I grew up in a rural, seaside spot.
Where winters were cold, and summers were hot.
Spent sunny days on the riverbank fishing all day.
Until the bailiff came and chased us away.
We’d play games on the beach and soak up the sun.
Until strangers arrived and ended our fun.
They took over the beach and shooed us away.
And told us to find somewhere else to play.
More and more strangers arrived every year.
The farms were all built on as jobs disappeared.
The strangers kept coming and were happy to pay.
When our landlords sold out, we could no longer stay.
The place is now heaving on hot summer days.
The remaining few busy on minimum wage.
Priced out of the village where we had all grown.
A winter a ghost town, we once called home.
Our magical haven of tranquillity
Is now full of holiday homes and Airbnb’s.
The farm hands and fishermen no longer belong.
The strangers now own it and the locals have gone.
never loved cat ways
their tail-flicking arrogance
their unasked-for gaze
my family longed for one —
I yielded, keeping distance
stray kitten arrived
they all fawned gushed over it
but the cat chose me
the least interested one
who shooed and shoved it away
smitten by kitten
my heart disinterested
lurched to beat retreat
we're inseparable now
the kitten has claimed my lap
anticipated Albany albatrosses
buried bumpy bugs beyond the bay
creepy curious cats dug them up
dinner for dogs they said in disgust
even the dogs turned up their snouts at the bugs
frenzied finicky felines are crazy they barked
giant crows arrived and devoured the gruesome bugs
helping themselves to six or eight at a time
I am glad these raptors showed up said the dogs
jealousy in no way entering their heads
kilt-wearing albatrosses happened along
lingering close to where their bug stash used to be
mad now, they marched menacing around the meadow
no need to be upset, the bugs escaped, lied the dogs
opportunity to be peacemakers always taken by pups
pacifists and problem solvers
quails and quackers put their six cents in
raising the ire of the miffed albatrosses
sixteen sparrows sauntered in to stir things up too
they had heard there was a show-down
ugly words were tweeted and chirped
verbs and vowels best not repeated here
wrens and warblers were shooed off by the fray
‘xact ‘xchange never ‘xamined or journaled
you are lucky you escaped this melee
zealous birds can become dangerously ugly.
Falling asleep is such sweet sorrow!
Alas, lullabies are so 'Yesterday''!
It started with counting sheep:
Knit one, Purl One,
Knit two Together,
Promenading One by One,
Fluffy Cute Wee little Lambs,
Jumping over a fence.
One, two, three, four........
zzzzzzzzzzz
But, the shepherds
shooed the flock back inside the shed.
Said it was midnight mayhem -
'duffing sheep to rustle sleep'!
So the Hypnos Somnus Gurus
required other ideas!
Up popped a new one from the Deck Chairs.
'Cognitive Shuffling of Random Letters'!
Wow that would switch
everyone off to sleep as is!
You start with a random word -
say "Pluto, or Pillow".
Then shuffle onto other "P" words -
say "Plane, Poodle, Play, Peaches"
If not asleep by then,
Move onto the "L"s or "Q"s
You get the idea!
Sleep Well, My Friend!
Heartsick that foolish thing
Thumping through my bones
Shooed away, an errant puppy
Still waiting for the stick throw
It has sat so long
Barely remembers what it misses now
Some flicker of imagination
A sense of who it was
Yet refusing to let go
Honouring it says
To let it go, lets it end
Drowning in defiance
Knuckles white to the stone
Yielding no blood
Comma, the crabby crow, was a curious bird
He collected aluminum, kind of absurd
Necklaces were swooped up in his beak
His cawing was louder than most bird speak
He was always moving, stomping around
When he was not flying, if he was on the ground
Frenzied and furious today, for he had lost a gem
A gorgeous moonstone necklace, given to him.
Some tried to help, but he shooed them away
He was not in the mood to be nice or play
But we want to help the other crows said.
A murder of crows singing over his head.
Have a Guiness and let’s toast St. Patrick
Whether laddie, lass or old codger geriatric
A bold gent with such clout
All Eire’s snakes he shooed out
Never has there been a saint so theatric!
