Long Bedtimes Poems
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When bedtimes comes, we do not moan or cry.
Do our parents know what we are up to?
Under a blanket, my siblings and I -
we’re reading a book, and it is brand new!
Do our parents know what we are up to?
With little light, we’re up late into night.
We’re reading a book, and it is brand new.
How we love good stories. They’re our delight.
With little light, we’re up late into night -
under a blanket , my siblings and I.
How we love good stories. They’re our delight.
When bedtime comes, we do not moan or cry.
June 5, 2021
For Eve Roper's Pantoum Rhyme Poetry Contest
based on picture #3
Farcical fancies,
Woodland rhymes,
These are not just
For bedtimes!
Farcical fancies,
Wait and see;
You’ll repeat them
Back to me!
—————
Woodpecker, really,
Won’t you hush!
By now, aren’t your
Brains all mush?
Woodpecker, silly,
Watch your head!
If I did that,
I’d be dead!
—————
Polliwog, Bullfrog,
Here’s a joke
It’s so bad,
You’ll want to croak!
Polliwog, Bullfrog
Deep, deep voice:
Burping flies;
He’s got no choice!
—————
Squirrely Tree Rat
In that tree,
Why you looking
Down at me?
Squirrely Tree Rat,
He rebuts
Accusations
That he’s nuts!
—————
Tadpole, thrashing
In the bog.
All grown up now,
You’re a frog!
Froggy, ribbiting
Never stops.
Come too close,
Away he hops!
—————
Armadillo,
He’s all that:
Cross between a
Tank and rat!
Armadillo,
Eating grubs,
Always messing
Up my shrubs!
—————
Turtle, tortoise,
Slowly roams
Wherever he goes,
Right at home!
Turtle, tortoise,
I can’t tell;
Scared and hiding
In your shell!
————
Coney, Bunny
Best beware:
Old Coyote’s
Lurking there!
Coney, Bunny,
Coyote’s there!
Hide the brush,
He likes your hare!
----------
Slippery, slimy
Snail’s so slow
Need a car ride?
Yes, car, go!
Seek and find
The slimy snail.
He can’t hide;
He leaves a trail!
—————
Sleeps all day,
The wise old owl,
Nighttime comes,
He’s on the prowl.
Little field mouse,
Brown and cute.
Owl is coming;
Time to scoot!
—————
Earthworm rain dance,
Wiggle, shout!
Best take cover,
Sun is out!
Night, night, crawler
Never learns.
Robin’s early;
Gets the worm!
—————
Red and wobbly,
Spotted fawn
Scampering
Across the lawn!
Hears a noise,
Trouble knows;
Back to mother
Quick, she goes!
—————
Old Man Crow struts,
Shouts caw! caw!
Tells the world
About what he saw.
Old Man Crow,
Word to the wise:
Caws because he’s
Full of lies!
The General is a bit of an authoritarian.
He says, Breathe! And you say, how much?
Twilight is much more chill; she just says, “See you ‘round!”
But then you’re bouncing along to a happy tune,
and that’s not so good when The Man is holding
a soldering iron in confined spaces.
So, the General, it is.
The Man spends all his time mapping and zapping,
meting out death to fireflies and moths
who are out past their bedtimes.
I think the OR doubles as a mosh pit;
there’s a large plexiglass shield over the huge monitor,
full of cracks. I’m guessing he’s an Auburn fan who
kept throwing instruments at the screens during the games.
And the room is like 56 degrees.
Likely, the General is not well endowed and wants to make
sure everyone else looks bad. Just to be sure, they
take a little more off the top.
It’s a strange experience.
But you can mess with them. I told ‘em,
“May the Lord bless you while I’m gone!”
They didn’t like that, double-padlocked the doors.
Then, the General says, “Okay, we’re ready now.”
“Now?” I ask. No, now.
I watch the plunger get short,
feel the chill in my forearm,
the rush of warm across my chest,
and I enter the floo network and re-appear back in my room,
wishing I could have gotten a well placed punch off at the General.
O The King is coming back again!
Will you be ready to meet with Him!
O The King is coming back again!
Meet with Him in the middle of
The cloudy sky! If you are among
All of those who remain alive!
O What if you are fast asleep inside
Your graves! And have your names
Written in the Lamb's Book of Life!
From before the foundation of the
World that all of you once were in!
You shall indeed become the very
First to arise up from all of your
Graves! Only than will those of
Us who are alive and remain!
Will be gathered together to
Meet with you in the middle of
The cloudy Sky! And we shall
Meet with our beloved Bride Groom,
None other than our blessed redeemer!
Who is our beloved Lord Jesus Christ!
The only truth author and our source of
All of ours free gifts of everlasting life!
When the roll is called up yonder we
Will most definitely all be there! Who
Are the ransomed sons and daughters
Of Jesus Christ! And we accepted His
Free gifts of our everlasting lives! He
Will be transporting us to our heavenly
Paradises! In the House of our Lord!
For He has been absent from this
Earth for the longest times now and
We still expect Him to return for all
Of beloved children any moment of
The morning, the noon time, the
Evening time and our bedtimes! He
Shall come for us in the twinkling of
Eye and so shall be forever in the
Presence of our Lord Jesus Christ!
Because He has set us all free from
All of our sins! We shall not perish!
more latter on 6/03/22
Caveat
by Michael R. Burch
If only we were not so eloquent,
we might sing, and only sing, not to impress,
but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed.
