Skip Over Poems | Examples

Dirty Child's Dime

I know the blame and the shame,
like a dirty picked up dime
forgetting its once shiny place
and a instrument that paves
I'm now the fresh concrete,
you all walk over,
as teens scribble love graffiti,
and ripped of 4 leaf clovers
of innocents once believing....
Gets caught up in the cracks,
kids need to hop and skip over,
to avoid my dire of bad luck.

Make way for the catholic priests
Wolves ushering in all the children
don't slip in the rain on your back
as ignorance doesn't pick up the slack,
I hate the way you engraved our initials
Never ably with purple  petals.....

Track 9

Skip-skip-skip 
 like a cd
that stops playing once it hits
track number nine
current mindset is one of which 
I can't skip over. 
I'm reading my life through these
lyrics 
Humming to the melody of my own heart.
beating anxieties being featured in a listless motion
remixing into a sadness few summers have known

QUESTIONS of AN OASIS

An oasis? Is it imagination?
Maybe desert Frustration?
Here is it there is it fair to share 
This tiny bit of paradise in the
Heat hot blistering sun is this
Summer season or just very very
Hot? There is the stream I think
It seams as it might be a Raging
River. No. It is an oasis. Grand
I say nature commands  it! But
The desert the sand. Oh never
Mind. Come have a quench of
Thirst. Let your senses skip over
The desolate. Here is salvation.
Savor it. In the middle of a blazing
Waste land? Fall to your knees and
Experience this pleasure. Drink
Be thankful to BE! Have liquid of
Life! Yeah. There theeere you sea
You sea? It is LIFE saving! The
Savior a DREAM in the midst of
Hot heat waving reality? Nameful 
Wondrous pleasant present for
Desert wanderers. Aaaah taste of
DEATH no more! Just liveable life
In the breath of non existence!
Fresh! Yeees! Drink drink be greatful!
We are worthy! Are we NOT? IN
THIS PLACE TIME FORGOT?

Tale of a Skipping Stone

"My dear skipping stone," I gently asked.
"What tales lie within your flitting flight,
As you tippy-toe skip over the water so fast?"
What lessons can you tell us, Oh shiny one so bright?"

"Well firstly, it's in the shape of stone."
The skipper's learned response began.
"Choose a flat smooth one, from the wet river zone,
Where smooth stones have collected in the skidpan."

"The next trick is the way you grip the disk."
"Curl your index finger around it, lock it with your thumb."
"Then you're ready for the deft wrist flick,
which will ensure a skip, skip, skip outcome."

"Like everything, it takes practice to get it right."
"A smooth calm water surface helps a lot,
as waves can smite your stone with such delight."
"Gobbling stones is the wave's unfair, cheap shot"

"Life is like a skipping stone's pace."
"A clutch of fleeting moments, a flip of flings in the sun."
"Embrace each leap with joy and grace."
"For skipping time, like ripples, is all too soon done."

With that, the skipping stone grew still,
Its wisdom etched within my being.
The stone sank gently into the water with all its skill,
Revealed to everyone and given true meaning.

A Dead Letter Picks Up Its Stone Bed and Talks

Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.

Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.

The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.

Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.

History

gotta hurry, little time for chatter
not on-deck, always the current batter
pendulum swinging at a hastened pace
as if existence were a non-stop race

skip over letters go straight for the words
type of education most find absurd
continue to grind no matter how stressed
pushing onward, no need to stop and rest

haunted by thoughts, being chased by the past
knowing that nothing here ever long lasts
forever shifting gears without a clutch
as if evolution were in a rush

armed with statistics most find mind-numbing
crashing head-on into what's forthcoming

Wind, Go With Me

If I could go ...
Wind, go with me

If I could go ...
Running across the sky 
And find my way
I would go tonight
Running, running 

Against the wind
If I have to ...

Then leap onto it
And let it carry me
The rest of the way

It knows the way ...
It knows more
Than I ever will

Wind, go with me
Not against me

Help me to
Jump the clouds
And skip over stars
Trip over thunder
Fall with the rain
Let me slide
Down a rainbow
And land next to
Where I belong

If that is all
I needed to do
To find my way
I would go ...
Running across the sky 

If I could go ...
Wind, go with me

My Story

Some pages in my story
Are too painful for me to write
So I skip over certain chapters
And edit parts of my own life
I justify my actions
By pretending to forget
I can lie to a piece of paper
But I'm still burdened with regret
It's impossible to change things
No matter how hard I pray
Memories tied to emotions
Don't just go away
I can't forget how I felt
Both broken and complete
Hurting and healing
My puzzle deserves every piece
But the detachment I feel
From periods of my life
Makes my character hard to read
And true stories hard to write

I Do Not Critique I Praise

I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
I like almost every poem. I want to elevate and raise.
Reading poems is a hobby that makes me feel good.
I know I should critique. As if that I could!

I have barely been writing poetry myself, for just a couple of weeks.
I know when I got my feet wet, people gave me all kinds of tweaks.
People were ever so kind, no matter how silly my rants.
Critiquing a poet? I am afraid that this fits in with my can'ts.

