Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Larry B Nov 2010
There's Dasher and Dancer
Then Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid
Then Donner and Blitzen

If you think these are reindeer
Then you would be wrong
And it's not crazy words
In some Christmassy song

See, they are my brothers
Don't anybody laugh
For these are hillbilly names
From Polecat Path

It's a place in the hills
In East Tennesee
On the top of a mountain
As high as can be

Here, Christmas is different
There's no reindeer or sleigh
We use an old covered wagon
It works better that way

We make toys in the smoke house
For most of the year
While smoking our hams
'Til Christmas is near

Then we load up the wagon
With granny on the reins
Her wooden teeth all gummy
With rootbeer stains

Now the wagon is pulled
By my brothers and I
We're plumb tuckered out
'Cause people can't fly

Well, you get the picture
About Christmas in the hills
It's a hillbilly adventure
On wagon wheels

Now there's much more to tell
But it's time to run off
'Cause we're loading the wagon
Your friend, Rudolph
Dorothy A Nov 2010
The lone eagle makes its
solo journey over the vast horizon

I can see my flag in
the setting sun
as the lemon halo of fire
becomes a vivid pomegranate red,
the turquoise sky darkening
into a sea of navy blue
and wispy, white clouds  
are hovering over us like
spirits in the universe

Lady Liberty,
overlooking the evening
of the New York Harbor,
displays her lit up torch like a
cosmic nightlight
She forever sheds light over
weary Americans
to remind us to
still dream the American dream
but that vision often seems
so out of our common reach

Uncle Sam has put on his nightcap,
a tuckered, old man is he
The crickets are chirping,
singing to me their strange lullabye
as I think I'll call it a night

*Goodnight, America, Goodnight
Jim Davis May 2019
Look what the cat done drug in
Slow on down... darlin’!
Hol’ yo horses!
Don’t go get’n a conniption fit
Or get’n your knickers in a knot!
Hush up
Or’n I’m a goin **** a knot in yo tail!

I’m busy as a one legged cat in a sandbox,  
but I’m fixin tell what we got here at JuJu’s

Now lookie here...

we got
crawfish mild spicy
crawfish medium spicy
crawfish spicy spicy

we got
crawfish with corn
crawfish with sausage
crawfish with potatoes

we got
crawfish with red sauce
crawfish with pink sauce
crawfish with melted butter

If y’all a bit dry...
we got
crawfish with canned soda
crawfish with bottled water
crawfish with beer
crawfish with BYOB

Or we gots
jus’ crawfish

Go on an pick how yo’ want yo’ crawfish spiced, then go on an decide what yo’ wanna add!  I reckon we gots dang near 362,888 ways to eat these here mudbugs

You might could get
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage
spicy spicy crawfish with corn
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and corn
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with corn and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn, potatoes
and beer

I could go on...
till I’m plum tuckered out... but...

Got it?  You good??
You want mushrooms
Well, I’ll be
Don’t go axin... what we ain’t got
No siree bob, no mushrooms

We also ain’t got tea, sweet or unsweet
But sweet’s the only way to have tea sweetie

If you want soda, you can get
Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper
Diet Dr Pepper, Hawaiian Punch, Brisk Tea
Or Root Beer

We also got shrimp... just boiled

We also got gloves... half a dollar

Well, I’m worn slap out!

Watcha have a hankerin for?   

Take your own sweet time!  

Sit a spell

You’ll soon be full as a tick on a big dog!

Happy as a dead pig in sunshine!

You’ll wanna slap yer mama!

Can’t decide hon?

I do declare!

Aren’t you precious?

(now... he startin get on my last nerve)

Still...can’t make up your mind?

Well... I can’t do it fer ya!

(bout aggravatin as a rock)

You picky?  

(Lawd have mercy!)

Bless your heart!  

