Best Atta Boy Poems | Poetry

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Details | Atta Boy Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Wearing Depends In the Deep End

I am whatever you say I am 
currently I'm the eyes of the world
it's what they discovered when
daddy tied a pork chop around my neck just to get the dog to play with me
first time I menstruated, mommy said I would bleed to death,
"hemorrhage" she said. Scared me to death
someone said it's not proper to rhyme a word with the very same word
Teddy Boof was my favorite stuffed bear, but brother tied fishing line to Boof's 
thumb, threw him off the New River Bridge and laughed at me for being dumb 
thinking he had succumb to the Gully rapids.
This head's been sunburned one too many times, Hydro codeine began the 
bad dream, attended HIGH school with Oxy, until my pupils penned black 
cocaine and crank brought them speed balling back hard until stars graduated 
a moron

I cannot help what you assume I'm on
I cannot help what you do not understand
Art and I play Clyde the Glide with Garfunkle on a tragic carpet ride with Joan 
Baez...(spelled Be A Easy)
Am I showing my true age yet? 
Or should I recite Little Wayne and T. Pain, and say made up word like : Fo' 
Sho' Yo! and/or  Fo' Sheezy my Neezy?
Then would you believe me? That I'm really 16 and smoke weed dipped in PCP.

I am a woman now, but how?
I know you from who?
have you studied my avatar and guessed me to be thirty three?
did you see my ball cap and mistake me for shallow?
did you read a young man's writing and ask, "for what is that guy aspiring? I 
mean he's got fire, but he's a liar and I write circles around that jerk!"
did you go berserk when ya' heard  I was a cross dresser on Thirsty 
Thursdays?
did you attend my Miss World pageant and make fun of my Max Factor?
did you love me when I walked with Jehovah, Praise YHWH! YAH BRAVO YAH?
Encore, encore! Atta boy, what a saint?
guess it doesn't matter anyway
we're going to perceive what we want to believe
guess it never mattered anyway
next year I'll be ninety-nine and every time I go swimming, mobs of teenage 
women beg to dive in the deep end for too long with me...and just be wrinkled 
friends...(Depends in the deep end)
at one hundred and ten, I suppose things will be different
seventy five years in the methadone line and it's time to be free and begin to 
spend my pension.
Can I have your attention
one more thing to mention
For the last time, I can't help if you don't understand me....I'm only alien see,  
so please,  shine your light and stop taking these random words so literally. 
There is a reason why I cannot read. Now I must ask...
why do you?


Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014

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Roast of an UNNAMED Poet

He's packin' magic Viagra
Muse infused grooves set the mood
grab ya' and stab ya' 
we're opposites 
still we speak the same language 
teach and preach truth
every time I stop to see what he's droppin' 
my dang pen commits sin, flips a lid  
ink pours, runs down the paper like Jill Abramson did the NY TIMES
just in time verse transfers kinetic energy 
activating a semantic force field
formulating symbiosis through synergy   
swimming in puddles of puns
changing sans rays into rays of sun 
you can hear bums humming metonym hymns from the Twin Cities to Tuscan
igniting a revolution of prostitutes and hooligans on hallucinogens to scoot  
loose from futons 
learn to earn and swim with loose Louis Vuitton boots on 
whacked out kids from Pakistan with crack in hand hear his pen 
and pack into Shaggin' Wagon vans to kick up sand and
do their dance and just hold hands 

the whole globe huggin' like cousins 
uncovering hovering heteronomy mysteries evading lexicographers throughout 
centuries of history
he's teaching wide eyed chicks to utilize polysemy by demonstrating thermal 
viscosity rates of his balls and prick
my mental lexicon is spinning 
so I'm sinnin' then  I'm grinnin' and grabbing inflatable girlfriends over for 
dinner then dessert to be followed immediately by frenzied poetic circle jerks

I must admit the fabric of his hyperbole allegoristic-ally makes me 
wanna  on·o·mat·o·poe·ia in my pants and break into a hyper pole dance!
he's coordinating conjunctions
box munching at the junction
whole heartedly gets retarded with descriptive hard-ons 
vast array of play-on words for you ladies to chew on
verse for verse
inch for inch
tit for tat 
this and that 
hot and heavy with romance 
enough to make a man wear a hard hat 
there inside the high rise 
under construction in the pants
damn Mister (CENSORED), atta-boy!
and though I'mma boy with no vagina, boy 
(you don't mind if I call you mister by design there boy?)

