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Best Dirty Poems

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Dirty Little Buggers by Ellison, Jack
Dirty Boots at Closing Time by OMara, Amanda
Demons Dig Doing Me Dirty by Molasar, Roderick
A Dirty Old Man by Ellison, Jack
Kitchens are Dirty by Ross, Jana
A Dirty Old Man by Ellison, Jack
DIRTY LAUNDRY by Lee, Jeffrey
Love, Betrayal and Dirty Dishes by Lindley, Robert
Dirty Laundry by A , SKAT
A Dirty Old Man by Ellison, Jack

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The Best Dirty Poems

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Love Poem - 29

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.

I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.

The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....

....I fell in love with him too.

I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.

If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with the woman 
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.

I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.

And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....

....well, I love them too.

April 6th, 2012

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

More great poems below...

Details | Dirty Poem | |

I'm the Poet - To Carrie

                Dedicated to Carrie Richards

I am ...
the wandering breeze in the wheat field
the pawn advancing to the eighth rank
the ocher leaves under the window
the One Hundred Years of Solitude
the One Thousand and One Nights
the disappointment of the elderly
the pile of dirty dishes in the sink
the water trickling into the sewer
the hand that calls and defends
the vast ocean that drowns me
the widower feeding the doves
the five drops of Chanel No. 5
the saddest verses of Neruda
the insect hidden in a cocoon
the impotence of forgiveness
the Tango and the Tarantella
the windmills of Don Quixote
the colors and the shadows
the sadness of the hunger
the barking dog that bites
the prelude and the fugue
the glass of wine to share
the illusion of the outcast
the puddles on the street
the new kid in the school
the orphan in the asylum
the lies of the politicians
the rain on a sunny day
the message in a bottle
the petal and the thorn
the laughter of children
the blindness of Borges
the feather in the wind
the moss on the stone
the beard of Whitman
the Nuremberg Trials
the door always open 
the underpaid worker
the mistletoe waiting
the hair in your food
the tangerine wedge
the gasp to nowhere
the last surrenderer
the beggar's refuge
the pointing finger
the foam of anger
the broken mirror
the clocks of Dali
the curving road
the Trail of Tears
the garlic breath
the bitter vomit
the Nazca lines
the lost island
the false note
the joy of sin
I am death
I'm  the poet.


Copyright © Ruben O.

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Refugee child

You look at me with such venom and disgust Like I'm not human and have a contagious disease But can't you see, I'm just an innocent child For a moment put yourself in my shoes Think of me like I'm your child Why judge what you don't understand? How would you feel to see your mother raped? Your father burnt before your eyes? I used to dream, I used to fantasize, of a beautiful life beyond my childhood I still remember my home blown away, with these games of war that they play My playground destroyed with their bombs That had no concern for my ruined toys I'm just a child, how did I hurt you? I have no where to go, nobody to care Living in refugee camps was no luxury Don't you see the horror in my eyes? Can you not feel the pain as I tremble? Where has your humanity gone? Do you have a heart? What if this was your child? For days and days I walked through mud and rain To find a place that I could belong Now you shun me and forcibly turn me away Like I'm a dirty diseased animal that may plague you But I'm only human, I'm just a child I only ask to be loved and to play again I've lost so much, yet you won't help me to smile Where do you suggest I go? Or shall I just rot in hell? So humanity will you standby and watch? Or will you find love in your heart and try to understand?
I'm just an innocent, caught up in a war of greed, I'm just a child The Silent One 10 September 2015

Copyright © Silent One

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Pirate Bay

```Pirate Bay the Haiku``` 

pirates fierce and mean 
drowning fish, sea to sea 
parrots on their butt 