©  2019 Jim Davis
It’s a Southern thing! Had 3 pounds of mudbugs for lunch today at JuJu’s Crawfish Shak in Fannet!  Be sure and stop by if you’ve got time!
I swear this is word for word!
Vincent JFA Dec 2013
Like you were a first trip to NYC,
or a perfect view of the cosmos
from that clearing on Sylvan Avenue,
I was agape and fawning while you sauntered
out from your double doors, to the end of your driveway,
to where I rocked on my heels eagerly
on Allen Dr. at 6:23

Come 7:15, we bedecked your body
with stripped and frayed Armani
in tribute to the Walkers we've seen;
cool-white fluorescence drew emphasis
on the harmony between your ivory simper
and each cobalt marble that rolled
and flicked beneath your tuckered eyelids
by some sort of beatnik artistry.

Frankly, my chest swelled with fever
when I noted the scrunch of your nose
askance to liquid-latex applications,
or the way black cherry sap wept
from the corners of your mouth
while dislodging the blood-capsule
in-between your molars
and your stately, hollow cheek at 7:50

And I noticed around 8:00,
when I had slowed you to a halt
near the crosswalk on Montauk
between Coastal and Le Soir
to fix the scar-tissue on your chin,
that if I ever knew there to be one,
you made a most stunning zombie
with my Tom & Jerry cap lining your scalp;

Which made the stain left by the makeup
worth the trade of my hat
in exchange for your company,
as we picked up a twelve-pack
at the 7-11 just down the street
before we returned to the party.
Thank you so much for taking the time to check "Zombies in Snapbacks" out! This is the first poem I've written (and completed) since high school.

"Zombies in Snapbacks" reflects a moment of eagerness and the secret realization of fondness I have for this friend of mine before a Halloween party in October when him & I went on a stroll for beer.

I love ZiS enough to want to make revisions where it can make the most of them, so I am always open to constructive feedback! Thanks again, I hope you enjoyed "Zombies in Snapbacks!"

Note: Disregard any capitalization/punctuation errors, they are intentional.

Two revisions have been made:
1. Added to first stanza.
2. Two stanzas added between the first stanza and (now) fourth stanza.
Joseph Oct 2012
In the dark shadows of the night
I sleep with the crowd
Tuckered away in my nice cozy bed
Asleep i be not
For nothing frightens me more then these dreams of memories

I laugh I play
"This is fun" I hear them say
I cry I weep
"Lets go home" I hear them say

Where may that be I ponder
Walking around with shadows that dwell
The silent noise of a distant fan
Turns to a speed boat; so fast, so fun
Ends up to be a death trap so fast, lets run

What is this place
Where have I step
What must be done
Who are all that follow
How do I get out

The doors appear before me
As though my words have awoke them from their deep slumbers
Broken, splintered, nearly falling apart
All these door were ****
Except that one dressed in red wear

A red so bright
A red so dark
Never understood, until just a few moments ago
This is the door it has to be

And where it leads no one dares proceed

Its a dream my dear, I hear
Whose dream is it, they scream with fear
You must escape or be replaced, they whisper with haste
And we are nothing more then a vivid door, they claim

Follow the path marked green
This will show you the way
Marked with death you may not follow
Marked with pain you may not know
Marked with love you may not have
Marked with hate you will not feel
Marked with innocence you may not take

So go ahead take one
Be marked forever
Or just drift away
Either or you will not believe where you are

What is this hellish theme
A play, a sense  
Well its make believe, a simple dream.
Elihu Barachel Feb 2015
How "Gay" do you suppose, do you suppose you'll be
When In Hell you burn, for all eternity
Every ****** every Queer, every **** and ****
You're going to burn in Hell, while Satan ***** your ****
He'll tie you to a stump, barbed wire he will use
Sulfuric acid boiling hot, out his **** does ooze
Then there are the Demons...can't wait to get their turn
Pumping ******* pumping, in the place of no return
When they get tuckered out, a red-hot ***** they will use
They'll ram it up your ***, while they put to you the screws
Yes-sir-ee you'll be so "Gay", while you burn forevermore
You ****** Queerass Fruitcake, God does you deplore
Icarus M Mar 2013
that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.

Covered in dripping red
gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.

Atop a table
tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.

Retching from inhalation
as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.

Enlightenment of the general mood
from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.

Dead like a corpse
as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.

Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.
© copy right protected
Martin Bailes Feb 2017
Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,

no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,

& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,

with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,

Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,

but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.

Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.