Man, the images your tongue twisters send 
I must commend and admit 
if you had a different rear end...
then WO'-man
I might have to apprehend your ass with my ten inch night stick, oh hell, it's 
just past a hard seven, but who's countin' man? 

As you see poetry is a curse conjuring harmful words of demonic proportions 
reading your scriptures' depictions interrogatively tells me these inscriptions 
are precisely the prescription I need to erect the sword which could ultimately 
lead to seismic abortions...dang...
Did I just type that? 


Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014




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Vermont Country Winter Memories

At 40 below zero in the Vermont country side, 
the frost can be actually seen in the air
as sparkling frost dust seemingly defying gravity.
The skin showing between your mittens and sleeves
will be frost bitten in a matter of minutes if not covered.
 Gloves just don’t do the job.
Moisture from my breath freezes on my mustache and beard.
Spit is frozen by the time it hits the ground...
Kick it and it shatters into pieces.
Working with any intensity causes the lungs to ache.
The air is crisp and very still. The scenery is crystal clear .
The colors of nature, the sky, trees and chimney smoke rising almost perfectly vertical in the windless valleys are striking and sharp.
Your nostrils begin to stick together. Your forehead hurts at first and your eyes begin to ache when moving from one scene to another for some reason..
Your forehead has stopped hurting so you had better get inside because the skin may be getting frost bit. As you get inside to the warmth of the shack you realize that your lips are splitting and it’s time for the lip balm or they will be bleeding soon.. again. Note not to trim my mustache until Spring. Take off the insulated boots, parker, sweater, coveralls ear flap hat and hood before I start sweating…. Never did get to shovel myself out of the yard. Maybe tomorrow. Stoke up the wood stove, brew up a cup of coffee, sit in the old rocker and listen to the fire crackling.. eating up the wood I’ve split and dried.
     Maybe tomorrow it’ll warm up a bit eh, old dog friend of mine? Lay down Country Boy and rest your old bones. We’ll go fetch us some work in town tomorrow if the truck starts. Atta boy … lay down there and we’ll day dream a while about going down to Florida to live next winter. Meanwhile, well meanwhile, ..you know … we’ll just …… listen to the fire…. And ….be warm …....
            



Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2011

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Rewriting Life

I wish to go back to a time that Never Was
To a land of Rainbows and Butterflies
Recreate and redefine
Fool my mind
Care free laughter
Building sandcastle
Holding hands
A world of atta boy and job well done
Playing with friends
Back yard tire swings
Report cards with A's
Building a tree house with dad
Baseball and hotdogs
A proud hand patting my head
Growing up in a family home
A place where true love is shown
Ice tea served on a porch
Running through sprinklers
While mom and dad look on
Growing up
Feeling secure
Hands that are only lifted in praise
Life long friendships 
Shared experiences
No sad memories stuck in my mind
If only it could be real
But perhaps if I believe I can make it true
A past that was soaked in sunshine
With a cloudy sky transformed to blue


Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013

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FANS

Poem inspired by brother-in-law's sermon.

Romans 8:31 God's Everlasting Love What then shall we say to these things? If
 God is for us, who
 can be against us? NKJV
  
I love fans.  I am one myself.  
I love to watch them as they cheer.
I love to watch them in their gear.
Yes, I love fans!.
 
It doesn't matter what the sport, 
the fans are all the same.  
They enjoy the victories,
 just as if they had won the game.
 They get upset when the other team
 defeats them and they lose.  
 They get irate when their team does poor.  
 And they vocally abuse!
 They become very vocal 
 when their team does not perform
  to the potential that they think
 would keep them all from scorn.
   
 Our Lord is our biggest fan.  He is on our side. 
  He is the President of our Fan Club.
  And He is very much ALIVE!  
  He is very much into our lives (game) 
  because He knows all things!
  And how important for us to win
  each and every time. 
  He is pulling for us like no one else. 
  He gets vocal when we don't
  perform to our potential. 
  Mostly because we won't! 
  God points out our weaknesses 
  when we are struggling to win.  
  I am glad He is on my side. 
  and helps me to defend.
  He is constantly working on my game.
  And never, never tires.  
  He does not like me to get into a slump. 
  He keeps me in the fire.
  And He whispers in my ear endearing,
  My child I'm always on the sideline cheering. 
  
