Pallets Poems | Examples

An Odd Thief

There’s an odd thief in our neighborhood
Who steals stuff that he must think is good
Beginning with my small bushes and trees
Which at the start, made no sense to me

Then parts of my fence suddenly disappeared
And a pile of firewood was totally cleared
Yet when most of my porch pickets were gone
It was time to dispense some fighting brawn

By taking some sort of drastic action
For our family needed some satisfaction
Yet the next day he stole lawn sport’s equipment
And a stack of pallets fresh from a shipment

The following day when I got home from work
My front door was ajar; from that crooked jerk
Who oddly took walking sticks and umbrellas
Which confirmed this thief was a strange fella

Since I was so ticked, I left to ponder the scam
Then I saw on a side road a new beaver dam
Amidst the prairie sits this cobbled-up dome
Built with those good things smuggled from our home

Our prairie was treeless, devoid of beaver
Until this thieving one, which was a great weaver
And to top it off, I was totally floored
Coz its lodge was crowned with our head board!

Express Train

Door open,
hurtling loud and at full speed
towards my destination,
beneath me a blur 
of mounded ballast
and withered grass,
the world coming into focus more
the further out I look -
graffitied fences, factories 
still wearing the soot 
of steam trains from decades 
before, a mountain of stacked
wooden pallets, car wrecks
piled four high. 

Late sixties, on my way
to work on the 7.10 
from Alberton, all stops 
to Cheltenham then express
to the City. The station names
flash by, Woodville, Kilkenny,
Croydon, Bowden all pass dreamlike 
through a disconnected stare.
A vague residual left by the thoughts
back then still seem to slop
around my memory. I can feel
panic claw on the window
trying to get out.

I arrive fifty five years later,
on time, here, a world away
looking out on a soft fall
of summer rain. My journey 
has gone by all too fast
on the 7.10 express train.

Ekphrasis on Cafe Terrace at Night - POTD

Stir my moonlight coffee
with your freshly dipped brush
in bright  yellow ochre ~
I will not complain.

Sprinkle pigments from 
from your pallets 
on my unflavoured coffee~
I will not complain.

Even when
your indigo eyes
spill Prussian blue 
to veil my night sky~
I will not complain.

Come sit with me
share this coloured coffee
on this  café terrace 
where unfinished canvases
lean on metaphoric walls,
where  unwritten poems
bathe beneath starry nights.

The Smell of Pie

The smell of coconut cream pie
is the fragrance of my island roots
the warm, toasted pallets
of golden tropical loveliness
blended in an ocean
of bubbling, creamy briskness
alongside shreds
of swimming coconuts
awaiting to throw
a tropical beach bash
on the white sand
at the surface of my stomach!

Fragrance of Flowers

The fragrance of flowers,
each waft is divine.
A sea of white lilies,
These Pallets delight.
The Hyacinthe in spring,
And Lilacs in bloom.
Mothers Nature's Fragrance,
Mother Nature's Perfume.

My Birthday Presents

Here is what I got for my birthday.
Small glass holder for paint water. Won’t hold a paint brush.
Given to me by a non-painter.
Custom made apron.
Large and medium paint brushes.
Canvases.
Paint pallets.
Paints.
Peach shirt that says “Live your Dream”
Blue hair dye you can spray on to be more punk.
Large jar of jalapeno peppers.
Medium jar of jalapeno peppers.
Bathroom stuff I will never use.
Shower bombs I have already tossed.
Brownies, peanut butter fudge, rocky road fudge, watermelon
Candy bar, pecan pie, chocolate pie, apple pie,
cherry pie, key lime pie, lemon pie, coconut pie,
Did you know that when you eat out and say it’s your birthday
You get free pie
And no one checks your ID?

Get Back Angel Ghost

I
As a person
Me

Without devoid of a spine

Green

Buckle at jointed knee
Cap in hand
Crackle like the wilderness
Inside my stagnant mind

My skin is red to the bone
She'd upon my empty bed

So care no more
Angel fair
Ghost of nowhere
Declare the wanting is pray over

For if as please be for the deaf
Born with pallets cleft
Numb and horse of voice

1 , 2 , 3
A , b , C

Then open up my heart
So my eyes dare feel
In which or whatsoever category
I should sit

In order to fulfill my remit of aligning interplanetary love division

So I can bleach , spit , and shine my
Hubbard shoe's and house in order

Before I red bone buckle and she'd
this ghostly angel back

From whence it came unto me

My Job

forklifts
           
             pallets
                 
                        yogurt flavors

       staging  

                   wrappers

                                   to the doors


              trailers

                           drivers

                                          store bound grocery stores

Scrapper's Junk Truck

Old beat brown truck has stuff sticking every which way out the back.
On sides of pallets he has added to both sides, to try and cram more.
As truck turns I see a rusty refrigerator, wheel barrow, and two bikes.
One of the bikes looks pretty new.
This is an affluent neighborhood for Kansas City.
I hope he did not just pick up some child’s bike in a yard.
That would be too cruel.

