Not For Contest
Note-Again Connie reads the contest rules after she writes the poem,
missing the fact that the poem should have ten lines or less. I told you
I'm walking on eggshells.
Why do all the chickens lay their eggs on my path
They are filthy and smelly and can use a bath
There's poop and stench pulling on my rope
Where are all the hungry foxes to give me hope
Please take them away from me on a jet plane
I can't take this anymore, I'm going insane
Fly them off to the sun so they'll burn to a toast
Their presence has turned me pale like a ghost
Why couldn't I have been the one to fly the coop
Instead of slumping with the white-sheeted group
Every day I see that family and six baby chicks
That pulls my nerves while I watch them get their kicks
These chickens should trip to the sun for all I care
I'll even pack a lunch for them to see them flare
Every day I hear buck-buck-buck while I walk on eggshells
My life needs to be unfeathered because I'm living in hells
Goodbye sun, hello moon, it is time
All Hallow's Evening has now arrived,
Pumpkins lit until dawn, wink sublime
Lest all flame, wax and wick be deprived
Sheeted ghosts hand in hand with witches
Go skipping in their own happy way,
The stranger, the better enriches
For it is the order of the day
Ghouls and goblins begging for a treat
Come knocking about the door in droves,
Tricking in exchange for something sweet
A thank you kindly said for sugar troves
Good olde traditions, may they never die
Halloween haunts the soul, all for fun,
A night to relive our October's gone-by
A night when happiness is yet won!
A terrifying sheeted ghost came by and we pretended to be scared.
It was probably Wilbur, and he liked to think that we cared.
Next was a headless kid carrying a bloody head.
That’s got to be Zeke, Tom, Willie, Henry or Ted.
Halloween on our street is fun every year.
We tease and torment each other, pretending some fear.
The kids get together and parade around sometimes.
One of them was a large see-through bank with some dimes.
A table, a treasure chest, a princess, a gargoyle too.
There were nineteen costumes before we were through.
Onto a pirate ship I decided to have myself glom.
Then I recognized the feet and yelled “Come on Mom!”
Parents are not supposed to get in on this action.
But here was my mother, getting her own satisfaction
The headless kid started to laugh now, and I recognized him.
Humiliated, because this was my dad, I ran off with my twin.
Savage whims of winter
that bring freezing rain
unrestrained
in a sky re-grouping
flaired forceful with the cold
Ice coated, leaf-less trees that bend
like old men over their canes
Trees from an underworld,
frigid
brutally hobbled by their rich, new coating
Maple trees,
heavy
that seem to weep with worry
Glaze baked into branches that gleam
in sober sunlight
like a church lit by candles
Ice that flickers with sorrow and beauty
a crystal knave
inviting awe and repulsion
for sheeted frost that veils the landscape
Refracted light,
glistening
to fill the cramped chill of winter
Still life stiffened that crackles and hisses
when the wind blows
An icy, lush world that loiters in our minds,
stealthily
to shimmer in our slumber
Poem composed: December 17, 2020
These hands that write
have lost their touch
This mind that thinks
Is lost
These eyes that see the world around
Are sheeted over with frost
These lips that used to kiss you
Are chapped without your touch
These hands that used to hold yours
Have grown cold without your love
We have lost ourselves
In old memories
Clinging onto what used to be
You and Me
Sheeted winds of hushed desire
Dragged behind these wings of fire.
Momentous doom plans melt below
The ofttimes weary hands now show.
This room all splashed in ink's delight
Grows faded now in rhymes' hindsight.
One drip of passed time's waning urge
Now calls for floating hope; Submerge.
The mirrors and furniture are sheeted.
Love has eaten me up
like a fancy box of chocolates
now completely gone.
My phone is clean off the hook.
Voices carry emotion
and always the opinions, opinions, opinions.
Nobody can worm their way in now.
Hell is not going to break
its way through to me.
I sit utterly quiet with my hand placed
on my stomach.
This is how somebody will find me-
as calm as a glass vase
in the cupboard at midnight.
Waking everyday with a sheeted mind,
Eyes blurry and fused together,
The pressure on my face,
Like my body is telling me no.
The steam stays shimmering,
The cool air outside giving me relief,
Oh do I wish for that cool breeze,
To clear my mind, set me free.
Beautiful Mystery (English Sonnet)
I heard the roaring from amongst the trees
as sheeted water tumbled from up high
a place where nature lay in blissful peace
exhaling fragrant breaths that gratify
a soul that yearns for stimulative balm.
I looked in silence, daring not to move
at risk of losing empyreal calm.