******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.
SWB Aug 2011
I've never cared too much for history, found no appreciation
for it's multitude of names we commit to memorization
there's a certain friend of mine, born in 1989-
Sir Maximilian Relaxilian- and he lacked all motivation

Since the origin of time, I have traced his family line
and their genetic disposition towards supreme relaxation
He's the great great great great grandson
of the founder of vacation.
And this founder's son Clyde, well, he invented the slide
Clyde's kid brother Greg helped patent the keg.
And Greg's great grandson Snyder sold the very first recliner.

So whenever Max was challenged, troubled, bothered, or confused,
He'd recite his family tree, and use the very same excuse:
   "Hereditary mutations within each generation!"

     And so he sat around and slept,
     But never cleaned and never swept,
     Never ran, never lept,
     His promises were never kept.

Maximilian never managed once to get up off his ****,
too tuckered out for bowling, just too lazy to putt;
He Never traveled to the sink nor had he once bothered to think,
too coward for a shower, found no reason not to stink.

And then one super lazy afternoon a quarter after two,
Maximilian had a visitor, I promise this is true:
A tiger stood outside the door which he was too lazy to lock
as if he'd try to find the **** beneath the pile of ***** socks.
And then of course, it's no surprise he couldn't hear the kitty knock
and once you hear what happened next I guarantee you will be shocked...

The tiger tickled him
and giggled him
until his ticker stopped.

So next time you think of staying in,
instead of going out-
or complain about the effort
that it takes to leave the couch,
Or refuse to leave the sheets or venture from a cozy pouch...

just remember Maximilian Relaxilian, King of Slouch
and stay out of bed instead,
stretch your legs and use your head
then count your blessings, kiss your mother
motivate one another.
bobby burns Dec 2012
we drove through snowbanks today;
one for the first time behind the wheel
-- one with his eyes fixed on the road
and me, just another passenger along
for the ride.
                   it was still lacing over the
world with white, like nature pulling
up her comforter and settling herself in
for the season -- heavy down muting even
the quietest quiets; we followed suit, put
on the smiths and sent our tumultuous
evening back to bed to curl up with a
blanket or two, swap stories with tucked-
in and tuckered out madam nature until
we realize we're still alive -- and at this
juncture (both figurative and literal)
during the supposed shift in energy,
spiritual awakening, consciousness, etc,
we embraced the contradictory side
of our cynical teenage bodies and
sent our thoughts back to sleep with
the current of his lilting voice and the
subsequent waterfall of grieving
piano notes, tinkling and sending
splinters of icy shivers down each
of our spines as we drove on through
the gently imposed quiet of a cold
down comforter.
SWB Aug 2011
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem.
burning behind my temples,
I drove this far today to be alone.

Such a long mess of a day; I swear I’ve grown,
but I’m too old- crows feet perched above dimples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

If I yawn and stretch my lungs any more I’ll decompose.
I’d trade a kidney for a long shower to **** these road pimples;
I drove this far to be alone.

My eyes glaze like shivering chrome,
tuckered out from scanning lousy stanzas full of samples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

But I’m still packed and unshowered, staring at memory foam
And now, sitting with this pen in hand ain’t simple.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem;
I only drove this far to be alone.
This is a villanelle
Victor D López Feb 2019
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.

I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.

I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.

I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.

I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.

I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.

I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.

I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.

I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.

I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.

I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Icarus M Mar 2013
Holding a red, flowing scarf
                                    on a day of all days
                when leaves dance in circles
                in corners tuckered away.

Enchanting weather today
               with a gathering protest of winds
                against an acrylic sky, opaque blue
                                    grasping to steal sway a streak of red.

Laughter stumbles over and down
                on a night of lonely nights
                to be had over lost scarves
                                trickled away by cloy, boiling bathwater.

Phase in blackout, flickering lamp lights
               where past looks back on future
               and memories shift like the earth below
                                                       in constant motion

                                                        ­                                                  she cries

   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                  *help me.
© copy right protected
Overwhelmed Jun 2010
walking down the road now
my car named ‘my writing’
abandoned 3, 4, 5, 10 miles

it’s hot,
too hot
and the sun shines down on me
making me sweat uncomfortably
the road is long
too long for me
because it seems like I’ve been walking forever
and yet I haven’t seen a sign of humanity yet

then it comes screeching down
the road; a car not used to the
speed it has now; and in it is
a man desperately looking for

he spotted me
before I spotted
him and just as
I first heard his
tires melting to
the asphalt he
was jumping
out at me his
tongue tied to
the thought he
was trying to
eject from his

his talk excited,
he said: “is that
your car?”

