We’re strapped in seats and to our left,
A dad, a mom, 3 tots;
And how much noise did they produce?
You know the answer - lots!
Before we taxi, it’s announced
There’ll be a slight delay.
Mechanics have to come on board,
And so begins our day.
They check us out; we’re good to go,
But traffic in the air
Means there will be some extra time
To take off. Don’t despair!
The whole time this is going on,
With pencil in my hand,
I’m working on a Times acrostic,
Just as I had planned.
It really is a tough one;
I’m oblivious to time.
The minutes tick away until
We’ve left the ground and I’m
Just finishing the puzzle.
I’m a genius! But what’s best
Is by doing the acrostic,
I was shockingly unstressed.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
Pencil in hand, eraser handy, Folger’s in my stein -
doing eighty-one U-turns; nine digits in line.
Niching nine numbers in their nests nets a homerun.
Sudoku books provide a steady diet of puzzle “fun”;
wits, nerves, logic, patience, sheer grit gets her done.
Crack such puzzles and prove your brains really rate;
with no repeats (box, column and row) - Sudoku checkmate!
Turn about face, do your one-eighty and celebrate…
I keep a pencil in my pocket,
Here is why,
It's my electric socket,
Without it I'll cry.
When I get an idea,
I write it down,
A bird, My freind Thea,
Even about a clown.
I make it into a poem,
When i'm free,
Which is not often,
I am very busy.
To write a poem,
Here's what you need,
A pen and imagination,
Another poem you'll plead
BACK TO SCHOOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In August, young Sam felt quite cool,
with a backpack, he headed to school.
He packed up some peanuts,
and a few silly musical cuts,
in his lunchbox then thought, “Aren’t I a jewel?!”
His classmates all chuckled and cheered,
as he whispered, “I’m ready, don’t fear!”
With a pencil in paw,
he scribbled with awe,
“Math’s nuts! Let’s eat lunch, I declare!”
The teacher, the scholarly Miss Owl, hooted,
“Pay attention, Sam, or to office you’ll be booted.”
But he daydreamed of the oak trees,
and the buzzing of sweet honeybees,
while plotting his next acorn loot.
Moss
On Sundays I make myself familiar with
the moss on
the oaf of
rocks adjacent to
the driveway on
the west side of
the house.
They’re always keen to know if
I prefer the last letters or
do I prefer the
first or
the middle that form a
word or
a
proverb.
Too they’re keen to
know how many lines do I
write each time I’m at
my dark oak desk (my desk is named
Something Done) writing with my
HB pencil in my
snot green-spiral notebook my
horror short stories live in. I give them a
different answer for
both questions each time.
Giant pony-like puppy does not take no for an answer
A grizzly is less aggressive; he intentionally steps on my toes
If he gets any bigger, he will outweigh a giant boar
If I try to write, he runs off with my pencil in his mouth
Do I dare paint?
Painting is out. He has devoured many brushes.
He loves the attention and demands more of it.
Some times he runs full weight at me
Jumping on my recliner and tipping me.
A giant puppy who is usually wet.
We are unsure where all this water is coming from.
He has stolen our hearts, commandeering our home.
Changing our lives in enormously funny ways.
We can not fathom life without him.
Pencil in my hand.
What will I write about next?
Writing is a process.
a pencil in my hand does a happy dance
plain and unplanned, my thoughts in a trance
I watch the markings, wondering what they are about
when I see the words forming, I give a tiny shout
why does my pencil always know before me
what my mind is doing, all fearless and free?
these words were channeled from beyond the veil
from Coleridge or Poe, I turn a ghastly pale
the pencil does not hesitate, she knows what she’s about
I follow along fiercely, not about to anger or pout
for my Ticonderoga knows how to write a poem every day.
I am not going to hold her back or stifle her in any way.
Mrs M was a teacher with a clean desk
there was only one pencil in there
it was always sharpened
and a pink eraser that looked brand new
I never saw an ink pen
the top of her desk had a small plaque
with her name starting with Mrs. of course
Even though she was divorced
She never wanted the students to know about it
We all did
She was fastidiously neat and fussy
staying late to sterilize desks and seats
she inadvertently taught me one big lesson
I never wanted to be like her
She was too punctilious; cleanliness was her world.
Students were probably twenty-six on her priority list.
Whenever I hold a pencil in my hand ,I shake.
If I try to draw and pretend to imagine, I will fake.
It's not that I do not like or appreciate this form of art.
Just that it does not come to me from inside of my heart.
We all have different abilities, likes and dislikes.
Drawing does not excite my brain if I have to be precise.
Still it always hurts me that I just cannot draw.
But I would like to believe that it is not a flaw.
Why do i sprawl out on my bed
comatose and almost dead
hoping for a miracle
that God is in my lead
my head
They inject a pencil in my vein
thinking i'm still insane
hoping for a miracle
that God is in my pain
my name
My covers wrap around my flesh
cocoon and desk
hoping for a miracle
that God is in this test
this mess
i sink into my head
i mean my bed
i mean my lead
hoping for a miracle
hoping God’s not dead
There is a moon stuck inside the stoplight
A still unblinking gaze controlling blood tides
Circulatory system like New York City in the seventies
The thrashing of my tire fire heart led
To the tribute of an overzealous blood tithe
With the buzzing of the latch relay circuit
Night and day, the cosmic light switch clicks
Itself into place, there is no dusk or dawn
We are burdened to tread in the interchange
We are a gathering of werewolves, in need
Of a blood moon, craving catharsis and hope
There is no time to pencil in a reverie
A daily scene, like a living nightmare
Turning us into cybernetic lycanthropes
Im not good nor great at poetry
But when i read other peoples poetry
Its like looking at the night sky
I see the constellations up high
And then i start contemplating my complications
Of how i write
Is it good enough ?
A pencil in my hand
My nose crunching
My eyes rolling
My palms are shaking
I have to much on my mind
When i think of words to write
I see the ocean waving on the sand
But im the one on dry land
I run blank for miles to think
What do i say, what shall i write
Make sure you do not need the toilet before stepping into a lift.
If you drop something pick it up before a packrat or a magpie sees it.
A good book is always worth having when in a waiting room,
Waiting for a bus or train,
Or outside a clothes shop waiting for a partner or friend,
To finish trying on everything in the shop.
Learn animal sign language,
For early warning of Earthquakes, floods and twisters.
Make a list of everything you give for free to the charity shop,
So you do not end up buying some or all of the items back.
Be prepared to make a run for it if you hear the words,
"Is this of any use to you".
Check potential partners for signs of hoarding.
When you child says but Dad,
Always best to stop what you are doing,
As chances are you are about to make a dumb mistake,
That can be used against you for years.
Always have a pencil in your pen drawer,
As finding a pen that works,
When you need one is never a given.
Planning a trip ahead of time,
Leaves more hair on your head.
On a bench in the sun,
With the river close by,
I can get something done
(Or at least I can try).
For out here I unwind
As I soak up the rays
And I’m likely to find
Something I can appraise.
With my pencil in hand
And a notebook page, blank,
I fulfill the command,
With the river to thank,
That I jot down a poem
(Which is almost complete).
Now it’s time to head home;
There’s some popcorn to eat.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.