```Polly Wants A Cracker``` 

bloodthirst & brutal 
Quartermaster Gone Wild 
dirty wings on deck 

```Sea World Adventure``` 
ship crew goes on strike 
sailing the Caribbean 
wooden leg splashing 


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Dirty Poem | |


I am Tim
I am Tim
Tim I am
That Tim-I-am!
That Tim-I-am!

I do not like
that Tim-I-am!
Do you like
green eggs and ham?
I do not like them,
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

CUT CUT CUT.....That's Dr Seuss's Green Eggs and why did I start writing that...Oh I know must have been the 500 times I read it to my 4 year old daughter last weekend...I asked her older sister and two older brothers but no I did read them Dad-I-am!

A father of four and proud of them all
Youngest is still short, my oldest- he's tall
Give to them my time, wouldn't have it any other way
Playing tennis, coaching baseball or driving to ballet

Hard worker, they say, a motor that wont quit
Adapt with a hammer, chain saw or drill bit
Not afraid to get dirty, greasy, smelly or wet
Work sun up to sun down with barely a sweat

My friends are my treasures, I hold them real tight
Each one is special but they all are a delight
If they are ever in need, I'm there in a flash
Bringing comfort, happiness, and the occasional cash

I am quick with the wit and enjoy a good laugh
Not too into vanity, a quick shower no bath
I am a lover of woman and a lover of life
I am married to nature she is a great wife

Grew up rough and tumble, clawing for scraps
Volunteer, mentor, teacher, wore many caps
Wear my heart on my sleeve, shy away from a spat
Tim, Timmy, Timothy...I am who I am and that is that

I am contest
I am male 

Copyright © Tim Smith

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Indian Girl

--Virginia Slim--

Different eyes, the same world 
Ancient skin, dirty Indian Girl 
Smokey, eyes, exotic raven hair 
---Now listen to  the colors, of transformation, 
On the day she was born, the wind blew in, 
A blessing ---her soul, fallen from the heavens
A  gorgeous puff of smoke, Miss Virginia Slim

Able to walk the world with an open mind, she twirls
Pocahontas, one of her many names. 
She carves, and climbs on trees, this little Indian Girl, 
Her feathers ride with the wind, against her red titian skin
Daughter of Chief Powhatan, a powerful tribal, red man 
Peace and love with the Indians of her Virginia Lands,

Many myths, many stories, maybe a mad woman, 
A new Christian, living sad poverty, a silent hero, 
Twisted tales, from savage green to ivory white religion
In her eyes, life never was about greed and skin
Her new look attained an altitude precision
Pocahontas tricked and captured, 
Set to sail another tribe, lands were taken over, 
Boat sailed out of Virginia Lands

Tribes acclaimed her to be wild and ambitious
"The naughty one," searching for admission
Native American child, before the princess, 
Her beautiful soul, a short auspicious beginning
Leaving her world, beautiful and fearless
Forgetting her roots-- From Mother Willow's Vision 
Pocahontas, the Indian Legend from, The Virginia Lands


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Dirty Laundry

(She's Got Cooties)

Bitter every night, she speaks of another man
In dialogues, she rips and shreds my brothers sheets
Her moves are naught more than an exposed wound 
Riding dreams with no thought to spare 
With eyes, that lie every night,
Even, I believe every word from her prune lips

Silent she auctions words into the breeze
My brother's heart is so brittle, it hurts
She is lying, he's dying, a fool just to feel complete
At this point he believes, she was kidnapped by apes
She's not the kind of wife that sit on a trophy case
Once she removes the makeup, her face is gone
She is gone, gone, gone, 

A smile mocking infidelity, 
I scream, I want to beat her brains in
My brother begs her to rest, he prays
His wife will wash her dirty mouth
A kiss that hurts as she takes the air away, 
Pouring guilt, pretending it's his fault
After every sucker punch this past month
She left while he slept
A wicked in law, with no comparison
Breathing luscious sperm, she's a worm
Vacuuming another man's dream, 
She is gone, gone, gone, 

A weak link, wasting his time loving her
His heart murdered 19 years ago
My brother holds on to plain dumb hope
In hopes, she might stay longer than 3 days
His dreams are sweet, innocent and failed, 
Yet he won't stop dreaming of her loving lips
Heating up to nothing when she's not there
She is gone, gone, gone, 

Sometimes I just sit and wonder 
What sort of man, sits awake with his eyes shut
Daydreaming of a long life dream
Then I realize if he can dream
Why Can't I   

~Trashed #2, sponsor, Broken Wings~

Copyright © SKAT A

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Shades of Poe , Speaketh

Shades of Poe , Speaketh

Shades of Poe oft run in my veins
dark, dirty little splashing stains
No Raven stirs my battered heart
nor any signs on my astrology chart

Dark mysteries seep in at night
shadowed beings birthing fright
Muffled sounds sent to alarm
evil crying to scare and harm

Then my soul cries out to Poe
help me now , for you must know
