Rumple Stein has a terrifying
midnight warning for children
who look for a late- night snack.
Deep within the woods
where the old shadows grow,
Rumple Stein whispers a secret
you must know.
"Never sneak a cookie when
the midnight bell tolls,
For that is the hour when the
beast truly strolls."
His voice is like gravel, his
eyes gleam with spite,
Warning little children of the
terrors in the night.
"The Cookie Monster waits in
the dark, cold and grim,
If you steal a treat, you will
surely meet him."
A shadow will stretch out
across the kitchen floor,
As a blue furry claw softly
pushes the door.
He won't want a wafer, a chip,
or a chew,
Instead, the fierce beast will
come hunting for you!
Your bones will be crumbled
like a dry chocolate chip,
As he catches your sleeve in
his terrible grip.
With a terrifying growl from his
bottomless cup,
The hungry blue gobbler will
swallow you up!
So lock up the cookie jar when the
clock strikes the hour,
Before you are trapped in the
monster's grim power.
No crumbs will remain where
you stood on the floor,
And the kitchen will stay silent
forevermore.
The grub is a fraud, let’s be honest and clear,
A beetle in diapers that gardeners fear.
He’s C-shaped and creamy, a squishy delight,
With a big orange head and a monster-sized bite.
He lives in the dirt, just a subterranean guest,
Turning your lawn into one giant mess.
He wakes in the summer, a tiny white speck,
By autumn he’s thick with a bull-sized neck.
When winter arrives with its icy-cold breath,
He tunnels down deep to avoid certain death,
Then returns in the spring for a root-heavy lunch,
Giving your fescue a satisfying crunch.
He treats your backyard like a five-star buffet,
Till the grass turns to brown and the green fades away.
But his life isn't always a feast in the shade,
The skunk digs a hole for a protein-packed snack,
And the robin descends for a mid-morning thwack.
If he avoids the beaks and the sharp, furry claw,
The Milky Spore bacteria might lock up his jaw.
Or nematodes find him—a microscopic crew—
To turn his insides into biological stew.
But if he survives every chemical spray,
He grows a hard shell and just flies far away.
They want to lock up Officer Crespo for 27 years
But is the case as it appears?
I got a letter from the Center for Police Defense.
They claim the accusation makes no sense.
Crespo was called for backup, drug dealers were speeding at night
They pulled over and pointed a gun, wouldn't that give you a fright?
He wanted to make it back to his four kids and wife
He managed to shoot first, killed but saved his life.
The court did not tell the jury about the drug dealer's crime spree.
Reading what he did that night, that doesn't seem fair to me
The guy had just beat up his girlfriend and he was high on a drug.
The car was stolen, the gun illegal, not the type to give a hug.
The letter made another claim: that the D.A. dislikes police
If the letter is correct, this witch-hunt must cease.
Cops don't start a day wishing to kill a man
Life in jail for manslaughter is not part of their plan.
If you get rid of good cops, someone else will fill in
You won't like the new enforcers; results will be grim.
I'm not a blind believer, we should follow every clue
But it's easy to make judgements when the gun doesn't point at you.
“You must shut off your phone;
Place it into this case
Which we’ll lock up, until
You will exit this place.”
This was outside the theater
And, lo and behold,
No one griped, but all did
Just what they had been told.
It was strange, but real nice
Seeing not one lit screen
In the audience, members
Thrown off their routine.
No distractions from texters
Or people so bored
They must Google the news,
With politeness ignored.
So instead, all were focused,
The whole multitude,
On the actors, with some scenes
Performed in the nude.
That was likely the reason
No phones were allowed,
But I loved being part
Of an old no-tech crowd.
In times when I was met with frigidness,
and cruelty scraped my fragile skin,
I may have whimpered like a pup
or merely shaken it off.
Those memories remain
somewhere in my brain
but not in a
place of joy
or of
grace.
I
prefer
to lock up
old injuries,
and some I may have
concealed so very well
they linger as in a fog.
Unlike the bliss of a first kiss,
my deepest cuts and wounds have become
memories lost within a frozen mist.
(To be sang to the tune of
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen)
Here's a wee warning.
Eowyn is on his way.
He'll blast round the UK.
So now batten down the hatches.
Lock up your house.
Close all curtains now
And hide!
We are just human.
They are the elements...
Dark clouded skies
Wind is strong
Rain will batter
All day long.
We need our shelter
Coz otherwise we'll all be blown away!
Like debris.
Warning!
There's a red alert.
All the gusts that travel past
May be a hundred miles fast.
Warning!
Pets need protection.
We don't want our animals to fly!
Hours!
That's how long.
There will be damage.
Be aware that fences aren't as rooted as trees!
Make sure you stay inside.
Any trips can wait.
Make sure you stay inside.
Snuggle up, keep cozy -
Stay safe!
Board up all the windows. Lock up all the doors.
Now has come the moment we’ve been preparing for.
We can’t take the time for you to come to grips…
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
Load up all the shotguns. Sharpen up the knives.
If you have no weapons you’ll be running for your lives.
Keep your sidearm close and make sure you have extra clips.
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
You can’t keep more stuff than you can carry.
You’re the food source now. You must be wary.
The slightest slip or stumble, you’ll be caught by the undead.
And they long to be fed by the gray stuff in your head…
Hear the sound that freezes the blood within your veins.
The constant, quiet murmer, “Brains……."
