|
Poetry by Teledon 
| |
OUTSIDE MY PATIO
by teledon
An egret alights
with leisurely avian grace;
a mockingbird cries.
A lizard scampers
with mysterious intent;
a spider weaves lies.
A hawk circles high
in calm and effortless flight;
a bee seeks his prize.
Red fire ants scurry
and ply their painstaking trade,
while God paints the skies.
colors lost
by teledon
lonely grey
spirit lorn
pelting rain
memoirs blue
muted love
muddy pools
opaque sky
silent heart
rainbow dim
SEARCHING
by Teledon
Some of us
are praying, reaching.
Asking much,
we beg, beseeching.
Is God there,
or is he hidden?
Does He come
so brashly bidden?
What if God
is not God at all?
What if man's
concept is too small?
Can there be
some fathomless force,
yet undreamt,
reigning o'er life's course?
On this stage
of futile dances,
who presumes
to know the answers?
HIDDEN AGENDAS
The family gathers
with hugs and cheery hellos;
a tot cries aloud.
Laughing and joking
they compete for attention;
and Grandpa imbibes.
A straying husband
peeps as skirts inch past trim knees;
the children run wild.
A sister, all smiles,
envies her sibling's chic style;
and the TV blares.
An uncle feigns jest
and pats a pert derriere;
the dog wags his tail.
A brother-in-law
mourns money foolishly lent;
and the table is cleared.
Goodbyes and kisses
are traded as Grandma dotes;
and life's a charade.
MY KNEW PEAR OF SHOES
Won is left; won is write;
their's the rub, watt a plight!
I'm knot sew sure witch is witch.
My left's on rite; dew eye switch?
CAPRICE
Oh, time weary traveller,
pray, look you your last
at the carnival mirror
of reflections past.
See the last dances
of phantoms surreal.
Was life merely dreamt?
What do these spectres reveal?
Life is fancy, an image;
life is a pale gleam.
A dark stranger draws nearer
to bring a new dream.
A LOVER FLEAS
With braking hart, she asked of hymn,
"Will ewe return, my deer, deer, Gym?"
"Isle bee back, and bring a wring,
when mewls fly and Katz can sing."
DREAM STREET
fantasy rife
winged desire
mind inflamed
love for hire
reality limps
mean, crippled feet
dream abased
red light street
A POEM
In Words of One Syllable
The Grand Pooh did sit and stare,
at the sky so white; so bare.
"It is too dull; it is too plain,"
he said out loud to Miss Jane.
"I will have it white no more.
Choose a shade that will not bore."
To the mall Miss Jane did rush;
bought blue paint and a brush.
"I love your choice," said the Pooh.
That is why the sky is blue.
TAKE YOUR PIQUE
I'd like to smack
the mental dwarf
who first spat out
the phrase "pi**ed off."
Well, monkey hear
and monkey say.
We now hear it
everyday.
Though, commonplace,
at best, it's vile.
Profanity
is not my style.
What has urine,
of yellow hue
to do with ire
when we turn blue?
So many words
better convey
the shades of anger
which do hold sway.
Chagrined, irate,
indignant, cross,
are just a few
not quite so coarse.
Continued use,
even in verse,
of "pi**ed off,"
could lead to worse.
Some dull cretin
one day will shout,
I'm doo-dooed off."
There is no doubt.
REAR ACTION
by teledon
I walked 'round,
tho' it sounds crass,
with a time bomb
inside my ass.
Doctors poked,
oh dear, oh dear,
many fingers
in my rear.
Then they scanned,
and they sounded.
Prostate cancer!
My heart pounded.
I worried not
that I'd be dead.
Could I still
perform in bed?
Radiant seeds,
implanted pure,
in my male gland,
achieved a cure.
So, my men friends,
go for your test.
Protect your kit;
ain't sex the best?
ps to Anto
your "e" about my poem is going in my scrapbook
BOULEVARDIER
On the Champs-Elysees,
in fine attire so gay,
the Dandyman strolls.
Oh, the Dandyman strolls
on the Boulevard.
On the Champs-Elysees,
at a sidewalk cafe,
the dandyman lolls.
Oh, the Dandyman strolls,
and the Dandyman lolls
on the Boulevard.
On the Champs-Elysees,
seeking conquests today,
the Dandyman trolls.
Oh, the Dandyman strolls,
and the dandyman lolls.
Oh, the Dandyman trolls
on the Boulevard.
On the Champs-Elysees,
charming ladies say, "Pay".
The Dandyman doles.
Oh, the Dandyman strolls,
and the Dandyman lolls.
Oh, the Dandyman trolls,
and the Dandyman doles
on the Boulevard.
Prose is very handy,
but poetry is dandy.
Spoken words are quicker;
writing them is slicker.
Click Here for more
Great Poetry by Teledon
Click Here to Return to
Antonova's Attic
Click Here to Return to Poetry
Posted by Antonova's Pals
