Not For Contest
Note-Again Connie reads the contest rules after she writes the poem,
missing the fact that the poem should have ten lines or less. I told you
I'm walking on eggshells.
Why do all the chickens lay their eggs on my path
They are filthy and smelly and can use a bath
There's poop and stench pulling on my rope
Where are all the hungry foxes to give me hope
Please take them away from me on a jet plane
I can't take this anymore, I'm going insane
Fly them off to the sun so they'll burn to a toast
Their presence has turned me pale like a ghost
Why couldn't I have been the one to fly the coop
Instead of slumping with the white-sheeted group
Every day I see that family and six baby chicks
That pulls my nerves while I watch them get their kicks
These chickens should trip to the sun for all I care
I'll even pack a lunch for them to see them flare
Every day I hear buck-buck-buck while I walk on eggshells
My life needs to be unfeathered because I'm living in hells
This aint my first rodeo
I have known horse refuse before
Not thoughtful enough or thorough I thought
Well thats what boots are for
Emblazened on my personal crest
familial coat of arms
I will haul me from this arena
be my self appointed gendarme
Prison would be an upgrade to
held fast with invisable bar
set myself free fly the coop
If I have to sleep in a car
Or any of the myriad excuses for
the cowardice that holds me fast
I simply must be my own champion
I see this now at last
No one is coming to extricate
they will not send in the clown
For front and center he holds the stage
as I look for him all around
I pray to never give up on me
And never be given up on
Off this sawdust littered ground
this phoenix will soar like a swan.
Requiring more room for take off
But thereafter soon from sight
The powerful strength and span of its wings
Climbing boldly through this night
Alphabet soup
. for public domain
A freshly polished silver spoon easily whirls
warm pasta letters in a China bowl,
while Poetry struggles meagerly
to stir his spirit, enrich his soul.
He rather would want for food than words,
a rhyme, a sweet line, or a symbolic enthymeme,
while Language recedes from this aging mind,
with little to forage, little to find.
Muses are eternal souls, fit for better
than tired, aging flesh bent over soup bowls.
So the Spirits fly the coop, so to say,
and leave him on his own to droop
over mysterious letters in his alphabet soup
Author Dana Redricks
June 1, 2021
I never meant to hurt you, and I never meant to make you cry. The thought of losing you just breaks my heart in two. I love you from the moment when I first held you. Come home come home here is where you belong don’t cut me out of your life, because losing you hurts like I’m being stabbed with a knife. You don’t know how bad it hurts to see your child walk away leaving you in an empty home all alone. I know that every bird must fly the coop but never on this level. It feels like my life is coming apart. We haven't been a day apart since the day you were born. Now I’m feeling the empty nest syndrome. I never thought this day would come or ever would feel this bad. But don’t forget about your mom, because I won’t forget about you.
If you were a chicken, how would you handle
The fear of being barbecued at somebody's castle
Would you fly the coop
Planning to paratroop
Drop some poop bombs, their party to cancel
I'm better than you! If you doubt it, ask me!
Though your station's a poor one, I'll help you to see,
That I'm gifted by God, oh, in infinite ways,
I'll still be the best me, though you've double my days!
I'm gifted by God, wealth I never may spend,
But a Master of humbleness, I won't pretend
I'm not better at being me; you have no chance,
To be better than I am at dancing my dance!
I'm poetry Master; I'm God blest with rhyme,
Yes, free verse is for amateurs, far less sublime.
Still, I could let my muse pull the plug from its sink,
Take an art holiday, prose with fool's gold's cheap ink!
Though I am impatient at times with the crowd,
Rare's the day that I bother to curse them out loud
All the jetsam and flotsam that humbly comply,
More at home at sea level, though rhyme's known to fly.
Time flows, all are sea bound; we're poetry's soup,
Though in moments of glory one may fly the coop
And some words briefly sparkle, when thoughts find their rhyme,
Though the best human poets still run out of time!
Brian Johnston
22nd of December 2018
My muse
is tired of being abused
as I use my pen like a whip
making it do what I want it to
My muse
had no clue
or one eye inkling way of thinking
what it was getting itself into
My muse
doesn't know what to do
since it's chained inside my brain
master of it's every move
My muse
needs a redo
from being kept where it's at
to a new rendezvous
My muse
I have surely duped
into thinking that I need it
only for it's creative juice
My muse
would like to fly the coop
make it clear outta here
find a gig entirely new
If you were a chicken, how would you handle
The fear of being barbecued at somebody's castle
Would you fly the coop
Planning to paratroop
Drop some poop bombs, their party to cancel
how the turkey I asked
a country of told you so
the moon beautiful for the fill gas oil
akimbo a foot on both asia and oops we gone the fall on both knee
the kid across said thank you for the eggs from fifty hens up state laid for you
moist you ask me the oven and the rest
no no all a fry and two wings I fly the coop of sky a sunset
a long weekend **** a take back my legs and the cat left behind
my ass can not take much longer on earth
know it is difficult to read the write of raised the bar
all clean I left you the right of buy the black friday
all dishes a clean to figure where she going
tip top a tic tac of smoke did you see the moon
I can a can of cancan tell you you the lies in latin
D C or P D she pedals the child the moon tomorrow not to be seen
sincere she tell you stories out of her mind watch your step never cross her
a total massacre never for the massage of spa
she is so crazy we love her hare not a rabbit scurry in her hole
my hands escaped me talking nonsense
as in every direction they fly the coop
a full conversation with myself
ten fingers what a bounty and if only toes will assist
will be a milligram and what is that with hands flying
the mum in the middle of nowhere but sure got my bicycle back.
Grandma’s Flown the Coup!
Has anyone here seen Grandma?
We’ve been searching high and low
It’s time she joined the seniors’ home
Burt she doesn’t want to go
She packed up all her make-up
Paid her Botox bill in full
Her kids think she should act her age
She thinks that that’s bull!
Her hair salon is worried
Her dye job is almost due
She comes like clockwork every week
They’ll miss the revenue
The old age club is miffed
She never joins the group
And tries to lure the rest of them
To come and fly the coop!
Last week she went dancing
And partied all night long
Then someone handed her a mike
And she sang a bawdy song
Please help us to find Grandma
She’s getting much too bold
She decided she’s too young for us
For she’s never growing old!
Copyright© 2004 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
You eat, you drink, you sleep, you poop
And then it’s time to fly the coop.
Life is over in a minute;
The world goes on, without you in it.
Thus, before you do depart,
Milk every moment from your heart.
No need to pay a finder’s fee
Or labor on your legacy.
Just focus on the here and now –
It’s all you can do, anyhow.
Today you’re here, enjoy its spark –
Tomorrow is a question mark.
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