Butterfly, fly away.
little lost.
A lot of lost,
either way you spin it I'm spun.
Alarm bell ringing, nervous twitch persists.
Deliriously strange encounters in the mirrors, seeing thoughts obscured in furrows and crypts.
A terrible person with good intentions,
forever flawed intermixing such a hopeless hallelujah.
As a kid, wishing for the world, not realizing the weight it carried
hunchback
Replaying tracks, favorite songs begin to scare me.
To emit no evil is to live on time.
A sojourner journaling to his past and future sublime
existing by the miracle that is God.
Taking him out for a spin,
his blue body, shines;
his frame long,
his controlled cruise.
I’m enclosed
in this esteemed frame,
picking up sisters,
roaring the highway
to Dad’s.
Not my ride; my Honey’s.
Today, I take ‘im out for a spin,
straight and sure
on three, two, one…
That’s how many highways
I need to traverse, then
back again.
Dinner in the hotbox,
all the tools of the trade.
Sisters and Sirius XM.
Dad only
gets his three girls, today.
His son spent the night
last week. They cheered
with martinis. We will likely
cheer with manhattans,
with one jubilant cherry
dropped in.
Cheers, friends.
a gold feather plunged
from a summer solstice storm~
hope declaration
(Poetry Wheel Challenge: Personal Spin
Theme: Storm
Emotion: Hope
Color: Gold
Season: Solstice
Form: Haiku
Object: Feather
Verb: Plunge
Created using the PoetrySoup Poetry Wheel.)
oceans remember
the crimson spring -
with longing
Today I was asked to write a poem
about a lady who had spun some dog hair to make a scarf
When you read this unique story
I hope you'll get a jolly belly laugh
Not well washed this scarf that she was wearing
got wet gave off a doggy smell
It happened in the rain while she was walking down the street
All the local male dogs stopped !! In unison clapped their paws
Hooray! At last !!! We've found a bhitch on heat
Holy smoke she shrieked what am I gonna do
in desperation she began to run
Thirty grinning dogs behind her
were having so much fun
Now the moral of this story
just imagine this epic scene
If you're gonna spin with dog hair
make sure it's bloody clean
Since writing this poem my mind is quite agog
Can charge a man with buggery can buy a bastard file can cut my bloody finger
But I had to find a way around how to describe a female dog
(the bhitch she just delivered a litter of six pups. Surprise! surprise !. She was a victim of deletion)
Footnote this is a true story with a wee bit of poetic licence
WE WON NO WE WON
FOOL YOU BOTH HAVE LOST A TON
NO MATTER HOW SPUN
No
summer
small wonder
too much thunder
see the puddles grow
when winter came
it lashed rain
status
quo
Your boss told you what to believe.
He is tanking badly in the polls.
Still, your boss told you what to believe.
It contradicts all the evidence.
But you’ve let him paint all your images.
You’ve let him create all your facts.
Don’t Read This Poem.
Your boss’s surrogates tell you what to believe.
They are his lip service, his yes men.
Their words belie all the videos and images.
Their brains are hollow vessels hungry for truth.
You’ve let them manipulate your world.
Don’t Read This Poem.
Your boss and his spin doctors control you.
These ministers of propaganda need you to believe.
ICE killed American citizens in cold blood.
They spun this as killings of domestic terrorists.
It is best that you bury your head in the sand.
It is best that you never read this poem.
The worlds of our ancestors remain at war.
I saw this endless misery on an old globe,
where battles and front lines, though faint,
bled into blood-red delineations
where borders trafficked the endless dead.
I spread an historical map,
saw the suffering of much minuscule life,
wounded bodies charging or retreating,
body parts everywhere; a Lilliputian carnage,
yet loud enough to end any tune
in a songbird's throat
Old warriors returned again and again
as young men,
the mark of an early death
already seared across their foreheads,
their eyes flashing, reflecting
a world long buried
in mounds of bloody yesterdays,
and red stained tomorrows.
Then I overheard
(horror upon horror),
the yet unborn,
screaming
they were like
little birds
on fire.
It looks like a yo-yo
so it should spin round and round
going every which way
when I throw it down
it feels like a yo-yo
so it should whirl to beat the band
it's right here at my fingertips
but it's out of hand
I call him Duncan
and want to see him loop the loop
go round the world walk the dog
rock the baby and do the sleeper too
but he can push a person
past the point of no return
and what will I do then
when will I ever learn
why my yo-yo won't go yo
when I let it go
it drops to the bitter end of the string
but won't come back
or do anything
no it's a bust I just don't know
why my yo-yo won't go yo
Let's face it
as sure as tock follows tick
(be it ever-so quick)
then tick follows tock
when hands dial in circles
and wind around the clock
unless the spring is broken
the world will spin
no matter the weather
or shape it's in
at least in my lifetime
as for better or worse it survives
ad infinitum or until
eternity eventually arrives
Stan’s Chevy van was a seventy-two.
Wanted a red one, got stuck with blue.
Offered Sue a quick spin.
Sue refused to get in.
Now poor Stan has just one thing to do...
The worlds of our ancestors remain at war.
I saw this endless misery on an old globe,
where battles and front lines, though faint,
bled into blood-red delineations
where borders trafficked the endless dead.
I spread an historical map,
saw the suffering of much minuscule life,
wounded bodies charging or retreating,
body parts everywhere; a Lilliputian carnage,
yet loud enough to end any tune
in a songbird's throat
Old warriors returned again and again
as young men,
the mark of an early death
already seared across their foreheads,
their eyes flashing, reflecting
a world long buried
in mounds of bloody yesterdays,
and red stained tomorrows.
Then I overheard
(horror upon horror),
the yet unborn,
screaming
they were like
little birds
on fire.
There are different ways to interpret reality:
rose-coloured-glasses wins over the pessimist.
Why throw a dark shroud over day-to-day
there’s really nothing to gain ~
a smile always prevails over the frown.
Your outlook affects your mood
and your mood’s what measures your happiness.
Lightheartedness will always win in the end:
seeing the good side is an art,
it’s a skill that improves with practice.
It doesn’t take long to come naturally
once you start reaping the implicit benefits.
It’s a well kept secret
better than any magical spell ~
think good thoughts even if they’re fantasy.
Your heart is a garden requiring weeding ~
nurture the flowers and attract the sun.
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines, each line has 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
'England is a nation of shopkeepers'
was never said by Bonaparte
but it was those self-same tradesmen
who kicked Napoleon’s ****
and
when at Waterloo they met
as he won the day
to give it a positive spin
one may only say,
"Wellington put the boot in!"
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