There’s a panda tap dancing in hobnails
There’s an octopus mixing up cocktails
A bush kangaroo
Blows on a kazoo
While the band are all tadpoles or pond-snails
A gorilla is dancing the tango
With a chimp who’s still holding a mango
The chimp wins the crown
For getting on down
To the lambada and the fandango
At the bar there’s a drunk alligator
And he’s fancies a croc who’s the waiter
With so many teeth
He knew there’d be grief
So he’s seeing a pelican later
Well the peacock so prim and resplendent
Gave his coat to the cloakroom attendant
Chicks don’t check him out
Because he’s without
His plumage on which he’s dependant
Then the moose said it soon will be nine
Please finish your beer or your wine
It’s eight fifty-eight
His key’s in the gate
So try not to leave any sign
There's a pen near the big rabbit hutch
With a sign saying please do not touch
A young lad from Goring
Said Pandas are boring
They don’t seem to do very much
Blood Satan likes but on this no blame:
Lord God and Christ do too: Preferred flame
Then, wickedly, goes for Goring Horns,
His own copy of Christ’s Crowning Thorns:
The Horns not for self-caricature,
Rather for use after your capture
To make things never look the same,
Though in your mirrors old selves remain
When its darkness smile in his lips plays,
Promptly vanishing with The Sun’s Rays
Real big irony, for Morning Light;
Had Light simply lost after The Fight
Never did say he had abhorred Incense
But cleansing hyssop’s thinks plain nonsense
Not possible smiling at A Cross
Each time he sees one, counted a loss…
For see-through garments and the tightest,
Lots baring with move, of the slightest.
I was hollering in my sleep at four thirty in the morning
We both look at Mrs. A. She is high drama
I was yelling too said our friend Mr. Goring
My girlfriend bit me. She thought I was a llama.
They one-up each other on a daily basis.
Each has a crazy story, they are ready to sing.
They are both highly entertaining, story aces.
I can barely wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
She bit me on the shoulder in my sleep!
Mrs. A. and I laugh until we howl and jerk.
An alligator had me she said. He and I laugh ‘til we weep.
They entertain me daily, life is good at work!
My Guarantor: ’Never to get torn’
As it is continually worn:
A brush had had with Goring Horn
But not disfigured: A Hard Corn.
A Corduroy never the worse for wear,
Hard material spotting not a tear;
I’ve noticed: Every new morn
Often seeming The Reborn.
A Corduroy which did refuse
To drop me a lame excuse
For choosing to not gainfully last
And breathe its disappointing last…
A tough blue shirt of mine
I should be honoring with Spanish Wine.
I badly fear feuding cattle,
Vexed into a ferocious battle;
An endless shudder at the goring horn
To them granted when they were born.
I could imprison the defecating cattle
And off and on heatedly rattle
About their messy-looking hilly dung,
At all corners of an expanse, filthily flung.
But I do pity the knife-facing cattle,
Just as I would an on-a-slab-turtle,
Of resistance dispossessed, no less of mettle;
To soon in active kitchen pots settle…
I could Imitate journeying lazing cattle,
This intently doing and not a little,
If my destination be an object funeral,
No lucky grabbing of a bottle of mineral.
There once was a man
named Trump; his
country needing a
royal bump; so, as age can
refine, like vintage and wine –
(seeing liberties decline)
thought to take-on
the thankless task
of pulling a nation
from a Donkey's Dump –
After winning public office –
while taking note of peer-heads
comfortable in the rear
'neath the Donkey’s fowl orifice –
with many spineless others bailing
while our Precious Republic,
if not failing, definitely ailing! –
a chunk of freedom hitting him
on the head
Despite a slight flutter, and perhaps
a small stutter, he began the perilous
task of restoring – beloved lady in his
harbor needing shoring – as a matador
fearless of goring he led
rolling aside
stepping over
the prostrate bodies
of cowards….
Asses and elephants
in the center of 3 rings
kicking and goring at the breeze
the people trampled underneath.
There is no referee...
A gaping hole between philosophies.
A fight to the death
for the blood of democracy
Civil war approaching.
Spit shining my crosshairs...
Preparing for the crazies of the street.
butterflies goring the party as their wings fall
never never to take a flight but a cocoon
a worm you call it but if not me never you
Grief
gnaws at my aching heart
greets my awakening,
grins within the sunbeams
gathers empty teardrops
garnished with memory’s
gaunt unfocused vision
goring life’s bloodied bull.
