ordinary average witch spells usually backfired on Winny Woo
She loaded her cauldron like other witches always do
But if anything can go wrong, it does for poor Winny
Then she’s out of ingredients, said her cousin Tinny
Tinny delights in Winny’s sorry escapades and mishaps
She is not a great relative, these mistakes she even graphs
The rest of the relatives love it when Winny messes up
gives them fodder to laugh about when they get together to sup
today Winny was trying to get a ghoul to come forth from her pot
Tinny will soon be delighted to tell us that a highland bull is what she got
Winny’s frustrations delight her mean cousin, Tinny, who is not so nice.
It gets better said Tinny; Winny got a highland bull twice!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The static hums like a hymn
between bursts of forgotten songs~
tinny trumpets, crackling crooners,
a needle skipping on a war.
Operator, oh Operator,
your fingers dance on dead frequencies,
sending Morse code to ghosts
who stopped replying in ’43.
Through the snowstorm of dead air,
a voice, thin as onion skin,
whispers the weather for tomorrow:
Clouds like ink.
under this southern sky we all should adore
for this land has never burned with any war.
our life has always been one that is free
free from dictatorship...free from tyranny.
under the southern cross we show our true pride
from the desert plains to beyond the great divide.
under the blazing sun we play, work, sweat and toil
say "she`ll be right" when life spins with great turmoil.
our way is to add O or IE to many shorten words
to outsiders it must sound off beat...so absurd.
our friends we call every bad word under the sun
no offence taken...they know it`s only a bit of fun.
" `ken oath, he`s a drongo" a true blue knows what that means
from Tassie to the Territory...and everywhere in between.
coooee cobber...fair dinkin` your such a galah
we shouted out from our beat up holden car.
whether at a BBQ or down by the sea
it's an ice cold tinny for you...and for me.
our flag is one flown on flag poles oh so high
one we should respect...show our one true pride.
so let's all come together and be as one
in this land...under...the southern sun.
............
*to all the Aussies have a bonza day on Jan 26...and have a coldie for me
#Im_being_led
Invisible chains on my body, shackling my abilities.They said "we are molding you, crafting you, to our own like".They "said I wasn't refined enough".
They straining and enforcsing their culture into my system, was them directing my paths, mind and physic. I'm led into the great unknown to me, blindfolded, fear crippling my fragility, ravished out of my comfort zone, being refined to enforce their ethics and noms, to salvage my life and those unknown to me.
This dark world of wickedness and evil, hissing my name, waiting in the pitch black darkness, busy loading and sharpening their sharp weapons.
My spirit uprightened, accompanied by spiritual warriors, pushing me upfront: "we are behind you", they said. Fear "nothing for we are fearless ourselves", dragging with weariness, my tinny body. Sensation of courage overwhelming my spirit, forth I pierce, through dark thick and thin,
I'm escorted, by those whose greatness surpasses space and time.
#Poetic_Ink
The cobalt mind of ancient mariner of the seven seas,
the surfing sailor tosses on the waves of youthful life,
rolls on the curled crests with the splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of the drowned stars,
spread pearls of joy on shore embroidering exuberance.
Crushed sands sculpt the trail of the seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of transient decay.
Time arrow points to the turquoise terrain ethereal,
away from the wistful wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm stratifies the collapsed hopes undying.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the shipwrecked splinters of life unlived.
Withering garden garners tinny bleakness, yet shining,
as the path paved outside the obscure familiarity fence
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the marvelous meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemic aptitude of the mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of the ruins.
Marigold blooms on scrap heap with steadfast sanguinity
in Midas touched shipwreck junkyard of the metallic mind.
They come by,
about once a month,
blasting out their
tinny cacophony of
Mariachi music, and their guttural roars
of “any old iron? any scrap metal?”.
These
are the scavengers
of quiet urban life,
they occupy a humble space
in our world, they do
it with pride and with joy.
They do us all a great service,
and yet,
they get no thanks in return.
Theirs is a job which
wakes us all from our mid-morning
slumber, and retreats
quietly from outside our homes,
unseen. Unnoticed.
Unappreciated.
I venture out
For the first time in a while
And am met by a sight:
A Saturday Street Preacher,
His altar an upturned crate,
Voice amplified by a tinny megaphone.
He reads not from the Good Book,
But shames those who are not like him.
He calls their lifestyle sinful,
Their existence a contradiction.
His congregation is
The cacophony of furious, raised voices
Arguing against his every word.
Is it a perversion of faith
To force teachings onto the unwilling?
To twist the words
For your own bigoted narrative?
Saturday Street Preacher,
You are more akin to a pariah
Than the bargain-bin Messiah
You think you are.
You cannot hide your true feelings
In the pages of sacred scripture
And claim them to be gospel.
Saturday Street Preacher,
He dresses for his sermons in
Jeans and a t-shirt,
Bible brandished as a weapon
And that weakened upturned crate
Beneath his weary feet.
He performs his midday mass
To the masses who
Scream their retaliation in return.
His Sermon on the Mount
Is muffled shouting
In a busy city centre.
