Best Backsides Poems
Our POTD is now black versus white.
We are going to see a racist rant in plain sight.
It’s sad when a poet, uses their pen as a stick.
This POTD has no merit and honestly makes me sick.
Why would we showcase hate and give racism a stage?
All skinheads are animals and belong in a cage.
I’m very disappointed with what this site has allowed.
It’s simply a detonation with a mushroom cloud.
I guess evil is at work causing more divide.
Maybe his parents were the same and now gleaming with pride.
Whatever the case, it’s a very sad day.
This makes me sick to my stomach and it’ll stay that way.
Could this be a simple glitch that admin has missed?
If not, they are about to see many backsides that can surely be kissed.
Someone needs to be ashamed of themselves, for allowing this pungent hate.
What has poetry become, and what was it meant to create?
The see-saw backsides of obesity traverse across the promenade
Led by bustling torpedo breasts thrusting through the hustling throng;
Past tarnished chromium espresso bars, burger vans with frying lard,
Ice cream parlours, sagging deckchairs and the sunlight blazing on.
Splayed upon the greying sands with butts of cigarettes in shallow graves,
Bikini babes in thin floss thongs, sun oil basted, lie and fry,
The effluence of sewage farms foams ochre crests upon the waves,
Cheap sunglasses and tinted shades warp vision as the seagulls cry.
Or are they coughing in the choking rise of hotdog onion smoke,
Or searing blast of diesel oil drove upwards from the fairground sprawl,
And do they dive for fish and chips discarded by the glutted folk
Until cholesterol weighs them down and they no longer fly but crawl?
Oh, I did like to be beside the seaside in the golden memories of my youth,
Before the tattooed mobs and greedy slobs and moguls came to town,
And though rose-tinted, real dreams of childhood wonder sing of truth,
But now I’d much prefer it if they torched and burned the whole place down.
Love comes in all
shapes and sizes – Thank God!
Myself having evolved in some
rather, undesirable directions...
But what is the same anymore?
Environmentalists say, not the sky!
Not the seas! (Seagulls flying off
with bees to who knows where?)
As those wide-open spaces – gone!
Concrete and steel having replaced
colorfully tinted rural faces, with grimacing
gray features – tenements rabid with crime
and moral filth...desperately in need
of far more heavenly graces – or, at the least,
the lofty illusions pearl-necklaced TV Moms
once gave us.
Libraries, the sacred cloisters of
of enchanted places and mystical dreams,
no longer bearing, at the least
informative fruits for deliberative
minds; such institutions polluted
with Liberal Politics, personal greed
coupled with insane hunger for
for power over more docile others,
a hollowing of the human soul
leaving a bitter emptiness
and disconnect where once
thrived the fertile seeds of cooperative
living...
So, what is the new normal?
Hell if I know! Politicians
speaking out of both sides of
elongated, medically enhanced
lying mouths – technically new?
Educators enunciating with their
backsides – but now their pant’s fully down,
Punctuating a Marxist agenda, their
transforming goals openly on display --
perhaps for them, a new honesty?
College students confused as to which
way to turn in bed – enough to confound
the most flexible contortionist….
Thank God for alcohol!
The old King took to the battle
and leapt into the fencers fray.
“Noblesse oblige” his cronies cry.
“Our King will save the day!”
He was a bull to their gazelle
nae a fair fight, nae by half;
he'd fight just to see the thralls fall
he ‘d pierce those peacocks for a laugh!
His continence was so fearsome.
His two burly arms a rare threat.
Some would nae fight His Majesty
nor fight of his knightly get.
“How is this fair?” the Lord’s lament.
How well met can these odd match be?
“Unless, of course, ‘twas nae ‘bout fair
this was nae called noblesse oblige!
In heavy plate with blade and pole
with broadsword, He’d bested the field;
so, as the fencers broached this game
the wiser lads all chose to yield.
They would nae raise a blade to him
nor would they save for him a dance;
many a brave man whispered there
and the bolder looked on askance.
“Let Him have the day! We’ll nae play
Noblesse oblige, my fine backsides!”
And, so the fancy fencers fell
like pretty harp seals on the tide.
There are many a way to win
and sure, many a way to loose.
Yet ‘tis the metal of the man
shows in the way that he chooses.
