass and corkscrew
Cos somebody, Stopped the rain !!
boxful of Scotland souvenirs at a car boot sale
a life’s possessions
in thirty or so boxes
from the back of a white Transit
knick-knacks from Scotland
a wee man with ginger hair
tam o’shanter
and a corkscrew
a picture of Ben Nevis
with all the red vibrancy
sucked out of it
by years of rising suns
through flat windows
a toilet roll holder
from Edinburgh
cartoon spider and an inscription
taken straight from Robert Bruce
“if at first you don’t succeed,
try, try again”
an empty whisky bottle
shaped like a hand bell
a small bundle of colourised postcards
in brown, green and purple
of the Scottish Highlands
a tea towel with a stubborn brown stain
of the Isle of Skye
a pint glass with a colour scene
lettered Aberd—n
and a dried bunch of heather
bound by a tartan ribbon
from the banks of Loch Ness
that bunch of heather,
forty six years picked
owned from honeymoon to death
thirty or so boxes
of worthless detritus
to rummage and ransack
on a summer Sunday morning
a life lived
in one of thirty boxes.
6.6.2011
revised 6.6.2022 6:45am
I will be the princess of the dynasty
The princess of the corkscrew
The princess of the underwear drawer
There is a lot of laughter
Sybil does not understand the others.
She is not amused or laughing
She gets out her tarot cards and her runes.
Begins plotting the spells that will transmogrify the others
We looked out across the Canyon
It looked like a painting from above
Like you'd fall onto it, not inside.
The farther in we trekked
The more 3D everything became.
Like hiking an optical illusion.
The canyons wall were gray,
But you'd never know it.
Painted red from the canyon dust
The cactus flowers at full bloom,
Next to yucca plants and prickly pears.
We moved downward to Plateau Point
Like an island underground
Surrounded by the rushing river
Down via Devil's Corkscrew.
A route that lived up to it's name
Until we got to the bottom
Jumping into the icy water
Looking back up to the top
I wonder if I looked like part of the painting
Of this Canyon, so very Grand
March 22, 2022 Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS |
on a shoestring diet only going around in circles ~ yo yo
inside a huge tornado just somewhere over the rainbow ~ toto
happily oblivious on a corkscrew rollercoaster ~ ho ho
somersaulting off the high board heading for a bellyflop ~ no no
paratroopers landing awkwardly behind enemy lines ~ go go
highly intelligent beings orbit the densest planet ~ so so
A STRAND (1063) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
02/01/22
A thousand simple things will make me smile...
The sleeping form of a precious newborn,
A child's drawing in his artistic style,
Pastel shades of the sky at early morn,
Fairytales of a magic unicorn.
I am amused by hair with corkscrew curls
on heads of adorable little girls.
By puppies tripping over their own feet,
Watching moonlight glimmer as night unfurls,
A surprise kiss that's incredibly sweet.
Someone falling should never make me laugh,
But quickly, I'm chuckling out of control
Then apologize for my social gaffe.
I wildly cheer when my team scores a goal.
I've heard that 'Laughter is good for the soul.'
In a spontaneous moment of fun,
I jumped into a snowdrift at full run,
Finding great pleasure in just being me.
Like the taste of cotton candy, finespun...
Life is sweeter when I set myself free
November 11, 2021
Agendaless Exuberance Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
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