Wherever I may hop
and plop them down
in summer my hind feet
are a shade of brown
yet in winter white
which leave large footprints
each and every night
but then by day
I'll have you know
they give the game away
as is my inborn habit
here there and everywhere
for at best I'm less a rabbit
more a snowshoe hare
What if we never meet
or I had never looked
into your eyes or saw that pretty smile
you have such a pretty smile
What if I hadn't had that first kiss
or smeeled that arousing perfume
or we hadn't gone
to the concert under the moon
that late night supper
when we first held hands
or the theather when afterward
we went to dance
what if
I ask you what if
unlike you I still shy away
sometimes there's something
i want to say
I start to speak but I stop
to look you in your eyes
I like it when you steer and ask me why
it's our thing we've
done it all along
expectually when we hear our favorite song
what if it wasn't cool
and i had never bought you
that specail jewel
what if the ring didn't fit
or I had given in
and had up and quit
what if my proposal was rejected
or our love was neglected
what if God's Love didn't shine down
no support for our love
and no one was around
what if
what if
what if
In the study, bright and sunny,
I thought I'd try something funny.
Three minutes, that's all I need I cried,
As I set my timer, pen and paper aside.
I brewed my thoughts, to nice and hot,
Clicked the timer, it proclaimed a plop.
The words danced, swirled in a muse ballet,
Melding to a happenstance touche.
But, soon my thoughts began to drift,
To coffee and toast, as a hunger twang miffed.
I'm way ahead with my word play draft,
Surely there's time to pause my craft.
Suddenly the timer beeped, too late it cried.
My poem lay there soft, with runny white inside.
Just like a par boiled egg, it was yucky, half-done.
Poems like eggs, need full time run, to be finespun.
When I tried to lick an icy pop,
When bike riding, with two-up on top.
I screamed and you squealed
As ice cream, revealed
Two riders fly head over heels plop
At a certain diner I often stop
It's super cheap; they serve such slop
Afterward, a broom and a mop,
Then on the pot 'til there's a plop
a plop
in the water
lily pad
One day whilst going out to play
I felt a plop upon my head
Oh what was that, I cried out loud
Then spied the largest blackest cloud
Maybe a warning of more to come
As he flung a raindrop just for fun
Or was he laughing; having a joke
Intending to give me a jolly good soak
Imagine my joy when combing my hair
For this tiny wee raindrop was still hiding there
Like a beautiful sphere; a boutonniere
Secreted and safe she was inside her lair
Translucent and fragile, cupped inside my palm
I held her gently, so not to cause harm
But sadly the raindrop she rolled on my floor
And vanished completely; I saw her no more
Cherishing memories of a single raindrop
Still yearning to feel that magical plop
As rain clouds appear and gather above
I look to the sky sending kisses and love
Written 14th November 2018
Competition entry for The Raindrop
Sponsor Craig Cornish
Standard Contest 160
Brian Strand
1st place
Penny dropped circular clocks on carved out emblematic wisdom cones. Be careful if it rains coal dust as radioactive drones, mobile phones, and teapots too could all gather to form lines of imperialism. How rather interesting it is to count the snot flung out of the window. It often lands in a rather interesting pattern do you not think? And waiting for parcels is akin to waiting for a slug or a snail to travel sixteen times down and up a highway. Ok then. Great. Floors fathom first flinging fleeces. And the traditionalism is always at the number two position on a compass compressed clock canister. And one hour forty-five minutes in a pressure cooker is quite often akin to racing up a right angled hill. A salted mist is a skiing zone. Where lots of whales and dolphins play and make snowmen. And a snow go e is neither a pickled onion nor a jester playing a harpsichord. Ok then. That is the latest from the p y q. Z
Everything is creased & kept
In right place & order
To avoid even a particle of dust.
But all worms
Are not devised to
Die before a naphthalene.
The dead narcissus,
The spittle of wind on windowpane,
The half-empty dish of rice
Beside the folded mattress
Make me return & recall
The days of nursery school,
The lesson of my favorite farmer.
His corns would come & store themselves magically !
Flying out of ancient hearth
Gods & dogs
Gift me
The vessel of ashes.
JOURNAL IV – Plop
Goes The 4th
The Boston Symphony
used to play Pop
Goes
The 4th
They featured fine
stars of the day and
fireworks
of course
Now it is the
National Symphony
From Washington D.C.
Stars of the day are
featured
But the mood is
overwhelmingly
military
With groups from the
army, navy and
marines
Is this our
Washington D.C.?
I can’t help but
recall my
neighborhood,
Families out on
their porches
enjoying the day
Kids with sparklers,
Kids running
yelling playing
The day the noise
was something
unusual
exciting!
Now all seems
commonplace, the
fireworks
rather mild
The neighborhood has
changed so greatly
In these last few I
can’t identify
For the first time
in four or five years
I do not wish to
communicate with him.
Running around
Playing tag
All of a sudden we hear...
Drip,Drop,Plop?
Oh NO! It`s raining!
Sliding on ice
Skating and twirling
When out of no where we hear...
Drip,Drop,Plop?
Oh NO! It`s raining!
Watching television
Messing with video games
We look up and hear...
Drip,Drop,Plop???
OH NO! It`s time for a bath!!!
With a Drip, Drop, Plop
The rain will sop
Upon a leaf they land
Then roll onto the sand
Absorbed by the ground
Prepares the next go round
It filters through the rock
All around the clock
The plants will seed
The living it feeds
Then onto the river it runs
Until evaporated by the sun
Into the air it mists
And gathers like a fist
In the shape of a big black cloud
Darkening like a shroud
Then BOOM it will fall
Covering one and all
And again the rain will sop
With a Drip, Drop, Plop
April 13, 2005
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.