Remedy for this sad affliction
a spell to give quick eviction

Reply creeps slowly back to me
close your eyes to sadly see
Darkness that drives men mad
such my heart and soul once had

No cure can by me be so gifted
you need Light to be so uplifted
My words are my aid little as is
answer you seek can only be His
Son of Light only can save you
my darkness left me only that clue!

Robert J. Lindley  10-12-2014

note:  Tis' the month the Dark spreads 
its evil mists to kids tucked in beds,
scary voices crying muffled shouts,
battles and shadowed little bouts,
goblins, ghouls and witches now abound
imagine such and they are then found!

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Dirty Poem | |

What Only Angles Hear

Daddy never did understand.
That violence doesnt bring comfort.
A lost soul seeking acceptance from a unwelcome hand.

She was silent no one ever knew.
The secrets behind her bruised eyes.
A shocking victem none but all had a clue.

She cried to empty walls never speaking aloud from fear.
A confession of pain and shattred trust.
this is only what angles hear.

Scars selfinflicted  are better than that 
dirty feeling.
As she lays a broken shell gazing  at the celling.

She questions if others know what will they say.
Doing whatever it takes to stay numb.
Innocence lost a parent should never betray.

The guilt was placed apon the wrong head.
Void of all emotion.
No child should yern to be dead.

At times it gets to uncomfortable so in 
another direction we  steer.
For at times it's just to painful to stomach.
What only angles  hear.

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Inside my head- for contest

Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch,  don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can  climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!

September16th 2015

For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless

Copyright © Viv Wigley

Details | Dirty Poem | |

- Alcoholic - The lion roars

                                          He has no
                                          longer his own will
                                          Caught in the lion's caves
                                          dark gray clouds closes sunlight
                                          He wants but can not
                                          nothing to lose,
                                                                 is he a loser?
                                          Thoughts about life
                                          The past, no roses without thorns
                                          A zero
                                          Tomorrow will come
                                          He sits on a bench in the park
                                                                       cold and dirty
                                           a half-full bottle of spirits
                                           This is his life
                                           a day without sunshine
                                           He hears the lions roaring
                                                         trying to block out the sound

A-L  Andresen :)

Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen

Details | Dirty Poem | |

There is no good in goodbye

Had my heart not shattered into stainless steel shards,
I would have never been severed by a deck of playing cards.
Dealing with the black and red death of fifty two faces,
Shuffling wax coated cards looking for the bloody aces.
In tights worn and wasted, I've been the joker far too long,
Hands on the Kings sword, battles bow to the broken song.

Can I forgive you, for I cannot forget the agony,
A million lies and memories die under breath of me.
Paper cuts drip my poisoned blood in on the wax floor.
Fallen is this house of cards, I cannot stand you anymore.
Faces all they do is laugh at me, mocking my jester grin.
Chiming of these bells on my hat, heart broken harlequin.

Razor blade smile cuts open tear stained scars,
Burns on my palms from trying to reach the stars.
Withering like roses, blown away like ash in the breeze,
Wing clipped angel crawls on the ground with dirty knees.

Arrows hitting the bulls eye, painful piercing pride dies,
When is there ever any good in the saying of goodbyes.


Copyright © Casarah Nance

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Exposure: Part I

Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.

And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.

I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.

I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon 
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave, 
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.

"What does hate feel like?"

"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Jan The Footle Queen-Collaboration

There's a green eyed lady we have seen
She gives to all hugs, smiles and love
Her footle  rhymes soar high above
I nominate her the official footle queen


No less 


Our queen 

My dear 
I hear 


I make) 
Not Jan 

We'll meet 

Some fun 

Til blind 

Her smile