  Do you know that God is your biggest fan?  
  And that He is working diligently, 
  to make your life,
  victorious in His plan.  
  He is always saying to you, "Come on, now, you can do it!!"  
  "Atta boy!!"  win that game.
  The greatest thought in all of life
   is that God loves us and knows each name.  
   He loves you more than anyone else does,
   so don't be discouraged my friend! 
 . For God's your fan and He knows
   you are going to win.  
   Get alone with Him today 
   and let Him give you a "pep
   rally."
  
              Swing batter!


Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2009

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Rabbit Huntin' With Pa

The excitement built for weeks before rabbit huntin' season!
Not to partake of this annual Hoosier ritual was akin to treason!
For certain, on the first day of huntin' season, as a general rule,
Men called in sick to the boss and all the boys skipped school!

Our old hound, Spooks, sensed the excitement as well,
Eager to chase those wily varmints o'er fields and dell.
Thankfully, due to the rabbits' unusually prolific habits,
The old farmstead teemed with dozens and dozens of rabbits!

Too young to shoulder a gun, my job was to carry the sack,
Heavily laden with game upon my poor, achin' back!
Spooks brought the late Mister Rabbit and laid him at my feet.
I'd tell him, "Atta boy, Spooks!" and give him a doggie treat!

I reckon along about the age of twelve, my pleadin' with Pa was won.
At last I was allowed to hunt with the men and tote a gun!
The first time I fired the old twelve-gauge, it set me on my rear!
Old-timers laughed so hard, to their eyes it brought a tear!

I recall so many precious moments when a Hoosier lad,
Among them was doing "man" things with my dear old Dad.
Now in the autumn of my life, the gun leans against the wall.
I have no desire to harm God's creatures anymore at all!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)


Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

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Through the Water Through One Midnight

In a noxious night as I looked across the pier,
something in my stare 
screamed and wept to empty air.

What was it? 
Surfacing in that netherworld river?

I was seeing something, finally
I was seeing a veil of darkness lift
and a golden dawn arise
in another timeline where the superhuman
I have achieved--where deceitful animation does not exist.
 
Simply I say: your perfection blinded me.
Ah, "perfection"! It's cruel 
to us both 
to call you perfection, 
Unfair, even, as to twain 
the ethereal 
unfit for this world. 
I will think of the gold, and I will think
of King Midas, and how you defy him 
and have turned my spirit golden just by being, 
just by assaulting Fear 
with it's own medicine.

I am chased here now
Gravity and I are one
through this mountain of mist I run 
downhill
as incarnate disease whirls through loved carnations
in every picture we're in
and all the poison residue
left by my aging sneakers
that have been the eyes in the back of my head
they stare; grant me utmost haste,
this pair and I are bound from waste
and I dare not turn to look
and I dare dive blindly,
I pray for a clearing 
and one Soul for hearing:

"Summoned by ingsoc. 
Allow this dance across your balcony of darkness, 
‘I love you’ wields smooth eccentricity 
settled at the bottom of the glass, 
to rise only when in the throes of anguish. 
I don’t understand—I fail to be better. 
Sinking ships in sinking dark sweaters she wears
whether or not I tether this feather to my heart—
give me Never."

And yet the Anti-psalm plays:

Outta bed, atta boy,
Quenched every day.
Withered like grass,
Miss that sass,
Deceitful heart dismay.

And what can halt the falling sensation that embraces

and stalks

the faces

and stops

in the hierarchy of this fearsome foe we call 
The Human Mind
that is designed 
to become hollow after a time
of being told it will see hallow love,
but never working to see the dove 
return with the olive branch
builds a cold doll of the heart
that speaks a language called Mockery
and the sweet song I'd heard 
was merely the heartbreak
of mockingbirds falling 
into fate.

As I stood up from my Fall, 
you became the mist 
that passes over this selfish, loveless city 
at 4 AM. 
I perceived you as a specter, 
then reality, 
then dear, 
and now, dream clouds 
that slowly
 
reshape 

slowly

disappear... 

clouds that smile 
and say

they say

they say...

"Time to get up."


Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017

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Time OUT

Gray kitten dashing past so fast
stay,  sit here please awhile
Hey! You’re making a colander of my chest
lay down in my lap and style!

That paper crane is not the enemy
cat get a grip and nap
bat the moth, yes that’s your joy
‘atta boy! Give it a slap!

Got no grip on that glass tabletop
hot, hot tootsies smokein’ wild
it’snot Sebring or La Mans 
lotta temper here Ma’s not MILD!

Sleep oh pretty one and dream
Bo Peep that wee chassis please stop!
Creep off fur-muffin and rest,
leap no more or Mommy will drop!


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011