Who could such wonder dare to disapprove!
Engrossed in rapture I became aware
of a nymph’s presence, by her dulcet voice.
She sang of freedom and of love to share,
but being human I had not a choice
to come into the open and declare
my heartfelt feelings to a maid so fair!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Beautiful Mystery Contest
Hosted by John Hamilton
Chosen p.o.t.d. 27 Sept 2018
© 25th September 2018
As an ambulance medic on call,
I’m paged to a school bus accident.
And I rush out to the location,
personal emotions set aside.
I found a scene of bloody carnage,
small bodies, terribly disfigured.
And I approached a badly burnt boy
screaming in agony, who was dying.
I knew that I couldn't save that boy
and though it hurt, I had to leave him.
For I was too busy with others,
to give him any more of my time.
Despite his torment, I left him there,
for those who had a chance, needed me.
And among the screams, I shut him out,
determined to save other young lives.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder
a police officer found my son.
And led me to a sheeted stretcher,
and the corpse of that burnt little boy.
My heart shattered, I wanted to die,
I hadn't even recognized him.
And his death will forever haunt me
for as he cried out, I walked away.
(Blank Verse)
July 1, 2018
Granny’s Garden
the garden is still there
with the worn path
that softly winds
through the flowers
and the shrubs.
the water no longer flows
in sheeted rainbows
from the broken fountain
but the old tree
that bears my childhood scars
still stands guard
behind the cement table
and the rotted wood seats
that once held
yellow buttercups
and white daisies
in tall glass vases.
the fence that once sagged
now falls across
the stone wall
that I defended
so long ago.
the wall has fallen
into gravestones
of those I hold close to me
in far distant lands
that only I can see.
AuRumn
Descended from the sky, so cool and silent...
AuRumn
Appeared gently with a rustling rain...
AuRumn
The morn she covered with a foggy blanket...
AuRumn
What` leaves are whispering – say, autumn, say...
AuRumn
Whirls everywhere, on foliage she`s sprinkling...
AuRumn
A ruby, emerald and amber drops...
AuRumn
The birds migrating she`s together bringing...
AuRumn
Send to the warmlands all the feathered flocks...
AuRumn
A fairytale is good, but always fleeting...
AuRumn
Rushed all the beauty like a magic dream...
AuRumn
A chill wind dropped a paints and now all this are...
Sheeted
Roofs and the ground with colored carpet-leaves...
AuRumn
A trees are naked now, thrown off their clothing...
AuRumn
Thin ice, the frost, and the first timid snow...
AuRumn
Sunrise is late, sunset is early coming..
AuRumn
Prewinter sunbeams are so far and cold...
Trump Constantly Thinks
Trump Constantly thinks he can be conceited,
Indicated in the things that he has tweeted;
Total disregard;
Making things hard;
Did complain after bed was double sheeted.
Jim Horn
Now lightly sweep the peppercorns in a harbour. No drama. But underground is not a gate nor a post for these are only really ever positioned on hallucinogenic coastal paths where time stands and the pattern ceaseless. Flowing. Great. It is often within hardship that the myth of the writhing cotton bud takes budgets to the ground with a swooping motion. Ejaculations from a sheeted field are never to be confused with a mouse's simple supper of cream crêpe. So skip then. Skip around. Jump up and taste that leaf. Before all is curdled in a gigantic jar of gold. Beast is best at breaststroke and in one solitary splash one can hammer on the web of woven time. Too much about fodder and not enough food. Happen upon a tree? Haha spinning an orbital melon around? Haha power position pointing plays ping pong. Xxxxx insecticidal Z z Z
Found It Hard To Believe
Backs of others Trump liked to stroke
Sold us down river when we went broke
Went down an avenue to play in a park
Supporters were eaten by a loan shark.
With himself hard time trying to grapple
Said people in Phiadelphia who ate scrapple
Were found drowned in a swimming pool
Which was all full of mush loose stool.
Local loser supporters gathered around
To hear New York accent an awful sound
King Kong was seen on Trump Tower
Wanted his picture taken by Matt Lauer.
(Also, we heard that Trump went bonkers;
Tower must be transferred to Younkers.)
Trump liked his food served localized
Fell on floor and server was severely criticized;
Trump as usual really had been bluffing;
Us with turkey crap he started stuffing.
We finally arrived at rear end of story
His blood and guts were in their glory
From superfluous sinful stories he told;
Were so many blamed them on Manifold.
How do you fold up a manifold sin
without being short sheeted? Good
question.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Proverbial Retired Veteran and Poet
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
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