I stare blankly

“is that your car?”

“what car” I say

“the one on the side
of the road! that one!”
he spurted out grin

I think

let me give
you a lift!”

I say

I said
not knowing
what to think

he asked me question after question
(about the car)
and told me how it was a masterpiece!
a genuine miracle! a historic marker
that I must continue to bring  to the world!

I said
(I disagreed,
the piece of junk
had just left me in
the desert remember)

he called a tow truck for the car
he dropped me off at my house
he gave me $5000 dollars (for the car)

and then he drove off
smile on his face

I looked at the money,
the tuckered out car,
my house and thought:

How lucky. Maybe there
is something to this car

maybe there was,
because I just got
back in it and drove
down the highway
like usual
Celia Oct 2014
Phrases that I've longed to hear,
he has lined with my left ear.
Never done to create your own
I wait for a sign; maybe tuckered eyes.

Strained conversation,
oh I do dwell.

It is time to make cinch,
it is time for // time for bed.
Only to resume this talk of a rising tide,
repeatedly in my ponderous head.

Just say the words, you know what words.
Mark Toney Jan 18


Ticktock ;)



­               ~2020!!!






               ~Tasty :)




               Treasure ;)




               Timing :)





Timing :(



          ­     Tomorrow?

12:00pm :)

               12:00pm :)



© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
1/18/2020 - Poetry form: Alliteration - Each poem in my Alliterative Alphabet Series describes conversations between two or more people while only using words that start with the first letter of the title of the poem. I’m publishing the poems as I write them on, not necessarily in alphabetical order. My goal is to write at least 26 poems to cover each letter of the alphabet. I hope you find the concept interesting, maybe even clever. Most of all I hope you enjoy them :) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2020
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
There's this place
I love to visit
When the world
Has tuckered
Me out.
It's a place
Not known to many,
Which works
Just fine for me.
It can be quiet
When I want to be.
Or raucous when I party.
It's a place
That comes to me
To wrap me up
And take me home
When the fringes
Of my soul
Become so frayed
And tattered,
Ragged and threadbare,
When the depths
Of my heart
Have lost all but one drop of hope.
This place is my haven.
And though I wish for you
To find the peace here
That I do,
This place is mine
And I just can't share it with you.
David Ehrgott Jan 2016
Please mister
Find me a home
I have me some money
I'll throw you a bone
Please mister
I worked all my life
I had me a place
A place with my wife
Cookie Construction
Tore my home down
They razed it to nothing
Leveled to ground
This city's so crowded
There isn't the room
For someone disabled
Who has paid his dues
Who served for his country
The red, white and blue
We'll give him some money
And throw him his food
We'll move him two counties
It's better for him
Then to let him live where
His life did begin
We'll give him new neighbors
We'll give him new friends
We'll give him a stamp card
To eat with again
Hey, you with the uncle
How come no grin?
I'm too tuckered; tired
For this mess again
little moon Apr 2014
the sounds dance as we are, the music like a waterfall right by our ears, and we are a part of the landscape. the photographer zooms in closer and he sees us. he snaps a photo as if to trap the ephemeral nature in a bottle. we drink from said bottle the liquid of opulence we are basking in. as lush as everything around us seems, with one too many chandeliers and dresses and tuxedos that cost a fortune, we exist as fireflies in the night, our identities remaining letters in sealed envelopes locked in drawers. we flutter and sway, chortle and whisper sweet nothings, somethings, anythings to whoever charms us for a moment’s dance.

she observes and picks at the seams of her maroon dress as if she’s entranced by a thriller novel. it’s so easy to feel tuckered out sometimes, she muses. she is an escapist by nature. she’s taken up running as a recreational activity, and she doesn’t run to feel the adrenaline rush. she runs to be alone. she hears their voices and their sheepish laughs behind their hands. these girls that are too scared to be themselves even under a silly mask. a physical facade to make poetic the abstract one.

