I’ll have to post one as soon as I’m at my own computer.
I am humbled.
djm
Writing poetry is easy
If Longfellow is your model.
Henry Wadsworth – him I speak of,
He who wrote of Hiawatha,
Happy Indian Hiawatha
In a meter like the present,
Vomited upon the paper.
I could write of Chiff and Fipple,
write of buzzy Generations,
of Susatos like recorders,
of the contest made by Bloomfield
Giving CDs out as prizes.
I could write about Weekenders,
Staunch supporter of tradition,
And the spats he has with Gilder,
Gilder of the liberal leaning.
I would write about Cranberry
But it doesn’t fit the meter,
(hard to fit sometimes, the meter,
As it splats upon the paper).
Wooden whistles by Paul Busman,
by podiatrist Paul Busman,
(see how nice that fits the meter),
Wooden whistles sound less chiffy
and don’t chirp like those of metal,
those of rusting, clanking metal.
(But the metal fits the meter.)
Let us not forget the Lambchop
Fuzzy, wooly, lamby Lambchop.
Lambchop also fits the meter
As the poem lumbers onward.
And there’s Dale, who speaks so Wisely,
moderator on vacation,
head of Three Fish Enterprises
and Red Wolverine Productions.
(Yes, I know I’ve got that backwards
but it doesn’t fit the meter
if I do not re-arrange it.)
Those of you I’ve yet to mention –
emmline, Cynthia, c-skinner,
izzy, reasonable Walden,
Peter Laban, Martin Milner,
Jerry Freeman whistle tweaker,
dubhlinn, Redwolf, Flyingcursor
nanohedron and the wombat
and the many other chiffers –
none of you will fit the meter
by yourselves. But you will fit it
if I lump you all together.
Now it’s time to end the poem
written in this simple manner,
this most tedious of meters.
Guinness beckons; I must go now.
Heya, gonzo! I like it! Poststructural, pre-apocalyptic, self-referential chiffboard poetry, on leaden metered feet. If you have to ask, you’ll never know. 
(I’ve been waiting for an audience to foist this upon)
Kennel Lament
I clean up the messes–
the bowels’ processes–
left lying by doggies,
like little brown loggies,
and scoop them and scrape them
for what does await them? a
five gallon bucket for poop.
What yappy westhighlands
run through their intestines,
and leave in a pile,
the collies meanwhile,
make theirs like a trail,
and I must avail of the
five gallon bucket of poop.
Each day it’s the same,
different dogs, different names,
leaving piles upon piles
of turd projectiles,
and I dutifully, carefully,
lovingly place them in
five gallon buckets of poop.
When they’re full to the rim,
topped high to the brim,
and nary a hunk
can one add, not a chunk,
I can no longer tarry,
for soon I must carry my
five gallon buckets of poop.
Through doorways and aisles
for seemingly miles,
o’er thresholds, through gates,
the path isn’t straight.
Lest you want a brown bath,
you’ll get out of the path of the
five gallon bucket of poop.
My goal is the septic,
the smell is dyspeptic,
I puff as I cart it,
the strain in my heart trumps
the ache in my back,
good humor I lack for this
five gallon bucket of poop.
Tomorrow starts over
with Fido and Rover,
now dinner awaits me
then reading and TV,
then sleep with it’s dreaming
all abstractly teeming with
five gallon buckets of poop.
It seems our denizens have had enough
They don’t want any more poetic smidgens
They’re even liable to cut up rough:
Bloomfield, you’ve set the cat amongst the pigeons!
Poems are so hard to write.
And that’s why I’m no poet.
For I am sure that I’ve no right
To Edgar Allan Poe it.
In the UK the swallows appear in May.
Swallows
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky
A clear blue sky, to prove that summer’s here
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
“Old gravity’s a myth, that we deny
“It’s levity we serve, that we hold dear!”
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
And as they swirl and pirouette and shy
Cascading, rocketing, they twist and veer
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
Enchanting and entangling the eye
That strains to trace each flowing line they steer
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
“Wheep wheep” they mew, “Wheep wheep” they call and cry
“No time for song!” they whistle, raucous, jeer:
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
They glide and dance and summer heaves a sigh
“Join us! Take wing! The air is bright and clear!”
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
I like that…I could see the swallows. (NO…I mean I hated that! fume…fume… 
)
Now the poop? That was pretty good too. Not sure about the projectile part, though.
The gods once aspired to play a game of words.
The rules of this game was the words are the same
and so they played.
