Crash went the book shelf as it fell to the floor,
all the crystal and figurines smashed by the door
Cursed, then cried, oh me oh my! Can I borrow?
Surely I will catch what-for, add to my sorrows.
The sheet of paper...offers for figurines on hand,
became a crumpled paper in the trash can.
Gone some hopes and dreams,
should I just jump into the stream?
Got on the bike, headed off to think,
gravel all thick, miscue and woops, in the drink.
Two scraped knees, knot on the head.
Shucks, I laugh, I ain’t dead.
Biking to the river, I will be danged,
straw blown all over me, bike whanged.
Threshing machine pointed the wrong way,
boy did I have a lot to say
Ochre the chaff, bright and yellow,
old man a screaming, boy can he bellow.
Separating the wheat from the chaff, the thresher was,
I got the chaff, straw end, plus the itchy fuzz.
Used the river as a bathtub,
just getting wet, not any scrub.
Cool water felt real good,
then I saw a water moccasin!
Headed home, singing a tune,
no facades, surely no runes.
Cleaned up the mess and then...
wife got home, started all over again.
Six Words in a Poem
By Sharon (ByGolly25@aol.com)
Oh what is that crashing sound
Contractor dumping gravel on ground
He wore a wide brim straw hat
Ochre in color what do you think of that
After delivering the gravel load
He crumpled a paper with order code
Then he went home to his wife
She screamed at him causing strife
For he left gravel in the old bathtub
When he climbed in there to scrub
What a mess he left in there
For her to clean up as he didn't care
By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)
So many miles of ochre sand,
Go west, go west, go west, young man,
Oh that he could find a place to land,
Honey, just stop, just hold my hand.
Crumpled paper-shaped tumble weeds,
Desert scattering next year’s seeds,
Lonely, distant, travelers heed
Running from their untoward deeds.
Her hair like straw becoming in wind,
Air conditioning not heard of then,
Two partners in crime out to win
Their battle fleeing their mutual sin.
Finally, hitting gravel, they take a spin,
He to she, she to he, make a grin,
A new home in Texas, no Arizona den,
Across the border from where they’ve been.
In their new home the lovers hope to crash,
Before pickin’ grapefruit to get some cash,
Send it home to ninos to keep in a stash,
Hope there’s enough for a soon mad dash.
A bathtub though is a luxury sweet,
In an old mud hotel, an old mud street,
A suspicious tamale tastes grand to eat,
Just for now they’ve done their feat.
Six Words in a Poem
By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@comcast.net)
A crash outside my front window woke me with a start.
It was hard, but with my bed I did part.
A new Chevrolet Malibu looked like a crumpled paper on the street.
It had managed to with a very large telephone pole meet.
It was if it had been made of straw not shiny new metal.
The driver was out, but if he was hurt, I could not settle.
Police on the scene, fire and ambulance too.
Gravel had been sent everywhere, hope no one will sue.
The Ochre color of the car was hardly visible to the eye.
The driver set in the grass and let out an audible sigh.
A bathtub of Gin must have sent this man around the world and back again.
From now on, I hope he considers drinking and driving a mortal sin.