she’s about to leave when he bumps into her. he is intoxicated by the late night energy and he’s decided she is going to dance with him. his hands aren’t awkward and sweaty but they’re soft and seem to know what they’re doing as they glide down the small of her back and poise themselves for a rhythmic rumble. she chooses not to be a rhythmic renegade and she accepts after it’s started that it’s going to continue because he has this coy grin that she doesn’t feel like resisting. a grin that tells her to trust him and to take a ******* chance.

they rotate like they’re a part of the solar system, and afterward share a couple of drinks. they talk about the vastness of the universe and share the same incredulity that they will never be able to touch a star or ever fully adjust their eyes to the intensity and immensity of sunlight. it saddens them both to the same degree. he shares his love of languages and his eagerness to learn about the world in which we were born as infinitesimal shapes. she talks to him about how she loves hearing a good story as much as she loves telling one, and how without words and the capability of expression she would feel paralyzed. they shift under the same wavelengths, twin fire signs. they drink up each others demons until their glasses feel half empty and save the other half for another meeting or twelve. and half past twelve, they remove their masks and the cages around their hearts.
the prompt was "party". definitely written at 2 am
Mike Hauser Dec 2015
Today I found my long lost Pet Rock
You know, the one from the 70's
I was sure years ago I'd lost him for good
Go ahead, ask if I'm happy

I found him on the side of the road
Just relaxing at doing nothing
I guess without me in his life
He was major bored or something

I picked him up and we both hugged
It was a very emotional moment
I know what your thinking to yourself
Kinda brings a tear to your eye now don't it

After exchanging the usual pleasantries
I placed him in a kerchief of silken lining
If I didn't tell you I skipped all the way home
You know I would be lying

Getting back to the house all tuckered out
We went early to bed
I fluffed a pillow up just enough
So Buddy could lay his weary head

I can't tell you how good it feels right now
To have my Pet Rock back home with me
At last my life can get back into
A mode of normalcy

Wait....You didn't honestly think I would end it here did you?

When we woke up early the next morning
I poured Buddy a bowl Fruity Pebbles
He looked at me rather strangely
As if questioning, what do you think I'm some sort of cannibal?

After that little speed bump in our relationship
To get our friendship back on track
I suggested we go somewhere special
Buddy suggested we take a nap

I'd forgotten after all these years
How much he liked to lay around
Guess nothing much has changed
On this, his side of Gravel town

Buddy and I do everything together
My Love for this rock, can't get out of my head
Where my life was once filled with immeasurable sadness
Now overflows with loads of joy instead

That is until the day we went to the park
And he wanted to skip across the lake
At that point I realize
He and I might have made a grave mistake...
J Apr 2018

There’s a party Friday night-
All the cool kids will be there!
I somehow rated an invite (?)
Time for a new outfit and new hair!

Time to think of witty things to say
And practice looking approachable.
This time in the corner I won’t stay
Avoiding eyes and being unsociable.

Time to brush up on my smile
And try to not get lost in thought.
Time to not be a lonely isle
And be charming and whatnot.

I can do this thing I know I can!
Why am I always so so worried?
The kids will be tuckered out -
(At least that’s the plan!)
And worst case I’m home by 7:30!
Trying to socialize with other moms at kids’ parties regresses me back to invisible high school shy girl mode.  I can be super confident in so many situations but those moms even if they aren’t trying to can make me feel so uncool!
Stefan Michener Mar 2016
Scrunched down a little,
puckered around the eyes,
tuckered looking,
but long in the leg
and his hands were steady

He'd get mean, so mean
he'd even slap a woman
if she was a lookin' for it
But those were the times,
They was rough 'n ready

He smoked
He drank
He cussed
He spit
and he hated liberals

Some say he punched a horse,
and some say that was Eastwood
He'd kick Eastwood's *** and hand it to him
then pick up his hat and hand it to him
then go buy him a couple of shots

I would like to have met "The Duke"
though we'd probably not have gotten along
Tough guys are never what they seem, to me
He died and many good folks wept
They said America lost its last Hero

