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Yon Pissycat
Yon pissycat, wherewith dost thou now hang,
Thy mewing
heard, unseen thy mangy frame?
A ransom paid to gather up thy gang,
A feline’s friend to set thy hide aflame!
Yon
alley shunned, in favour of the sewer,
With wretched rats to gallivant, and growl,
Forsake the loft, thy mile is in
manure,
With vermin proud that this be how you prowl!
Yon minstrels muse of brigand, and of brute,
Where Sherwood,
once, upheld that other ace,
Now flushed with force the sherbet of the chute,
Its features found like fixtures round
thy face!
Yon pissycat of legendary lore,
Your putrid pelt doth pain one’s every pore!
© by Richard "Baron of Barffe" Doiron
MY TWISTED MIND
My twisted mind is keeping me awake.
So many nights no
shutting of the eye;
A loon as well upon some loony lake
That endless birds would surely certify.
The oddity is how I'm made to think,
A floater, then,
for feathers that are light.
My daunting dance upon this dreary drink
Where lurk, no end, the denizens of night.
The city block is where I'd hang my hat
If you believed
the musings on the mount
But, truth be known, I'm bolting with the bat
When night descends upon that feral fount.
My twisted mind is keeping me afloat
The night my niche
and anchored to my boat.
© by Richard Doiron
A Bad Sonnet, You Say?
AKA *&$##**%%&**
A bad sonnet you say is what you want,
so let me limn
as lousy as can be,
prove succinct and to the point needn’t daunt
plus rhythm can suit rhyme scheme to a tee.
Pick your poison: politics, fit to form --
commit hari
Kerry and dote on Bush --
church the state by crusading up a storm;
talk death to death and taxes to the tush.
Romance is rather your cuppa, a croon?
Ears will ring
with the sweet nothings we sing!
Or soul weary worn, hurl howls to the moon
until cows can fly home with birds, winging!
You want bad and look what we delivered:
Ugly babe, whose
muse’s mother quivered!
© Helga Ross 2004 (although I can't see why I'd want to copyright
this!)
His Lopsided Grin...
... gets me every time...
"There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
And
found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile,
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all
lived together in a little crooked house."
– Mother Goose
A godlike glint of topaz eyes meets mine,
a hint of lion
lineage, a king,
my feline lolls, his finest form’s recline,
stares, slivered almond pupils narrowing.
One of a kind, sanguine, missing one fang,
he grins his
grimace of a crooked smile,
body language says, “I don’t ‘care a hang’
for mouse fiestas, siestas
the while.”
Cat calls, croons, cajoles; stirs not a whisker,
I’m
a mere mortal subject to his snooze.
No fool, he’d heard a little bird whisper,
“Adopt her!” Sure!
Shelters nine lives to lose!
Sherman marched in, wound his wound with his charms,
Past
perils, now conquests, smug in my arms.
© Helga Ross 2004
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