Short Foraged Poems

    Makeshift art 
      patches of cloth
    second-hand music
      on textbook drums

    Cuisine foraged
      from lawns untended
    literature culled 
      torn pages blended

    Creative genius
      knows no bounds
    objects of derision 
      make beautiful sounds
...

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Felt it from the initial line,
the joy of the writing process.
Poetry wins when it’s a mess,
old words crumble into fine wine.

Four stanzas and a form align,
every word foraged plays a part.
This is the birth of written art.
Potent smell of ink’s oxygen.
A poet discovers her pen,
an affair ripening slowly....

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   A dime in his pocket
     hope in his heart
   Just his clothes on his back
     but he’d make a new start

   Constricted at home
     he took to the road
   Foraged for food
     yet upright he strode

   Three days and two nights
     of this, all it took
   For him to come home ~
     let mom and dad off the hook
...

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Fourteen frenzied folk dancers telling fairy tales
Finding fifteen frisky folk singers, some with tails.
Friendly folklore frightening fools, freckles and more.
Forbidden folktales foraged by frisky faeries galore.
Fitting a folksy framework of fulfillment in field number four.
I am inspired to folk dance my way out there, my interest doth soar....

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Thirty thrifty thieves furtively foraged through their filthy things finding fifty thin forks
though the thieves find of fine thin frilly forks thriftily foraged failed to thrill








Thlipping Dithicult said the first
whos swolen tongue he nursed
The second thought it a trifle tricky
this can't be read as a quicky


Contest : Big Kid Tongue Twister Challenge...

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40000 years of aborigine dreaming
As a hot sun beat down in daytime beaming
A sacred place where women foraged and gave birth
It was a place for water in a life balancing girth

The local Nyoongar people lived their Dreamtime
In nature’s circle forever intwined
As you walk the pathways with the whistling wind
Feel the Rainbow Serpent turning time without end.

© Paul Warren Poetry...

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Grandeur of the sea, master craftsmen worked endlessly to make your elaborate mast. Finery 
foraged apon this ship for the ports to envy. The waters part for your beauty, sea creatures 
praise in adoration of your greatness. The winds dare not blow viciously against you, at the 
sight of your wonder. Easy passages all your travels granted. Smoothly ride into the horizon 
and stars guide thee....

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A dark veil
O'er eyes and ears
Have set phrases to stun.
Standards for me
Omnipotence for thee, 
Tripping over
grayed limping liberty,
Crumbling to a blurry pause.
Trekking through a
Field of freedoms trampled, 
Foraged souls 
Appear and wilt 
In the fiery smartphone snapped chat.

Hypnotized by systemic doping,
we await elusive belly tickles:
To resurrect us from our 
collective nod....

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She lay upon the sand, lowtide-cold, salted-dry, dissheveled.
Tomorrow would have been her twenty first birthday,
unadorned, except for the seaweed in her brassy blonde hair.
Tip-toeing across her blue-gray cheek, a pink crab foraged,
unhindered, it dined on the whites of her eyes.
Only the sea and sand cradled her now.






First Published in Of Sun and Sand 2013
part Of a hurricane Press...

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I went up river in a canoe.
I had no paddles. I was all thumbs.
I scuttled her in the foothills; 
the valley air chokes me.

I tried to drown but was too
resilient. I foraged for food.
I made water from jumble ice
in my seasoned stygian skillet.

I tried to sleep through it all
but became resistive to the valerian
root. I’m no Rip Van Winkle.
I’ve lived this way for 1,080 days. . .

I live this way still. . ....

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Stretching, aching metaphorical
life. You weren't s'posed to be horrible.
You were s'posed to be 'mazing
tipsy without hazing...

So what happened?

Speak to me, sage
for I'm dying for that bit of wisdom
that my ancestors foraged
to skirt around goin' to prison.

ah...

stormy clouds
concrete mounds
towers, showers
may as well be clowns

in my choosiness
I laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Written by Nancy Jones on the tenth of August, 2011...

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Once, I can't remember when,
A dog named K-9 came to mind
K-9 was a massive dog
And he was of a particular kind
He did not spend his time in play
He sniffed and foraged everyday
He was an undercover dog
And he was good
He found some interesting things
When hunting in nearby woods.
He had to pass his information on
To other K-9s
Of course, he should.
Not to every dog, mind you
Only a tiny few.
Just the particular kind
That K-9 knew....

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Greedy goats were invited to the Wednesday feast;
They foraged their dinners ahead of the sly wildebeest.
Quenching their thirst with quail juice alamode.
A gallimaufry of raindrops stirred within a commode.

I asked who invited these creatures, and of course it was Tom.
He did not realize they were all related to my husband’s mom.
I thought they were gone, I said as they came through the door.
My ex and his mother, what a mess, huh, Lenore?...

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