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Robin Carretti Apr 2019
Your the one son being rebellious little darlings here comes
the sun drenching delicious but wait those cloudy days
watch out the hunters run ducking our heads like babies
wetting and water squirting beds getting too saucy
  ten O clock playpen the daring duck gourmet sauce
Orange you glad all her rich creme spread across
her penpals
Do you trust those gals too country slick on Newsweek

Getting paid he is the longest laid egg all grilled we are
not thrilled here is the "Chuckie Duckie" doll those *****
barbie collectors they are sitting duck Graphic Artist
Not one quack doll plastic surgeon duck lips she thinks
shes the hot stuff romantic "French" lips up the
"Eiffel Tower" splash splash she is out of cash
Those hot items presidential poll what a lost soul

Too much blue yes attention swan dancers Springtime
Not  the red attention yellow instead ****** please
I need a  journey not the "Attorney" such a ****** case
When you need them they always duck
When they have a new quack case they are ruining
my image
Duck tapesty Carol Kings youve got a friend

I'm feeling yellow homesick on your feather duck pillow
The same yellow tie a different atmosphere Go- Spa
She's flirting do you know where your going how is
life treating you he's giggling way too wild on her
goose chase
  Losing our grip down to her chicken bone hip
Duck season not much time for love being hunted

The Spa  la la ha have Merci' oh la la 'Disco Duck"
The wild ones the only ones quack- quack the
lonely ones
At the waterfront trip to "Chinatown" they let
them hang to dry but why Dad? They are better
like the delicacy shark finn soup we need a Spa
lucky green group Irish eyes are smiling stories
of ducks

I am  not buying do you see duck climb the
          "Eiffel Tower" yellow as a canary
All talk-talk is cheap lets talk French Mom walks
With her pretty duck handle umbrella we waddle
The penquin what a beauty swan feather pen
  But she's the"Prima Donna" look out!

The slingshot Marilyn Monroe wiggles out
                  The "Spa- Ma"
                 Don't  Scramble me darlings
                    Breakfast eggs cagefree
                     *          *          
My little chickadees organic brown on my gown
Spa duckies traveled the whole Atlantic town
The longest pond sleeping like "Rip Van Winkle"
twinkle twinkle
doublecrossed the street you get one dermerit
Sesame street Big bird how many words in duck
vocabulary quack- quack who get's the duck star

Mars from Men women go to the Spa like the bad
omen and they don't leave tap tap chop chop
I want it now!! Its now or never why does she always
get ugly duckling book delivered
Lazy goose she is the spoiled rotten egg how
do we love those  I apples
Carrots are for the eyes Mom always gets bird eyes

My little chickadees the Alaskan cute puppies
Big salute to the cutest duck feet "God Bless America"
  Visa  American Express Daffy Duck in Disney mess
the real picture "Mona Lisa" getting the duck
         Prime  chop minister
"Parliament Spa" prices so sinister
"Eat Duck and Pray" the  southern biscuits
more recruits

My cute rookies those duckier cookies another Spa day
So prim and proper teatime with "Queen deck"
  Alice in rabbit hole-Santa candycane poles cute chick
is homesick you better sent her money quick
The ducky bib the Chinese duck soup won ton
The feather fan she loves her Sushi roll Hollywood
Style California all duck drama
The best treatment duck made carpet

On the "Disney Hollywood" deck "Epcot"
On the futon what diction for a duck "My Fair lady"
Got the whole fortunes bed
The duck on the hill what a fool but the monk
Is the whole spiritual existence
The peacock's longest wait for lobster tails
centerpieces red bird Robin fly Robin Fly

Disco ball fancy tails she ended up up up to the sky
Her duck sunglasses a dozen ***** spin's the disco
The Duck Pop singer wants him back
High price or a short mack duck shooter attack
Food for thought homesick all saucy duck tie waiter
Cinderella rags to ducklings I went to "Woodstock"
Imagine me the teenager chick the duck split

Fill wing concert sky made a hit
The blues love is strange chick-lets are yellow
Like clock work what a duck work out orange          
        Duck handle umbrella               
 Duckies I pledge to you College Preppies
The chick feeder Ain't nothing but a hound dog
      Elvis heart breaker bird-brain feeder

  Moms duck sugar cookies
******* Jack one prize quack quack
 Huckleberry Finn paper boat old billy goat
  In the drowned mans eye holy ducks he delivered
I will blow you down duck horn the day you
were born
Having a third eye one duck Wendy 4 for a 4