Robert
I am an old codger geriatric
But I will raise a toast to ST. Patrick
For shooing those snakes
Away for our sakes
He definitely was Saint Fantastic
Beryl
Quote: “Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.” - Nadia Hashimi
Make-Shift tents for lives shifted
existence, I never dreamt
belittled with no future
I stare at rustling
blank white shelter
I I I I I I I I I I I I I
coming in search of
quiet sky, hurried from
noisy land, I can hear
even distant blowing winds of sea
Shooed away, I forgot dignity.Yet
I smile when cared by some,
I make urns that fill ashes,
art perfected by much
work, daily orders . I
think while working
how to tell my kids?
should I try to teach
alphabets, numbers,
rhymes? What for?
or should I make
them learn maps
to locate where
we are, or should
I tell that we are
news to all?
unknowingly,
I make sure, they learn to make urns
If they survive they need some skills
To live by, and never to meet one’s eyes
I would like to be a lady for a day the butterfly said.
Dressed in pinks and oranges, and perhaps a little red.
You cannot have it all, her godmother replied.
But I can make you yellow, and help you to glide.
So the butterfly turned into a lady on a warm Tuesday.
She glided into windows, but people shooed her away.
One tried to swat her with a flyswatter, and smacked her tail.
Turn me back into a butterfly, she yelped gliding off a rail.
There's wood for chopping stacked up near the door
to fuel warm fires in the kitchen stove
which Papa proudly bought when I was four,
long time before I left this house to rove.
A puppy lies contented on the rug.
He's bigger than the one I'd called my own,
that pet I'd named for what he was, my Pug,
who cheered me up when I was all alone.
Whenever Mama cleaned, she shooed us out,
and off we'd run down to the swimming hole.
Now Papa's dead and Mama's got the gout.
I rise to go outside and take a stroll.
I bid farewell to summers gone for good;
before I leave again . . . I'll chop that wood.
What is in that mouse hole snoring away?
The cat sneaked a peek and tiptoed that day
Grabbed his owner’s phone and took a photo too.
Of a snoring elf sleeping in a matchbook box of red and blue.
The elderly elf had a scraggly beard, he was not fresh at all.
He’s a teensy thing, the cat said “less than three inches tall.”
The mouse family had invited their guest, who had promised them the moon.
They shooed the cat and the other gawkers away using a sixties tune.
Felt faint, yearning, in front of the man's home,
I had not found a piece of bread this week,
All shunned poor me as I had Down's syndrome,
I searched high and low, I truly felt weak.
From open windows I smelt the food's reek,
A man came out, throwing his food away,
A cat came in to eat from a fish tray,
I tried to enter and to help myself,
The man saw, shooed me away as a stray
"That is all we need here, an ugly elf!"
Placed 1
Carmen has never tried to be pretty
Her six brothers warned her to stay plain.
But as she grew, she could not help herself.
Now they are scaring suiters away on a regular basis.
I got Jose, you get Pedro.
Done!
I shooed Thomas, you shoo Jesus.
You are asking me to shoo Jesus?
The clouds were quacking in the sea of sky
While the raindrops were fluttering to touch the earth.
The buttery soil was ready to get flooded
Amidst the shower of the sizzling season.
The earthly legs were swishing towards their households,
Vrooming their breaths against the wind;
The trees were banging against each other
With fears of unfortunate breakage.
The twinkling droplets of water were trembling veins and brains
Against the crashing ideas of disastrous dangers.
Finally, our Mother earth shooed away the flood
After zipping the thirst of her planet.
Contest name:Onomatopoeia
Conducted by:Emile Pinet
My feathers are misted and moistened from the sea spray
As I glide above the busy shore on Frenchman’s Bay
The sunrise displaying beautiful pinkish and purple hues
While the tide is out, no fish and the crustaceans are few
I soar above the boats all docked along the shore
While searching for a safe landing and food to score
Spotting tourists, seated while eating their breakfast food
I quickly land at their table, hoping they’re in a giving mood
Instead, I get shooed off with water thrown and screamed at
Flying off, I soon spot a trash bin with bacon pieces, crisp and fat
I dive into the barrel, feathers tucked, beak landing into the bacon
Delighted as I also feed on some toast crumbs and a cinnamon muffin
I feel the barrel moving, again I am screamed at and shooed away
I fly toward the sky, soaring high as my droppings splatter and splay
I soar above the surf, my feathers spread wide enjoying the sea spray
Spotting some crabs washed ashore, now dive- bombing for my lunch today
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
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