"dinks" poems
Pugsley snugs
on ugly rugs
and smugly shrugs
at Beak
But Beaky's peaking
and tweakily tweaking
while squeakily speaking
to Pink
And Pinky thinks
they're rinky *****
with stinky sinks
and ***** winks
Then Twiggy giggles
and jiggly wiggles
her wiggly jiggles
at Mister Higgles
And Mister Hig-g-l
Wait a second
Who's Mister Higgles?
'Undercover CBPP,' says he
(Crazy Bad Poem Police)
'Okay, let's break it up!
Enough of this stupid poem
Let's go, let's break it up!
Stay off bad poems people,
this stuff'll rot your
brain!"
©2011 Lyn
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
They came without vision
None questioned their skills
They took a big lead
Then promply got killed
New England was battered
New England was bruised
Atlanta was lunching
And quickly got schooled
The halftime explicits
They blistered the walls
The bigger the lead
The harder they fall
Tom Brady's the gravy
In Belichick's cup
Coach built a big fire
And heated him up
There were some deep passes
Some ***** and some dunks
The hell of it is
It was done without Gronk
That tightend of legend
Who sat in the wings
While wiley Tom Brady
Conducted the thing
It's all big in Texas
Including that game
The hype, the excitement
For Atlanta, the shame
We heard them complaining
We saw them give in
With Julio to lead them
They still couldn't win
But, there is good news
If it wasn't from chocking
They stumble this fall
Then it must be bad coaching
In twenty-eighteen, we'll fire the staff
And bring in some retread
For minimum cash
He'll get the ball rolling
We'll win it, for sure
Or, ole Mr Ryan
We're showing the door
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
On the day the sun blinks,
I lift up my supplications,
Grateful, in many situations,
Wacthing, hopeful, as the sun *****
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
the strangeness that is realized when the words,
scattered and smattered, hardly useful enough to
com-paste/post a poem together, scrabbled letters
on a dining room table, ripe with possibilities,
ripe with the stink of inutility, for the
industrial-military complex of
mind-eye-tongue refuse to work together,
the letters, yes, scattered and smattered,
come on a regularly irregularly schedule,
not put together...
why should I write of this?
write of this of now?
my man-ifesto of inspirations loved and lost,
poems that arrive while I drive unable to record them,
for days now, a poem lay inert in my brain but just on the tip of
my rounded, tongue, the title knew me, knew it was mine to write,
but the man/poem coming together in mystical simultaneousness,
was nope, not conceivable,
thus be advised somewhere in my body decaying
lies a decaying poem.
the title is
**The ***** Dimples and Dents Upon My Body.**
Perhaps this is that poem; but I suspect not.
This one was written in five minutes in one sitting, a run-on,
run-though
out of control.
so easy to write when out of control!
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
The doctor gave me some pills,
Said these will help you sleep.
My eyes are getting heavy,
I think they are going to work.
My room is dark and quiet
I will finally get some peace.
The soothing sounds of music
Thunder and lighting fill the air.
The lighting of tracers,
The sound of dying men.
The thunder of the rockets,
I'm going back again.
Now I'm safe, I found a hole.
You guys are dead,
How did you get in here?
What do you mean, we're going for a walk?
I hate this time of year in the Delta,
There's red dust everywhere.
Wait, I think it's going to rain,
The red dust turns to red mud.
Frank, where are you going?
You've got the point again?
Step lightly brother, stay alert,
The ***** are all around.
Hey, Lt. let's take a break.
This radio weights a ton and hurts.
Yes Sir, I know, everyone has problems.
Yes, I'll be sure and tell the chaplin.
From the front, a M-16 on rock and roll.
I think Frank has found a problem.
Yes Sir, the radio is ready,
I think we are going to need some help.
Everyone spread out, find cover.
But watch out for traps where you go.
Radio guy, get over here, now>
**** I don't want to move.
He called the birds, help is on the way.
I see the tracers, going out and coming in.
Is it my imagination, is my radio the target?
My 16 is so hot, I grab one from the ground.
The captain calls our position,
Everyone drops and hugs the ground.
We can hear the jets coming
And hell is what they bring.
Something is not right,
I'm choking on the dust.
We are walking down a road
Me and the dead looking for a enemy.
I've learned to live with the
Loud ringing in my head.
But now it is drowning out the
Sounds of the bullets and guns.
The heat and fear, I'm soaking wet.
The sounds and smells cover me.
The mud is pulling me under.
My wife is shaking me awake.
The smell of ****** and burning bodies,
Gun power, burn pits, rice paddies, bugs.
You can leave the war behind,
But it follows you home.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC