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Hilda May 2013
Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet
Only needing food and tranquil retreat.
They try to be good and do what is right
But get into mischief from morn till night.

So hard not to adore each furry face
Though pranks may lead to many a disgrace
Fiddling and tearing the household blinds
Until sighing we think we'll lose our minds.

Hearts so overflowing with deepest love,
Sent from God the Father of Lights above.
Sadly few folks to such a good home give.
How can each darling continue to live?

And even though they may growl and grumble,
When time to eat tiny motors rumble.
Furry paws swat many a ragged mouse.
Without them would be a desolate house!

Families adopt babies, fortunes pay,
Yet for these wuss pusses refuse to sway.
More forgiving than us despite sharp claws,
Surpassing mankind's sins and blatant flaws.

Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet!
What have they done to deserve such defeat?









.
Dedicated to all furry felines everywhere with love and prayers! © Hilda May 7, 2013.
Paul Butters May 2015
(The symbol * = see word list)

Hi* Reader!
A monna, a fem* both build their family here,
In lands where waqua* flows
And noush* is grown.
They shelter, cosy, nestled in their housdom,
Or dommus

If yu
prefer,
With kids arunning wild,
Alongside dogologs* and pusses.
It cost a lot of brass
to buy
That house
But yes
It really was so worth it.

On weekends dad gets out the vroom
And takes them for a run.
The youngsters chaktac
in the bak
Luving
it: driving thru
The sunny vales.
Back home,
They all sleep well
Each nite
.

From families like this
Are nations built.
Generation,
After generation.
A growing culture
On the bedrock
Of Humanity.

Paul Butters

Word List:      Hi = hello, monna (formerly mon) = man, fem = woman, waqua = water, noush = food, housdom or dommus (formerly domhouse) = house, yu = you, dogologs = dogs, pusses = cats, brass = money, vroom = car, chaktac = chatter, bak = back, luving = loving, thru = through, nite = night. (These words I term “Buttish”, after my surname, though I acknowledge some are “borrowed” from others).
* domhouse amended to dommus; mon to monna (2nd draft).
Experimenting with the English Language!!!
Ted Scheck Feb 2014
The Movie You'll Never See

This poem
goes
(Stays)

Out to
(In for)

The people who
Will never read it

(Here I secretly
Wish I could write
In my sleep)

This is the movie-tie-in
Of the book
(The one I’ll never write)
(And the one you’ll never
See, or have
Already seen it
Multiplex times)

The Protagonist
(Amateurish at best)
Loves his girl

(What is love? Baby,
Don’t Hurt Me)

Loses the girl
(Yeah, right! Like
He ever had her –
And! She wasn’t even
Human!
She was an:
1. Alien-Cyborg-Shape
2. Shifting Vampire-
3. Lycan-synthetic
4. Proto-human)
5. All of the above

Plus! It has him…
Nearly magically…
Blowing a lot of crap up
With amazing pyrotechnics!
Cars with cleavage!
Bombs with *****!
(Or is it the udder
Way around?)

In the process of simply
Walking to the corner market
To buy a quart of milk.

After this senseless barrage
Of ****** carnage, He
Gets shot at, nearly
99% of which said bullets
Miss…may I help your
Aim?

Yet every single shot from his
Endless supply of hidden clips
Acts like its own rocket-propelled
Grenada launcher.

Yet one
Bullet, in a dramatic bit
Of lead-en acting,
Manages to manly-
Like shoulder-wound him,
Making him grimace, squint,
And grunt heroically,
Which also manages to
Make said woman’s
Blankety-blank go
Blank-blank
(Hence, the PG-13 rating)
And the F-Bomb is
Dropped
Right
About
(Fudge!)
(Oh, the mother-trumping
Effing Fudge!)

And there she is, having
Bitten the villain’s hands that
Beat her to a pulp
(Earlier)
(This is rather implied)
Yet the orange juice she’s
Wearing like makeup
Is, for all in tents and purr pusses,
(Pulp-free)
She looks like she’s not
EVEN IN A MOVIE
AT ALL,
And on some sound stage,
Where she just had an
Entire-body makeup appliqué
Applied, with
Perfectly coiffed hair,
Nails to nail guns, she’s
Effing Gorgeous!

Here Hero thinks he’s
Gotten His Good Girl
Back,
She’s sitting fit and pretty
In his Little Red Corvette…
And then she turns on him
Like a clunker doing a
U-Turn.

She does something silly here,
And grabs the cable from the
Dangling helicopter, saying
Something pithy and memorable
(It’s on the tag-line of the movie poster)

And he’s heartbroken to discover,
That:
Besides being shot in the
Shoulder,

(Cue the montage of years ago,
When they were wild, happy, free,
And still relatively human)
(The girl)

Bon-Jovi Breaks into the
Heretofore hyper-played
“Shot through the heart,
And you’re to blame,”

And then he clicks the heels
Of his boots,
Wakes up, and it wasn’t
All a dream…

That’s the movie tie-in to the
Movie you’ll never see,
From the book
You’ll never read,
By the person who
Probably won’t ever do
Either unless he stops
Fooling around with
Poetry.
Muck monster Feb 2016
I move like death.
Silent breath.

Im the monster in every tale.
In the witch, the fiend, even the white whale.

Im wreched and vile to my very core
Im fear, im envy, im so much more

I am the night
I am the light.

Putred, disgusting, my pelt pusses with slime
I'll live through it all and rise straight through the grim

There are more of me. We spread like wildfire
Nothing quite quenching our desire

Ill turn on my brother, it's loyalty i lack
If my eyes wander to a meal behind his back

My hunger ferociously consumes me, Im a slave to its will
it controls how i move, how i breath, when i ****

Ill charm you over with just my grin
Then in just one moment your world will spin

I wont leave your screams, even if u beg

For you see, I live in your home…

                                 …and stand on two legs.
Jowlough Nov 2017
I'm not the kind of fool
Who goes first on fondues
Wreak havoc on travels
And get lost and bruised

And fight for anything
And anyone of feelings
I am the son of cold
And the grand child of vulgarity

Never the strong man
Nor the spiritual insane
Running my highway
In my own truck lane

Never ink blotted
By the time I felt I'd like to
Overdoing scatterings
Forcing pusses to pop lingerings

Cropped out from photographs
I am the eagle from the south
A day older from my mere shadow
Of dandies and slouch

I am the charmer of ghosts
In this fatigued jacket
Taking charge of bullets
Triggered from your guts

From your sub standards
Pulled from the gauntlet
Off your misfiring ammo
Crash dummied rocket

Murmurs and prophets
Fake gay dimples
Soft brushes
First class test crashes

In the middle of the zone
Blows my head
Leaves my lights on
Off to bed.
Crook
Yenson Sep 2019
And he read
and he felt nothing
for the ink was fermented guilt
their vocabulary borne in angst, ignorance and pain
weighed in frustration and the pusses of wanton mindlessness
and their scrolls struggles vigorously with grateful dead consciences
and with all words escaping truths they hid in the maelstrom of their
emptiness and nothings
the significant insignificants' signing the affidavits of the dogs of wraiths

— The End —