He plops on a lily pad
like it’s a cushy spa chair,
wiggling his knobby green toes
and announcing to no one,
“Must be time for a mani/pedi.”
He uncaps the polish,
a shade called Pink Swampy Chic~
and paints each stubby digit
with the concentration of a surgeon
and the vanity of a bullfrog
who knows he’s a looker
if only in his own mind.
By the time he’s done,
the pond is shimmering
with reflections of ten tiny fuschia toes
and a frog who believes
beauty is mostly attitude
and a steady hand.
Born a runt,
milk-chocolate and bright-eyed,
Fritz von Etgen arrived
with a broken tail
he wagged proudly
before offering his doxie advice.
Outside,
he channeled Dox Quixote,
chasing invisible squirrels
with full-tilt conviction—
a blur of stubby legs
and unstoppable joy.
Inside,
he tap-danced across
Mother’s linoleum floor,
tiny toenails clicking
like a Fred Astaire routine
he never quite mastered.
Half-a-dog high,
a dog-and-a-half long,
he’d race the hallway
and slide out of control—
back end leading the charge
as if it had somewhere urgent to be.
From this small,
big-hearted comet of a dog,
I learned exuberance,
optimism in ache,
and the quiet truth
of love offered without condition.
Fritz taught me
what loyalty looks like
when it has tiny feet
and a tail that never forgot
how to celebrate the world.
(5-21-26 For "Snapshots of a Night Scene" Contest Sponsor - Nette Onclaud)
Dusk slowly approaches, as their energy finally begins to wane. Half flat soccer balls
speedily sent down a grassless, asphalt field by crooked, knobby sticks.
Stubby chunks of chalk - pink, yellow, blue, white. Hopscotch squares already fading
Frayed jump ropes swinging up, around, and down,
their satisfying soft smacks on the ground, keeping rhythm.
Delighted squeals of joy, laughter, calling out of names to friends, classmates, neighbors, siblings...
Somehow, this view left me remembering
my days of young, pondering the timeless satisfactions and yearnings of youth.
Gentle raindrops begin to splat red and orange leaves, partially painted the weed-lined pavement
Small shadows scatter and go wherever it is they go when the night sets in.
.
and hern purty
began bombastically
blow'n
with hern
thick mitt's digits
and lips
her
she controlled mine
she stare'd at me with
hern eyne
glister'n
whilst mine excite'd
squirm'd in mine
cushy seat
symphony
enjoy'n each her flute's
toots
')
A large mass of pelicans
grace the waters
of fort loramie lake
in mid-march
a sign of springs coming
large orange beaks hang
off small white
stubby necks
as they parade across
calm waters
gliding graciously
in unison
.
thick
torso tuh
hip's limb'z walk's
excitable
digits
first
hern eyne
thence
hern digits
fromg
"1
2
3"
'to
hern point
"u
and
I"
hern chasez mine
with hern
up on all 10
stubby
purty
dactylez
yesss
i look'd back
yup
((hack
hack))
ballerina cute
okay
i ran
tap
Let’s parley about pasta as World famous as the rasta Bob Marley
With potato rascal parcel not American Italian stallion like Rocky
Cocky stubby not ice hockey puck but stocky chubby soft gnocchi
Pizza is also a master blaster for those who chose good food faster
Cool old school cellar creamy mozzarella dreamy stellar mortadella
Better also for pancetta regatta bold umami tsunami of salami army
Drunken rapscallions parmesan medallions gold from sunken galleons
More is less finesse caress expedient ingredient largess will impress
Motto in gourmet grotto wins the lotto is of course Goddess risotto
Totemic signature vinegar star Balsamic the talismanic tsar in a jar
By the way we're told they say come what may ever day "agrodolce"
A black armored predator
plodding (as beetles do
when not chewing upon other insects)
around the lip of a bowl,
clapping together stubby wings,
razor sharp mandibles
swatting at the aromatic steam.
Beetles are tanks
they are built to withstand
all in-coming,
Birds don’t eat them,
they taste like baby goo
dipped in crispy aspic.
How small
can a natural born killer get?
The beetle tentatively,
marches around the edge of a bowl
as if hunting its own trail.
Will it find enough of itself
to make a decent beetle meal?
These and other questions of girth,
capacity and predatory prowess
must wait,
for it has fallen
into the tomato soup.
This particular beetle
cannot swim,
perhaps its mini motor was out of gas
or its tank too heavy to float?