Notre Dame church tragic but saved
   The  Easter yellow chicks

To Rome lend me your feathers no secret ears
Sticky Fingers she lost her writing finger in the
pond  OH! look whats beyond so kind
With her duckling apron dress he ducked
The chatty cat "City Dr Seuss"

Wearing duck boots those duck lips played her
like the fancy feast
The teachers pet the ducklings cute darlings
Spa cream she quite the flabber belly dancer
The ballet swan achiever "Spa One Day tripper"
The ugly duckling changed to beauty witch
Holy-land or duck pond Mickey's ears
                   Disneyland

Stand up daffy duck comedian Las Vegas
Godiva Peking duck soup flapping swishing
mess
The Big Ben red whose been sleeping in my
duck wing bed
The car stops he hiccups cute bebops
The guardian angel quack quack any luck
Yummy raspberry pie someone delivered

Christmas Scrooge all tears
New York lights camera I love my
        Serendipity chandeliers
Those duck tear drops last stop
Or you die__your still quacking
       Just in time said I
           Fly Robin Fly

     Saved my baby chick lovely
     Cradled her to love her
          Dr Seuss read
Its about all speculation dreaming need of a nature cool environment ;our eyes up get your cafe favorite cup my baby chicks  words will give flight and I hope you will feel just perfectly right with her duck lips  Quack Quack
He Said She Said Dec 2013
I laugh a lot.

I laugh at myself because I am hard stuck to find the beauty in the poetry
but somehow to others words flow like vicious currents rip through  ugly ducklings never to be grown to beautiful swans down the river Delta,
the Nile,
we call it emotion, this the true beauty of the words is always flowing page to mouth to mouth to ear,
honey water to be digested by the soul and mind
and some breast stroke some and some do the butterfly and some just ******' drown...
so you could say to some poetry is no laughing matter...
yet here I titter like a child  because I cant help but wonder if Daniel's saying penance or just stuttering the word *****...

So I laugh

I laugh and laugh and laugh I laugh at myself I definitely laugh at you people
I ha ha ha my course thoughts, outwards reflecting anger passion, turning it away
with the yip yawing of jaws and gums flapping in  celestial proportions of denial
snorts and giggles push back emotion drowning out any semblance of fear or hate
because who's to say I can handle it,

call it sociopathic tenancies but I'll make it make belief because we just cant handle the fairy tale we live in
we cant handle that there might be no happily ever afters and we cant handle that we dont have a Prince charming to take care of us
but instead the crown is Crown Royal and you love it, love the burn down your throat,
something to keep you alive something to keep you awake but aren’t the two just one of the same anyway?
What is each day but a dream if automation takes you over rides you out like a machine and pushes 100110101.

So I ask you,
I ask you to listen to the words and the voice,
swim down the river any way you want just get your feet wet because living on dry land is living in fear

But more importantly I ask me
I ask me to do what I asked you to do, but how can I trust me to do what I told you to do when I hardly connect the concept of we and have used it but once in my work, though I am no different than you!

Because what are we if not all the same?
another flippin' spoken word - god I'm so uncreative! - Him
Joe Wilson Mar 2014
Oh to wander down country lanes
Where ‘shank’s pony’ is the mode
By which one travels from end to end
Beating off the open road.

Willow-herb and cow parsley
Grow tall against the hedge
Where dandelions behave like kings
Growing wild among the sedge.

A toad pops out and then pops back
To long grass where he’s hidden
Where birds will sing a merry song
And ducklings scurry when bidden.

For these few hours you forget the world
And you feel at peace with yourself
But the lure back to your reality
Gets this dream returned to the shelf.

©JRW2014
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.

and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.
Nat Lipstadt May 2019
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
that my rages there die

it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been borne in this way

donkey in the barn who dreams of gold,  O wind upon his beloved's ears
where ruby thighs of folded flesh and blood of wars comes Spring

odd and beautiful flowers are sprung

braids of mud embrace the skin of those who bray on the knee of their masters
where rivers of blood the Buddha swims pink fizz and whirling bone
such tears sublime is leadgun simple clowned and winged socratic
godself poison mimicry of war's shred and burr let the hearts and minds fall droplet to ground
let the war dead drink their own rain
oval is the yawn of the sun and burly shadows weep sockets
where new flowers shall grow odd and beautiful pollen 
shall spring

children dream of trapeze birds laughing grinning rising falling at last into the ground 
how they learn that splendor and love is  ironic ascension 

odd and beautiful flowers 
thunderous rivers of blood the Bluebird sings the echoes
let the Bluebird sing of death no less than the crack of birth from egg
are sprung
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
     may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
     may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, there be pollen of eyes that hear
 
