We are often sold it is cricket’s true home
The gold tapestry we toast hallowed tome
Legends ghost last post told free to roam
Groundsmen boast on outfield wield a comb
Host should do a search on Google chrome
Would yield the strip is most about the loam
Frippery and filigree are so suitably kitsch
Coiffured rest of ground then got a stitch?
Eating kedgeree no pedigree critics snitch
Pundits pounce the bounce does bewitch
Batters flounce in tatters is a serious hitch
Not a titch moves alot watch them twitch
Trounce the culprits it is time for a switch
Not in pulpits being a bit*h MCC’s so rich
Scratch fans itch give us a Test match pitch
a quick leap, a pounce,
her paws catch a gentle bird
my eyes with tears flounce.
Once upon a time long gone …
The reigning queen let out a yawn,
And stood up from her regal throne
To trample down the hall alone
She ripped the crown from out her hair
And flung it out the window there,
It tumbled down the castle wall …
No knight or king did hear it fall
And off the ground it did bounce
The crown rolled out into a flounce,
Tumbling down into the moat
And thankfully it did not float
A queen no more and yet she smiled
Chuckling, whooping and skipping wild,
Saying goodbye to the castle rafter …
She'd found her happily ever after.
"By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find,"
kindness is a necessary handkerchief:
convex lips to meet mine with gentle understanding
words that tenderize as a snarling babe sedated by mother's milk
Please wait for me there
never minding fallen appearances
spider veins spindled in my corporation - bogus skins -
depleted gums, haunted eyes
Extend a posy, a leaf of scripture, a lump of sugar
be impressed at the flounce of this wisteria skirt
and silver-studded circulation stockings
in remembrance of my blush
My whirligigs are spinning;
The trees are all a’sway.
The dafs, with blooms beginning,
Bow their heads in mock dismay.
The windsock strips are dancing;
The bushes are a’bounce,
The dogs on leashes prancing,
Swishing tails an added flounce.
As I sit here with my writing,
While the sunshine’s all a’peek,
Rhyming words have been alighting
To allow my thought to speak.
A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.
You flounce
as if you were an ostrich fan
all fluffed up on the page
waving at posterity.
I nibble at your chicken livers,
occasionally
swing from your bell-ringing images
that dare to delight me,
but you peck at words too much
and those long pauses
when you take a bow
are tedious.
Sorry to see that you are dead,
when you were alive
reviewing your work
was a lot easier,
now I have to praise you
just to show I care.
All around me, the ugliness and rays.
Those scrimshaw eyes, I’m dizzy with the haze.
My pulsepoint jumped, too cozy with our friend.
My arms and legs, in seesaw wave, betrays.
My husband grins with thoughtfulness and flounce.
With piquant sense, he’s unafraid of pounce.
It alarms me, the claustraphobic crowd -
The stingers rest - in whelm of sea they bounce.
I cannot bear flow’s untenable feast.
A turnabout…disconcerting…at least.
My lipshade sours, I back away, take pause,
As loving spouse does pet and kiss the beast.
Unseaworthy
I creak like an old ferry
coming in to meet the wharf
mindful of less agile passengers
but like a wayward skiff
my thoughts soon override the pier
bounce against its rails, veer off
impatient with each lurch and bump
engines churn, make the waters flounce
I want to glide, admire my wake
I’m taking longer at drydock
and can’t maintain this tight routine
too many layers patch my hull
beneath the waterline, barnacles itch
and I can feel those worms at work
I’m eager for an obscure berth.
There once was fat lady who liked to strut,
she liked to flirt, flounce and show off her butt;
to sashay in a square dance,
that was more stagger and prance . . .
fell on her backside and revealed her ... what !
_____________________
May 15, 2023
Poetry/Limerick/Her White - Bawdy Limerick
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1547-597-15
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Funny, Bawdy, Humorous Limerick
sponsor, Tania Kitchin, Judged 05/28/2023
Second Place
The wedding cake beaver with a cha cha cha
Down New Orleans way, danced the Mardi Gras.
We said “don’t tell us he’s coming this way, Ma.”
She nodded and said “Better tell your pa.”
When the wedding cake beaver comes your way.
It means there is going to be a wedding day.
We were eight and six and scared now for sure.
The only one old enough was our cousin Cure.
Cure was seventeen, is that old enough?
To get married to some old doddery duff?
The wedding cake beaver came in with a flounce.
This mission statement he did announce.
A wedding fell through today down by the pond.
I knew your family liked cake, and this is the road I was on.
They don’t want the cake, would you like it today?
We were so thrilled we let out a hip hip hooray!
Bejeweled, in and out of the Gothic architecture,
Conceived by Abbot Suger, through a constant conjecture;
With perfect glasswork etched out of the then-time silica,
Found its place In Saint-Denis Cathedral Basilica...!
Modestly outsized splash-smeared gorgeous goblet casements,
Renaissance classic styled stone accent wall sacred basements;
Prettily pointed piercing cumulative curly curves,
Rib vaults great and small intertwining like the war of nerves...!
Soaring airborne ramparts; metaphysical adornments;
Perpendicular proportions; lopsided floral fronts;
Steady solemn designs that flounce upward in height and grace;
Domed arched ceilings that charms of times, ages, and eras embrace...!
With no shrinks and wrinkles like the perfection of pure youth,
Enticing grand elegance like the fullness of the truth;
Tracery is a treasury of architectural forms,
Within which dwell, fine ethereal elemental norms...!!!
26 January 2023
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
CONSUMMATING THE WORD
In the beginning was
The Word
Consummating it is
becoming Wordless
I fly them through windows
onto tarred roads
where tyres tread them
into Earth’s crystal blue gem
I consummate the word
like planets swallow comets
one gaping glance and
books burn in a flounce
I consummate the word by
dissolving fine hair on your
neck without a kiss, wet or red
without a letter to untidy bed
For Goddess consummates
in silent windy nights
where poems and words
are disappearing cords
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2022
Bitty birds scuffle and flounce
under the roofed-in.
Barn dusted, rafters crust and whiffle.
Snuffle go the whiskered,
the mousy muzzle's
all along the bent beam wood.
A pepper powdering
in the chink-lit sunbeams.
In this his tumbled castle-keep
youth sky-larked a being
a ghostling ally sight unseen
there in the day-baked barn.
Long days he communed and lazed
in dim swaddled and idle ease
stretched-out and dream-basked,
seeped in the tar caulked wood
steeped in a gown-shadowed glow
with the evening-come nightly
jackdaw and crow.
The flop and flurry of wide, woozy wings
clatters over dawn hedgerows.
Claws scrabble, feathers flounce.
An ounce of twitters rebounds
into raucous sound.
Here a rowdy cackle,
here a coddled coo,
there a deeply fluted hoo-hoo
all together in a ruffled flutter.
Birdsongs pump up,
light airy balloons into chattering tunes.
The sky jitterbugs a cloud or two.
Listen, listen do,
Listen to the hullaballoo
the mad glad galloping away of a musical play
where the singalong nips
at our ears with catcalls and cheers.
Another teaming twitter and fuss
strikes up its band for us.
Another cacophonic day lurches
as sleepy birds and the wide awake
gleefully roll off
their nocturnal perches.
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