Eating them won’t make you smarter
Flying them, frying them won’t make you high
Scraping them off the pavement
Certainly, won’t make you fly
Peeling them off some stickers
May certainly make you laugh and cry
At the same time like me
Synchronicity
There’re always two sides to every coin
Just like there are two halves for every brain
The left and the right may just hold a private conversation
Inside the skull, my numbskull sculling time
Scrolling through my mind
Perhaps, this is the time
I reach out to another
Other person with some brains
Who believes like me and who's not insane:
For some unknown reason
Eating poetrysoup
Really satisfies my brains
Categories:
sculling, humorous, poetry,
Form: Light Verse
There’s something mysterious;
I hope it’s not serious:
my muse will not write when I row.
She’s no river daughter;
it’s time that I taught her
that water and words can both flow.
Bereft of her musing,
the rhymes are confusing;
ideas just don’t spring to mind.
Who cares where she’s headed?
My abs are now shredded;
my lats and my quads well defined!
Alas, to entreat her:
a sculling two-seater -
that certainly might do the trick…
Composing while oaring
would never be boring,
with meters and verse coming quick!
Categories:
sculling, silly,
Form: Rhyme
There once was a guy who crafted a poem;
it’s possible that you might even know him.
It seems that he had a way with the verse;
he wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst.
They’d come in a flurry, the bad and the good;
he’d try to transcribe them as fast as he could.
Inevitably, there’d be a cessation;
it seems his muse would go on vacation.
It was times like these, when the words weren’t flowing,
he decided to try his hand at rowing.
With a handle and chain instead of an oar,
he got in good shape and built up his core.
With thousands of others, he entered a race,
and managed to snag an age group first place.
He thought maybe then that he might see his muse;
the subject of rowing perhaps could be used.
Return of the linguist: on fire, on fleek!
Alas, but instead, just the paddle-less creek.
Now bound and determined to settle a score,
he’s sulking and sculling towards some distant shore.
Categories:
sculling, writing,
Form: Couplet
The mouse ran through the house through a hole in the wall
while the cat lay sleeping down the hall.
cheese his favorite he could not find,
sculling along squeaking while wiggling his behind.
A cat, a cat he sees chasing him down the hall,
Laughter and an uproar with echos off the wall.
This little mouse still running through the house,
As the cat meowed with his speed like lightning
The mouse ran up the chain of a cuckoo clock,
His tinny paw stuck in the middle hanging in pain.
The cat below meowed, I have got you now,
then clock struck 12 moving the chain.
The tiny mouse was taken to the top,
untangling his paw from the cuckoo clock.
He sat atop with two teeth smiling then said,
today you are a cat,
Without a mouse atop this cuckoo clock
Categories:
sculling, nursery rhyme,
Form: Rhyme
Behind the mountain, beyond the azure sky
unexplored passions, I've watched them die
unshed tears, clouds cross a dried fountain
beyond the azure sky, behind the mountain.
Waiting for a someone, youth and vigour lost
a fire of crimson rose, kissed by chilling frost
petals now withered, damage had been done
youth and vigour lost, waiting for a someone
A bunch of dead leaves, sculling in breeze
winter's sun, shadows murmuring in trees
hollow words echo, knowing love deceives
sculling in breeze, a bunch of dead leaves.
16th June 2020
Featured in the best new poem list
Sponsor Joseph May
Contest Name Swap The Verse
Categories:
sculling, heartbroken,
Form: Quatrain
Flippers so languidly beat
As mates float in the deep
Coupling dreamily on a lazy tide
And when it is time
She shall lie
Upon a secret hollow
Known only to her
And the King of tides
To pledge her young before a setting sun
And when it is time
They will rise from a sandy womb
To begin their panic in search of the sea
Sculling and skittling they
Inch their shells
Scything sand at terror
From swooping gulls
And cranky crabs
To giant hands that hold no pity
Yet those that nose
The frothy sea first
Begin a quest that will ultimately test
These gentle souls
To the brink of damnation
Upon oceans deep
And yet we weep
And yet we weep…
Poetry Contest “Turtles”
Sponsored by Cyndi MacMillan
Aug 2014
Categories:
sculling, animal, sea,
Form: Free verse
Stroke, Stroke, its no joke
Are YOU Sculling for Your Team
Or Hospital bed
Categories:
sculling, health, life
Form: Senryu