The last time that I saw you we were sat
Beside the fountain in the Market Place
You always had an easy kind of grace
A cheeky twinkle in your eye, the chat
You always had a mission on, and that
Is what was different that day. The chase
Was off. It was an odd look on your face
A note within your voice that sounded flat
As if you knew. Come sit with me, you said
And so we did, you with your tinny, me
With black no sugar. Now that you are dead
I look back at us sitting there, and see
Within the book I thought that I had read
The book that was too beautiful to be
A portrait in a parlor
A fancy dame or two
A dog named Ruffles singing
In front of you-know-who
A rinny-tin piano
Plunks out a tinny tune
And this ole western cowboy
Is heading home for June
But June has got her dander up
And will not hear of me
Singing in her kitchen
For all the world to hear
Oh, the sunny side of life
Has got charisma – yes!
And when its got a smile
That’s when I'm at my best!
So have a drink or two
And hum a ditty tune –
I’m heading back to town
And far away from June!
Drum Bowl
Loved to sing,
Can't carry a tune.
Tried a recorder,
Not my order!
Found that strings,
Were not my thing.
Bing!
Bang!
Bong!
Pounding out a rhythm,
Oh, what bliss!
Bing!
Bang!
Bong!
The drums must carry on!
Pots and pans,
Have all been tried out!
The best thing yet,
A round metal dog bowl,
All shinny and bright.
Lightly tapped,
Gives a tinny sound,
Echoing back.
The dogs look at me,
"What's that"?
Our food or water?
What's on order?
Tapping away with all my heart.
Bing!
Bang!
Bong!
Even the birds sing along.
The only problem I find with you
as other people apart from not only
just me
Which has been brought up and mentioned
once or twice before
Is that you seldom seem to able to know
where to draw the line
Because you seem to do it for kick's and
revel in the thrill of it
And when you sense the taste of blood
You go in for the kill and tear your
prey apart into tinny fragment pieces
And it always culminates when you are done
with you licking your lips for fun and
garnering as much pleasure from the
final outcome as you can get
And you never seem to regret or wish to seek
forgiveness for however much harm or
damage you cause
And It simply doesn't bother you in the slightest
the fact that all they did was get in your
way or firing line when you were having a bad
or off days
And asking you stop take into account
or consider other people's feelings
Would be just like waving a red cloth in
front of a bill and not expecting subsequent
wrath to follow
The mouse ran through the house through a hole in the wall
while the cat lay sleeping down the hall.
cheese his favorite he could not find,
sculling along squeaking while wiggling his behind.
A cat, a cat he sees chasing him down the hall,
Laughter and an uproar with echos off the wall.
This little mouse still running through the house,
As the cat meowed with his speed like lightning
The mouse ran up the chain of a cuckoo clock,
His tinny paw stuck in the middle hanging in pain.
The cat below meowed, I have got you now,
then clock struck 12 moving the chain.
The tiny mouse was taken to the top,
untangling his paw from the cuckoo clock.
He sat atop with two teeth smiling then said,
today you are a cat,
Without a mouse atop this cuckoo clock
What's with such
Big Boot's
With such
Tiny Feet
Is it maybe perhaps because
Right deep down to your inner soul
You feel incomplete
And the reason why
You love to stick the boot in
Whenever and at every chance
you possibly can
Because it makes you somehow
feel far less tinny and big instead
So very sad the thing's that people
have to do
Rather than just making Doo with
and making the best with what they
we're given in the 1st place
Men fly The War-Plane of Mutiny
By querying their Destiny
And fly The Very Flag of Mutiny
When Destiny they mock with scrutiny
Vowing to no more drink Martini
Nor in other coolers harbor any tinny
Just like Britain can’t erase her felony
When Nigeria was her colony
One can’t A World of Monotony
Through ceaseless appearance in a ceremony!
Into it I read a mutiny
And a rebellion against Destiny
A Can-Never-Stop Glutton
Checking quarrels with his shirt button
Or a Decreed life of Celibacy
Fighting this with Ecstasy
Or even with The Slowest Immediacy …
Against Foreordained Destiny
We unwisely mutiny
With our Wise Scrutiny.
All music, however beautiful,
Must needs come to an end,
Leaving a thread of music etched
Into the inner reaches of the mind,
Often recalled without warning
At unexpected moments.
The acrid smoke of leaves burning
On a brisk October evening
Stabs the consciousness
With a breathless moment -
A kiss on another October night,
When love was young and new
A wreath of pipe smoke nearby,
And my father’s face appears,
Young, as he was in my youth,
Arms open to welcome me home,
As real to me now as then.
A child on roller skates passes -
I see myself clamping on tinny
Skates with a key and joining
My friends in a mad dash,
A race to the corner store.
A lighted theatre marquee –
An eight-year old, I’m at
My first movie at night with
A favorite aunt and uncle -
Tom Sawyer - it’s scary,
And I feel very grown up.
The music of my life plays on
As I grow into old age,
More often than not, it brings
Back only the magical moments,
While other, sadder memories
Fade and slip away in the distance
Sub Categories
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.