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And The Winner Is? (June Contest)

If I was the judge,
I’d choose my poem to win
Why not?
I’m the bloody decider
I’m the one with the grin

I’d say to myself,
oh I bow to your talent
your brilliant mind too,
I wish if I could be anything,
I wish I could be you

I would applaud my own imagery and say,
What comedy you write
and
oh, how you inspire me
on this cold and frosty night

I’d honor me, the Pulitzer prize
Then measure up my shelf
To put my new found trophy
That I won all by myself

Oh yes back to work…

His Coat of Many Colours ~ June Contest

His coat has many colours,
Joseph is his name;
Although some call him 'Joey'
It's Joseph just the same.

The collar on his cloak
Is such a vibrant red;
From his shoulders to his pointy chin
It goes right to his head.

The nether of this robe
Has hues of greens and blues
From his chubby rounded waist
To his rugged grey-black shoes.

His sleeves are speckled yellow,
A dazzling golden shade;
And silver sprays within the fold ~
Delightful how they're made.

Daughter

I have two children now full-grown
A lovely daughter and handsome son
My daughter was my very firstborn
So for this poem, she's number one

Her birth date comes in early July
She has beautiful strawberry blond hair
And I love to see her let it fly
In the summer breeze without a care

Her coming first was such a blessing
Because I really wanted a girl
Back then all parents were left to guessing
When she arrived she was my pearl

white bottle

white bottle

by

derek

Middle child living in the country
1993 running around happy and free
Mom and dad not worrying
giving a young child freedom
was a normal thing
always outside entertaining himself

Dinner bell rings
never complains
ate what was on his plate
did the dishes
lots of love and kisses

Respect and discipline was taught
things were earned
had a list of chores
bed at eight
never fought

Thoughts on a Prehistoric Flute

(Prose Poem)

Archeologists dug at a site in the Ach Valley of southern Germany. At first, nothing of relevance surfaced; then, digging deeper, they found a broken flute made from a large vulture’s bone. Archeology experts reassembled the fragments and produced an elementary flute, the oldest musical instrument ever found. A stone-age human carved it 35,000 years ago, bored five holes into the hollow bone, which quite possibly made it the prototype of my Irish Tin Whistle, one that has six fingering holes and is keyed in “D.”

The Peanut Butter Principle( June Contest)

I stand in the market aisle trying to decided
why is life like a jar of peanut butter
to my amazement I find
with each jar I view
these thoughts became true

all smooth,to boring
all crunch ignore it
super chunk,had enough

life is a jar of peanut butter
sometimes smooth, sometimes crunch
can't smooth it out with marshmallow fluff,hate that stuff

Think I'll start life another way
maybe try jello
,on to that aisle
always room for that

OF BABOONS AND LIONS

The lion sits upon his hill,
he's quiet but he watches all.
He sees antelope near a small rill
and hears hyena's far off call.

Baboon do their baboon things.
They receive from him no concern
while within reach a cricket sings.
High above the noon sun burns.

The baboon troop slowly comes near.
The lion merely shakes his head
while the troop falsely shows no fear.
they know the lion is well fed.

Hey Whistle at 5.25 A.M. (moodified)

In a place I knew
a village
with maximum population
the train whistled at 5.25 am

It was too early to rise
too late to go back to sleep
what did then couples do
but not enjoy the balance of it

together they made up
for the balance time
till all village girls
became pregnant
wow what a climb

the Mayor then passed
a verbal Order

no whistling by the train
through the village
let young one's
in juxtaposition remain
lol

Intoxication

While all the other flowers
were deep in their winter’s
drabness of faded colors,
she shone a full radiance.

She was crowned by a halo
of white hair, its beauty
administered by the dark
swirling streaks within.

And light came to my domain,
again my heart lightened up
to the attraction of a magnet,
or perhaps, the pull of gravity.

And when I stood next to her,
mesmerized in her presence,
the urge came upon me to be
impulsive, taste her sweet lips.

Dreams of M'Lady

Dreams of M’lady

Years ago, a radiant painting in oil
hung on the wall opposite my bed.
It was of you, M'lady, rendered
in a master's bold brush strokes.
I had awakened you from sleep when
I brought you home from an antique store.
The old antiquarian knew nothing
about the artist who had captured you
in oil on linen canvas, then imprisoned
you behind varnish. But he must have been
a master to have captured your features
so perfectly in every detail.

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