frog wanted an invite to the Halloween party up on the hill
Kept asking to go, but was told no by the host, Mr. McGill
Frogs are not welcome, he said, I am sure you understand
I am a frog-bigot in this far-fetched fantasy land
frog did not understand, but thought he could sneak in
He borrowed a witch’s hat, as the party was about to begin
Hopped up there and sat on some books, wearing a grin.
What are you? Someone asked. He said, “I’m a librarian!”
They trained their birds to stay incredibly still.
Like statues, reported my cousin Mrs. McGill.
The birds did not make a single sound as they supped.
The table was linen, and all prissily gussied up.
The birds were the best trained I had ever seen.
Their statuesque presence was totally pristine.
They silently stayed in position on that tea sipping day.
Pooping white goo on the shoulders of Mrs. McVey.
The feared bounty hunter Frankie McGill
Was tracking bank robber , Montana Bill
Frankie caught him by surprise
Shot him dead between the eyes
Now Montana's on his way to Boot Hill...
Written 3rd May 2022.
High Noon Poetry Contest
Sponsored By Joseph May.
It all began in that building they call Leacock, in that place known as McGill.
It was there where you captured my heart, there where feelings for each other did impart.
I remember how I thought to myself, “What does she see in me?”, while you made me realize how sweet life could be, through passion and desirability.
Your skin touched mine and mine touched yours, as yearning intertwined with the unknown created intimacy, for we gave to each other that which touches the soul, is expressed by the heart, absorbed by the mind,
in a world of love, through the body’s passing in time.
Now sometimes I wish I could roll back the clock, even to those rare times when views conflicted with each other’s ways, when existence seemed simple, and desires were never old, in a world where aspirations were told, and the newness of what was, became that which one loves to behold.
But let me not dwell on the past, or for those sweet times to once again ask, for today all I want is to be in your arms and whisper, “I love you”, and have this feeling that is still in me, forever be.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Don't Shoot
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: November/2014
My hands
up!
Don't shoot!
POW! POW! POW!
Michael Brown
Eric Garner
Kimani Gray
Kendrec McDade
Timothy Russell
Ervin Jefferson
Amadou Diallo
Patrick Dorsmond
Ousmane Zongo
Timothy Stansburg Jr.
Sean Bell
Orlando Barlow
Arron Campbell
Victor Steen
Steven Eugene Washington
Alonzo Ashley
Wendell Allen
Ronald Madison
James Brissette
Travares McGill
Ramarley Graham
Oscar Grant -
Black men
gunned down
by
White cops -
When
will it stop.
My hands
up,
don't shoot!
Jack Daniels whiskey label
That has you out aged
Stamped in the silver tombstone
Aboard your belt.
And the dust on your boots
Not yet time worn, or tattered with age
Almost as shiny as your youth
Behind those still driven eyes
embers of a fire
Burning in your belly
Flickering to flame
In your dilating pupils
If whiskey were all that
Touched the rim
Could you even hold
A steady hand
Keep it all down
Or would your young-blood
Reject all reason
If I were a Mixologist
I’d brand your innocence
With something frozen pink and fruity
Or perhaps your Ivy League smile
Would entice the monkey’s lunch
Milk could still do that body good
But behind my condescending smirk
And my time tailored thirty-something taste for whiskey
There is a little, Miss McGill
That wants to brew you tea
Boil your barley-teasing-twenty assets
And let them steep in the confines
Of a solid bed frame.
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