Many thoughts are circulating through my mind
as I'm having fun with gardening games on my piece of land
In a couple of my poems, a couple of my words have been dotted out. Can I use inuendo?
Is it possible for this new poem, could I be partially banned ?
I have no desire to upset established decorum
When I post this latest poem on the Poetry Soup forum
Several of my poems relate to Australian native birds
coincidentally in this poem the bird rhymes with my old nickname DAG
We're often wet as a , or roosting on a rock
I'm referring to a bird I love it's called a shag
What a marvelous feeling
Turn on the dance switch
- still a flower in the bud
The spare battery is charged
when Friday comes
I guess you are able
to keep up with my pace
Spinning and twirling
Cut loose,
in boogie, shag or belly dance
- the moon and the stars
will shine all night
- no time to sleep
atop
a garden wall
striped marmalade throw
feline
lazy time
under sunshine
interlaced visions
a weaving
paws dangle in indolent ease
reach
underlay deep
whiskers sense sparrows
muscles tense in their plush
carpet shag
then
drowsy textile head slumps
sun-drying kitty-mat
basking
2 textured images twilled
to fade together forever
later
cat-rug carried away ~
sun settles in a deckchair
Snapping it up with so much zeal
The shiny black shag with its slinky eel.
The sand eel squirmed and slipped back to the sea.
The shag said stop, please stay with me!
You want to eat me said the edible eel.
I do not want to be your meal.
I see you swim under the sea
At speeds much faster than slithering me.
You will swallow me whole.
And then where will I be?
In my belly, of course, said the shag smilingly!
Funny/Bawdy Limerick
Spoiled Milk
The milk man and Sue like to shag.
"The milkman sure digs me," she'd brag.
Well the milk man delivered!
And Sue sure got the shivers!
But the milk on the porch went bad.
So, that night, when Sue's husband came back,
She knew he'd surely notice the lack.
"No milk with my tea?
Oh how can this be?",
Teased the milkman, her husband in fact!
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
Have you ever had
A bag of potato chips
A glass of smoky wine
Halfway through
Wanting for more?
Have the rest of the bag
Drink the whole bottle
There’s wisdom in saturation
Joy in the overflowing cup
Have your chips and eat it too
Let the cup overflow till
Ruby puddles on a carpet
Chiplets scattered on shag
How else do you know
Half-empty or half-full?
How does rock bottom
Know, if you’ve hit the center?
The extra pounds tattle tells
The stain on the carpet knows
When saturation is not enough
It’s dangerous to get it all
Potato chips Grubhub away
There’s always a bigger cup
Let them joyride to you despite
Floods in the brain with dopamine
How else does the spill know the rim
How does satisfaction know the edge?
Boundaries untested will tempt
Saturation will continue to entice
Knowing enough is true wisdom
The stained carpet will tell you
The waistline will confess
You’ve reached beyond saturation
Penury is natural like drought then
Missing won’t feel like missing out
When the bottle is nearly empty
When there are just crumbs
I'll savor what remains
Put them aside for tomorrow
I'll saturate them with temperance
when we would rehearse
shallow we had found our purse
things will become worse
we could comprehend
that rules will have to amend
prayers to God send
mouth started to sag
when he had been known to brag
ball would have to shag
always great to know
bad news when off big mouth blow
we had told them so
from will have to rid
attitude would be rancid
acted like a kid
when we crossed the track
we will not be coming back
had burned down our shack
when we saw his wart
lied and sold people short
could end up in court
when we saw him beg
we had looked at his each leg
one would wear a peg
once we knew a judge
after we did start to nudge
he would have to fudge
landed in hay loft
was allergic and had coughed
yet still would be soft
thought that he was cute
dumber than cake with much fruit
big mouth off would shoot
had heard latest tweet
his toes did stick out of sheet
which covered his feet
I used to miss your touch, now your hands feel like claws
I used to melt in your stare, now your eyes come with bristles
I used to miss your shag and plaits, now you wear a tail of a horse
I used to miss a natural shape, now your curves are created by a dose
I used to miss your call of my name, now you sound like Americanos and Angles
Tell me if I’m stuck in history, lagging behind as the *****Sapien evolves
Lynette was attached to the ambiance of the seventies.
She had a shag rug with large loops and flecks of silver.
Bulb like globs floated in her six lava lamps.
She replaced her accelerator pedal with a weird bare foot pedal.
Her house featured peace signs, happy faces, and free love slogans.
My favorite piece was a Volkswagen bus planter that yelled “perky”.
But in actuality, I liked the entire set up – her car and her house.
I once visited an old copper town
in the upper peninsula of Michigan.
The U.P. as the Yoopers say
And on the U.P. it winters from
October to April’s end
where saloons and
vacant churches pock each
devoutly sodden block with
a piss-penny for your thoughts.
The hay was made there
in the 1890’s, bronzed and
plaqued in a shag-city square
gray beyond grief
-faced for no reason
it remembers.
It is a compelling obscurity.
that I will visit
again, one day
when I have
less to lose and
more to forget.
There the parking meters
stand away from the curbs
by big brick hollows,
beyond the plow’s carve
so high must pile
the insulating snow.
in streams of sunbeams inviting
my face to turn upwards
I am captured by intangible senses of
nutmeg and cinnamon communion-
candy-coated moments blossoming
As the wizard of memories wakes a dream
speechless and smiling
standing and body turning with movement
I am drawn onto the shag carpet
of blades sprouting green lightheartedness
tickling the soles of my feet
unabashedly bare
naked on an aimless path
shuffling gaited rhythms of a waltz step
striking with carefree muted thuds
on the squishy sod
jumping-running-skipping…
lifting ever higher-a freedom
that only children know
visitors from the ghosts of my youth
appear from the mettle of my core
singing, talking and laughing
each lyric echoing unrestrained
their haunting chimes pasted
in a basket of blue skies painted
with art of clouds
colored like vague stranded souvenirs-
a pictorial imbued across the horizon
a stage-play of our backyard friendships
step-by-step twirling-arms swinging-round
bare feet colliding with smiles
and I…..with great laughter...
I danced with them all!
November 2, 2022
This or That Vol 14 Poetry Contest
Renascence
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
I am laid back but like to shag and such
and she was so sexy and hot to touch.
I said show me a sign,
she said “your place or mine?”
Nah, forget it darlin’, you talk too much!
Written: September 2014
The psychedelic décor and Sergeant Pepper
wore the same uniformly gaudy tones.
Burgundy striped stockings hung on a lava lamp,
puff the magic dragon dwelt in our rented rainbow.
A poster of Leonard Cohen as a young man.
Shag carpet for cozy shagging.
A Paddington apartment above a smoky railway.
A girl drinking Liebfraumilch
waiting for me to come home
with a used album of Rubber Sole
We had vinyl prayer-wheels.
Beetles played in every hallway –
literally.
Figuratively,
we had red and yellow music, bottles of Blue Nun,
oodles of fun
for the horny young.
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