Long Sneakily Poems
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Picky child I was
before & still am as
I’m writing this
picky, petite poem –
I am different
now…I’ve changed for
the better, though
it was a challenging
chore
Clever and cheery
teenager I am in the
present and past,
getting used to
foods I once didn’t
adore
Kangaroos hop with
hope happily, tigers
hunt wildly &
sneakily, cats meow
for people food & to
receive a feel-good
rub (independent,
little &
companion-like),
dogs yap for
attention
(dependent, little &
big buddies), ants
gather & work, flies
hover around a heap
of droppings, debris
& remains/deceased
bodies, hyenas
attack & laugh their
tails off, wolves
get into their
private packs, fish
swim playfully with
the family, gofers
barrel & eat up the
veggies from my
garden, cheetahs run
at full speed,
finches chirp their
childish,
changing-up-the-tune
chants, dutiful
dolphins go with the
wave’s ascending &
descending flow,
rabbits hop & chew
on carrots
cheerfully, lions
RAWR & laze around
on fields of golden
grace, bears huddle
with cubs & hide in
solitary, dark
caves, enormous
elephants eloquently
walk about on the
African, swaying
savannas & tons of
terrains much like
California in some
sense, lambs graze
in their
field-of-a-maze,
looking eagerly for
their shepherd,
lizards explore,
roaches scatter
around on the
kitchen & bathroom
floor, bedbugs bite
for the sake of
their sick appetite,
etc. ; is there
something new to
learn every night
and day? (The answer
is yes by deh way) I
guess I have to do
some research and
explore some more on
these subjects –
that’s my next
chillaxing, cool
chore!
Yet, I still go back
to my picky, old,
childlike, yet
innocent habits –
picking foods that I
cherish most and I
implore for more
scrumptious dishes
that I can hardly
ignore & boast about
it more and more
till my mouth
becomes sore! SCORE!
(means SUCCESS!, I
nailed it, or other
definitions behind
it)
For a man of my age, I should no longer dream
Of pretty young fillies, quite naughty it seems
But we don't lose the joy to gawk and to stare
When the sweet scent of female fills up the air
Sure hope I don't lose it, this wonderful feeling
While sneakily snatching looks that I am stealing
Girls are aware of the scene they're creating
Of many great memories this sight is relating
The happiest times when we all were much younger
These precious memories haven't lost their thunder
When seeing an old codger hardly able to walk
Still straining his eyes, to stare and to gawk
That primordial instinct is never far away
It still hangs around till our very last day
So all my buckaroonies please do take heart
At one hundred years old it can still joy impart
Trust me I'm honest as the day is long
Life still keeps singing its same old sweet song
Obsessed... I guess you could say that I am
Gonna keep on a-gawking for as long as I can
Form:
I was nervous it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.
We met at a public space, simple,
The building the epitome of modernity.
It was light and clean inside,
Uncluttered, which is why he stood out,
Like a beautiful gem in a sparkly display case.
I looked him over too obviously, my interest unhidden,
Worn on my sleeve.
I approached him slowly,
Sipping in his good looks entirely.
Hoping so much the personality inside
Reflects this outer first impression.
Once we were in near proximity.
Once we were close to each other.
I tentatively, and almost sneakily, stroked him.
So, unusual for this type of first meeting.
Feelings were growing so quickly it surprised me.
Eventually I couldn’t leave without a commitment.
I’ve never experienced
This knee jerk gut punch type of reaction.
I was fully sold and completely all in.
I don’t regret what I know to be true.
It was love at first sight Mr. 2025 Subaru.
To the skies...cries of have we sinned..the seasons spinned...winter grinned as before it’s really beginned...spring’s been sneakily binned..
That bitter wind does cheekily blow...delivers tingling..slivers of mulled wine mingling shivers..oh and..shed loads of snow..
You know it is nature's calling card...as the bleached flurries hurriedly dart. ...shards of frosty farts falling hard....
Slippery slurries beached...frippery start to beseeched.. billow wisps like waspish wafts of blossoming willow..
Chuffed to see a lush plush pillow..fluffed...puffed..buffed..kept aloft from mush.. with crystals soft..silky..stuffed
A natural ebb and flow gush...a smattering...then a rush...splattering to and fro..
Winter’s web.. gleaming coats of teeming white bright light beaming notes...
Dreams of fairies schemes….streams across mystic moats..dairy prairies floats...
Scoops of snowy soup spills..stoops and swoops…down the hills..droops off daffodil troops..
Everything swathed..bathed in wintry tiding...the sodden sky pours... hints of sly footprints trodden hiding…
Huddling crystal clusters grasping.. riding..gliding…deciding detours…
Blizzard wizard’s rasping rally…cuddling..clasping.. contours of the valley floor..
Last post gong of our winter host boast.. sounds like a love song..
In this Proustian getaway... adore the festooned foray..
Marooned yet cocooned…this wild hideaway soon shunning..
Being wreathed in bleakly stunning cunning..
Turns back to being shrouded..sheathed in meekly clouded mild...
Maybe tomorrow my ink won’t be sticky
A verse will take shape as it flows
I’ll see what I’ve written and won’t be too picky
From now on it’s anything goes
Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about sorrow
Keep ‘funny’ for some other day
My pen will find ideas to sneakily borrow
No copyright shall bar its way
Maybe tomorrow my pen will advise me
By writing two letters: ‘A.I.’
