An Alaskan Winter

hoar frost in Anchorage

Hoar frost in Anchorage via Reddit

 

There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun

A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.

This poem is my entry into Chelsea Ann Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. This weeks theme is The Bleak Midwinter.

Borne

Borne more of angst than understanding
Employing methods, far off from upstanding
The young anarchists ploy
Was to seek and destroy
Whilst obtaining all they were demanding

The first threw himself on the tile
At Walmart, in the Christmas toy aisle
He screamed and he pitched
Held his breath till he twitched
As his mother did her best to smile

The second locked himself in the loo
And screamed out, “There’s nothing you can do!
I will not wear that Tee!
Kids will make fun of me!”
Till his mother, her demand she withdrew

Now sister thought herself a bit slicker
She’d not fight mom, instead she’d just trick her
Off to study she’d go
And little would mother know
Till she came home awash in malt liquor!

Chelsea Ann Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest this week called for limericks about birth. I guess mine is more about after birth, but what can I say. At least I tried…..

Dead Man’s Jamboree

rattle me bones and shiver me timbers
it’s a dead man’s jamboree
from dusk till dawn
around the graves
a dancing they will be
a raspy throated woodwind howls
as drums are banged with bones
and out there in the mist somewhere-
another dead man moans
with but one night, the whole year thru
this gay thread to weave
they dance the jig, and tip the jug
in gleeful toast to moon above-
‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..

This is my offering for Chelsea Ann Owen’s Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest‘s call for Halloween Poetry. Boo!

Breech


Hiram slipped his elbow
then his forearm
then his wrist
from the swollen vulva
of the poor heifer
whose calf he’d had to twist
to get it to emerge all aglow-
first the legs, and then the torso.

“Delivering poorly
presented calves
can be some tedious work.”
Hiram stated
as he brought the calf
with one final tug n’ jerk,
“It’s a stress on the calf- and brother-
a right pain in the ars for the mother.”

“T’isn’t exactly painless
for a poor farmer
either, now don’t ya see
I’ll have to sell
off this wee little calf
if I’m ta cover yer fee.”
Farmer Ed countered, and so it began-
the necessary haggle-an…

Written for Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest topic: Unusual ways to make money.

Smokin’


‘Farmer Vincent’s Smoked Meats’ the billboard did proclaim.
“Where our smoking process, is our claim to fame!”
Little Willie, ever curious, set off one day to see
exactly what’s so special about Farmer Vincent’s recipe.
Little Willie never did discover Farmer Vincent’s smoking secret.
Farmer Vincent smoked him out. Then ground him into a tasty tid-bit!

This is the first time I combined Terrible Poetry and Six Sentence Stories.. What can I say.. I’ll try anything once.. Special nod to the movie, Motel Hell as anyone can see it was my real inspiration…

The Terrible Poetry prompt was a Little Willie poem, see the link for details, and the word of the week on SSS was: Process….

I am posting this from my phone, so I’ll have to link to the inspiring posts next time I have connectivity.