Long Hopping Poems
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It's not a crime to be alone.
You barely survived the turbulence, mimicking a pair of pretty blue eyes.
That turned into twin blanks of abuse.
You thought he was "the one".
Until "it" finally came out in the truth.
It's ok to sit at the singles table.
Read a book on a Friday night. Or take a solo hike.
I see you've decided to go man-hopping...again.
Hoping to pluck the second "the one" from all the slag...
But this time it's different.
Because you're dragging a child into deep water with you.
The truth is, the only soulmate we ever really have is ourselves.
That's not a crime either.
There's a colonel in most every town
And chicken he does know
But the youth of today are not finger licking
They're licking of the toads
When they run out of their drugs
They must run out of their minds
When the toad lickers come a licking
Best to run and hide
Yes, they've found a brand new high
When their pot is running low
The poppy fields have all run dry
And the cow patty mushroom is no mo
The city kids head to the swamps
Just hopping at the thrill
Grabbing at amphibians
And licking them at will
With every tantalizing lick
Trippy little colors do they see
Pass around the froggy
For another lick if you please
Makes you wonder what's up
And how can this be fun
When it's obvious
They'll have warts on their tongue
But who am I to judge
As crazy as it looks
Could it be as bad as crack
With one lick and your hooked
I have this nagging question though
That bothers me to this day
Who was the first to lick the toad
And say this taste okay
~ribbit~
The day was hot as red rose sunny
We gathered eggs from holes like a bunny
Down to the grocer’s store we went
Sold our eggs funds on candies spent
With grandma abed off comes the coat
On goes the sneakers shaped like a boat
Big brother goes racing up to the gate
The youngest trying to be quiet shout wait
Round the corner comes the show truck
Reels of movies in boxes securely tuck
Hercules Ben Hur High Noon Dracula and such
We saw them o’er and o’er he hadn’t much
Big brother hops on the truck going up the hill
The youngest and I ran behind we know the drill
Hopping onto trucks is a skill perfected by boys
We girls had to be content playing with toys
Inside the show house the movie starts
Everyone must hear our throbbing hearts
Written Sept. 8 2012
For Craig's contest: Summer Fun
There once was a frog who wanted to wear shoes
out of the swamp he left and off to a cobbler's shop
with no time to lose. The grasshoppers and crickets
at him they did laugh, for why would a frog need shoes?
He sits in water on the top of a lily pad.
The frog kept hopping to the Cobbler as fast as he could
for he knows what he wants, shoes made of wood. These
rocks and stickers my feet they do hurt and with shoes
I can move cooler in the hot dirt. To the Cobbler's shop he
came and the sign said Closed and it began to rain.
Oh my feet, the frog did say, I'll have wait until the next
opening day.
Under the porch he slept that night and when morning came
he was filled with such delight. The door said open but how
would he get inside and then came a child who reached down
and grabbed him, and carried him in with pride.
Upon the counter he placed his frog and the ole Cobbler looked
and seen him and said he belongs at the pond. Oh please! the
frog exclaimed, I need some shoes for my feet, surely you can
understand me, some shoes would be so neat.
The Cobbler was met with such surprise when he understood
what the frog was saying by reading the look in his eyes.
Some shoes for you, my dear frog friend but no one will believe
me down at the Ole Inn.
A pair of clogs was placed upon him and the frog danced a dittle
at the Ole Inn, to pay back the Cobbler for being so sweet and so
that everyone, the old Cobbler they could believe, that a frog wore
shoes upon his feet. So if ever down by the creek and you see a frog
with wooden shoes upon his feet; Just laugh like the Cobbler, so full of life
a frog in clogs, Oh! what a site.
Days were the sunshine of life
The days embraced your vision.
A melodious yellow canary
Hopping upon my window sill.
You were the sleepy Winter that safely
Wrapped a swaddle blanket over my nature
Capturing the magic.
You were the Autumn brush stokes that entwined
The golden rod and pumpkin in the crisp leaves.
The chocolate and blush on the trees,
The chartreuse and peacock in the grass.
You were the paper kite butterfly that sip
The nectar of Spring crimson callistemon.
Like a rainstorm with gusty winds,
You blew away slicing my lace heart
Piercing with your harshness Arctic breath.
Cold frosty mornings around my window sill,
When each time I exhale a dim veil breath,
It disappears into the chilled air
Of the muted visions you embraced.
2/1/2021
Break My Heart, Why Don't Cha Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
As I rounded the bend aka driveway to the school, a precarious-looking something caught my eye.
I thought it was a garbage bag, and could not imagine what it was doing where the crossing guard stays.
He is not here this early, so I turned, and gave it another quick look. It was not a garbage bag.
It was a man, wrapped in a blanket. Hm. This is a grade school entry point. What is he doing here?
At a quarter to seven in the morning? Rumors have circulated about homeless living in the woods.
Woods behind our school, woods that are extensive, and extend from our school to the next school.
That is where my mind immediately traveled. Okay, today is cooler, but not cold. What then?
What happens to this man when the temperatures plummet, and the ice and snow arrives?