My scruples tell me I could never agree
So, maybe I’ll pass that one by
Maybe tomorrow my pen shall not wander
Alas it shall write not at all
Integrity isn’t a value to squander
A man and his pen must stand tall
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find inspiration
My pen shall be truly enthralled
I’ll write a whole poem, to my consternation
Lest my pen should be quite appalled
Maybe tomorrow my pen will run loose
With notions, some free and some weird
Maybe my pen will shrug off all abuse
And write silly stuff less afeared
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an idea
That my pen can pick up and run with
About an aardvark that went into IKEA
I’m a poet… so live and let live!
Like a frowsy, dowdy
old housewife
I sit largely
unnoticed
stout and squat
a sort of kitchen sentry
rarely appreciated
until some minor crisis-
Cough, sniffle, stomachache
a particularly bad day
or fancy party...
then things heat up
quickly for me!
This was one of those
fancy party days
no cause to celebrate
for me!
Grueling stove-top swelter
I take it all in stride
despite the pressure
never boiling over
(I still have my pride...)
But when it gets me
really steamed
I drop polite hints
the best I can
in ladylike whispers
until I simply
can take no more-
and my shrill, piercing screams
draw attention, but fast!
It never lasts...
So she perches there
on pointy tippy-toes
in all her perky, snooty primness
silently snarky and subtle
sneakily taking credit
for all my hard work!
And as the luncheon ladies
Oooh and Aaah
“What wonderful tea!”
she points her delicate
snobby little spout
even higher with pride
But, one of these days
she'll regret it-
that snooty sassy-pot...
for I'm a tough
old stainless broad
and I'll chip her china, yet!
...And while I'll be careful
to make it seem
ever-so-casual
(like an accident)
she'll know deep down
it's really her long overdue
and well deserved
comeuppance!
Today it’s Pancake Day and there’s to be a pancake race
Entrants are on the starting line with a smile upon their face
Old Ted ‘s ready with his frying pan, he is a fat old josser
but when it comes to pancakes, Ted’s an expert tosser
The gun goes BANG and off they go, Ted’s busy tossing away
busty Bertha's in the lead, if she wins there’ll be hell to pay!
Ted’s won the race the last five years, he tosses night and day
the trophy’s been on his top shelf, he hopes that’s where it’ll stay
Bertha stumbles, her pancake drops and she begins to cry
Ted sneakily stamps on her pancake; he’s such a crafty guy
The finishing line is in sight, there’s about fifty yards to go
Ted frantically tosses his pancake; his wrist goes fast not slow
Bill makes a sterling effort and comes at Ted from behind
they toss their pans in unison; Bill's got winning on his in mind
Ted lunges at the white tape, but the result’s declared a draw
Bill suggests they have a ‘toss off’ - there’s not been a draw before
Both men take a breather, awaiting a fresh pancake to toss
if either of them drops their pancake it will be a great loss
Both men stand on the finish line and flip and toss like mad
neither of them will concede, whoever loses will be quite sad
A crowd gathers, all eager to know who’ll be crowned the winner
suddenly a seagull swoops and grabs Ted’s pancake for its dinner
Ted starts to shout and stamps his feet when it’s announced Bill's won
he takes it all too seriously, but Bill declared the toss off was such fun!
Poem edited - originally posted in 2017
02/16/21
Possible seventy-nine-degree high today
A day to twirl, and dance and play.
I am saying to everyone I feel sick. We should all be home.
Drawing pictures, planting flowers, writing a poem.
My boss comes in, but sneakily, like a cat. I do not see her coming.
I am in a giddy mood, people are dancing and humming
We have had a rough winter. We are slap-happy now.
We love this weather, the sun-kind that you plow.
It will be eighty-four tomorrow someone else chimes in.
I have an idea; it makes my silly mouth grin.
Let’s all call in sick, I wisely suggest, and very smartly say.
I turn and see my boss’s shocked face, the end of this fun and lively play.
Lisa and I wrap and rap for Christmas.
Can you imagine the two of us doing that?
We’ve got Christmas playlists going
Christmas scented candles glowing,
and milky hot-chocolate flowing.
“Stir the marshmallows with the candy canes,”
Lisa says, like that’s something she has to explain.
We’re humming, singing and laughing,
and dancing because we’re happy.
We’re dashing to finish our wrapping,
we can’t have our suitemates catching
us executing the plans we’re hatching
to surprise them with gifts, enchanting.
The paper’s exotic, delicate and glittery
bought at Boyars Gifts, in New York City.
Why do the scissors keep getting lost?
Getting low on scotch-tape - we’ve used a lot.
We’ll be putting them, sneakily, under the tree
where they’ll add glamor and tease to our festivities.
I love the lights of the season - I love giving gifts.
For me, playing Santa is as good as it gets.
.
.
(a swap quatrain rhyme)
She likes to nip; she likes to lick.
My foot might get a little prick.
I’ll see it’s her. That little pip!
She likes to lick. She likes to nip.
Attacking me with small cat teeth,
she comes at me from underneath.
She bites my toes so sneakily
with small cat teeth, attacking me!
In her small mind, it’s just a game,
but I don’t like it all the same!
To nip and run, my cat’s inclined.
It’s just a game in her small mind.
A paper scrap she’ll start to shred.
And when I wish that she, instead,
would come and sit upon my lap,
she’ll start to shred a paper scrap!
In moments sweet, she licks my hand.
Those times are fleeting and unplanned,
but for her mistress, they’re a treat.
She licks my hand in moments sweet.
She gives a lick. She gives a nip;
I’d rather feel her small tongue’s tip
upon my skin than one small snick.
She gives a nip; she gives a lick.
for Brian Strand's 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (6)any form any theme' Contest