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
I am mighty upon the breast my true dreams press
but when she weeps at my inconsolable rages
an angel I wish would swim bursts into me naked 
here is a rain from my thoughts where she walks 
with her cello and my bow
Limber seas and mountain dew blood of many tenderly writhe
viscous streams the dove in heaven tells sadly in sleep bends down the  brow each new soldier child 

pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands trying to say goodbye 
let the wardead lift up their mouths their oval grins let them drink their own rain

the plaster dreams of dreary kings 
fall not round my hips and the whine of whips are far beyond the cello of lovely nights
her ******* and her thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon these fluffy newborn children we lay our heads like down upon the duck in the dusk
upon soft pillows Buddha madly drumming Jesus spinning rain
the ducklings race and the pond seeks no moon nor sun
where lovers' beloveds swim

oingo boingo holes in hands of Jesus and Buddha rivet the godsun of baby bird eyes 
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

for upon the last day that I live I shall see the true sky
upon the opened eye of the pastel lids of a new bird born dying

let me raise my veins and tendons 
from my fingers shall grasp the mother birds a math of upswoop 
let there be terrible storms of beauty let the donkey in barn who dreams of gold find love
a daisy sun and upon this I try forevermore to ascend when I kiss my beloved
there shall be terrible storms of beauty 

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
but there upon the mountain where a once fiery stormy river raged in dawns restless pounding
tumorous thoughts of old men whose young bodies give birth to themselves
abortion of souls by songs of flags' lie they shimmering
upon the upraised red streaked fingers of hybrid monster theories
vultures and the rats grow fat with existentialist jacking
brays ***** across their yellowed rivers  

their tears are hidden to them the way simple men come with axes
when the automatic weapons run dry melting
each rising atomic thing shall escape alone and search for its brethren
each hyena must dance naked in rain the last day
on a highway no child's cry can cease

let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands
trying to say goodbye and let them lift their mouths up and drink their rain
my love's ******* and thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon our fluffy newborn child we lay our heads down upon
soft pillows 

take the glowing wafting breads of autumn and winter shall lay down no more
let me drink from the socket of the tender pastel ****** of death
where the baby wren dreams long after it has fallen and risen again 

where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring in odd and beautiful flowers

meadows arise with great fury my flesh and mountains and valleys cease their separation
there are many daisies and bumble bee songs in the heart of each unborn child
each young girl touches when she watches the ponies and the daffodils sway

giant head of death ambitious reminiscence
a red mud land of untold photon castles that tremble in the night
where the owlet gathers its fat body like goblets of scotch in the night
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
where Buddha slides the eggplant curve and night falls, deep, into the ground
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring through odd and beautiful flowers

where oingo boingo turtle eyes beam from the holes of Jesus
lay me mighty at my own feet


and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew where Buddha slides the eggplant curve
night falls deep into the ground
oddly flowers beautiful


I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
 








.
Venusoul7 Jun 2014
Ripe Mourning, so Crisp and Crackling with Life Waking or Life preparing to sleep.

A shift change taking place at dawn, both sleepers and wakers will share a Yawn, for worlds of dream or worlds awake, it's like Consciousness balances itself in this way.

I see a Blue Herron standing on one leg near the pond, ducklings waddling in a line behind their Mom.

I see children running and playing on the jungle gym, how appropriately named. Training ground for the perils of the Jungle ahead, the Jungle of Life.

" Welcome to the Jungle"

Everything in Life is a Test
Every Choice Molds your Future Self
Prepare Yourself, Prepare Your Children, Train them on the Jungle Gym.

*"Welcome to the Jungle"
Mourning Free Flow, who knows?
Not Me...
Paul Butters Jul 2016
An Irish couple buy some fertilised duck eggs and they hatch.
But then they’re missing!
The cat is licking her lips.
Oh No!
They follow the cat to her snug in the barn.
She too has given birth.
Snuggled beneath the cat’s protective paws
Are suckling kittens and DUCKLINGS!

Had those dear ducklings hatched an hour earlier
Or later
They would have been cat food.
But around the birthing time Missus Cat was only a Mother,
Mothering anything that moved.

Mother Nature breeds such Motherly instincts.
A thing of Wonder.
A story that happens to be True.

