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Gilt Written - after Shel Silverstein Snowball

I prayed myself a_trophy,
as golden as could be,
so Vivian and Sophie,
on PH poetry
could [g]ape at gilt reflection
praise find for rhyme ahead,
ignoring recollection
mind's guilt ridden instead.

Winged trophy I would merit,
make Pegasus so proud,
hear nightingale and ferret
recite my rants aloud.
Alas, verse earns no pennies,
points can't be traded in
for sense, cents, spinning Jennies,
lest stanzas' stall begin...

I'll seek through silver second
sweet consolation prize,
feat which at least is reckoned
worth more than Styxs hiss sighs.
Perhaps Judge tender-hearted
shall honour my request
if not, I'd best get started
on bronze song jest in_quest

Ingesting judgements hasty
my tasty morsels may
sell more than punning pastry,
internal interplay
perhaps bright bronze write earns me,
if not I'll add, ahem!
my Muse, pray never spurn me,
bestowing just H.M.!

[c] Jonathan Robin - Parody Sheldon Silverstein Snowball written 7 June 2008

Snowball

I made myself a snowball,
As perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for it's head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first, it wet the bed.'

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Snowball

I made myself a snowball
As perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for its head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first it wet the bed.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Sincere Thanks

Sincere thanks to the Africans who,
Made us proud at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games;
For there their talents were exposed to the world.
Thanks to Kenya who got the total of 14 medals:
Made up of 5 Gold medals,5 Silver medals and 4 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Ethiopia who got the total of 7 medals:
Made up of 4 Gold medals, a Silver medal and 2 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Zimbabwe who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Gold medal and 3 Silver medals.
Thanks to Cameroon who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Tunisia who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Nigeria who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and 3 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Algeria who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and a Bronze medal.
Thanks to Morocco who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Siver medal and a Bronze medal.
THanks to South Africa who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Sudan who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Egypt who got a single Bronze medal,
Thanks to Mauritius who got a single Bronze medal,
And tanks to Togo who also got a single Bronze medal.
You've really made Africa proud and we do thank you all!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I think about the cosmic snowball theory. A few million years from now the sun will burn out and lose its gravitational pull. The earth will turn into a giant snowball and be hurled through space. When that happens it won't matter if I get this guy out.

quote by Bill Lee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snowball Is Back With His Hens

Poor snowball the white silky bantam cock not feeling well of late
His son big red has thrashed him he is in a sorry state
Dried blood on his neck feathers from the comb he has bled
He has really copped a hiding from his oldest offspring red.

Red and his half sibling cock white silky bantams by Steve and Annie to be sold
Around the yard with their parent hens they won't grow tired and old
In the fowl pen they are obliged to wait tomorrow at the break of day
Steve will take them in a box to the fowl dealing woman in the house across the way.

Snowball is back with his hens his aggressive son now behind lettuce wire
Will never have another chance of attacking his snow white sire
Snowball is Steve and Annie's favourite rooster and they decide who stay
And violence as big red will find out it does not always pay.

Snowball the silky bantam cock he crows in the backyard
With dried blood on his neck feathers and his comb from warring scarred
And tomorrow big red will be gone and snowball again will reign supreme
And he will recover from his wounds and regain his self esteem.

poem by Francis Duggan
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On Fire Inside A Snowball

Whenever I look out french windows
It's always snowing outside.
And feel your body relax on mine,
Giving me all the good lines,
(Uh-huh)
All the good lines,
All the good lines...
Hot in the ice,
On fire inside,
A snowball.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Hot in the ice,
On fire inside,
A snowball.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
A crystal layer of ice on our skin:
Very numb outside but warm within.
I bend to join our lips, but it's too cold
To kiss and hit. Is it you I'm feeling?
Is it you I'm feeling?
(Yeah)
Is it you I'm feeling?
Hot in the ice,
On fire inside,
A snowball.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Hot in the ice,
On fire inside,
A snowball.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.
Ah, but she's wonderful,
Set in the snow.

song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Answer Lies... or... The Answer Lies?

Frustration's shadow fades not as moon rises,
but open heart prepares for fair surprises,
dream scenes encounter reconciliation
between hopes, - for self-fear's no consolation
as coffee cups can all too soon turn cold,
and golden hues nerves spurn turn silver old.