Crannies in Time
Resting beneath a pile of silken scarves and soft kid gloves -
Hatboxes filled with old tweed caps, cuff links bearing long lost crests,
A leather box – a jewelry case – opened to reveal a ballerina’s spinning grace,
To release a mania of memories, popping up like popcorn, as if they waited
To jump out - surprise conspiring to astonish eyes of wonder;
Travelers in time, arms of welcome pointing to a portal for hearts returning
With startled souls among the murals painted on their walls in time indelible,
Revisit wrinkles in eternity where moments recline -
Retell events re-formed by memories cast in sterling,
Linked by silver circles showcasing milestones days, precocious pets,
Musicals with wishing wells, a lovers vow, frayed dancing shoes,
Milestone birthdays, skis for winter, umbrellas for a city clothed in rain,
Side by side with souvenirs, states with nicknames stamped on their backsides
Collections, a crowded patch of rambling flowers scampering up a garden wall
Poking through the tiny crannies left by minutes flying by in streamers flowing,
Daylight merging into starlight - midnight gliding past each dawn -
Captivating charms guarding sacred spaces where treasures abide
Now seen through cracks in time, amid the winds with hands of ice,
Hearts welcomed back to reflect in sanctuaries warm
With new eyes that once searched for ghosts of meaning –
Specters - understanding - come in focus.
There are too many people walking around every single day
And if you ask them who they are most don't know what to say
You need to know who you are and how you came to be
And if you are a child of God you are royalty
We are all descendants of the most high God
children of the King
But if you don't have a relationship with Him
That concept doesn't mean a thing
But God says we're all royalty so we need to comprehend
That it's not our culture, it's not our race it's being creations of Him
Now the enemy is on the prowl working day and night
Trying to deter our youth from acknowledging God's light
Too much social media with Twitter, Facebook and Skype
So caught up in their Cel phones and every technological hype
But God looks at our hearts, He discerns what's inside
He's not concerned about hair color, tattoos or exposed backsides
God says we're royalty, He says we're His chosen offspring
And He called a young David to come forth and do a new thing
Now David was not a fighter he was a tender of sheep
But God can flip the script and with faith make you take the leap
God can use anyone when it comes to accomplishing His goals
He can call on the most unlikely person
and infuse him with power and control
God says we're royalty with power, majesty and might
He will bless and anoint us with grace, mercy and light
God says we're royalty and when He calls us to serve
Don't second guess His actions this appointment you deserve
To be a vessel that God will use, a means to an anointed end
To change the course of history to benefit all men
Now David was to battle but not King Saul's way
David had a god-given talent to be put on display
David was a projectile warrior a master of the slingshot
So he picked up 5 smooth stones and proceeded towards his lot
Only one stone was needed to take Golieth down
It hit that giant in the forehead
and immediately knocked him to the ground
David's actions changed the course of history
It also came to affect his entire family
Eventually David became a king
and because of his faith and behavior
His descendants became the line that produced
Jesus the Christ Our Savior
And like David I know who I am
And from Whom I came to be
And like David I'm a child of God
And God says I'm royalty
With a hearty laugh, and scallywag's glee
I've acquired their riches, and conquered the sea!
Like a timid lass... they will turn, and flee
showing their backsides, to the likes of me!
Lily livered, they're fearin' my brand!
Shiverin' they be, till they're walking on land!
Arrgg!! shouts first mate, calling out to the crew,
"Tally-ho!" fills me ears, as the chance now ensues
Setting sail in a race, up high on the waves
I spy with my glass, wily cowards to chase
'Tis we, mighty foes, that will ransom the sea!
Mighty bold is me, with me old pirate's creed!
Alas! there he is, what a fool is he!!
To rush into battle with the likes of me!!
Sailin' the waves on the blimey sea
Stung by a sword, the scallywag flees!
How swift he sails, along in the blue..
Yo ho ho! Thar' he be!
He'll be countin' his days, and soon on his knees
A sorry tale, will allot him, his sword just a broom
Me' cross=bone skull is flying wild
and waves a mighty doom!!
I am Blackbeard the Pirate....remember my name!
You will fill up your froth of my flowing fame
You will guzzle ye' grog, or a bit of ye' rum
Yea' ... call me the devil, with a bit of a scum!
Girdled with face of a hundred scars
Fear of me' wrath, either by sun or by stars
It gladdens the heart of a scoundrel like me
You'll best not forget ....tis' a Blackbeard ye' fear!!
One morning, when I was stationed at base operations in Subic, I had a
telephone call. A Filipino shipyard worker had died during the night-shift,
on the job at the navy repair facility, apparently of natural causes. But to
cover our backsides, the shipyard wanted to fly the body to Clark Air Force
Base for autopsy by a pathologist. Just to make sure.
So I called one of the many helicopter pilots I had become acquainted
with to set the flight up. The pilot said “No problem, just put the body in
a body bag, and we’ll strap him into one of the UH-I’s seats (the helicopter
workhorse of Vietnam), call it a training flight, and do the deal.” So, I called the
shipyard, told them what to do, and went back to my morning cup of coffee.