But Heroes come back
and some are non-smokers
and some don't drink or cuss or spit
And some even take things in their
Emily B Jun 2016
Dozens of smelly pooping critters
None of which belong to me
Are on my last nerve tonight

I have walked for an hour
And a half
Chasing two houdini goats
And I am flat tuckered

Something has to give
The hogs are even
Starting to complain
ravendave Oct 2016
Get down from there, my old man said,
before you hurt yourself.
Me and Little Sis were playing
in the hayloft where all the bales
were piled up high- so high

they liked to touch the barn roof.
I always liked to play
in the fortress the bales made,
like the castles and forts
in the picture book on Grandma's shelf

in the parlor. Pa and Grandpa
worked all day getting in the hay,
and when the day was done
they would sit in the parlor
and take turns drinking from the jug

on the shelf. After a while they would
start singing and cracking jokes
and acting kind of foolish,
and Grandma would holler at them
and tell them to act their age,

and when they got all tuckered out
Grandma would put the cork back in
the jug and put it back on the shelf.
One time I was out playing in the barn,
and I heard voices in the hayloft,

sort of a rustling sound, and now and then
a giggle, and I looked and saw
Big Sis and the farmhand playing
in the hay, and they saw me and
yelled at me, telling me to go away

and leave them alone. Later on
I saw where Big Sis was getting kind of fat
in the belly, and I said something
about it, and Big Sis got all mad
and threw her milk cup at me.

Pa said something like that's what happens
when girls make hay on their own,
and Grandma said that ain't
the right kind of hay to make,
and Big Sis got kind of red in the face.

I only ever saw Pa and Grandpa
make the hay, and when I asked them
what it all meant, they only chuckled,
and told me to go out and play.
I guess maybe I'll figure it out someday.
Emotional guillotine clefts
     irredeemable psychological umbilical accord
witnessing heart breaking,
     woe-begotten inhumane rip cord
gut wrenching shuffle board

     (indiscriminately sporting)
     most punishing option explored
involving upwards of 2,000
     immigrant children forced to ford
predatory invested foreign territory

     south of Rio Grande potentially gored
if not *****, enslaved, via gang lion, viz
     nefarious smoking bandits gloating
     with anticipatory glee - hoard
ding young boys and girls

     sacrificial hideous torture
     mocking land of free and home
     of bravely ejected innocent
     nubile terrorized angels,
     where horrific, pedafilic traumatic plight

     unwelcomely visited upon
     naively overly trusting
     precocious youngsters ignored
fiendishly, and diabolically,
     where kids injured

malevolently, punitively,
     and violently inured
at the ****** hands of many
     a self proclaimed war lord,
which hypothetically,

     presumably blithely of once safely
     (albeit tenuously) moored
then cruelly wrenched where mill let tarry
     uber brutes ill league hull
     tender babes asper incident

     uprooting tooth and nail on floss
inconsolable sorrow upon fractured families
     (live re: worse, now imagine
     if you will gasoline poured
over naked peach fuzz flesh

     aye envision engulfed forked sinister flames
     purposelessly immolated how screams
     dark shadows within outer limits
     of AmeriKa twilight zone roared

renting asunder travesty
     treachery and trinity
     in God We Trust smugly ******* toward
page from fascist playbook
     "Stasi in **** Ward,"

where atrocities censored
     like Black Sabbath despite
     freedom of speech reprehensible witch
hunt scenarios over span
     six weeks bedlam
     decorated epaulette
     glorified hoodlums twitch
with numbskulls
     while defrauding, deflecting,
     and defiling,

     defenseless as deer lambs switch
ching the other cheek as smug snitch
like scattering rats
     Department of
     Homeland Security officials
administration’s enforce
     new “zero tolerance” policy
toward illegal border-crossing,

     nonetheless bend rules
     they busily play
     an extra round of Quidditch)
feigning obliviousness perfect suckling

     nursing, and mewing infants
     forcibly experienced nirvana unplugged,
whereat strong arm eminent
     marshalled tuckered law tugged
maternal instinct doubling down,
     sans cradling tender infant snugged.
Dennis Willis Jan 2019
Fishing around inside
for a poem tonight
looking for some something
that hotly wants it's write