Her Taste

My single-serving wait,
That flavor missing,
A sugary rush of femine.

Candy hard, and undesolved,
I salivate, on a smoky.
Bake, for a sleepy fullness.

Craving awake, to 
Late-night in snak,
Wishing, a telling tea at sunrise.

With my fruity-logic,
Time's bagged lunch,
This returns starvation.

Left-overs interrupted,
A cynical side dish,
Questioning my expiration.

In past pallets,
To reality diet plan,
This hunger unending.

A Season of Color

My favorite wonders and magic found in each Fall
are the way colors of trees raptly begin to sprawl
Across the woodland paths that I like to wander
the season fills me with many poems to ponder

Blazing leaves of yellow against skies of Prussian blue
then russets and copper and royal red break through
Swirling reflections saturate winding waterways
beautiful pallets to fill my picture-perfect seeking gaze

When gusty winds and rain come to gleefully play
We see the leaves set sail from the trees as they sway
As mist curls in the dawn, the nights welcome the cold
Autumn too must end so winter can begin to enfold


9-10-2020
Autumn-Fall Rhyme Challenge Poetry Contest
1st place premium Thank you!

When Dad Made Breakfast

When dad made breakfast, he always fried lots of bacon,
crackling and popping in the pan, 
 It scented the air, juicy and crisp, always beckoning.
 Then, he piled the dark gnarled strands on a plate.
 I became one of Pavlov’s frothing dogs.

When dad made breakfast, he fried a dozen eggs.
 They were always over easy with lots of pepper.
No one expected anything else.
And yes, he piled them on another plate.
I added salt and ate 3, sometimes even 4.

When dad made breakfast, he toasted lots of bread,
 buttering each slice with attention. 
The yellow melting evenly over browned pieces,
I smeared them with jelly or honey.
We all sat with aspiring pallets at our
family Eucharist.

Breathing the Same Air

The tones of skin are but outer layers 
of continental pigments designed by a Source,
yet we loathe colored people and have less fondness
for the minority of earth- brothers who feel, writhe,
and dream the way we do...it's neither
Asian eyes, Hispanic features, nor black hands.

We may be color-blinded by prejudice borne from
some lost gratitude of rightful co-existence,
and to honor the inner beauty of one race--mankind.
I look at a flower blooming into different kinds 
of rich shades: and oh how we forget 
that human tints combined are far more
glittering than all pallets of this universe:

All of us breathe the same air, polluted
foggy, and clear...tell me please, what makes
our neighbors choke the light off 
when darkness needs a sliver of horizon's glint?
I ask because   because I don't know why...


Richard  Lamoureux's Contest
I Can't Breathe   6/12/2020

President of Freedom

President of Freedom

The last man in a long line, 
voted to save the future...
for us. 
Not all of us, 
but some. 

Those that live on others, 
standing on the backs of oxen, 
will get all that is theirs.
 
Unrelentingly working, 
for a better tomorrow...
only to find some have been, 
tied to a circle, 
a pole in the ground. 

Spending their days...
toiling and pulling, 
pallets of overloaded, 
waste products, 
produced by the elected elite, 
shoveled and force-fed 
to the Deplorables...
all, 
in an effort to make them...
choke and die. 

Termites...
to eat the very nutrients...
from our trees. 
Ants, 
to consume...
what is not just leftover, 
but all there is too eat.
Foul swine, 
talked about in the bible, 
and sent to drown. 

The best man for the job, 
was not the one
any would have picked, 
first from the tree. 
The apples of freedom 
have been scarce.  
Yet, one that loves America, 
more than all the rest. 
Clear and exactly what you see, 
Our President is there to fight, 
for you and me. 

Higher wages, 
safer homes, 
better lives, 
one legitimate vote away. 
America is alive. 
We are here to stay, 
because we pray!

The Soft Warmth of Spring

The snow melts as tulips blossom,
for this is the season of renewal-
Robins sing tunes that resound in
an aria of majestic pallets of grace. 

I see Spring is ascending with all
of her delicacy and utter beauty. 
Renown for her pulchritude, she
whispers secrets of soft warmth.  



March 15, 2019

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