We might inundate the earth with thankfulness
for light, although it dies, and make a song
of night descending on the earth like bliss,
with other lights beyond—not to be known—
but only to be welcomed and enjoyed,
before all worlds and stars are overthrown...
as a lover's hands embrace a sleeping face
and find it beautiful for emptiness
of all but joy. There is no thought to love
but love itself. How senseless to redress,
in darkness, such becoming nakedness...
Originally published by Clementine Unbound
Keywords/Tags: caveat, eloquent, eloquence, song, sing, singing, enjoy, enjoyment, inundate, earth, thanks, thankfulness, thanksgiving, praise, song, light, welcomed, enjoyed, enjoyment, bliss, joy, love, happiness, blessing, sonnet
Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch
It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of
EXAGGERATION.
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Originally published by Grand Little Things
i am here to let your words make love to me
i am here to bury my face deep in your poetry
to let your haiku
molest my naked body
shake me like a tree
can you read the want in my hips
for your metaphors and similes?
like an African lion in heat i long your letters
how they hug tightly only to entice my desire.
the child in me wants to explore, journey tender the skin
you wear. so don't leave me to play alone in the sandbox.
let me run the body of your work free.
ingest your verse and also grow wings.
you and i flying as one in a mad fancy.
then maybe send in my bed sheets - both single
with your personifications they'll jump rope
and after exercising go for a cup of hope
at the outdoor cafe where poets mingle
i am only here because your couplets are wooing me.
i want to glide - baby oil - body on body - chummy.
not compete but instead
massage your triolets,
fraternize with your sonnets.
your tanka rocks me
mountains baby smooth to climb
it's quite the challenge
one i'm willing to take on
you're the baby smooth i want
i'll ride your majestic rhymes
dream they'll settle for,
this my smiling core,
stay with me at bedtimes.
you - the poetess that defines my nights
i want you to know i climb every evening
towards the peak where your words spike.
i'll never be the poet you are, but
i have my hands and other parts
that could drive you to ecstasy.
.........you'll see it's my specialty.
01~01~2015
Armand
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: First poem of 2015
Even 60 years ago
The world was different
We were different, too
We had our black & white TVs
We were loyal to our three channels
That was mainly all we had
Every night, sometime around midnight
Every station would shut down
And we would get our static
Kids would spend hours looking at it
Waiting to see a face or hear a voice
Maybe it would come from the grave
It might be coming from outer space
We never knew, and it didn’t matter
It was forbidden for us to be doing it
Way too far past our bedtimes
But all that did was add to the fun
We never found out who they were
Or what they said to us
The fact that we saw then was enough
Now I look and cannot find any static
Dawn, I miss being a kid
© Poem – XVIII/XI/MMXXV
LRET
So, you might be thinking,
Was the weekend a success?
Our grandson staying over
In the city? Goodness, yes!
The bus, the train, the dinosaurs,
A tournament of chess,
A playground smack in Central Park
And who could ever guess...
A play date with a neighbor's kids
Without a drop of stress
And dinner in a noodle place
One block from our address;
A fruit stand stop, hot cocoa,
Easy bedtimes (no duress),
A checker game and reading books
(Pinocchio, no less).
The proof, though, lies in Henry's words
Which I do not finesse:
"Can I come back next weekend?"
I would say that spells success.
I just wanted five minutes.
Six hours on my feet,
smiling when I didn’t feel like smiling,
moving when my body already felt heavy.
Instead of homebound,
I found myself in the grocery store...
Bright lights, crowded aisles,
a cart that wouldn’t steer straight.
Holding up the checkout line
because my card refused to work.
Nothing terrible.
Just little things.
But sometimes little things
feel like the world
pressing down
a little too hard.
The drive home.
Not in silence.
Conversation to carry,
words to give
when all I had left
was exhaustion.
I pulled into the driveway
and sat there for a moment.
I just wanted five minutes.
Five minutes in the car.
Five minutes to breathe.
Five minutes before opening the door
to the life that needed me again.
But the baby was already screaming.
The oldest was already making messes.
My sitter was already overwhelmed.
So the door opened
before the minutes could exist.
And the chaos rushed in.
Noise.
Questions.
Dinner to make.
Messes to clean.
Bedtimes to manage.
And somewhere between it all
a quiet thought kept repeating
like a prayer
no one could hear:
I just wanted five minutes.
Five minutes
before the stress
turned my body to stone.
Five minutes
to sit with my own breath.
Five minutes
to remember what it feels like
to be a person
before being everything
for everyone.
I didn’t get them.
But I’m still standing
in the middle of the noise
wishing for
five small minutes
of quiet.
Disjointed beings beg the questions – still
an ashen horse delivers what is owed.
Decisions kneel before compassion’s will,
to stop and help a turtle cross the road.
To comfort one another, brings them home,
confides the mornings, bedtimes now alone.
Concentric dreams preserve the lost to roam
among the ash and fields of sculptured stone.
From every foolish quest, those wasted years,
of mercy - time denies the rich and poor.
Whatever left, upon regrets and tears,
behind the coffins, curtains of velour.
Receive his blood the only way across,
eternal rock we trust in Savior’s Cross.
-----------------------------------------------------
Contest: Death
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Written: 10.20.17
Form: English Sonnet