11/22/2015
submitted to – Pleiades, Please – poetry contest
sponsor – Kim Merryman
As I soared at forty-thousand feet strapped in the aluminum-tubed aerie,
Racing through my skull was a tune made famous by Peter, Paul and Mary!
They made leaving on a jet plane sound so very romantic and swell!
Contrary to their soothing ballad, mine was the flight from hell!
Ah, the thrill of going through the security check still lingers,
Recalling a most "touching" pat-down by Freddy Feely Fingers!
I had to remove my belt, shoes and the change from my pockets,
And open my carry-on bag to prove I had no guns or rockets!
I was "squoze" betwixt two guys leaning on my shoulders snoring!
One was built like Hulk Hogan - the other as fat as Herman Goring!
A squalling kid hollered for the entire trip! I suffered beyond belief!
I ordered a Manhattan on the Rocks in hopes of finding blessed relief!
About the flight, I told Betty Boop the attendant, "I'm tired of this fuss!
Next time I travel I'll skip all this nonsense and ride a Greyhound bus!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
NOTE: I've suffered through many such flights wondering if the agony
would ever end!
Entry for Debbie Guzzi's "Songs to Poetry" Contest
Cherries pale yellow tinged with red
Colorful umbrella, mercurial spread
Mellowing veil hovers overhead
Hand staid until dark color, pungent odor wed
Nature's rhythms from youth nurtured in my head
In fowl, tell tale signs providentially inbred
Knowing beak is quicker than the hand brings dread
Before gravity can pull weighted cherries to rotting bed
My pruning hand to the luscious fruit is sentiently led
But wittier birds, for sweet treat, already fragile branches tread
Goring fruit: knifing peel, shredding flesh, tangy juices bled
Colorful, pock-marked marbles left for dead
Sun-dried, pitted prunes left in their stead
For aggrieved spite, all cultured inhibition shed
Manically, with fingers, stem lines forcefully unthread
Goring down, shredding tears, I pule to,
give my prayer, to all family's and
friends, missing or gone, across this
blanket world, as her gusty winds flare,
and ragging rapids spill, these islands in
darkness, I will not lye here,
silenced, for she was,
"PLANNED" drapping curtains,
where our moon mysteriously a
lined itself, mutationally, reins, and
deploys,explosions of fear, I say,
don't give in, break her free, don't
be, A coward less coward, to their deceit,
and lies, these politicians, we call
democrats n' republicans, don't
really,give A RATS ASS, as long
as,they get voted, I ask stand for
what's right to your heart, therefore
she can not win this glory, and ask
your government why???? Priceless
lives pay, in A test on the country
so that they may have control....
That's the question.... But I will not
bow, I give my hand to the
innocence, of THE PEOPLE.......
To shelter them with love and blessings, that I
Rein.....For I shall ride A pon my black knight.....
As We defeat it, like a skyscraper...
Carma
10-30-12
When the street was becoming alive
man had become a charged bull,
goring the god to death.
My father wept, took the corpse home,
that was his child.
In the wild fire, a tall eucalyptus
had burned, turned black.
What did you think, this year,
spring would not come?
I remained very sad those days.
When the self was me, my image
I was dying without death ;
through the veils, I would not see.
Was the pinnacle of your is, was becoming
empty? Tell me when we would learn,
the tiny truth of a primate? Or become
snakes eating our own children?
SATISH VERMA
Avebury a Wiltshire village low
To windswept beacon of Ivinghoe.
Eighty-five miles,vale and hill
Wayfare freedoms,exhilarate and thrill.
Striding downs in grassy scrub
Midst trees and clumps of shrub;
Shaded lanes,gates and stiles,
Wayside pubs to rest awhile.
Overton to Wantage plain
Goring and Streatly in the rain;
Chinnor to Bledlow,in freezing chill,
To Buckmoor,Chequers and Coombe Hill.
Wendover to Hastoe through morning dew
Wigginton,Albury onto Beacon view;
Natural history and species now rare,
Time to idle or just stand and stare.
Uncontrollable, saline
emotion bitterly shed
into the sinking depths of despair.
Uncontrollable, shakes
of a derelict head,
quantum leap savagery eating away.
Inconsolable, thrust
of a rapier grief,
goring the nerves that are gradually pared.
Inconsolable, theft,
circumstantial the thief,
felonious increments day after day.
Unforgettable, pain
exponentially grows,
stripping at life 'till the bones are all bared.
Unforgettable, rain
of the cruellest blows
that beat up on feelings 'till blackened and blued.
Unforgivable, love
so devotedly cast,
now shackled in cloisters, alone and uncared.
Unforgivable, needing
you foremost and last,
the cure of solace, not black solitude
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