cows and horses graze
tails sway from side to side
oh those pesty flies
An
airy successful glow is
always filled with
hay road springy
goof balls prior to
green gang-
resurgence to con-
trol pesty
in-crap greedheads.
I am sleep deprived
woke by barking dogs
and pesty flies
Monday makes a jolt
Waking up a new week
A sudden pesty reminder
That life is more than sleep.
Arriving at the space
Where everything hinged
I saw it...flapping in the wind
Around and back, again
I took out the pin
And watched matter
Fly in all directions
Motions and potions
Casting out for perfections
Stuck with the pen
Trying write a program
That will return power
To ideas that must form and live
Within every passing hour
One prick of the pin
Blood will surface
Those hungry to eat, will rise
Gathering nothing more
Than pesty flies
To the pen
....SPIRIT WINS!!!
Written by Trudy Schrader
The Fox
Sly fox with pointed ears upright
With snout twitching and lips smirking,
And crafty eyes intently watching
For prey location revealing.
White chest and cheeks in a red fur coat,
Sporting a bushy tail for balance and warmth.
Sneaky predator, night stalker,
And pesty threat to poultry farmers.
The vixen with kits hides in the den,
Waits for the arrival of the dog out hunting,
Who gives chase and pounces on a rabbit,
His eyes expressing a satisfied result.
picking up all trash
guarantees no pesty bugs
your food will be safe
broken shells in drive
squirrels scampering in yard
smart little critters
a fluttering bug
a fly, gnat, mosquito soars
around my head and
~
through it all flies stalls
intermittent behavior
pesty flying bugs
9/26/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2021
summer mugginess
rain bringing out pesty pest
biting sting, quick slap
vile blood sucking mosquitoes
brush away annoying flies
8/19/2021
A Buggy Tanka Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
I fought one piggish Titan and I won
As if that devious Leech existed not;
Sealing the very firy nose of his gun
With ball-like rags to sap every shot.
A long-lionized mogul of giant name
Slew my low fists by a magic stroke;
Vilest Judas glossing in pesty fame,
I his two-timing fang spookily broke.
I know not if such a scheming villain
Fickle arms dim for want of glut gain,
Ever shall by Time's rare marvel floor,
And ink selfsame serendipities more.
May the Highest Star your ochre clip,
And pelt plagues and fates your ship;
Until Hades her filthiest minion finds
Sulfurous frying betwixt fallen minds.
May your fiendish bow of foxy veneer
Snap mid-hunt as looms hugest deer,
And life's fave tooth turn fatal sore;
Your daintiest morsel tartest grow!
I tested negative a few days ago,
the virus has yet to find my ink
to write another obituary.
I hugged my family and invited
friends for dinner, drinking, dancing
and singing, making the old days
return sooner, at least for a night.
Children have no monopoly on
childish thoughts. I imagined the virus
disappear one day like a miracle,
superstitious or not.
Then as I was cooking a nice meal and
thinking of walking my pesty dog round the bloc,
got a call from a medic trying hard to
pronounce my name correctly, with
deep and since apology informed me of
the error: my test was positive. I know what
comes next, my step-sister will think the
worst, accusing me of intentional homicide.
But, I 'm not dead yet, it's not too late,
to invite her a second time, to make sure
we'll both die in the same hospital -- the heroic baton
I cannot reward myself.
They're gathering their broomsticks
and sharpening their hats
Found catching little spiders
and feeding them to rats
Down pesty little fruit flies
and swiftly soaring bats
All mixing in a cauldron
for temptous gloary vat
And tasty to the forked tongue
of glecious gloried glum
While mixing to the tastebuds
of racious roary grumb
And taking home our vest lines
of ivy, flora, spum
when making it their best fun
of Halloween has come
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore
Not at once, but gradually at my feet
random leaves, brown and brittle
carpenters diligently march in
leaving my bark somewhat non-committal
Furtively, up grow the undesirables
the weedy weeds and the pesty pests
erstwhile friends in the summer sun
the heavenly snag inviting inquests
Wounded tree under forest affliction
how to water; too little, too much
scarred by the bear claw and lightning strike
yielding to the woodpecker, chickadee and bluebird clutch
Where only warmth now lingers, the flame once fired
stands the smiling woodsman cleaning his plate
glistening against my trunk in the wink of a rising sun
a sharpened ax waits and waits
Number 15 rumbles a regular route,
Whining about the dew-drop hours.
A friend used to hang on and shout,
"Top-of-the-line!" Sucking fruit sours.
Underrated, invaluable, civil necessity.
Removing debris for the wasteful Whos.
Salting and plowing the frozen density.
Protection from plagues of pesty refuse.
Garbage to be his last embrace.
Toxic weight on asthma lungs,
While indulging a smokey taste.
I say, "Shoot it all into the sun!"
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