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There once was a crazy squirrel named Charlie
Whose furry paws were unusually teensy-weensy
With his chainsaw well-greased and quite small
(Can you believe it? It was just two inches tall!)
With it, he secretly carved pumpkins with great savvy.
His masterpiece? An orange, gourd-grinning fright!
With bat-wings, witches, and such for Halloween night.
The owl, most perplexed, said "That pumpkin’s absurd!"
Charlie snarled, "I’m an artist. Haven't you heard?”
Creativity and power tools make my jack-o'-lanterns outta sight!”
He was lilliputian size
Which works for some women
Never for a man
He is rather diminutive, his blind dates are warned
Teensy-weensy would have been more accurate
His arms are the width of yard sticks
He never found love
Because he never met a faerie
Dorothy was a major character
throughout this refreshing novel.
The next in the series sees
Dorothy as a chapter.
Is Dorothy there within
the succeeding book? Yes, there she is.
She’s a chapter’s section, and often called Dot.
So beautiful is Dorothy, so delightful is Dot.
Where is Dot? Ah, there in the next.
A teensy-weensy presence:
a paragraph - but she is there.
Dot is definitely there.
In the next book
Dorothy has been dropped:
Not even a Dot.
Dorothy is now a full stop.
(09 Nov 2024)
If there is the slightest glimmer of a flutter of a tiny bit of a taste of hope
I can keep on trying, keep on living, keep on loving.
If there is an itsy bitsy teensy weensy sliver of a dash of hope
I can change my thinking, give myself a fresh start, begin again.
If there is a glimpse of a blip of a bleep of a dot of hope
We can fix the world, love each other, be creative and live our truth.
All we need is a teensy bitsy glitter of a glimmer of a glimpse.
It is enough.
hehehe
hehehe
hehehe
you forget us
we never forget you
u neglected your health
never clean after being dirty
it will be fine you thought
will you be fine?
you followed your gluttony
eating atrociously
Unknown kinds of animals, you ate
it will be fine, you thought
yes you did
here we are
Years after years
we claimed thousands of you
with different names
death plague, Ebola, Spanish flu and cholera
are just some of our names
we might be different
yet we will always
be there for you
when you least expected
Such death tolls
from epidemics to pandemics
caused by such
teensy weensy microbes
no, nano microbes
you cannot see us,
does not mean we are not there
Hehehe
be wary, be wary
we are watching you always
hehehe
hehehe
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itsy bitsy
teensy weensy
itty bitty spider
] ] ] ] [ [ [ [
AP: 2nd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2021
There is a tiny itsy bitsy teensy weensy bit of vomit in her hair.
She is a prim lady, prideful, and can be slightly mean about stuff.
This is church, and I do not want to embarrass her,
For then she might throw one of her fits and embarrass the whole pew.
Do I tell her? Do I dare? I am a mere child. What would people think?
How would I say it?
Excuse me, Miss Peaworthy, but you have puke in your hair?
Did someone regurgitate on you?
I am five.
I don’t even know that word yet.
I stare at her hair throughout service.
Laughing a little bit.
My mother tries to shush me with the look.
It does not work. She puts her hand over my giggling mouth.
Christians being fed to lions is apparently not funny.
The minister stares at me. I wink. He loses his place.
Church. My favorite place.
No telling what is coming around the corner.
A teensy weensy lady beetle
A bitty, pint sized bug
Seduced by the tune of an old man’s fiddle
Had went inside and gotten stuck
Her little, feeble, fragile limbs
Supported her spotted frame
Until she found a place to swim
And was sucked down by the drain
A grieving clan of crickets and frogs
Chimed in for a farewell chorus
A saddened toad for every log
Deer in mourning, lined the forest
The biggest, blue-green butterfly
Placed flowers on the front porch steps
For miles and miles, the wolves did cry
A howl for every breath
The following morning was quite a sight
As everyone had overslept
Due to the single saddest night
When the whole wide world had wept
The sun has gone for his holidays
We don’t know when he’ll be back.
He gone to Australia for a rest
But we can’t wait for him to come back.
We miss him when he is away
He never sends a postcard.
I suppose he might find writing it
A teensy weensy bit hard.
He is baking the Australians
And the Indians too.
I know that cos I just spoke to one
He was very polite to me too.
He told me it is 35 degrees
And he is getting a bit hot
I told him to send it back to us
Because we definitely are not.
He laughed as he gave me the codes
To fix my remote control
He wished me all I wished myself
I thanked him, and said that was my goal.
Now as we get nearer to the solstice
The sun I have to tell
You will be making your way back soon
And on that I am going to dwell.
It makes me happy to know,
You will have to start your return
I can’t wait for the solstice on the 22nd to pass
For this I am longing and I yearn.
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
well...
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
randomly
inserted
carriage returns...
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
this poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
was just diggin' through the archives and this one made me giggle and reminded me that I've places to go and people to see and mustn't procrastinate longer because the LAST MINUTE approacheth
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
well...
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
randomly
inserted
carriage returns...
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
this poem.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.