The Guy with the Beard

his beard, a bit scraggly
and with more than a hint of grey
protrudes from the bottom of his face
in indirect proportion to the hair-line
on his scalp

other than Sundays, you won`t see him
wear a dress-shirt or tie
he`s much more comfortable
in a baggy sweat-shirt and cargo pants

nothing makes him happier than getting a big
“squishy hug” from one of his kids,
or having one of them climb into his lap
and snuggle for a while

his face, bespectacled, and with
the beginning of wrinkles, isn’t exactly
what most people would think of as
“model material”, but he really doesn’t care

and his is the face that I see
every day
when I look in the mirror


I couldn’t resist writing another character-sketch poem for dVerse

The Guy on the Left

You have got to wonder
what’s hiding behind that smile
that’s pasted on to the face
of the guy with
the hair freshly-styled with too much gel
wearing a 500 dollar suit pared
with perfect checkered tie
and a silver bit of hankerchief
poking out of the pocket
who stands there
leaning ever so slightly
towards his business partner

can you trust a guy like that?
is his smile truly insincere
or was he just nervous
getting his picture taken
for the brochure I have
in front of me?


today at dverse, Brian is having us develop a character through poetry


Copyright -Sandra Crook

Copyright -Sandra Crook

Everywhere he went, he was greeted with kind words, friendly waves, warm smiles.  Charles loved this town!  He smiled and waved in return as his tractor put-putted down the road away from the chalet.

The rack that he pulled was mostly filled with round hay-bales  – a valuable commodity during this year of drought, so it was no wonder that the people of this agricultural area welcomed him so readily.

Three police cruisers sped the other way, lights flashing…towards the chalet.  Charles smiled and waved at them as well.

Charles knew that nobody ever suspects the guy driving the tractor.


Written for Friday Fictioneers, where Rochelle Wisoff-Fields provides us with a weekly photo to get our creative juices flowing.

Something a Bit Silly for dVerse Open Link Night

a poet who hated to rhyme
decided to try it one time
he put on a bonnet
and wrote out a sonnet
but felt he was covered in grime

so next day he wrote some lim’ricks
but made sure that they didn’t rhyme
the purists were angry
but he didn’t care
’cause “that’s not my style” he said.


posted for dVerse Open Link Night

An Ode

so small
and ugly…
a mere bi-sected
ovoid sphere…burned,
then joined with
its brethren
to die a second death
being crushed
to dust
by spinning,
metal blades
but not merely
burned and crushed…
then made to endure
a cascade
of scalding water
you suffer
and then to top
it all off
you are discarded
like so much refuse
but somehow
you’ve filled my cup
with an elixir
that warms
my heart
and brings a smile
to my face
oh small, ugly
coffee bean,
you did not die in vain


written for dVerse, where Victoria is having us write object poetry.  Click on the dVerse link to see what other poetic contributions have been made…or write your own poem and join in the fun!

The Earth is Doomed (or is it?)

Copyright - David Stewart

Copyright – David Stewart

Quarrog was always surprised how easy it was to infiltrate the homes of his victims.  In fact, he didn’t have to do anything at all…they just picked him up and carried him in.  Once he sent word back to his home planet, he was confident the invasion of “Thee-yurth” (as the inhabitants called it) would be quite successful.

What he didn’t realize was that the only reason he was getting in so easily was that he looked exactly like a lamp, and the only homes that his people would infiltrate were the ones where the owners were shopping for lamps.


for Friday Fictioneers

Perhaps there’s good reason that “Orange” doesn’t rhyme with anything

When I heard there are no words that rhyme well with orange
I decided to make one and so I said “Splornge”
Well as soon as I said it my Splornge came to be
It was hairy and short and as ugly can be

Before long that Splornge ran right out of the door
And I thought that the Splornge was gone for-ever-more
Oh if only my think had turned out to be true
For my Splornge had a mischievous streak, maybe two!

But before that odd Splornge made its way out my place
he had picked all my pockets with skill and with grace
And he’d gone through my fridge and he’d spilled my root beer
And with black felt tip marker had writ, “I was here.”

Then he hot-wired my car and he drove out of site
and the cops had to chase him well into the night
but when they finally stopped him he’d snuck right away
so the Splornge hunt continued until the next day

And before too much time passed he’d held up three banks
he had stolen identities, pulled tons of pranks
But when Splornge hacked the Pentagon he’d gone too far
As if it weren’t enough that he’d stolen my car!

Well it took me some time before I made my plan
But I finally hatched one with my good friend Dan
We concluded there might be one way to stop Splornge
What I had to do was say that “naught rhymes with orange!”

The solution worked fine but I’ve still got one fear
For there’s one other colour without rhyme I hear
So whatever you do when you want to find rhymes
don’t end lines with “purple” and then you’ll do fine!


I wanted to write a poem in anapestic tetrameter. Dr. Seuss used this meter brilliantly, and I wanted to try to do something “Seussian”. Definitely doesn’t work as well as the Dr.’s works, but hopefully it still gave you a smile.
Written for dVerse Open Link Night

Roses Are Red: A Love Poem to Accuracy (warning: contents may be somewhat sarcastic)

Over at dVerse, since Valentines day is over, Shanyn has challenged us to write love poetry that’s short and maybe “not so sweet” using non-traditional love poetry words.  So here’s my attempt:

Roses are red, or that’s what some think
but sometimes they’re yellow and sometimes they’re pink
Sometimes they’re white, what do you think of that?
And if that’s not enough they’re occasionally black

So if you think that they just have to be red
get that silly notion right out of your head

And don’t get me started on violets blue
A violet is violet (a purplish hue)

I’d like to see love poems more accurate, see?
These colour-blind poets, they sure annoy me!

Flat Tire – Bout Rimé for dVerse

Today at dVerse, Tony Maude has introduced us to Bouts-rimés.  As I can’t possibly explain this any better than Tony did, I’ll simply quote part of what he has to say:

“Bouts-rimés (boo reeMAY) is French for “rhymed ends”. It is the name given to a poetic game in which a list of words that rhyme with one another is given to one or more poets who then make their own poems, all of which use the same rhyming words in the order in which they were given at the end of their lines.”

Tony then gave us the following list: drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church, worse, purse, back, that

14 words, so it only seemed to make sense to write a sonnet.  Go to dVerse to see Tony’s full article and to find the link that will allow you to read other poets’ poems based on those 14 words.  Without further ado….here’s my poem:


One Sunday as I went out for a drive

I found I had to pull o’er to the side

‘Twas fright’ning as it was the dead of night

I’d claim great courage (but I would have lied)

A flattened tire seemed to be my wage

If I could find a spare then I’d be saved

From yonder bush a frightful noise was made

And to my great chagrin I saw a face

With great relief I saw it was a nurse

But she stood in the graveyard of a church

And once again my fears became much worse!

With fear I saw her reach into her purse

Held something to her ear, then put it back

She’d called a tow-truck.  Whatcha think of that?


Copyright - Janet Webb

It was if the face in the portrait was staring with cold disapproval at the drink I had just made.

For the briefest of moments I was tempted to feel guilt at this little indulgence of mine.  I managed to shrug of that feeling, however.  I laughed at the portrait, said “Cheers!” and picked up the glass.  The cool red wine warmed my throat pleasantly on the way down, and the fresh-cut fruit was delicious.  I wondered for a while how anyone could disapprove of a Sangria.  Then I remembered, the model for the portrait had been allergic to strawberries.


Written for Friday Fictioneers