I put the soup aside,
not that hungry anymore.
Little fingers, big fingers
Red fingers, blue fingers
One finger, 10 fingers
Long fingers, stubby fingers
Pointer finger, middle finger
Ring finger, wiggle finger
Leather fingers, soft fingers
Cold fingers, warm fingers
Stinky finger, slimy fingers
Fingers manicured with pretty painted fingernails
Fingers that can hold a pencil or a pen pal
Fingers that can tap on laptops or typewriters
Fingers that can tap tap tap on tabletops
While I transcribe or press “RECORD”
Poetry will always be the Midas touch to me
Bringing forth the Golden Age of Man
The Poet’s need to free the soul
Is as old as the knowledge of fire
Sometimes the Poet bleeds
With words beyond the funeral pyre
Never underestimate the Poet’s power
To create changes that are magically mystically miraculously
Spun into a reality that only poetry
Can inspire.
.
stubby digits
mitts tuh foots
thump'kin visage
nimble
pooch
tuh
monz' taut tensile
thick
rock'n
cauze'n breathe'z inhale'z
mine
loss
Alright still gobsmacked how we were
Attacked..hacked..hijacked...whacked
Ransacked cracked shellacked poleaxed
By his relaxed Rat packed knack maxed
So here's a witty ditty ode to Travis
No ifs or buts can't tut tut... annul it or cull it
Straight out of the hut a classy brassy strut
Gung ho have a go heave ho maestro Mullet
Slaying & flaying.. no rut just a glorious glut
Left a stark dark smut.. every bowler's a mutt
Like some flirty dirty sl*t playing with the nut
Hard not to swoon at the boon of the loon
Croon at Travis's off his Head buffoon tune
Stubby not chubby tad tubby like David Boon
Us staunch fans of the promising paunch gasping
Can't snub or sub.. like a lad down the pub or club
Another out of whack attack does launch rasping
Rogue's Bogan brogue.. flashes his blade like Shogun
Wizard of Oz as loved as X men's Logan or Paul Hogan
Dashes and lashes.."Taches win Ashes" the Travis slogan
I heard of a woman whose hubby
was somewhat squat, rotund, and chubby.
The might of his thrust
was rightfully just
overcoming the short and stubby.
Angry voices from the kitchen
Trading bitter accusations,
The sound of a palm hitting face,
Endless hateful exclamations.
I held you tight against my chest,
You felt the pain I tried to hide,
My tears that soaked your small brown head
Have left some stains that now have dried.
When there was none to cling on to,
I held on to your stubby hands,
As I--to drown the guilt and shame--
I drifted off to distant lands.
Somehow though I was young and frail,
Afraid, alone, and not so wise
I found some comfort and some strength
When I looked in your button eyes.
In that dark corner long ago
When sun, moon, stars all lost their shine
It was so cold but you gave warmth,
Your knitted body pressed with mine.
Among 2nd Place More Than A Soft Toy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
He whirred around for quite some time
hounding his stubby runt tail
copious spittle, a flying trail
coating the walls with sticky slime;
before stopping, panting a spell
then restarting counterclockwise
as if it would less tantalize;
the tail continued to rebel.
The cat looked on in feline scorn
I, in turn, observed both dog and cat,
who was having fun; me, the cat,
or dog pursuing a chase forlorn?
‘You’ve had one too many’
Declared old Paddy’s wife
She always spoiled his evenings
With her ‘trouble’ and her ‘strife’
‘I’m absolutely sober’
He replied with much aplomb
‘I’ve only had a couple
And I’m drinking beer, not rum’
‘I don’t care what you’re drinking,
You don’t know when to stop
I rue the day I married you
You useless, boozy sop’
‘Oh, hold your blather, Missus
Give that whinging voice a rest
The day you married me
I’ll have you know you got the best’
‘Got the best? Well I’ll be buggered
You really are a pain
I wish that you’d get off yer ass
And fix that broken windowpane’
Now at this Paddy got real pissed
And sat up in his chair
‘Don’t you talk to me of work!’
He said with wild-eyed glare
‘I’ve worked myself to death for you
But you only whinge and moan
I swear I’ll clobber you real good
If you keep on with that tone’
But she was unrepentant
And continued with her rant
On and on she chided him
With never ending cant
The last was one too many
For this much maligned hubby
So he lurched across the kitchen
And he hit her with his stubby!
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