Luckily we have a large metal crisscross fence that keeps the children from the woods, but
What about the man, what happens when he gets so cold he cannot stand it? Does he come closer?
Does he sit in the sun, next to our brick building? Does he think about how warm and cozy it is in here?
Does he sit under the trees, dreaming of when he was in school, warm, safe, away from the elements?
One tiny thing, and yet, it has me thinking. I ask another teacher if he is still there when she arrives.
He is gone, but to where? And does he have a coat? Mittens? Food? Is there a tent in the woods?
Do they have a campfire at night? Is there only a lone man, or is there a family? Are there children?
My imagination will not let this go. It is going haywire, and for what reason? Am I hopping the fence?
Am I jumping into the woods? Am I looking for the tent? Am I taking these people home with me?
I have done this kind of thing before, and from experience, I know it almost always ends rather badly.
Hello, Joe, there are people living in the woods. What do you want me to do about it?
Nutter Butter. Almond Joy, Mounds Bars, and Cherry Mash.
Those candy manufacturers know how to name to get their cash.
We contenders scoff; we snicker and sneer.
The toymaker crazy idea brigade has just arrived here.
Someone throws out, Betsy Wetsy, Tiny Tears, Shrinky Dinks!
The contest is on, we are throwing down our inks.
Uh-oh. Star Wars George Lucas has entered the fray.
R2-D2, Han Solo, and Chewbacca have paved his way.
I do not mean for imaginations to get crazy, you all.
But is that manly cowboy, John Wayne, giant and tall?
Whew. Relief. False alarm. Just an advertising man.
From the 50’s, with a Marlboro cigarette in his hand.
“See the USA in a Chevrolet,” he screams loud and clear.
“Winston takes good like a cigarette should,” Trixie screams, and all hear.
What are you doing? I hiss, slightly embarrassed, and fully miffed.
Garfield comes in next, with his pal, Heathcliff.
A haughty sixty’s model brings in Beatniks, Hippies, and Happy Faces anew,
Informing us that the 60’s and 70’s was where words really came into view.
What about our urban dictionaries? The 1990’s delegation screams.
We invented words faster than a Mattel toy-namer figured out Barbie in her dreams.
The contest is on, now, the whole imagination convention is dancing and twirling.
My dendrites are hopping, clogging, doing somersaults, flipping and swirling.
What about those music videos? White-gloved Michael Jackson asked.
When his creative prowess enters, everyone promptly is aghast.
Are we doing words, ideas or what? I hear a contender scoff.
Three prissy judges get mad, and two promptly walk off.
No matter what, the creative committee is having a field day,
Meeting in Room Sixty-Two thousand ideas, and we all want to play.
Here’s an idea, one screams loud and clear.
Let’s just throw out some words, and scramble right here!
Trixie is ready to drop our hat into the ring.
She jumps right in there, to do a bit of Jell-O wrestling.
I am proud of my muse. I give her the wink.
She grabs Donald Duck, and she gives him a twink.
Her medal is all over the place, in shades of yellow and pink.
We are having a great time, our ideas on the brink….
My yard is alive today. Everything is moving out there, with the wet grass and
Mosquitoes and wood-ticks, and other biting things hiding in the waiting grass.
At first I thought I saw some other puppies out there.
Puppies are on the brain lately here.
It began hopping in a peculiar way.
A really bushy tail.
Oh, good, a squirrel. Three of them actually, collecting walnuts.
Good. I want them gone, since I am allergic to them.
Why does my apple tree have small bead-like berries on it instead of apples?
I stand closer to the window. My apple tree is being drowned by a renegade mulberry tree.
No wonder I did not have many apples for my deer this year.
What I can instantly ascertain from my perch up high, I did not notice when I was on the ground.
How did I fail to notice this fifteen foot renegade tree when I was standing next to the apple tree yesterday?
My crepe myrtles are moving. Come to think of it, everything is moving.
This is the first long hard rain we have had in a long time.
I watch a robin hopping toward an empty bird feeder.
I should go out there, but it is wood-tick weather.
Everything is alive out there today!
The washed up of shores of the apple cores,
Magnetized child to her waist and cradle,
Teenage years amplify their fears,
he'll be washed up in a couple of years.
Eyes of angst, piled up beach banks,
Gators in the shallow & fear of gallows,
Pressing on the neck in a dream of sea-wrecks,
Popping of balloons near sinking Saloons.
Remember the day in which we'll run & play
Ignoring the truth of everything they'll say,
Hopping along to every child-hood song
& ignorance to a hot furnace's wrongs.
The floor being turning points of doors,
wood that follows ends up rotten hollow
The knife in the chest that proves so fatal,
the blowing of a child's delightful petals.
My motivation sometimes likes to sleep in
On days it gets out of bed I grin
The two of us like to go shopping
In one store and out the other we go hopping
Visiting friends we like to go
Another stop would be for lunch with ice tea gingko
Table for two please
Ice cream for dessert will make our brain freeze
On to home we need to get
Now off to sleep and dream no fret
Date Written: 7/14/2021
Note: Acrostic Rhyme MOTIVATION Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Shreya LN