It’s just the rugged hero who replies with pithy quips.
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
The rest will find excuses for some long and lengthy trips…
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
Each time Trump says the country’s a wreck,
they go out to the roads to inspect.
If Woody Woodpecker
had had a fact checker,
they’d be feeling his feathers to check.
On The View though, they all get a pass
when Whoopi cushions spew forth their gas.
Trump will jail your miscarriage,
end interracial marriage,
and lock up his opponents en masse.
She heralds the new day
Soon the gates would open
She’d be free
Ten years
Model prisoner
The guards bade her farewell
Wish they were all like her
Four hours later she was back in the smoke
First stop the bank
The lock-up was at the far side of the docks
Five hundred pounds deposit would secure what she needed
He was going to ask the obvious question
But, something about her
She watched them sit down at their usual table
Open for business
The first shot killed the father outright
Five more rendered the son immobile
He watched her reload
So cold
Four shots later, their lives ended
More importantly, their lifeline ended
Every business needs new blood
A new lifeline
She would provide it
butterflies hover
because they can't crawl ~ but one
was trying to crawl
but it did not let it crawl
not let a butterfly crawl
what monstrosity
to let a fragile wee thing
not to crawl
we'll call animal control
and see what they have to say
they'll probably ask
to have 'um locked and put
away for sometime
but strike of the final blow
was the coup de grace~it's dead
a death for a death
but sir, it's just an insect
not a real person
where's the compassion I heard
all murderers in my book
so he'll get away
with the crime he committed
no body no crime
that's the way cookies crumble
I'll take you to the body
of a butterfly
it's not animal control
but men with the nets
but those guys they euthanize
not lock up that murderer
its a pussy cat
if you want to put a name
on that killer's face
it's Jeffrey Dahlmer or the
Zodiac killer so there
Lock up your daughter,
My wheels gonna slaughter,
Heading along the road,
Race ya, drive this load,
Beat you all, speed patrol,
Trailblazer, this my role,
You'll never catch my page,
I'm the star of this whole stage!
Like plants,
my mind cooks in the sunshine
that falls down through the sieve of gooseberry leaves.
It’s an illness-cured joy
when the sun shines brightly after a few cloudy days.
This is a recurring pleasure,
especially in this age of cyclones.
Though in the pandemic lock-up,
the sunlight spurs me on to travel.
I hanker for the side-window vista
of the sunbeams falling on the tea leaves.
How long shall I wait to walk again
in the chill-mixed sunlight of Ooty,
chewing fresh carrot?
I want to fling my mask away,
lie on the sun lounger,
letting the sun warm me with the vital vitamin.
Standing behind the virus-line,
I watch a flock of temple doves
in the sunlit air.
A hen suns itself in the yard.
The unmasked delights abound around.
Yet I too have to succumb to the human fate.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet
The large iron safe
has an old-fashioned locking system,
levers need to be pulled,
dials twisted, knobs turned
back and forth.
It is a closet, a room
to enter and lock behind you.
It is taller than a bent head,
yet its sides
are miles wide.
In a dream hotel
I have sequestered myself
for safe-keeping.
I have left my pants
laid out neatly on a bed,
shoes stuffed with newspaper
gagged upon a creaking floor.
Here inside the thick iron door
of this lock-up,
I can sleep in isolation,
until time crows
within my secluded heart,
then my body
once more is offered up
to be bolted upon the cross
of humanity.
© 12 mins ago
There’s an old canal close by where I live,
and an empty lock made of stones massive,
traipsing around there, the place can amaze
just seeing how the whole of it was made.
There’s no mortar here, between these great stones,
they align perfect, no a gap is shown;
to do this with hand tools and draft oxen,
not just one lock, but again and again…
There are still hollow where great doors did swing,
sealing the lock up to keep water in,
holding it back without concrete of steel,
and no great engines, just pullies and wheels.
The canal itself, so humanely straight,
by spyglass and spring they made it this way,
with but shovel and pick to prove their own worth
they dug a river across the damn Earth!
Two centuries later it still remains,
two hundred years on who would know my name?
Sure, I write poems, but poems are talk,
these men carved themselves in the very rock,
the canal they built now sanctuary
for birds, fishes, turtles swimming lazily,
the towpath they built no a walking trail,
where kids ride their bikes when weather is hale,
seeing what grandfathers built back in time,
what men do with hard work and focus of mind.
Life is easier
if you learn
To manage
your time.
If you can't
do lock-up,
Don't do
the crime.
You get
more done
by focusing
On one thing.
If you missed it,
You can get it
on the upswing.
Try to improve
by 1% every day.
Don't make excuses,
Never delay.
Problem
solve
with a
little logic.
Stay aware
Sidestep the
dark magic.
Keep a high value
Network of friends.
If you get the chance,
Make amends.
Be honest and
always work hard.
Don't be afraid to
show your scar.
Seek and you can
find your purpose.
You could be
the ringleader
of a circus.
Walk at your
own pace,
Stay on your
side of the road.
Sometimes the
Prince can turn
Into a toad.
Don't hesitate
when you
should act.
Pay attention
so you can find
your way back.
Experience what
you feel and learn.
Remember you can
always make
A U-Turn.
Make all
things count.
It could be
pouring rain
or in a drought.
If you have it,
Learn to give.
Last but not least,
Live and let live.
Turbo1904 ?
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