Big heart
Does fart


Our Jan
Big fan 

Collaboration with Casarah Nance

Copyright © Tim Smith

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Didn't Don't

Somebody keeps pulling on the rope to swing the bells
           didn't don't       
           didn't don't
They toll for me.

Don't touch it. Don't say it. Don't do it. 
Don't doubt it. Don't think. Don't ...

Somebody handcuffs my steps,
determines my boundaries.
Before I fully understand free will
there is a slap on my head
            and phosphenes like stars
            command my orbit.
Before I recognize differences
there is a slap on my hand
            right hand, not left hand,
            never ambidextrous

Time out
its isolation without trial
to learn
to fear wrongdoing 
to allow them to remote-control my existence,
conditional on demand, frightening.

An aborted freedom escaping
into the sewer
trying not to get it on the seat
attempting to prove an alibi 
                    for being alive
No one cares, not even myself.

Somebody pulls on the rope to swing the bells
           didn't don't       
           didn't don't
They toll for me.
It's dirty. It's ugly. It's bad. It's poo. It's sin.

commitments, commandments
salvation, damnation

deception makes them ring in a low tone.
I do what they say, 
 and not what they do,
  and not what I want,
   and not what I think.

Through     fragments     of     this     duplicity
                                  and     this     duplicity
I would be able to rebuild myself and Myself
into another hypocritical being;
the intentional perversion of the self proclaimed truth,
the liar paradox to reign
through tricks and cotton swabs.

When the remorseless hours run counterclockwise,
I would be happy of imaginary experiences,
consistently depurated, consistently believed to be true.
Would I dare to examine the society in which I've been educated and raised?
Would I dare rip my skin, my flesh off of my bones?

How could I blame them? 
How could I possibly judge them?

Social order and obedience 
in confabulation, in conspiracy, in complicity

Somebody will keep pulling on the rope
to swing the bells; they will toll for me:
the one who guards his own cell.

Cause I'm the jailer, and the convict, and the crime.


Copyright © Ruben O.

Details | Dirty Poem | |


Yesterday, I followed her true invisible form
Colors turning a kaleidoscopic deep and warm

A state of mind, that makes reality feel alive
Stabbing moments that teach how tough it is to survive
And still this dagger is penetrating into my back real slow
Sweeping away the grimace under the rug in a one woman show 

Illusive dreams asking for more and more
Sinking with doom, as karma sways through heaven's door
There she keeps her walk on stilts avoiding kismet
Removing every single footprint before sunset

Spending eternity planning the bliss we cannot see
Quenching my confidence, with a moisture that pleasures me
Arching a dirty deed, aiming all fingers that point at me
Spreading her demonic ecstasy, a mass of light weight, we can't see

A giggle-some laugh, I cannot hear
Tainted, in a nefarious way as the night disappears
Delighted, she glistens through the celestial world alone
A whisper of love with an impossible auspicious tone

Epic and exquisite, she works incognito striking whomever she wants
She Is The Enigma!" She Is the Illness~ that forever haunts
A mysterious lady whose perception flows with her own timeless oasis
An Empress is working on her own simplicity basis

My body impervious to react to conflicts that dwell with deep desire
Aggressively my defiant ways will allow her excessive universe to transpire
Like a lily we give in to the beauty of her empress exploding ravenous lust
It's magical and feeds off of the revenge that deepens with thrust

Down in the lilac valley, storming down like a glacier leaving nothing below
We caress we emerge, then we dust off the repellent of her forsaken glow
Leaving us with wounds, when our conflicts ricochet
Impacting us with a rebound when everything bounces back our way

She Springs in like a breeze that dwells and leaves gallivant
Past shadows, swing back with a darker chant
Leaving nothing but a Chinese Aster garden terrace
Her crown, sheer vixen and vigor with Victoria's fantastical lace

Her candle desalinate effect with a gentle glow
Everything to her is an issue with the results that come and go
Karma's punishments sail real slow, against the wind, waged by the zephyr
Rebuilding from the aftermath of, Karma's payback splenetic weather

Close your eyes and feel the consequences we embrace
Secretly every wage comes with reward from our hubris sin
A grasp with no escapes from the repercussion and deeds in our hearts
Doors spillover, in a significant unexplained phenomenal start


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Faces Of Loneliness

The routine ride home from a neighboring town, seemed different today.  
As I glanced at the dirty, sandy spot left on the usually spotless black leather seat beside me,
I felt almost ashamed of the warm smile that crossed my face..
But that's how I felt.
Content some how.......
No radio blaring as usual. Just thinking of Ernie and his stories.