I do not feel knowledgeable enough about poetry yet.
So I will have to stick with what I know, which is to praise every pet.
The poems I do not understand, the ones over my head so tall,
I simply skip over, and do not comment at all.

I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
It has served me quite well, all these poem-reading days.
Reading poems is terrific, it gives me ideas galore.
If you need critiques from me, you are barking at the wrong door.

23

23
See the plastic friends float down the river
Bits of flotsam and jetsam in the damn way
Of fresh flowing clear water polluting it
By their rancid presence what they do
You do not do the same to them
For you are pure and free of them
Except their shadow in your mind
It's fine for they make you stronger
Focusing your laser gun on their bodies
Watching the light skip over the water
Sizzling their remains when it catches
Bodies water you laser river life
It goes on and on the war battle event
This is the 23rd Century Police State

Happy Larks 3rd Poem

I am about to leave camp in the thunder
If lightning strikes me it will be a blunder
My quills are bent, the ink well is dry
This being my last poem, I know you won’t cry. 

No need to create a book jacket for my book
People wouldn’t take the time to look,
I’ll leave out the year it was printed
People would skip over pages and be contented. 

Although writing provided me with a rewarding fulfillment
My styles and skills were less than diligent,
I shed some light for you to see
Enjoy what you do and be happy like me.

  Thank you to those who read my books!  

         You learn how to overcome adversities
            Conquering goals, becoming steadfast
                  Enjoy the achievement to which you strived for

Bottle Capped Sunday

After dad's Sunday softball games, 
us kids would run the bases.
Then we'd skip over to the River Inn Tavern.
Players would gather in small sweaty clumps.  
Guzzling life 
Playing pool
Devouring cold cuts
Rehashing the scent of the game
The dirt on their uniforms,
the state of a blue collared art. 

I collected bottle caps in those days.
Had a secret agreement with "Chops." 
The coach and tavern owner.
Every time the cash register rang.
The richer him and I became.
Big George was the first basemen.
Power hitter and power drinker.
He was by far. the biggest contributor to my collection.

My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale. 
It was a pretty pale green.
Reminded me of a quiet mountain lake.
or the eyes of the little blonde a few houses down.

Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn Tavern.
Dads heart brimming with dirt and diamond.
My pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes.
Both of us stinking of beer and bargain cigarettes.  

That was a million Sundays ago,
Chops, Big George and my bottle cap collection are gone.
My father is on deck.
Don't know what became of the little blonde. 
Who lived a few houses down from my heart.

The Combustion of Clapping Custard Covers Carpets

A fragrant vagrant isn't a bad thing it is wise to fill a dolly bag with silver coins. Drooping dressing doopy doggy draperies draped. Cabal cable carnage. How not so idyllic. And a two ton carriage of bees could never really do the twisting dance at a disco. Such is the heavyweight marathon. Stomp swim. Stomp stamp. Wow. Naivety varies amongst tidally adjusted soldier fauna. And be very wary of verification in a smoking tent. Tuna bubbles in a sandstone kebab. The all knowing grape warbles a systematic song of carbon brushes. Oh how the cushion swings with delight. An opposite apothecary of courteous van's. Archaically archived histories are unjustified in tones but mutational racks of fleas can form fresh ground and a format is neither a rock or a deity so therefore skip over fifty nine petals with agility. Erotically placed erosion of a salad dish with slippery large leaf legs. Hahahaha. Dreamy dandelions dangling doves. Clapping custard covering carpets. Xxxx combustion xxxx hahah xxxx

If These Walls Could Talk

if these walls could talk would I feel embarrassment from the stories they could tell?
within me if these windows could truly see would they close their blinds for every time I was given a farewell?
if these floors could hold would I spend more time picking up tears from the corners where I hid?
I started to glance over every object in my room and begin to question "why" in the reasons we live.
every move made is priceless , there is no button to replay . I could never ask someone to put their feelings on pause.
observing how stones can skip over the face of a lake as nature whispers-
without reason ,how can you ever understand cause?
how can you understand what goes hand-in-hand if you never tried to hold on to something or someone you love?
nature said - give a man everything he needs and then wants and its still not enough.

Deeper Than the Surface

They locked me in a glass cage
Stare at me with their clipboards
Look at me like I am a freak show
Observe me like an animal
Treat me like a time bomb 
And cower away as if I am a monster 

I want this fate no longer 
They look at the blood stains on my hands rather than the tear stains on my face 
Look at the bruises on my arms 
Rather than the lacerations someone else inflicted on my heart

Shake your heads as if I am crazy
Instead of stopping to consider what I believe
The things they cant see because they don't want to see
Read about me wishing for death
And skip over the passages that speak of the sickness and the constant drilling in my head 

I am bleeding from the inside out 
Being cut down by the things I am forced to live without 
And the fact that no one cares what I am screaming about 
All of these people have buried me alive 
I am choking...no suffocating on their lies 
All I do is try 
I am the only one who bothers to provide 
They refuse to listen to my cries
Now I am finally dying on the outside

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