I'm over the Moon
often under it, too
whenever it chooses to shine
I no longer swoon
though not sure about you
but this Moon is no Moon of mine
this new medicine
though the cost is obscene
has given a new lease on life
though doubts still remain
I will have to explain
this all to my vampire wife
A hedgehog that's as speedy as a hare.
all indigo, and bluer, if you must
He's running through the walls without a care
while leaving his opponents in the dust.
His Sega saga -- that one's for the books
though Mario retains a certain lead.
But now he takes on all, including crooks,
and I've no doubt in this, he will succeed.
What other heroes does one need in lights,
when Saturday cartoons so dominate?
So much that's new, and from the same old sites,
and plotting that is stubbornly innate.
A Sonic sonnet, what do I do now?
Not much that's left, so I shall take a bow.
A magnifying glass -- it retails,
for just a dollar ninety nine.
Helps find the devil in the details
when searching for my soul online.
It's been a while since the transaction,
and feeling no adverse reaction,
you would have thought I'd let it go --
were it that simple, would be so.
You see, I've found a better bargain,
and want to renegotiate,
although I must say that of late,
and without settling for jargon,
the devil has been hard to find.
I should have read before I signed.
Author notes: image from dreamstime.com
her sunny side up
Day gets ready for breakfast
Night will sleep through it
Day springs, an omelet, sunny side is up
Night falls, depleted, hash of all that's been.
Day dresses for success, drinks coffee cup.
Night crawls to bed. She's naked and obscene.
Reflections of each other, they attempt
to meet whenever Time itself allows,
and treasure those brief moments that exempt,
allowing Night to waken, Day to drowse.
Can poetry exist, and have its say
without the daily rhythm of our lives?
On tide locked planets, absent night or day,
do sonnets praise both mistresses and wives?
We do not know, but I do hope to read
their poetry. It's alien indeed.
On the Hindenburg's bow
he's the king of the world.
But the clouds won't allow,
edges cotton and curled,
to see what lies ahead.
He's alive. But he's dead.
Author notes: image from inkitt.com
I have no wish to snow you, that doesn't hit the spot
but on one morning, oh, yeah, was shot up by my squad
what did I do to warrant the folly that befell?
the truth is not abhorrent - just not allowed to tell
My squad commander almost saved my ass
but someone was insisting: execute
and as I said the squad did fire en masse
but there was one, just one that didn't shoot
my troubled fate, disruptive, has long been bent askew
I got myself a captive, but failed to bring him to
and Commissar Suetin, he's not one to relent
well, he began inventin', and penciled his intent.
He dragged out what he found to light of day.
All papered and assembled for his suit.
And there was nothing, nobody could say.
Well there was one, the one that didn't shoot.
Hand fell, commanding "Fire", oh, what a stupid call,
The shots sent to expire and free me from my soul,
but then I hear: he's breathing, go, bring him to the ward.
Can't double execute him, there is no such accord.
The doctor kept on clucking with his tongue,
bewildered, pulling bullets by their root.
And feverish, delirious, high strung
I blabbered with the one that didn't shoot.
My wounds were healing, licked them, so like a dog, it seemed.
The hospitals, I'm feeling, held me in high esteem.
The female staff, enamored, kept saying that I'm hot.
“Hey, you, you body armored, come here and take your shot."
Our regiment was hero-ing in Krim.
and I kept sending glucose there by foot.
For what? So it'll be easier for him
For whom? Well, for the one that didn't shoot.
I drank tea mixed with spirits, as circumstance permits.
And there's no need to fear it, survived with all my wits.
Got me my own battalion, commander said: assault,
and if you didn't die yet, well that is your own fault.
And I was happy, but collapsed and cried.
A German sniper, whispering "Kaput"
I blasphemed, wailing, that's the day I died...
He killed him, killed the one that didn't shoot.
Some are suffering from boredom
here's a little ditty for them:
if you have nothing to do
try, put down a thought or two
hands are feeling cottony?
break up the monotony
with a dark and stormy night
pretty maidens take a fright
and a knight in shining armor
come to rescue, he's a charmer
it's not hard to beat back boredom
little poems, you adore them
try it now, and you can beat it,
just please, please, don't make me read it
Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2812003-Boredom-is-a-State-of-Mind-Contest
turns out
that spiders have dreams
of catching succulent, plump flies
some dream of attractive, furry tarantulas
and others of deadly, seductive black widows
some
dream of using a thread like a bungee cord
repelling down wuthering heights of silk
what's this tiny spider, here on the wall
dreaming of? most likely, it is
the perfect web
I once had the misfortune to attack
(for as they say, in ignorance, there's bliss)
none other than Messier de Bergerac
and all over a trifle -- just a kiss.
Oh, had I known the gentleman's sharp tongue,
I surely would have been more circumspect;
but as it was, equating me to dung
was merely the beginning, I expect.
What does one do, when abject ridicule
gets punished with an equitable turn?
When seeking to paint someone else a fool
gets paid back, and in kind? When will I learn?
Full of contrition, I shall thus compose
the story of one beaten, by a nose.
Author notes: Image from Amazon English sonnet with French themes
the lonely seagull fights against the wind.
below her angry waters churn and foam
wings flap in place, she struggles, as if pinned
born of the air, she yearns to soar, to roam
no, she will not back down against the storm
she rides the gusts, white wings against dark skies
maintaining, all the while, a perfect form
she flies above the spray, alone, she flies
From the lookout point, he saw the Grand Tetons were sticking out of the earth like the breasts of an LA woman fresh out of breast augmentation surgery. Just a dozen or so feet from the jeep, an obviously horny bison bull was cleverly chewing on some purple clover. "Ah, Yellowstone in spring", he thought to himself, and got back in the jeep.
He had quite a bit of road to cover before making it to Old Faithful, which would probably erupt in about 45 minutes. "That's some Viagra they're feeding that old geyser", he thought to himself.
Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2811965-Anything-Goes-Bulwer-Lytton