My Teenage Birthday Cake
When I was a teenager
a long time ago,
there was a dessert to which
I could not say no.
I can’t say the reason why
it had seemed so great,
for it’s not a cake that I’m
craving as of late.
Those times when my birthday came,
I begged Mom to make
-not chocolate or carrot -
but angel food cake!
Mother made it for me,
for it was my wish -
pink-frosted, served with ice cream,
it was just delish!
I don’t eat desserts these days,
but if offered one,
better than that angel food,
I’d want sticky bun!
April 30, 2018
For Jamie Pan's "Jamie's interesting Contest 3"
Multiple Element Topic:
2. a dessert, a memory, and someone in your family
Poem clarification: I am a farmer and this poem is about a racoon that was flipping the lids of my feed barrels. This is no easy feat to the point that i didn't even think it was possible that a racoon had the strength. This was a BIG racoon. It took almost two months to catch him. Never encountered such an adversary. I've caught red foxes easier, and they are they slyest of the woodland critters. Finally got him with a chicken head and a sticky bun!!!!!
The trip plate was baited with sweet deceit
Covering conformity to the bitter truth
Bit by a mouth with an adumbrated tooth
White lies are being strangled
And are turning an asphyxiating blue
My dying eyes are fixated on you
Salivating over prospects of tantalizing morsels
Both of us are blessed with a fine-tuned sensitivity
Feathered footsteps fall on the steepness of your declivity
No longer will I get to meddle in your affairs
The silent night does not listen as I cop a plea
To the trap door that has fallen shut behind me!
Please mister alligator don’t eat me
There must be something nicer
You could have for your tea
A great big slice of carrot cake
A sickly sticky bun
Just stay there while I reach for my gun
Now mister alligator please stand still
Don’t come any closer
Cos you know that I will
So go home to your family
And the rest of your gang
Smile mister alligator
Click click, BANG!
Each Sunday after luncheon
As long as it’s not cold
My parents have their little walk
Although they’re getting old
It’s their routine, they’ve done it
Ever since I was a lad
Each Sunday after luncheon
Just me and Mum and Dad
At three o’clock they like to stop
To have a cup of tea
A sticky bun for Dad and Mum
A sticky bun for me
We’ll sit down by the bandstand
To have our little snack
Then when they’re done, my Dad and Mum
Its time drive them back
I drop them off at four o’clock
And see them safely in
I say goodbye Mum starts to cry
“We will do this again?”
I tell them I will call them
And we’ll have a little talk
Then, next Sunday after luncheon
We’ll all go out for our walk
© John W Fenn 11-04-2009
Eyeballing you as a
sticky bun; pondering how
to reach out without
getting stuck.
"Perhaps it’s the flare of the
Season, or more primal
reasons, but I find
obsession in the chase, if you
don’t mind the pursuing."
Your lashes flutter in
exasperation, twin Venus
Flytraps stretching before
consuming,
those pinholes inside lick the
air around me, scanning
risk and prospect within such
veiled intent.
"Are your legs prepared for the
pumping, is your ardor
thumping to torch my
feverous mortal thrill, or shall
doubt guide your undoing?"
I load my quiver without
malice, aware splendor is
never afraid of
vast effort.
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