Since then those ducks grew up
But still followed their “Mother”
Everywhere she went (within reason).
An unshakeable bond,
Lasting for ever.

Paul Butters
My friend Gail Littlefair reminded me of a wonderful story.....
Paul Roberts Jan 2011
Cherokee woman , distant smile,
Cherokee woman it's been awhile,
let the warm winds carry your voice to me,
hear the  rustle of your hand made beads,
smell the hint of jasmine in your hair,
soft soled foot steps, I can feel you there.
Cherokee woman, distant smile,
Cherokee woman it's been awhile.
Catfish sunning in the morning light,
splash of ducklings, signs of new life.
Feel the need to close the miles,
move a little closer to that Cherokee smile.
Snow is melting  and the rivers run,
days are longer with warming sun.
Cherokee woman, shake your beads for me,
let the wind carry your scent of jasmine.
Distant smile come closer then a dream.
Cherokee woman no longer needs to wait for me.
Paul Roberts; The Journey
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
Hello swans with your brown signets
On the near edges where the weeds blend
And the green meets the trusted stoney bed
You frighten a little with those huge wings
The strength to **** if fear struck an orange eye.

The ducks and drakes trailing fluffy ducklings
So linger daring the hands of bread and biscuits
A continuity of return until fat and bloated, stop.
Their tail feathers sharing a twitching line march
As they swim back to the safety of the reed beds.

Love Mary
Tori Jurdanus Oct 2012
Some nights, I dream about our perfect day.
Painting our fingernails, the sky our most cherished shade of grey, the change of seasons in the air,
And the closest thing to a bad omen anywhere near enough to reach us,
is you reading me your favorite poem.
I should have known then; angels don't paint their wings black for fun.

Despite it, I clung to you every day. Every hour. For every second,
you were my everything, and I was your something.
The reason I wrote and your desire to listen.
More than that, you were the cheerful post-it note I'd find in my locker, and I was the
healer who could spin stories of ugly ducklings into beautiful swans.
We needed no one but each other to lean on.

And every time your feathers fell I'd braid them back into your bones, I told you that your past made you strong enough to face these things on your own.
I didn't mean without me.
You never told me you could fly.
I don't know how I missed that,
But the second I realized, I wanted to teach you how to land.
Said, "Everyone has to come home again sometimes.
He will. I'm not ready for him to go."

But you were. While I was off fighting battles, you were writing Dear John letters on those post-it notes.
I've never been one to hate the change of seasons until now that I realised
migration is just something you can't avoid.
'I get that you have mistakes to make and risks to take.
But I'll bet those promises you broke still cross your mind.

I mean, hopefully. Maybe you think this is something I should just be over by now.
That I shouldn't want.
But, I want you to tell me you miss me. I want to say it back.
Hissing "I hate you" feels like they must be someone else's words in my mouth so I spit them at you.
I love you claws at the back of my throat, caged by clenched jaws when I see you.
And for every useless metaphor, a poet could think of,
I still can't find the right words to tell you I'm sorry,
"I'm sorry."
I still need to hear it from you.
"I'm sorry"
A cover up for our communication issues.
I'm sorry they chipped away at our friendship. But like the nail polish on your fingers,
I thought we could just paint over the problem.
But our hands were never steady enough for that.

I watch you wash it off. Pick a new colour. Maybe something that doesn't remind you of the fall.
You still want to be the simple boy with no problems, a bright smile, skirts and short hair.
But I know you better than that. No matter what you think, I still know you better than that.
You haven't changed.
You're just, gone.

So,
"Leave no black plume as a token of that lie they soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken.
Quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart."

Please, try to understand.
I can't speak to ravens anymore.
Referencing the crap outta Edgar and quoting Ms. Aasmundstad.
For a little birdy I once knew.
ConnectHook Mar 2016
Donald quacks. We better duck.
Tell the Cubans to mute that trumpet
While we, together, improve our luck
(or end up ruled by a Socialist Strumpet.)

The mallard was rebuked by Mitt;
adversaries began to bray.
The ducklings murmured: guy’s unfit
to be elected anyway
...
election 2016: did you ever feel cheated ?

for fun check here: http://sarah-sole.com/
There was an old lady of France,
Who taught little ducklings to dance;
When she said, 'Tick-a-Tack!'--
They only said, 'Quack!'
Which grieved that old lady of France.
Scarlet McCall Dec 2016
By the pond, where the egret sleeps,
where the hawk flies overhead,
and the weeping willow weeps,
I will find my lullaby, to lull me to sleep.

