Grab a crab, nab a snack.
Crack a claw, smack a stack!
Mayo mellow, a silky spread.
Ham piled high on crusty bread.
Salad stacked, crisp and bright.
Every mouthful is pure delight.
Best darn sandwich you've ever seen.
Packed with pickles fresh and green.
Watch them crab claws — They're set to go!
Grab too late? — You'll know your woe!
Toasted, roasted, golden brown.
Best darn snack in town, hands down.
Crunch and munch, chew with cheer,
Grab another while you're here!
Hands have fingers; crabs have claws.
Both love lunches—that's the cause!
Faces has smiles; claws have jaws!
So grab a crab and catch a snack.
Smack your lips and whack it back!
I thought he needed me,
I took him in my arms,
I put my two hands down
On its centennial trunk,
I stayed still,
His silence made me understand,
That it was me,
Who needed him.
This oak offered me his friendship.
These eyes my own tv i am the star
in my head where chaos is my peace
i will fall like the tallest structure
everything will crash and burn
nothing will ever come back to me
will i ever see and feel or taste again.
Where are my eyes, where is my head?
I wanted to ask but my lips wont move!
Here i am, my hands down on the ground,
here i come, my legs somewhere behind,
smell i can remember was my own,
heart beat that feels like stolen home,
my marriage still hanging on,
does anyone know my purpose,
why i will never again see the snow,
or flowers in spring time,
smell of the dead leaves in fall,
where do i start from this time,
on two wheels is my home,
all alone my voice wont carry on,
can anyone see my glow,
it is gone with all the rest of the parts
i taste terribly just so you know
you hungry beast just finish me off,
take it all, take my heart,
maybe better if still pumping blood,
you will get more that way,
so much more through your veins i will flow,
its been too long since I've have felt this way
i am a monster now i was a monster than,
i wouldn't change a thing.
the remote to our TV disappeared last night
my husband and I checked both sides of our chairs
the table, a shelf, the floor, a shoe, the garbage can
My husband asked “do you think Beau has it?”
“Not a chance,” I told him “we would hear him chewing it”.
We turned on the lights and tore the living room apart.
Moved the couch and both recliners.
Put our hands down the recliners three or four more times.
“Your mom’s birthday is tomorrow,” I said “do you think it is her saying hello?”
His mother has been gone twenty years, but this felt like spirit playing tricks.
We already lost one remote to this machine and it was never found.
I will not be surprised if it is sitting here next to our chairs tomorrow.
I was wrong.
It was sitting on the chair in the morning.
Don't look now but I think our long awaited spring
Has finally decided to honour us with her presence
YUP! The earth is yawning and waking up
From a very long winter's nap
She's still a bit groggy but the signs are there
Snow is all gone, temps are rising
The birdies are singing their happy refrains
Us humans seem to have an extra skip in our step
It's the sweetest time of the year hands down
Our outlook has become sunny once again
After another tough Canadian winter
But hey! That's all behind us now
Let's all sing happy songs and smile
Damn it... SMILE!
Upon first entering, there's a picture of a lion sitting, staring, and scrutinizing all who enter.
Next, your eyes are drawn to a beautiful picture of a white house backed
by trees and embroidered with a myriad of eye-catching flowers. As you
take a seat at the dinning table, a painting on the wall greets you with
power and solemnity. It's a lion's head, cheek to cheek with the head of
Christ crowned with thorns. Near the fire place, a much smaller and less
colorful picture hangs. It's a picture of my grandmother sitting in a
wheel chair with hospital tags still on her wrist. She smiles with no sign
of care as a great grandson leans over her shoulder. Next to the front door
hangs a picture of, not suggestions, but the 10 commandments.
If it were mandated that only one picture could remain, grandma's picture
wins hands down. You see, it was grandma who shielded and protected me;
who comforted and reassured me, loving me unconditionally. Yes, it's grandma.
My final answer.
