across the festival of grasses
I ran through the view of various booth and attraction
run by locals and those aged faction
along those sneaky foreigners with imprinted aliases
rolling my bike seemed to bother
with their necks closing in
leaning towards my upward chin
read as arrogance, instead as an evader
invader of their land
shattering their drinking glass
yet still manage to outclass humans
by using what's left of their decaying hand
it's pretty in my mind
thinking—I'll just pay a visit
not knowing my limit
until I arrived.
The splintering sound, the shattering
of my drinking glass
This put paid to my sleeping beauty as
gloss
But it was only my relationship that was
poorly broken
Even though my heart had me earlier
fortoken
But I have since gathered myself to avert
more loss
challenge was to keep a serious face,
and of merriment not a hint or trace,
they all should stay still in silent poses,
but should any of them smile first, loses!
In a classroom of teenage boys and girls,
was so easy to make teeth smile like pearls,
serious face was unknown entity,
to them this challenge was not so easy!
Leader would monitor their every mirth,
one who survives the hour keeps money’s worth,
so at eight o clock on start of school day,
in silence they all stood, quiet they would stay,
at quarter past eight, teacher walked in,
so silent it was, you could hear a pin,
surprised, amazed teacher raised an eyebrow,
such class obedience he didn’t know,
he turned to the blackboard to start his class,
in the process he upset a drinking glass,
the splash of water on the classroom floor,
started giggles that soon grew to an uproar,
so the challenge was soon lost to loud laughter,
but silly bet was worth only a quarter!
‘Living it up for laughter’ poetry contest
Chantelle Anne Cooke
Written 29/08/2020
My heating bill is sky-high
And STILL I feel the cold!
My feet are near frozen
As through the house I’ve strolled.
When I go to bed …
With blankets stacked 5 high
Warmth still eludes me
For the COLD it screams: DENY!
My furnace set to maximum
The space heater’s glow bright red
Still I see my breath …
I’ll wear my coat again, to bed.
Frost is on my drinking glass
Within my tiny hut
I wonder: Would it be warmer
With my windows … shut?
A warm winds joins me for a cold glass of iced tea
under the rising summer sun
drying the morning dew
off of the freshly laid sod
bringing to light life's little questions
where am I heading
who am I
I look at my reflection
in the dripping drinking glass
seeing a weathered old soul
a head of hair turning grey
piercing blue eyes hiding her memory
wishing not for tomorrows
but that today would stay
that today will be the day
the day I fly to her
the day I take her hand
when our hearts become one
The day she leads me to His promised land
wishing not for tomorrows
but that today would stay
I would look, look at her and see
a lifetime, lifetime of making memories
YOU AIN'T COUNTRY
If you've never...
Swept the front yard (No, not the porch but the yard),
Played under the porch (Yes, under)
Intentionally eaten dirt
(Not just any dirt, mind you, that good ole
red clay kind)
Gone barefoot outside...all day
And seen old car tires used as
Flower planters and yard decorations and swings...
You ain't country.
If you’ve never...
“Sopped” syrup or gravy with a biscuit
Shelled the peas for your supper or
Drank coffee from the saucer
You ain’t country
If you don't know what a truck patch is
Or about the grease can on top of the stove
Or that canning vegetables does NOT involve a can...
You ain't country.
If you've never used a mason jar as a drinking glass
Or to eat milk and bread from
Or to catch fireflies in..
Or to cut out homemade biscuits with
You ain't country.
And, if you're not shaking your head in agreement
And smiling a bit as you remember....
I know for sure
You ain't country
2012 Patricia Neely-Dorsey
#country #countrylife
Words never leave us like people will.
We keep up the sad appearance, the shrill
sentences rubbed raw, the frayed frill.
We do not talk of these forgotten things,
for only the recorded fact brings
the distortions of alabaster wings.
You remain just a surname mother,
put aside years ago, awaiting other
praise, the life emotions never utter.
We take no time to quote ourselves here.
Mutely, we wait revelation, the clear
crystal drinking glass with the white deer.
But there are no promises now or frames,
love's calligraphy is varicose veins.