Birthstones and horoscopes over a chi-square
Months with periscopes everywhere
Moon and Sun in shaded segments
Boon and pun in braided alignments
Spells and pleas yowling in the wilderness
Wells or seas swigging in emptiness
Thoughts wandering around
Droughts and dryness seething in a playground
Warmth or heat you nestled from scorching daylight
Cold air or dew drop sighed by moonlight
Wall clock that restricts your borrowed time
Or unseen counter that predicts your stolen dime
Each day that passes by
All day you ask without a bye
Each night that crawls in the dark
All your might you grope behind a scalded bark
Shadows that follow you
Wedge pillows you never had that haunt you
Tales in dreams that smother you
Puzzles in reams that harrow you...
Why bother when there's none to fear?
Fear only God who's able to hear
Your qualms will never leave you
Only until you believe they're never yours that weave you!
The teapot house takes our meadow to the brink.
It makes us feel delightful, increasing our pink.
She is colorfully whimsical, an imaginative drink.
We feel her compassion, as around her we slink.
Have you ever been inside? A faerie asks me.
I have a bad memory and cannot remember for free.
I am not sure, I admit. But here is my friend the bee.
He has been there many times, he knows the owner, Lee.
I have never been inside; my bee friend admits.
But I have heard others say sweetness it spits.
Ask the gnome on the hill who has all the tantrum fits.
But I don’t feel comfortable, so I run toward friendly kits.
Where is she going? One of the inquisitors doth ask.
I don’t know, but I am sure she has a laborious task.
I lie in the sun with the snugglies, and we all bask.
Swigging down Dr. Pepper in a teapot decorated flask.
Happy Hunting Ground
David J Walker
I wonder
If a campfire is
Burning bright
In the Yellowstone
Tonight
Two men
Buckskinned
Fur hats
Made of martin
Black powder in a keg from
The trading post
A sack of beans and
5 pounds of cured bacon
Sitting cross-legged
Across the blazing pit
Swigging whiskey
From a crock
Telling stories long into the night
If the tales are tall and told by
The light of a campfire
It might be
Father and Jim Bridger
After a day of hunting elk and buffalo
In two feet of snow in the
Shoshone forest
As he was leaving
Father told me tales of
The happy hunting ground
That’s where mountain men go
RITES OF PASSAGE
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name
[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]
***
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank
A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
***
11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Wild Bill Bailey loved his liquor
far too much for his own good-
Spent his days in smokey taverns
draining far more than he should.
Adeline had long suspected
as he rode off into town
that he'd rather wet his whistle
than get wed and settle down.
So she gave an ultimatum:
'Quit the booze or say goodbye
to my cherry lips and dumplings
chili beans and pumpkin pie'.
Bill no longer wastes his wages
swigging at the ol' saloon
Adeline cajoled her cowboy ;
rumour is they'll marry soon.
27.01.21
Cowboy Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Line Gauthier
The gulls are low, not skimming,
but surfing spray
just above
the rise and fall of crests.
Beaks scythe and catch
tracking troughs.
They seek the in-between fish
thrown
between tumbling parapets
of ocean.
Trawling gullets
scoop,
gulp the spew.
Swigging necks
do not glance back
but plow circles of light
upon the water,
then they dive upwards
into
the wings of the wind.
Chet lived creepily in the back of the tavern, hidden.
No one bothered him. He lived vicariously through the others.
The pretty barflies who flitted in chatting too loudly.
Flipping their hair. He had a salacious appetite, saw them all naked.
They sometimes waved to his corner when they were drunk.
He did not think they knew he was perpetually eyeballing them.
Unclothing them one piece of clothing at a time in his mind.
Uncovering their secrets was easy; they shared way too much.
His voyeuristic tendencies got him ostracized and secluded from family.
His mixoscopia and scoptolagnia confusing the prissy Baptists he knew.
He might go Catholic, he had heard they were more open. Nah!
Religion was not for him. His religion was this bar and those bar flies.
One of them was throwing her head back now, laughing loudly.
He would dream of her tonight. He smirked at the eroticism she brought him.
She turned and waved. If he was forty years younger, he would be over there.
But he knew better so he stayed put, swigging back his beer.
I was with a Brit friend the other day
Drinking beer and telling stories you might say
I was draining stubbies down as an Aussie will
Making this mate laugh thinking I was a real dill
Ya see in the mother country you drink out of a pint glass
And swigging the bottle was uncouth and made you a bit of an ass
But when an Aussie wants a drink and it doesn’t matter what
Looking for a glass to drink out of is silly when you’re hot
And another mate said to me one time
He only drunk when it was warm that was so fine
This was a cold day in the middle of July
He said there hadn’t been a cold day for 30 years gone by.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Sister Susie swigged seven Sangria's,
Seven Sangria's sister Susie swigged.
Swigging seven Sangria's was so stupid -
Susie’s severely sozzled her twin sister twigged!
1/17/20
CHRISTMAS PAST
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name
silly sequoia slumbering
meager mists mooing
callous clouds clustering
voluptuous vibes vying
tempted twigs twiddling
salient sleep swilling
spooky silver silhouette
pulling pulpy pests
contracting cautious crrsts
lousy clouds lurching
gaunt glottis grooving
gigantesque syllables dripping
mystic mountain moaning;
sleep's spell swigging.
19:12:05:08:17
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Twas the night before new year, and all through the inn,
They were drinking the whiskey and swigging the gin;
They raised up their glasses, as the countdown begun,
Said goodbye to the old year, with a mouthful of rum.
The drunks were all leaning, unable to stand,
Ten, nine, eight, seven, gives us a drink they demand,
Six, five, four, three, to the lips go the glasses,
They look round the room, gonna kiss them some lasses.
Two, one, they all shouted, the bells started ringing,
“Happy new year” the whole inn it was singing,
Up in the sky, the rockets were flying,
Everyone happy, some laughing, some crying.
This year, they all promise, will be better by far,
They say they’ll stop smoking, as they puff their cigar,
Visions all blurred, but the future is clear,
Hangovers pounding as they start the new year!
Flying on a broomstick, taking the Knight Bus
Arriving on the platform without any fuss
Visiting Warner Brothers for a fan was a must
In the magic and the mystery we all did trust
A Wow! As we entered the magnificent Grand hall
As soon as we saw it, we knew we'd have a ball
Dumbledore's Office, Boys Dormitory
Waiting to unfold in every wonderful story
Wands a waving, spells in the air abound
Excitement growing, a blast as we look around
Special effects, spectacular impressive artwork
Spellbound mesmerised with every little quirk
Swigging pints of butter beer sitting in the cafe
A trip along the cobble streets of Diagon Alley
On to Pivet Drive, letters are a floating
We hear the steam engine puffing and gloating
And finally we leave the trip admiring J.K. Rowling
Recommending to you all, as it lovingly leaves you glowing.
If I hadn’t died, I’d still
be bouncing along
in that Greyhound bus
through the mountains
swigging a Coke.
Don’t mind being dead but
dying almost killed me.
When the bus hit the boulder
I flew out the window
and was tossed in the air.
My head hit the rocks.
No one survived.
They found us later
covered with snow.
But it’s nice up here
on a cloud waiting
with the others now.
We wonder what’s next.
Moments ago an angel
landed and said Peter
would soon be here.
Donal Mahoney
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