It is dimmer as if
my inner basement light
and galloping goblins
after that two day fight

Are just plain ol' tuckered
Muscles cramped 'n tight
Does hitting a brick wall
Mean the end is in site

Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
cuz...well...this cerebral cortex lacks
ability to comprehend anything
   more complex than playing jacks
aware his severe cognitive ability hacks

away at such juvenile gibberish
   and most likely exacts
a prediction my intelligence
   on par with bracts

very much aware that
   without recourse to contrivances
   delineating the passage of time,
   wherever said out
   standing invisible essence
   which moments lapse just now ago

no just a moment ago Yaw
that, this or another instant
   did without so much as a wow
lapse, and lucky

   21st **** Sapiens to vow
and lay claim thee or thou
aware the amorphous ether
   one can ****** as a sow  

or any other animate or
   inanimate direct or indirect object re:
yule lie zing
   any analogy, metaphor, simile,
   et cetera a poor substitute to pre
sent every second, minute,

   hour...that doth nee
dull our attention akin
   to banshees, or comparison
   to something else
   totally tubularly off the wall lee
ving without a trace

   only prompt a feeble yet apropos je
ne sais quois, yet even then any primate a he
than (if individual couched in this free
to believe in any religion country, and cre
may shun versus burial predicated

   adherence to idea of a soul aie...aye
how write with frustration struggle to affix bye
and bye, some nebulous notion, that doth defy
tis a futile effort to codify, fortify,

identify abstract concepts, whose high
arc key eludes pinpointing a per jai
guru dev, place or thing (ha)
   even scrunching brow
   defeats and doth be lie
this one measly mortal well nigh

tuckered out on par with calculating pi
tangential to asking if and/or
   how i can access
   fullest potential...say to write
about with the aid of symbols

   i.e. letters to expound on an idea trite
or one that confounded mankind
   many millenniums or quite
sum indeterminate orbits 'round el sol,

   no ability within this mite
ova reproductive happenstance (yes me),
   whom ye could tell go fly a kite
for inducing confusion,

   but the nature of this har re: beast
   with a little insight
gripped, harangued, rankled,
   et cetera, thus communicates
   hello or goodnight,

which understandable
   simple words may not excite
as quotidian oft repeated philosophical
   mental challenges
   i didst expend effort to cite,

which mind exercises offers
   no exit, ouch that doth byte  
and if subjected to  a brain scan
   would blind technicians
   and set alight

frenzied uproar amidst **** Sapiens
   via intense thinking to induce blind
ness flailing at feeling trapped
   asper being teased at find
ding no beginning

   or end like a mobius strip
   analogous to space/ time continuum
   that little effort could
   blow a fuse in the mind.

adieu: from matthew scott harris
hook halls schwenksville, pennsylvania
hiz home tow win.
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
   explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
   a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel

   from the **** of this guy
which bout with ****** obstruction
   found me doubled over
   with lower abdominal distress

   whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
   against the cellar brick wall),
   thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed to muster the means to bare
   frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
   the Acme brand Metamucil,
   which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
   supposedly loosening the stools,

   which optimism (product
   didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
   to cease livingsocial would try

humph enjoining
   this lvii year old married male
   to cede victory
   to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure
   to this common fellow invoking libretto
   ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
   without successful defecation

   despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
   five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
   thence mouthing retraction
   of former thought to cease existing,

though a non-bull lever
   in any power broker qua mankind
   relief at long last
   provided posterior answered prayer
   yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
   his recurring pain in the *** jagged torture
   and asks
   a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
It's the quietest time of night
Where the moon has peaked
All is hushed
And you're supposed to be asleep

But your mind plays games
Making noise that keep you awake
Mocking your restlessness and fears
Little monsters play tug-of-war
And swing from moonlit chandeliers

I Find comfort in the dark
A pitch black tranquility
But little monsters search for a thought
To keep me awake unwillingly

Heart steadies like the sea
Holding on to the evanescent dreams
Waiting for the pounce of little feet
Jumping on on you like a trampoline

