A Colony of Ants, a Flamboyant of Flamingos, and a Bloat of Hippopatomous Met One Day

What names be known, for groups benign
to get, to go; to roam, to grow.

Porcupines in groups are prickles.
Wild geese do gaggle, soar in glee.
The bees all bumble, swarms the buzz,
while murder, mischief crows do make.

(And now excuse my poetic license)

A pile of purses we name a pursuit.
A nosh of neckties, a collar’s noose.
A group of grown-ups, known as grumps,
a trickle of teens, they call a twit.
A poet’s pub is fancied a pword.

*pword – Think of it as a plosive before “word” – not to be mistaken for pee-word!

Written for dVerse, Meet The Bar Thursday. Today, Bjorn asks us to write alliterative verse. He defines the form:
1. The alliterative verse has four stressed syllables per line.
2. The three first syllables alliterate, while the fourth does not.
3. There is a caesura (pause) between the first two stressed syllables and the last two.
4. If you want to, you may put a line break or some punctuation to make the caesura clear.


* I handled the alliteration and the syllables; in a few lines, I did not add the caesura. I did have fun with this….prickles, gaggles, swarms and murders. And then some made up group names: pursuit, noose, grumps, twit, and power! Phots from Pixabay.com

Lassie I’m Not.

I am but a home poet.
Prompts dog me,
thrown out as commands with treats.
Sit. Roll over. Shake.
Go fetch.
Bring it to Mr. Linky.
Drop it. Drop it.

Heel. Heel. Find the rhythm,
don’t jerk the leash.
Words come to mind with expectations,
arrange them in a meaningful way.
Pen pants, drools,
runs left to right,
left to right . . .

. . . circles round and round,
this way, that way.
Veterinarians call it the zoomies.
Poets call it frustration.
Suddenly it’s done.
And me?
I’m doggone exhausted.



APOLOGIES to those of you who read this post earlier, when for some reason, WordPress deleted all the line formatting and it came across as prose.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Dora asks us to use an animal of our choice (real or imaginary) as a metaphor for how ideas and words take shape for us on the blank page. I had a bit of fun with this one, after having recently spent four days with my daughter’s family, including their almost two year old rambunctious dog! Image created on Bing Create.

We’re All Jacked

Life spins round and round until
POP-GOES-THE-WEASEL
in our face.
Stuff it back in the box.

Keep turning the crank,
humming the tune
over and over until
POP-GOES-THE-WEASEL!

But this time,
the spring is shot.
So what to do
with us worn out Jacks?


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish is tending bar and asks us to use the word “pop” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Image from Falln-Stock 

A haiku for this historic day . . .

Coral flamboyance,
long legs and necks, all squawking.
Flamingo mosh pit.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa provides a choice of three specific prompts, all with reference to animals. I chose the option to write about an animal, considering its nature.

A group of flamingoes is called a flamboyance. There is a metaphorical allusion here….might be more clear if flamingoes were orange….or if while madly cackling and squawking they wore red baseball hats.

All the World’s a Stage (with apologies to Will Shakespeare)

So many footlights burned out
spotlight leaning askew
curtains removed, scrim gone
proscenium arch stands stark.

Program says Act Three.
Audience hushed, anticipates tragedy.
Director expects me, in shrouded black,
to slump upon the floor.

The script be damned . . .
it’s my chance to be a star!!!
Black over-sized poncho
is thrown to the floor.

Behold my sequined skin tight leotard,
fish net stockings over varicose veins.
Audience gasps at my tapping frenzy ~
shuffle ball changes, wings, and Rockette kicks.

Grinning, laughing, 
I finally decide.
This addendum to the script
shall joyously end!

I wink at the conductor, astounded in the pit.
Timpanist catches my drift
and gloriously booms
as I exit like a flying dervish
to joyous hilarious applause.

While the poem is not about me, I did take tap lessons from the age of 4 until my senior year in high school. I still have my own tap shoes (not the ones in the photo)!

To the Love of My Life

Life is candylicious with you.
My Hubba Bubba, my Mr. Goodbar.
My Swedish Fish, my Lifesaver.
My Starburst when darkness falls.

You bring a Bit O Honey
to every single moment we share.
Everyday with you is a Payday,
rich in laughter and love.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “candy” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Do you recognize the candy names in my poem? Hubba Bubba, Mr. Goodbar, Swedish Fish, Lifesavers, Starburst, Bit O Honey, and Payday. Had fun with this one! Photo is from this past June: me and my Hubba Bubba!

Two Aphorisms Created for Our Times

I.
Life is a card game,
play your hand wisely.
Seems like we’re caught
in a never-ending bridge game.
Trump suit named,
trick after trick after trick played.
Anyone ready to change the game?

II.
When parade horses leave a trail of shit,
sweepers must follow.

Seems like we’re caught
in a never-ending parade
of show ponies
with far too few sweepers
willing to clean up the mess.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Ana returns to dVerse and asks us to consider Gnomic poetry which is the practice of moralizing in verse. We can start or end our poem with an aphorism; create our own aphorisms; or be inspired by a myth. We have many choices in how to approach the prompt but the “focal point” of our poem must be a moral or assert a philosophical position on life. And she tells us that just because we’re moralizing, doesn’t mean we must be serious. We can add a bit of humor or irony. Images from Pixabay.com

A Lunker or Two

Spelunker by day
lady’s man by night.
Stalactites his game,
caves his domain.

Met his match at the local pub.
Spellunker by night,
scrabble her game
words her fame.

Challenged him
after a pint or two.
She won the game
he won her heart.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa hosts Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “spell” somewhere within the body of our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Had a little fun with this one.
PS: a spelunker is a person who explores caves. Image from Pixabay.com

Overheard on the Corner in Ptown

Walking down Provincetown’s main street,
I passed two men sitting on a bench
chatting in front of the courthouse.
It’s a popular place to people watch.

I heard one man say to the other
“I have a list of things I’m not allowed to buy.”
I started wondering,
what might that list include?

Possibly . . . M&Ms with peanuts,
wine spritzers and flavored beer.
Tie-dyed tee shirts, bumper stickers,
and coffee mugs for mom, dad,
grandpa, grandma, best brother
or best sister.
Cape Cod engraved silver spoons.
Salt and pepper shakers
in the shape of whales.
And possibly starfish from the shell shop?
Because he already has too many.

“So what would I buy if I had that list,”
I asked my spouse after writing this poem.
In his inimitable way, he simply said,
“Use your imagination.”

Image: photo of sign taken on our walk yesterday to the far East side of town, where automobiles first enter Provincetown.