Here's a question you guys might answer
When considering a quatrain or a narrative
The response to a narrative wins hands down
Could someone explain the reason why
Forever I've thought poetry always meant rhyme
Since grade school way back when
Apparently I seem to be living in the past
Coz narratives get much more notice
Obviously narratives are easier to write
Less of a strain on the brain
But the numbers are there and numbers don't lie
Is there anyone out there that can tell me why
See... this one was a snap to write
Everybody spoke from town to town
That he had the greatest smile hands down
Till his big brother Keith
Knocked out all his front teeth
Now he greets all in town with a frown
Tried writing stuff of a serious nature
Just knew it wasn't for me
Dabbled a bit but I just couldn't hack it
A humorist is all I'll be
It's not exclusive, still write about love
Some about conflict and war
But I'd rather write about a sorry dude
Slipped on a banana peel and swore
Don't call me Burns or Shelley or Keats
Prefer ones that make me cackle
Guess you could call me low brow poet
Causing one's tail to waggle
Was born with a silver spoon in my mouth
Fortunate when so many struggle
Don't call me down, it wasn't a choice
Much like the law of the jungle
The luck of the draw, whatever you call it
Really didn't have much of a say
I was truly a product of World War II years
Still happy to this very day
Three performers enter the room.
Two children.
One adult.
The children stand like two scarecrows in a rice field.
The adult takes a can and sprays the children;
careful not to miss a spot.
The children put their hands down and prepare to exit,
The adult whispers,
“they’re everywhere”.
(Author's Note: This is a Fluxus event score)
"dis appears"
once The Great; the greatest to have ever been
the best slight of hand hands down ever seen
but a magician is tragic
for without magic
is only now known as ian
Here's a question you guys might answer
When considering a quatrain or a narrative
The response to a narrative wins hands down
Could someone explain the reason why
Forever I thought poetry was meant to rhyme
Since grade school way back when
Apparently I seem to be living in the past
Coz narratives get much more notice
Obviously narratives are easier to write
Less of a strain on the brain
But the numbers are there and numbers don't lie
Is there anyone out there that can tell me why
See... this one was a snap to write
I await your replies with bated breath!
If someone were to ask of me
What's the most beautiful thing I ever did see
I'd smile and say not a "what" but a "who"
And then I'd tell them all about you
With eyes as blue as the ocean when
The sunlight dances atop the waves
And dazzles and shimmers, hypnotizing, then
They'll know who's the who who this heart of mine craves
An aura surrounding, your radiance beams
Through a smile that captures a woman of dreams
At least dreams of mine, so many I've had
Too many to mention, although may I add
The moment they see you they'll know what I mean
No words need be spoken, hands down, sight unseen
With natural beauty your appearance alone
Draws eyes upon you, your presence is known
Narratives or at least that's what I call them
Without doubt win hands down every time
I've deviated with limericks and couplets and stuff
But I'm back to the old poems that rhyme
Very similar to when we go away on vacation
It feels so good to finally get back home
Everytime we deviat from our regular patterns
Though we enjoy it a bunch when we roam
Guess it's familiarity that we're always craving
Friendly faces of the people we know
No hidden agendas, no scams to contend with
Just the same old routine, same old show
Comfortable is a very good word to describe it
That down home feeling when with friends
Like always being in style with jeans and Adidas
Instead of trying to keep up with the trends
Give me that plain old simple way of living
It surely wins hands down ever time
That's how I roll, I'm just a simple old hayseed
Sitting around chewing the fat is just fine
autumn mushroom hunting is natural to elves and gnomes.
they parade out into the wilds, leaving the comfort of their homes.
they sing as they work, collecting morels with haste.
i can smell them sizzling in the pans, remembering the taste.
collecting is in full swing, the fey clean, sort, chop, and can.
nothing is more important than mushroom hunting in faerie land.
this is their staple throughout the winter, hands down.
each tasty morel rolled in crumbs, toasted golden brown.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.