By the pond, where the ducklings go,
back and forth, to and fro,
following mother, grey fuzz, all in a row,
I will walk unhurried, slow.

By the pond, on the grassy banks,
I will hum a tune under a cloudless sky.
Pass by the blue heron, and silently give thanks,
and while away the hours, and watch the seabirds fly.

By the pond, where the white swans glide,
I will shade my eyes from the sun’s bright rays,
as otters frolic, swim and hide,
unmindful of time in these last days.
Are you that Stone-Edged as to penetrate
Which even Donkey's Ears refuse to sound?
And on that Bed, that White Sheet's Cry debate
Useless Tears as your Ring boasts your Account
Which of these Ways, Sir, must you Stark-Rebel
And addle yourself carelessly to Sin?
Your Canaan - burnt - to Red District's Level
Selling yourself in Circles for a Fin
Unthinkable, your Role upturned thereof
Though many Blinded Eyes considered Cool
All to solicit Pink Ducklings whereof
Plucking Wily Snails their Poison to Fool.
No-One has asked you for this Flipped Request
Save to drink this Tonic and do your Best.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Regan Troop Nov 2012
Seven on my neck, six on my chest, five on my hands, one on a thigh, and one on each knee.

Scar one; Our voices were cut mid-sentence when you swerved onto our side of the road.
Scar two; For the first time, Time was in slow-motion. You made it possible to count the silent seconds.
Scar three; Seven seconds in, my mum cried a religious code, "Oh my God!"
Scar four; You made me believe that's the last thing I'd hear before I'd leave.
Scar five; ... Will we survive?
Scar six; My heart kicks in gear, blood flows to areas that suspect a mother's worst fear.
Scar seven; We're far from Heaven.

Scar eight; August 29, 2007. You made me remember this date.
Scar nine; The words I manage from my ****** throat that night, "Is everyone alright?"
Scar ten; You showed me magic tricks were real. The bowl in my hands vanished with the help of the air bag, sending pieces to the back for another life to steal.
Scar eleven; Can you possibly imagine feeling, but not seeing your cold, stinging, cut throat singing? Singing red, just pouring your heart into it?
Scar twelve; You set two fires to feed. One in my heart and one on my knees.
Scar thirteen; My brother hadn't seen anything but smoke when he woke from his dreams.

Scar fourteen; I know you're a father, have you met mine? No, you were gone before you could tell him his family wasn't fine, and that you may have had a little too much wine.
Scar fifteen; Like a mother duck rushing her ducklings across the road, you put mine in full-mother-mode.
Scar sixteen; When the paramedics came, they mistaken the taco salad for my brain.
Scar seventeen; The way you leaned on our totalled car, smoking a cigarette, not a scratch on you, not a sign of regret.
Scar eighteen; After the hospital, you made it almost impossible for Nan to get me into her car.

Scar nineteen; My friends waited 'till late, crying, thinking I was dead, and my mother and brother, dead. Have you ever had someone mess with your head?

Scar twenty; July 23, 2012. I got my driver licence. And by now, they've probably given your's back to you. This isn't your first time, this isn't my first rhyme.
Scar twenty-one; Driving at night, every night, I still see your headlights right in front of me. My body is still braced so don't you think you left no trace.

Scars. I had more but they've healed. I have 21 scars that you meant because at that number, that's no 'accident'.
Judy Ponceby Jun 2011
An ogre set out to have a
     feast one day.
Dreaming of all the creatures
     he would slay.

He'd have bowls
     full of trolls.
And fairies buttered
     on rolls.

He'd eat hairy mountain
     goat coats
And fattened up ducklings
     full of their oats.

He'd chomp on legs
     of forest elves
And pickled gnomes feet
     from his shelves.

This fearsome young ogre
     planned quite well,
Except for a troublesome
     oyster shell.

It landed quite wrong
     deep in his gullet.
And never more was heard
     from Ogre Trullet.
yokomolotov Aug 2013
State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?
SG Holter May 2014
Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*

You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.

You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.

You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.

You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
-Just always keep writing; just
Write.

If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...