To observers it sounded like a chant
but deep within the game’s each god from the other pierced to descry the word
within a word.
OK, a “serious” submission:
Vacation??
I guess flying’s OK; there’s time for reflection
As the jet’s drone quiets my mind.
Bereft of the ground, I tend toward religion:
I beseech the god Tailwind be kind.
But this flight is so long! My mind starts to wonder…
In my prison at twelve thousand feet.
Are we all exhibits in this small, metal cage?
A zoo full of humans, trapped in their seats?
At least the zookeepers are feeding us now.
Maybe hot tea will help me relax…
Oops! Now all the bathrooms say they’re “occupied”,
And I need to evacuate some snacks!
Maybe reading will help, I brought Robert Frost
on this terrible oceanic leap…
But my mind will focus on only one line,
chanting: “Miles to go before I sleep”
Here’s a silly one:
Éamon
He’s got the chubbiest cheeks
His father’s cute chin
And he loves to show off
His big, toothless grin
His food he takes mashed
He thinks that is yummy
And he has fits of giggles
When I tickle his tummy
But what makes him so special
And above all the rest
Is how his eyes tell me
He loves me the best
so… it’s spring again
woodpeckers on metal chimneys
the duck lays eggs
the dog loves spring
the Seattle sun sets
(by Denny, jsluder & Montana; from the 4-words thread)
Okay, since I’m much too lazy to unpack my own computer (moving is hard, by the way), I’m going to post the only poem I’ve written that I have access to (other than the ones of mine in RHP). Luckily, the contest calls for “works in progress,” because this fits that description very nicely. No further ado,
Cyprus Ave.
here on Cyprus Ave.
where the houses wear green ivies
like collars and cuffs
there is always the faint cough
of ladies and their heels
on cast iron balconies
there was a tinker, years ago
with a grey bicycle cart
his flannel shirts never matched
his call could be heard all the
way to the church on
the other side of Fern St.
the children would rush to
meet him, to stare at his oddities
he always did have some
rattle-jangler to show them
and he would blow into a
grunkle-caller or squeeze the
handle of a yodel-horn
and always Cyprus Ave.
would fill with the loud
laughter of children
and the pigeons would jump away
and always there, looking from
behind the windows of their cast
iron balconies, the old mothers
and their pink lace bonnets
scowled with mouths crusted
over with old age
MORNING GLORIES
There is a growing nervousness
Deep within my belly, it rumbles and rattles
And binds my thick legs and hands with
Sweet and sticky Morning Glory vines.
My red brick face (that,
Like sun burnt skin, crumbles and flakes),
Peels away all bright memory from an
Age caressed and deeply lined brow, where it softens upon a pillow.
Eyes clearly open,
Breath halted and quivering,
Tensely,
Slowly,
Steadily,
The night comes down.
JESmith.
Cool stuff, everybody! Thanks for playing, these are terrific.
cue ball drops
you fish the
leather cross-hatched
corner pocket
full of one and nine and thirteen.
you circle the table
sizing up.
I say you have to
keep it behind the line,
but you smirk at so
trivial a restriction.
you find an easy solid—
solids are mine.
you sink it
then a stripe
and so on
because with you it’s
never really about
the pool.
We are Taught
We are born into this life as naturally right beings of emotion and intuition.
Then we are taught.
We are taught “good” and “bad.”
We are taught limitations and weaknesses.
We are taught to be rational and commercial.
We are taught to be, what we are not.
Guided by emotion and intuition we can be on a natural path of rightness,
though it may not meet other people’s expectations, and will never satisfy everyone’s desire.
— Daniel Fernandez
Arrive
On a powerful river
In a tiny boat
It is impossible
to go against the river
choose well
who shares the tiny boat
learn well
to listen to the river
instead of peering into the fog
choose well
what obstacles to avoid
and which obstacles to welcome
don’t fight the river
sometimes move toward the left bank
sometimes toward the right
whenever possible
let go
and take the middle way
make right choices
enjoy the ride
don’t leave the river
some day you will arrive
at the eternal
– Daniel Fernandez
This is not an entry, but I just wrote it at another place I hang out and since we’re, you know, posting poetry…
I draw with my red crayon
hearts, like love-giddy school girls
in study hall, pretending love is forever,
practicing the entwining of initials like
limbs in the dark, groping for
adulthood, when all they need to know about
adulthood is you shouldn’t have to sit alone in
Denny’s with a red crayon drawing hearts.