Wondering what that look was, I saw deep in his eyes.
Scared eyes..yet not scary. Eyes that had seen too much maybe, who couldn't seem to find home.

The cardboard sign simply said east. He was sitting atop a dirty, dark roll of gathered belongings at the only stop light in town. It was one of those sunrises that make you feel small. Pinks..purples..glassy blue..sun rays shooting through scattered clouds like golden fingers pointing straight to heaven. As I sat waiting for the light to change, I noticed this guy noticed it too!  I don't see many hitchhikers in our small town and the words pounded into my head since birth kept ringing over and over.  Never talk to strangers...don't do it!

Ernie is sitting next to me holding his dirty rolled up blanket protectively in his lap and 
I'm at the drive through at McDonald's. Three sausage biscuits please..I take mine and hand the bag to Ernie who looked like a skeleton lost under layers of old wrinkled clothes.  Kind, hollow eyes thank me as he rolls the top of the bag down tightly and asks if he can please save his for later.  I can't speak and hope he doesn't notice tears running down my cheeks. He must , for he breaks the silence by telling me of his years on the road, although I didn't ask. He speaks intelligently of the sights and places I've always intended to visit some day. His words bring to life the adventures of meeting all kinds of people - good and bad - all over the country, but Ernie didn't tell me why he lived life on the road.

Later, he shook my hand and said goodbye.
As he stood there, that last look we shared..he smiled - I cried.
I thought I was going to help a lonely man, but he helped me........

©Donna Jones

Copyright © Donna Jones

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Cloud - Recited

Floating in the sky...
Changing patterns fill my eye...
What will you become?

Vagabond and wanderer...
Riding wind so high,
No matter where it blows.
You thumb your way to places
I have been and some I'll never know.

Changing shape and color,
Hiding your identity,
Until you speak with beauty and power.
First, a turtle, moving slowly.
Crawling and paddling in peaceful grace.
Next, a shark swimming swiftly
Consuming those around you.
Finally a dinosaur...
Your neck and tail extended
So I will know your name...
Forgetting you're a cloud.

Vagabond and wanderer...
Just vapor in the air, traveling everywhere.
Marshmallow treat
So soft and sweet...
Then dirty and loudly speak.
Rain, thunder and lightening are your friends.
It's pleasant when your anger ends,
And rainbows arch to show me where you've been.

At night, your shadow hides the stars
And makes us wander where they are.
You choose to show selected few
The moon and stars...romantic you. meet the sun with colors of the day.
A canvas. A pleasant palette 
Where light can play. form a beautiful pillow
To gently catch the sun.
So rays may rest til morrow come.

Vagabond and wanderer...
Tomorrow let me see your face,
Another chance ...
To watch you dance...
Until you catch a ride...
Shift shape...
And hide.

Ray Dillard

Copyright © Ray Dillard

Details | Dirty Poem | |

Love In The Trenches

Now this is my definition of love It's much like wrestling in the mud You get down and dirty And say things quite flirty Then it all comes together with a thud You scream out bloody murder together Promise your undying love forever Roll over and whisper The name of her sister Then you realize that wasn't too clever She pummels your head without any mercy You attempt to defend 'gainst her fury You start to see rainbows And a bunch of pretty halos A ferocious little dynamo this girlie Well eventually you recover your senses And are able to put up some defences You plant a big smacker On this sweet li'l attacker Then it's back to love in the trenches © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison

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Response of A Harried Housewife To Her Spouse

“The children are always interrupting. You never have time for me,” her husband whined as he dropped his dirty clothes right there on the floor by the bed. Trying not to roll her eyes, she gave this quick response to her disgruntled spouse: “The kids, chores and mishaps have me spinning, and you tell me you feel rejected. To have a blissful home takes two. Consideration is key. I’m also missing you! To be successful in our bed, take time OUT of it. . . for ME!” A Double Etheree written May 27, 2012 for David Williams' The Three H's Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

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The Other Woman

While your hands caress my body, is it her face that you see?
Is your thunder of release now brought on by HER memory?

Am I just a luscious body that contains HER living soul?
Just an instrument of passion where your craving are made whole?

Life has played a dirty trick, though, for our story’s gone and changed
Sentiments which were so true then, all have now become deranged

I am left to grieve and wonder how she came to steal your heart
Was my love not good enough, then? Did she fill some hidden part?