You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.
Olivia Kent Aug 2013
For this is a swan song.
A final curtain call.
Never seen a dead swan lain on the river bank.
Wondering where they go to die.
A sweet song for swans written.
An exercise in eloquence.
Bedecked in full white plumage.
In elegance she glides, as they glide, a family.
With their swan lake family.
Pen floats next to cob swan with cygnets dancing alongside.
Protected creatures cosseted, for Ma'am of the realm.
These ugly ducklings grew into quilted passions.
A passion of beautiful aggression is what we will receive.
Should we stupidly disturb?
These beauteous, arrogant tranquil birds.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Vicki Acquah Oct 2015
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.**.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/1102627316418650293630111932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb06­9b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
To my best friend
Paul Rousseau Sep 2016
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
r l Nov 2013
They say ugly ducklings
Grow up to be swans
Well, I've waited long enough

But I'm still an ugly duckling
Nothing special
Nothing magnificent
Not graceful
Or elegant
Or beautiful

I'm just an ugly duckling
Waiting for their white wings
Another draft
Nicole Lourette Jan 2011
Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.

No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s

pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the

street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not

E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch

the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the

old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-

mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance

in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.

He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a

Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.

Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In

the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How

ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one

be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at

Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.
Assignment #3 for my Writing Poetry class -
A syllabic poem that evokes the spirit of a particular location.

(1/6/9/8 syllabic meter)
betterdays May 2014
five ducks
have stopped traffic
well one duck,
four ducklings
and a
security guard,
with a lollipop sign
have stopped traffic
on the university avenue

and that's just fine...
happens regularly
I'm looking up
At the full moon
Feeling like a fool
Under the midnight noon,
Thinking about how
She changed me
And then she left,
Would my tears
Be like footsteps in the sand,
My pillow the shore
That absorbs my steps,
Realizing how even after
98% of my atoms have changed,
That 2% will always remain
The same because of her,
The imprint of memories
Like ducklings
But I was too soon set free
Into my too calm a pond,
And I tell myself
I should have run away
Whence I came upon her,
Like a black cat,
But what superstition
Could give a heads up
Before I lost my head
My heart and my soul,
I a headless horseman
Ambling through the night
Until the dreaded sunrise...

APAD13 - 139 © okpoet
JDK Apr 2015
My mom likes to feed the ducks and storks that frequent our lake.
We often refer to her as the "Bird Lady."
They congregate in our backyard, waiting to be fed.
She throws them cereal and dried up old bread.
She's given most of them names.
Whenever one becomes a mother,
she keeps track of the ducklings.
Most of them don't make it.
They fall prey to hawks and cranes.
I can always count on her for an unwarranted update.
"Juliet lost another baby today."
"I don't care."
If they lose them all,
she likes to call them Bad Mothers,
which I find ironic.

This morning, I saw three pelicans in our lake.
I guess there's a first time for everything.
They were white with black-tipped wings.
They were feeding with a sort of unexpected grace.
They'd dunk their heads then come back up with something in their long orange beaks.
The bottom of which would shake. All loose and leathery.
After they had their fill, they flew off in unison.
One after the other,
like one, two, three.
And afterwards I thought,
"**** swans."
Only in Florida.
I am one of the swans that I watch on the ice
and
being a swan is quite nice but
it's a bit of a ******* keeping my feathers fluffy and clean
and already the Winter,
I mean being a swan is quite nice
but it's a bit of a ******* when you slip on the ice and
you can't sit on your *** because your *** gets so numb.
Them ****** ugly ducklings don't make it any easier either.
Karijinbba Jul 2021
Like ugly ducklings to lovely
Swans transformed we are.
I remember thine breath of life blowing in labellum.
Stunt by your hunger for me
In shivers silence stuck
the dagger in heart
mine and thine, beloved.

In vain I sought you I
Roamed the open seas with cowards ****** greedy racist human predators
In sheep's clothings.
Two forces of good and evil hubbered above my cradle

To get here powers of evil
took everything and I lost everyone dear to me
even my honor just to reach thine forces of good
I'd surrender to you if worth anything to you take it all
for treasures in my hands

without fortress if your love
slides like water in hands
I find thee everywhere in famous art even in
crossroad lights
I found thee in sonnet 75
with William Shakespeare.

Thine grace showered me with wisdom and thine thirsting for me became my own longing for thee
decades now my beloved

I search no more for thine love tattooed all over my vessel peacefully rests
No one but us two can see it.

You reign butterfly in heart
few lovers have eyed me
yet quickly eluded me
  they too, like your butterfly,
Go in search of their own.

Yes only yours returned
Adorned with diamonds and rubbies calling me fiancee.

I painted two on my chest
To never be apart
I love thee the most
forever and ever.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All Rights Reserved
Sonnet, 75-95- present
True story an ET from another world designed two identical  rubbie and diamond butterflies
Just for me as an engay gement gift .Rdd/BbA

— The End —