The answer, lies discarding, finds what wise is
seems metamorphosis, winged nymph arises
to shed protection's superficial station,
to touch NOT think superlative sensation,
Energies, rechannelled, warmth enfold
but bubble thoughts true sentiments withhold...

(c) Jonathan Robin - written 9 April 2008

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Stringing A long and short of it

Skelton
dealt on
terse taut
verse taught
strung list
tongue twist
fast rhyme
last time
[th]ink sends
wink ends

[c] Jonathan Robin 8 skeltonics written 8 June 2008

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Perhaps This Time

A snowball on the ground, I have found, perfectly round,
created maybe by small hands, it stands and thus commands,
me to scoop it up and toss it across the cosmos.
And this I had wished to do, but it flew not, and slipped through my fingers,
landing at my feet, on hard concrete, no longer complete.

Carefully made and displayed, it was like a grenade
as the moulded flakes shattered into fragments which then takes the sun
to turn them into tiny watery lakes.
And now another snowball I have found, and this one is also action bound,
so whitely gowned.

Perhaps this time I can throw it high, beyond the sky, I know I’ll try.
Each single particle, never one the same, is so beautifully designed,
miraculously refined, and a pleasure to the mind.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Christmas Comes And Goes

christmas comes with snowball making
christmas comes with snowball fight
christmas comes with santa claus
christmas comes with decoration of trees
christmas comes with church bell ringing
christmas comes with new year
and does with the old year
christmas comes with presents given
and collecting
and goes with nothing

poem by Esther Obeng
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Words Woven - Parody Mary BEULEY - Words Woven

Words woven into speech
soon reach
intact thread spirit of each act,
knit warp and weft of wit wish fact,
dreams' tapestry may teach.

Words express essentials,
transmit, unwind
from mind to mind,
address ideas which, blind,
would grope for means to equate
sensations refined,
coarse, sophisticate.
Thus they incarnate
emotion's multi coloured coat, pattern twist
around ideas which form,
unform,
inform or disinform,
or take by storm
precisely or by gist
the geist soul kissed.

Words woven into speech
pen hand,
when scanned
from thoughts’ life blood leach
emotions, sense, dressed to suit
points phallic and points mute,
ideo-grand!

© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY 1837_1916 written 12 December 1995 – Words Woven revised 31 July 2008 notably first verse below
Words woven into speech
soon reach
to knit the spirit of each act,
the warp and weft of every fact,
through dreams to teach.

______________

Words Woven

Words woven into rhyme
In time
Become a tapestry of thought
A canvas of experience in which
Our dreams are wrought.

Words are the evidence of what goes on
communicate
Within the mind.
They clothe the invisible
With robes of speech,
Sophisticated as silk,
Homespun as hessian,
And in between
The many-patterned, many-textured range,
Familiar and strange,
Of words -
Woven and dyed and spun
For Fun
Or seriously aware
Of what is there.

Words woven into rhyme
Or prose
Transpose
Giving the tiny embryo of thought
A dress to wear, most delicately wrought,
And caught for ever in a form know
And understand.

Mary BEULEY 1837_1916

© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY written 12 December 1995

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sure Render or Surrender, Sur Rendezvous or Sir Rendez Vous

My one half celebrates our meeting's near
And yet my other fears the tears of fear.
Undoubting, one lives US as heaven's writ,
Deterred the other by too perfect fit,
Each part completes the other's inner whole,
Completely each defeats void's empty hole,
Made one by destined synchronicity,
Maid Man ban 'ran', scan fans complicity
As natural for flowing through twinned soul
Unsure, yet too aware two can't be sole.
Dance catalyzed by chance shows love's pure state
Enhanced by 'wait', scorns concommitant weight.
Contradictions sweet sound beat for rhyme,
Make light of distance, down beat jealous Time.

[c] Jonathan Robin acrostic sonnet written 16 June 2008

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Being A Poet

I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.

Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.

At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.

If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.

There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.

I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.

Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.

In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.

With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.

Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!

poem by Angela Wybrow
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The House that Kevin Built 2008 Version

Buzzword b[l]eached pompos_city
unhinges poetic experience's
foundations.

Quickie contests try city zen patience,
sat on a mo[nu]ment
rapping at grief.

Contest[ed] cliques p[l]ay it forward
feature backward thinking,
[ill]iterative judgements often biased.