Did a fantasy not flourish, was some longing left unknown?
Tell my heart what made you love her, why your heart for me is stone?

Here you lie in pleasure’s arms, yet every thought is there instead
Naked, grieved, I’m left to wonder what it feels like to be dead

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian

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Tongue Study

Tongue Study 4/22/2014

Tongue Study

Steady it wags
needing to know
more,about the
the very thing that
causes wars.
peace and pain
I study my tongue.
Much has been said
about the tongue yet
how has it pertained
to my own.
My tongue has delivered
and served,it has given
and taken,it has blessed,
it has cursed.
It has been written
and it has been SAID.
the tongue can be tied,twisted
curt,sweet,sharp,wagging or

It may be your
native tongue
or foreign,it may be
exciting or boring.
If quiet is your tongue
the cat may have it.

If you use your
tongue to speak ill
of the dead you may,
challenge a force and
be cursing your life's course.

The tongue's confession's
may sweep out
dirty secrets from the
corners of your mind.

Wise words have fallen on death
ears, words smothered by pride.
truth escaped lying eyes.
Ignoring what you saw and
twisting what was heard.

Tongues may bond
with imbeciles or angels
forming positive
or negative energy.

Be careful,mind your tongue
it is closes to your own ears
and will affect you first,rather
before the others hear.

Be not at the mercy of 
an imbecilic tongue
read their eyes
and duck the darts
about to be thrown. 

Do not despise the
foreign tongue
for it is the aptitude 
of the brain, the tunnel
to his bilingual do not
expect the champions,
to cater to the dunce,
who can barley
master his own tongue.

In general I have concluded
weather you live by the sword or
stand on principals, I had to
learn to manage my tongue
as I would a loaded gun.

I will not justify my tongue
when I use it's power for wrong
and neither hold my piece,
to placate the sword of the unjust..
the real power is in
the righteousness
of the spoken tongue..

For those who live by
the sharp and sworded tongue
and wield words as death
blows to the innocent,
or those who are silent,
while others suffer
May also die
by the mighty tongue.
or by the holding of it.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah

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A Little Foggy

The fog is so thick I can not see the sticks, that in a wasted life,
rise off the dirty grave of the forest floor. 
There is no beauty that could compare to the sight
of the thick ground clouds, that embrace my morning. 
To run through the moisturous blanket into the unseen
and unknown would be a spectacular thrill. 
The cool droplet of water stroking my feet, as they are released from
the tall finger grasses. tickle me kindly. 
I chase the fog as its spread of mystery begins to rise
and confines back up into the sky. 
I reach for the heartbeat of the fog, hoping that surrounding my skin,
with its life, it would carry me away. 
I dance with it deeper into the dense woods, where it awakens the pine trees, 
with its wet breath. 
Higher and higher the fog rises.
I climb a welcoming oak tree,
stretching with its limbs grabbing for the clouds. 
Take me away my morning fog, I want to ride this elevator to the sky,
to the heavens, take me away. 
The fog disappaites and I am left with misty hands and empty eyes. 
I look around clearly, seeing the crispness of nature,
basking in all her beauty 
From the heights of this old oak tree,
I realize... I am lost. 

Vibrant Verse Contest

Copyright © CT Duet

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Hard heart even drier eyes
Lips full of shame
Betrayed, ignored ....your lies
Without hope......just my pain

You  walked across my heart
And out of...what was my world
Looked back.... just the once
Rendered it dead, ripped,soiled

My boat will never come in now a sea of shame
Only love can sail this dirty ocean
And return me to a place of pain

Copyright © Ian Guyler

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Dad's Workshop

A clutter of wood and dust and cobwebby corners, And dappled sun shining through dirty windows; On his work table a drawing; a project in progress, And tin cans and jars of nails and screws on shelves. Tools on hooks waiting for hands that will never come, I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace; And I cannot help thinking, who will want all this, He was a simple man, my father, and I loved him so. His death was fast, no one expected him to leave, In a blink he was gone, and all I have are memories; I linger there with the dust that floats in the sun, And I weep and weep for what I have lost this day. Then, I pick up his pencil and on his paper I write, I write this poem of pain and it is the beginning; The beginning of my writing as an adult with soul, I leave the child, that was me, and become a poet, Today. _________________________ Written July 21, 1997 at 11AM (one hour after my Dad's death) Free Verse Written by Broken Wings For the contest, A poem written before poetrysoup, sponsor, Poet Destroyer 4th Place

Copyright © Broken Wings