Barista’s Bakery home of the screaming cupcake
I had to rush inside to see what this meant.
Screaming was happening in two corners of the room.
One boy was devouring a purple cupcake.
It was screaming bloody murder.
Another couple was gnawing on a carrot cupcake.
It was shrieking as if it was in labor.
I have to have one I said. Which one is the loudest screamer?
That’s the mother-of-all-screams lemon cupcake, the baker said.
Before I even got started the cupcake began to yell “HELP! POLICE!”
He had the charm, tattoos on each arm,
a Zapata moustache and a pony.
Skin tight blue jeans, ripped at the seams,
(that showed off his prize polony).
A stud in each ear, he wreaked of stale beer,
when he smiled he showed three teeth of gold.
His car was a Beamer, a boy racer screamer,
that had the whiff of old mold.
He smoked like a chimley, and, through a glass, dimly,
he thought that he looked quite a catch.
With his wandering eye and naked lady tie,
and lime green socks to match.
If anyone would ask, or take him to task,
his lip, to a sneer, would curl.
And, with a tear in his eye, he would wistfully ask why,
he had everything but the girl?
As a dreamer, I never once dwelled on schemers,
so, as a believer, I fell for him, a deceiver.
I became an anger screamer and tear streamer
until romantic panic lay me down as griever.
I believed his story, his strengths and regrets
which had me set to gently drift into his net
where hidden, as yet, were his sharp-hearted threats.
He spoke of love most profuse when he played to seduce.
I revealed all my truths, he used them for abuse
while running hot then cold to steer me towards confused.
Oh, he was charm, lushness and warmth, a manly steamer.
Then he was harm, harshness and cold, a heartless quiver.
Playing the fool to his cruel, is my self-debt,
one my brain did not deduce, nor heart now excuse.
The fans are wild and crazy -
It’s the name of the game…
The game that’s most watched on the planet!
No, not American football -
Why it’s the soccer match of course – what else!
You’re simply an outsider if you’re not a fan –
Everyone covets that annual Ballon d’Or
And if you don’t, you’re so very odd!
Every country is represented -
Soccer is the Olympics of sports.
One eye on the dreaded penalty box…
While watching for the bend, that feat of magic,
For the screamer to see why it’s called a screamer,
Loving that howler as long as it’s not by your team,
And when your team has fallen behind,
Is there a better goal than the equaliser ?!
Praying for a brace or better yet a hat trick
Aiming for the GOAT
Hello…! the ‘greatest of all time’!!
Where have you been ?!!
And when that final whistle blows…
The whole world will take notice
And rise for the winner of FIFA !
AP: 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 17, 2018 for contest PIECE DE RESISTANCE sponsored by THE NAME FORSAKES ME
and June 18, 2018 for contest 2018 WORLD CUP sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST
Do I see what I see?
Or can the truth find me?
I sit here with fond cites,
Loiter and linger writes.
Do I know what I know?
Or can my tale now show?
Verse lines ooze as words rhyme,
Random and fragrant chimes.
Do I feel what I feel?
Or can my touching heal?
Dreamy dreamer dreams deep,
Sultry screamer streams sleep.
Do I think what I think?
Or can my thinking link?
Choice of poise finds voice verge,
Watch how stanzas emerge.
Do I sense what I sense?
Or can my touch move tense?
See through aperture clear,
Sparkle quest brined with cheer.
Leon Enriquez
05 October 2017
Singapore
For sale Sign, then car impulse tapped me
The allurement and chance trapped me.
An orange-red gripping gleamer
Transformed me to a car dreamer.
With this Z-car I could soar free.
Me and that Z are meant to be.
I shall call the seller and see
If he’s honest or a schemer.
I love this car.
Driving the Z, now owned by me,
I’m high on adrenaline glee.
Sexy shape, lush lines, hot screamer,
A driving fervor redeemer!
Shifting, I zoom my Z-she-spree.
I love this car.
Can't be for an old Stanley Steamer
With Bernie my car is a screamer
With magnet en route
If you see me please toot
It’s strategically stuck on my bimmer*
*This is the correct spelling for a BMW car or person. Mine is a previously-owned (many times over) 3-series with 259,000 miles that we maintain. Apologies for burning fossil fuel, but at least there is no depreciation to deal with.
Love woebegone - footles
Affair
Despair
Adorn
Forlorn
Dreamer
Screamer
August 19th, 2014
For Andrea's contest- Let's keep footling around
Ranked 7th
Been meaning to write this for months but didn't know where to start.. So let's take a dive
Pat him on the back and give him a smile
Say he is a lucky man
And in choosing me, he showed his style
But he knows there's more than beauty deep inside,
Tolerant of my crazy ideas,
He quickly realized these looks are to misguide
My husband is a real dreamer
To map his ideas out would take years,
Yet he stays quiet, definitely not a screamer
My husband is also my best friend
Caring, compassionate
He is with me to the end
One time I asked him what if I accidentally killed
He said, he'd find a body disposal service
Hire a man who is skilled
Around me he is so awestruck
We could cross a busy street
He'd be just staring at me and we'd get hit by a truck
When I look wide eyed at him
His face lights up
And I know he can't feel a single limb
My husband and I
We are two lost swans
Venturing the world
I saw something yesterday let me
share the news
Put things in perspective and gave
me the blues
This is the story and it’s all I know
Don’t judge my writing if it don’t flow
I dude the other day rented a beamer
A poor boy with no toys
Always wanted a rich man’s
screamer
He was driving through town and
said Ah oh!
He was driving to fast
And pasted a Poe poe
Soon in the mirror blue lights
flashing
He was scared to go to jail for what
just happened
Part of him knew to pull over
But going to jail was his fear
He mashed the clutch
And threw it in third gear
A little boy woke up and said what’s
the rush
After he just left the poe poe in the
dust
Said don’t worry just go back to
sleep
But damn boy the car is sweet
Going 125 and approaching a curve
Hit a deer and lost control
The car flipped over 14 times
And one third
He woke in the ambulance
And asked “where’s my boy”
I had to say all we found
Were empty beer bottles and toys
Trousers and tights shirts
Tights and baggy blouses
Buff boots and converse
Heelys without wheels I do
Is what I wear
Is what I am
Is what I be
Under that dress and flats
Behind that hair style and makeup
Is what I pretend to be
Is what people want me to be
Is what they want from me
It’s a switch in personality
From boy to girl
Or that is what they say?
I act boyish?
I am being me
But they just won’t accept me
It’s not like I committed a crime against nature
I was just being me
Acting to be myself
And that is my nature
But what people also say
What I also noticed about myself
I intend to succeed in having
Two personalities
Tough? Soft?
Wild, sensitive?
Adventurous, poetic?
Athletic, lazy
Singer, screamer
Dancer, deep?
Fighter, surrender?
Strong, weak…
Is that what they say?
Or is it just mixed up?
I’m glad I do…
Our children gone, our empty nest
now is our time to enjoy our zest,
then in our bedroom a problem arose
my wife's new freedom, she lost her compose.
With the children gone no one to hear
passions she would scream, no shame to bear.
Her cries of lust would fill the room
and reverberate all afternoon.
I would muffle her mouth, with my hand in fear
her excitement that our neighbors could hear.
A distraction to me, to say the least
I could only pray for quit and piece.
That noise put me off my given task
my performance suffered something I lack.
She would scream so loud my ears may pop.
"You sick pervert don't touch me!-Stop!"