Tag Archives: rhyming poetry

Photo finish Friday: “Cold one”

Photo courtesy of Chris Brock.

 

The coldest beer in the USA

by David E. Booker

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

You won’t find another

As cold and as clear tonight.

 

My truck broke down.

My dog died suddenly

And my woman, she left me

Running off with my brother

What else bad can there be?

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

You won’t find another

As cold and as clear tonight.

 

My barber’s quiet frown

Says my hair’s gone astray

Fading from my head, more each day.

Being bald makes me shudder.

I cry and throw my comb away.

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

You won’t find another

As cold and as clear tonight.

 

One left and eleven down.

Empties rattle in the back.

Now here comes the local flack.

He’s after me and no other.

I sip the last of the twelve pack.

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

You won’t find another

As cold and as clear tonight.

 

Sitting in a cell downtown

Waiting to be shipped to the jail

Nobody left to throw my bail.

Then I see my dear ol’ brother.

The look of man about to fail.

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

You won’t find another

As cold and as clear tonight.

 

I give him my best frown.

He walks over and says to me:

“Brother forgive and let it be

“She ran off with yet another.

“Our half-brother who’d been at sea.”

 

The coldest beer in the USA

Drive up and down the pike

Turn left or turn right

Sadly, we can’t have another

On this cold and clear tonight.

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Filed under 2017, Photo Finish Friday

“My Bowling Green”

owling-100dpi_6x11_4c_0615-copyIt’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green. /

The reckless came to town one day, /
Said we had all gone away, /
Gone away, no more to say /
In this place now unseen, called my Bowling Green. /

Jihadist from a foreign land /
Had come and massacred us so grand, /
Wiped us all out where we stand. /
O’ the tragedy was so mean deep in my Bowling Green. /

They say none of us were spared, /
That these terrorist did not care. /
We were lost to great despair /
That day in memory serpentine in my Bowling Green. /

The media did not take note. /
Little was said and less was wrote. /
We were left with but just a sad note, /
A sad note it would seem about my Bowling Green. /

Fredrick Douglass had nothing to say. /
Nor Oliver Wendell Douglas about that day /
When Green Acres were turned red with dismay /
O’ that sad, mean, vile scene in my Bowling Green. /

We cannot remember what we do not know, /
Though alternative facts tell us so, /
That lies and lives come and go. /
There is little we can now glean from my Bowling Green. /

They erected a sign to the non-event /
And many a word has long been spent /
In song and poem and prose unbent /
To say what can’t be seen of the wrongs in my Bowling Green. /

It’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2017, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author, political humor

Relate

Bloviate, expectorate
sniffle, drivel
prevaricate.

Chronic hate, cheat on mate
snivel, quibble,
not so great.

Reprobate, a tyrant’s slate
uncivil, drivel
expropriate.

Disassociate, oh too late
swivel, shrivel
unsubstantiate.

Violate, grope a date
piddle, riddle
desecrate.

Obviate, end of state
cripple middle
subjugate.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

I was once a pumpkin:
Now I am a mess.
The party night is over
And I wait to deliquesce.

The treats have been handed out
Some to children too bold
Who think that a cigarette
Is not a sign you’re too old.

They came in hoards and cars
As if the end of time was near
From close by and far way
Some with the scent of beer.

I was once orange and in my prime
Round and succulent to behold.
But now I deliquesce
As I grow a little mold.

I will not make Thanksgiving
Which I hear is a special holiday
Where pumpkins become pie
And make taste buds say, “Yay!”

I hope you will remember me
As I slump into the earth.
Don’t think of me as too scary
But with a little mirth.

And next year at this time
Decorate one of my kin
And the season of the spooks
Can once again begin.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Heads up”

Inspiration can come from anywhere -- even someone else's photo.

Inspiration can come from anywhere — even someone else’s photo.

Heads up

Oh no, many heads will roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Poor ol’ sad sack.”

She married wild and much too early
And outside her station, “Oh, most surely.”
There is very little we can do now
Except shake our heads and wonder how.

She’s stuck around like a head on a pike.
She has given him pain, but much delight.
But the naysayers still shake their heads
As if that’s all that need ever be said.

Oh no, many heads still roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Alas and alack.”

He’s such a goofball, they did deride
And these were friends on his side.
“He’s weird and crazy and even a dope.”
Still she never once gave up hope.

These twenty years have been quite heady
Even those that weren’t quite steady.
The days have passed in the blink of eye
Even for eyes perched way up high.

Each moment has been like a stone
In building a castle called a home.
Few are left who say nay to them
And their chances grow ever slim.

Oh no, all those heads will roll
And that rolling will take its toll.
Heads now are perched high up on lances
With eyes blank, no longer giving glances.

–poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Oh, Mom

[Editor’s note: inspired by a neighbor’s actual event, as reported on Facebook. Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers reading this.]

Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like when I was ten
And then, in the middle of the night
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.

Oh, Mom,
I was queasy then and I am again,
And once more I stand at your door.
Too much to drink, this time I think.
I should’ve stopped instead of saying, “More.”

Oh, Mom,
As I now look in, the light is very thin.
I hear the roar of a brain-jarring snore.
Is that you or Dad? Oh, my achy breaky head.
I pitch in too soon, onto the bed — ka-boom!

Oh, Mom,
I will try again. Oh, where to begin?
I did not mean to do or repeat anew,
But my head went in, like when I was ten,
And turned white into red, white, and “Ouuh!”

Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like I did back then,
When, in the middle of the night,
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, poetry, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Lights out”

Traffic indecisive.

Traffic indecisive.

There once was a light in town
that folks just couldn’t get around.
Red, yellow, and also green:
all colors could be seen.
It glowed all day and night —
strong was the town’s light plight.
They couldn’t get anywhere
with that light hanging in the air.
Stuck at a standstill they were;
no thought or action could occur.
Nobody knew what to expect
or which color light to select.
Green meant they should go,
yellow meant I don’t know,
And red meant do no more,
keep your brake down to the floor.
So there were wrecks and bottlenecks
and people who couldn’t trek.
The town was in full mess.
What to do was anyone’s guess.
Then one day in the dead of night
with hoods on to block the light
people stumbled and bumbled around
until they cut the light Hydra down.
They hung it in the town museum
where folks now can come and see them:
all three bright lights —
glowing both day and night.
But they attached a timer switch
so even those caught in its twitch
have a chance to get away
on this, April Fool’s Day.
So, if you ever come to town
and feel life has you down,
go where others have already gone
and watch the lights shine on and on.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author