Archie Bunker
Archie Bunker's political stance,
He did NOT seem too shy to advance.
Was he funny, or crude?
Right on target, or rude?
In today's world, he'd NOT have a chance!
February 8, 2019
For Contest, 'Limerick 4'
sponsored by Joseph May
Lines 1, 2, 9 -- 9 syllables --/--/--/
Lines 3, 4 -- 6 syllables --/--/
I Need Quiet
I need a bomb
Not a big one
Nuclear would be nice
Not even a mega ounce
I need to kill them
They scream all night long
Screaming and whining
I cannot sleep
I cannot think
I just need to get rid of them
I think God made them
Placed them just to bug me
I plan
Think of ways to kill them
But they are always here
Maybe they are like cockroaches
Radiation won’t harm them
I think old school may be the way
A rock in a sling
Lobbed more than one hundred feet in the air
Aimed right
Aimed right on target
I want them dead
More than anything I have ever wanted
I should just stone those damn crows
And finally live my life in quiet
The smile in your eyes fills my heart
Though distance does keep us apart
Your words mean the world to me
I read what others can’t see
I know when I’m feeling blue
I just have to think of you
Champagne bubbles burst in my heart
Right on target like a swift flying dart
I miss you; your words are sublime
Come back and see me some time
Jan Allison
3rd August 2014
Audrey, Isn’t A Rose …
She Is The Embodiment Of An Orchid
Audrey, Is An Arrow
Her Words … Are Right On Target
And Her Verses Are Perfumes
Her Thoughts Not Easy To Forget
Straight To Heart, She Blooms
Her Sentences, Bear Her Scent
Now, Audrey, Could Be A White Rose
(But She Is Definitely, An Orchid)
And Oh, The Things She Brings and Grows
To The Soupers’ Produce Market …
For: Audrey Carey-Haick
Keep Using That Light-Fragrance
That Stays, Long After You’ve Gone Audrey (smile)
Your Poet-Friend,
MoonBee
Dust motes swirled a pirouette, ponderous stardust
in the light shaft capture, straight as a die;
fired to my chest from the crack in the tiles' armour,
right on target, unnerved my eye.
Laser sighted from the sun, a dot of vibrant gold,
I froze and fixed on it's accurate dart,
it's aim was painstaking and true as death
struck the naked breast, drilled my heart.
There was no real pain, just imagined,
no fatal wound nor spurt of black gore
to decorate the dust drab attic wall
and spill my life across the floor.
Stood here forlorn, forgetting my reason,
the crawlspace and pyramidal ceilings
mirrored then the yawning of my mind,
that chamber of decompressed feelings.
And you, your ghost, or a scent of what we meant,
breezed in, grave trespass upon my cold reverie;
and the inner child wept of grief and longing
for things to be the way they used to be.
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.