Uncommented gems, rhyme overlooked
alongside ready vers libres rants,
compete with time for lebensraum.

(5 June 2008)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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How do I parody? after Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sonnet XLIII How do I love thee?

How Do I Parody?

How true I parody! Let me count the ways.
I parody in depth, taste copy paste insight
My mind can reach into your writing quite
Through APing Ways and Means, through rhyme’s mainstays.
I parody to the level of everyday's
post hosting feed, by sun, electric light.
In vers libres freely, sonnet set to right;
I pastiche purely, rarely spurning praise.
Reparody with passion put to use
through griefs, beliefs, rehearsed, though wanting faith.
I parody love’s theme, who dreams accuse.
Newfangled paints b[l]end colour bending brea[d]th,
Smiles, tears, [p]rune poem’s life! - and, if judge choose,
gold goblets garner, googled after death.

Parody Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sonnet XLIII How Do I Love Thee

12 February 2007 revised 10 June 2008 and 30 September 2009
for previous versions see below robi3_1323_brow7_0001 PSX_IXX

________________

How do I Parody?

How do I parody? Let me count the ways.
I parody in depth, with taste and with insight,
my mind may reach into your writing quite
through APing Ways and Means, through rhyme’s mainstays.
I parody to the level of everyday's
intimate grace, by sun, electric light.
in vers libres freely, sonnet set to right.
I pastiche purely, rarely turn from Praise,
reparody with passion put to use
through your old griefs, beliefs, though wanting faith.
I parody with love I’d never lose,
use paints newfangled, shading E.B.B.ing breath,
still showing your life's smiles, tears, for, should judge choose,
my golden goblet fame lives loved past death.

Parody Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sonnet XLIII How Do I Love Thee
[c] Jonathan Robin - 2 February 2007 revised 10 June 2008 robi3_1611_brow7_0001 PSX_IXX for previous version see below
_____________

Parody Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sonnet XLIII How Do I Love Thee
[c] Jonathan Robin - 2 February 2007 robi3_1611_brow7_0001 PSX_IXX for previous version see below

Sonnet XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Elisabeth Barrett BROWNING 1806_1861

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Snowball

My baby took our love
And then she rolled it up
Rolled it up a hill
Like a ball of snow
Like a snowball grows
Until it gets too big
Until she lost control
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
She took a tiny bit
And rolled it up again
Slower than before
She went a step too far
She had to let it go
I saw it go straight down
My baby turned around
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Eyes were made for looking
Hands were made for holdin
Hearts were made for lovin
Lips were made for kissin
Legs were made for walkin
Tracks were made to follow
Thats what Im gonna do
Two tracks
In the snow
Two tracks
Up that hill
My heart broke
When my baby left
Two tracks behind

song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Innate actions overtake

.

Reflection earns you wisdom;
Knowledge earns you wisdom;
Experience earns you wisdom.
Innate actions overtake them.
09.04.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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What The Snow Man Said

The Moon’s a snowball. See the drifts
Of white that cross the sphere.
The Moon’s a snowball, melted down
A dozen times a year.

Yet rolled again in hot July
When all my days are done
And cool to greet the weary eye
After the scorching sun.

The moon’s a piece of winter fair
Renewed the year around,
Behold it, deathless and unstained,
Above the grimy ground!

It rolls on high so brave and white
Where the clear air-rivers flow,
Proclaiming Christmas all the time
And the glory of the snow!

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Sheepish Bo Peep Recombined

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
and cannot tell where to find them,
splice more DNA for cloning today
with no zoning law to unwind them...

[c] Jonathan Robin Parody Bo Peep written 27 November 2008

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Don't Grieve, Leave! - 1124 - Current Version

Deceived, grieve not but leave! Departing in a trice -
better alone than prone, pain tripled thrice.
'If of himself he will not love' advice
is academic - so why starve on rice
when heart and mind may find spring roll of dice
spin spare rib tasty? Hasty snap snare's splice.
Waste not one day, escape from prison vice,
abandon scoundrel to his own device.
May praise aloud from crazy crowd suffice
revising shaky rake from snaky vice?
Dance on, advance, leave loser to his lice,
uncompromising sample promised spice.
Terse verse advice cannot be more concise,
wench grieve not, take French leave, split! W[r]it precise!

(16 November 2008)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.

It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006

poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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