They've finally tuckered themselves out
From running about
They curl up beside me
And count their sheep
Beside little monsters
I sleep
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
   explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
   a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel

   from the **** of this guy
which bout with ****** obstruction
   found me doubled over
   with lower abdominal distress

   whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
   against the cellar brick wall),
   thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed to muster the means to bare
   frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
   the Acme brand Metamucil,
   which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
   supposedly loosening the stools,

   which optimism (product
      didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
   to cease livingsocial would try

humph enjoining
   this lvii year old married male
   to cede victory
   to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure
   to this common fellow invoking libretto
   ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
   without successful defecation

   despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
   five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
   thence mouthing retraction
   of former thought to cease existing,

though a non-bull lever
   in any power broker qua mankind
   relief at long last
   provided posterior answered prayer
   yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
   his recurring pain in the *** jagged torture
   and asks
   a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
Bo Tansky Aug 2019
Instant enlightenment
That is, is it
All a lie
Are you, am I
Dressed to the nines
In trendy design
With no place to go
And nothing to mind
You read it here first
For better or worst
A modern-day phenomenon
Packaged perfect to know
Just add water
You’re good to go
Generational gibberish view
Who spurned the denim devils
In you
Bluejean blueprints
Attached to the past  
Of patterns and hues
Sleeve Sloppy revealing
Dribble drool feeling
Seer suckered
Taube tuckered

Take your patchwork punch
Take my cameo role
Handheld scroll
Poked in a fire of woe
Battle wounded warrior
Drowning to
Federations of fear
Leagues of sometime,
Donuts of denigration
Looking through the whole
Of integration
On a scout mission
Wizards of wondering why
Epiphanies abound.
And in the morning light
Silence is the only sound around
Why wait to get it right?

Oh, preachy poser
Pedantically put
But please just shut-up
If you can’t walk the walk
Don’t talk the talk
Up a crazy lazy river
Without a paddle or clue-
And who
Like instant pudding, I do
Instant coffee, too
Instant cake in a cup,
Microwave ready

Fear I’ve left something out
And nothing will ever do
The instant never needs  
To make-up to something new
And you who
Instantly knew
Don’t believe the story.
It’s all a lie
Even if it’s true
Makes a good story
But none of it’s you
Story characters in drag
In a romance novel or two
Only love is real
Or so I’ve been told
Playing a part
That never gets old
Address the unaddressed
Storied mess

Shakespeare in a silk shirt
Romeo is such a flirt
Juliet’s without regret
And yet
Lost in a speeding train of thought
Took the window seat I bought
Watching the living loving world
Pass by

And I
See waving at me
Michael with a golden sword
Protection from the lord.
Up high
How can this be?

Terrible, terrible low-down lying lizard
Am I
What of it?
Worse than infomercials
Role-playing rehearsals
Characters complaining
Insanely blaming
Always trying to please
Never at ease
Never understanding
But, I do
But I lie.
Commas go
Commas die
Always a busy but.

I know I should
But, I won’t
I know I could
But I don’t
So, go away with your stuck-up sail
It really is to no avail

Have you seen the broken bandage?
Wrapped around your battered finger
******* breaking
Bad blood oozing
From your packaged refusing
Never mind it was a nice story but was it true  
I never lied to you
I never lied to you
I never would
I conjured you
Like genie in a bottle of *****
Intoxicated by a vision of you
I know you aren’t doing well
Do tell
You won’t let anyone help
Don’t balk in blue
Think it true
Because you think you are
Only you
Because you are
Scared of what might be
Scared the story might be true
You could be me
Or I could be you  
Because the story and the storyteller are one
An Escher drawing
Drawing itself
In two
Two peas in a prissy pod

Have you reconciled your fiction?
Or is this an addiction
Affliction come true
Your magical silver moon swaying
Your chalice of still stars staying
Cups of fantasy flowing
Sun spraying days
Friend nor foe
I’ll never know

Remember the story  
Do you remember
I remember
Nothing’s changed
Tempestuous tweets
Trilling thoughts of verses sweet
For better or worse
If you follow me forever
I will follow you. +-
Feels like a tall story
It’s a leap of faith
Not a leap off a ten-foot story

Better wait till the morning

— The End —