A few minutes later, the admiral’s Aid called, to tell me that the admiral’s
driver, a marine corps sergeant with three Purple Hearts from combat in
Vietnam, was going to be charged with some minor legal offense by his
Philippine girlfriend, in order to keep him in the Philippines, instead of
returning to his wife in the US. The admiral wanted to get him to Clark and
en route home ASAP to avoid bi-lateral US-Philippine embarrassment.
So I called the pilot to tell him he would have a second passenger. No
problem, I went back to my coffee.
A few minutes later, I got a call from the marine corps captain who was
in charge of the brig. He had a soldier stressed out from combat in Nam,
high on unknown drugs, and violent. He wanted to get him out of the brig,
and send him back to the US.
So I called the helicopter pilot again to inform him of his third passenger.
He agreed to take him, if he was put in a straight jacket and leg irons, and
accompanied by a an armed guard. A reasonable requirement, because
passengers had access to the pilots in UH1 “Hueys”.
I still wonder what the air force airman thought as he slid open the door
of that Huey when it landed at Clark.
I am a Savonarola chair
carved from discarded
remnants of cedar and birch that
littered our backyard -
waiting to be burned
or broken by a trespasser’s hands,
or tended to by the warm touch
of a gardener’s natural instinct;
an individual
who values growth
and prosperity.
I am an object
forged from splinters and sweat.
My four legs become six when your
spoiled bones and blackened hearts
grow weary.
Stilted fractures wax like leprosy
within your fumbled thoughts -
seeking respite as you recount
negligent actions upon broken fingers.
Father was a saw
and cut out his tongue.
Mother was an awl
boring through his visibility.
Ignorance sanded his face.
Blind eyes rendered him mute and
useless, like a comb without teeth
or a song-less linnet bird.
I am a piece of furniture.
A curio cabinet
curiously displaying your mistrust.
An end table advertising no family portraits.
An ottoman whose cushions knead
the detestation clinging like muck upon
the backsides of chafed ankles.
I am:
Father's severed chainsaw.
Mother's twisted liquor cap.
Sister's crumpled gum wrapper.
Brother's fleshtone punching bag.
I am a chair.
I serve a purpose - but not for you.
A chair can be slip-covered, polished,
straddled and veneered.
A child cannot.
I am most content when six legs
morph back into four.
Exuberant,
I then know my
private existence can breathe -
and the hardened antecedents
who took advantage
of my open arms and inviting lap
have grievingly walked away.
"Hey kids! have you seen the keys for the door
I'm sure I put them down there before
I'm thinking this place is haunted
Or is your mother being taunted
Own up, or your backsides are gonna be sore"
Why cant I find my keys?
Winter memories that are still so vivid and bright
Those endless days playing with your mates
Snow falling when it should do, kids shouting and screaming
"It's snowing" running out, mum's shouting "Get some warm clothes on"
Scarves, balaclavas and gloves, only your face showing
Sledging in the snow, home made by dad, the lucky ones with bought ones
And the snow was proper snow, snow that came and stayed
Snow so deep you could only see your mate's head's above it.
Snow that made you want to play, sliding down hills falling on your backsides
Soaking your clothes getting your body chilled but still totally thrilled
Digging the snow off your path with dad making snowmen, huge snowmen
Who had carrot noses and coal for eyes and mouths with an old scarf around his neck to keep him warm
No cars on the road the whole street your playground
Having snow ball fights, taking sides and ganging up, wanting to be part of the best gang
Lying in the snow rolling down hills laughing and shivering
Then the darkness comes, off home to mum, she's fussing taking your wet clothes off droping them on the floor
Towels and pyjamas hung by the roaring fire, being wrapped in the warm towel mum furiously rubbing "you'll catch your death" she's saying
Pyjamas on, drinking warm milk sat on the carpet in front of the fire
Watching TV, the Flintstones, Beverly Hillbilly's maybe Huckleberry Hound and Yogi Bear.
Then it's bedtime, going up the stairs slowly not wanting to go, mum shouting after you "I'll be up in a minute"
Kneeling at the side of the bed, saying your prayers, Our Father who art in heaven.....
"Look after my mum and dad and my sister" then silently to yourself "Please God let the snow still be here tomorrow"
“I have forgiven mother”
She tarries with hope
that the good woman will pray her clemency for her own sins,
but that hour is expired;
Gee grew a strong wit
"Mother is no longer my burden"
Jesus came from hard conscience to corroborate her lies
The WORD written in black and white:
“Us twain is now one; for this reason I depart from her”
Three moons less than time in the safety of the womb is slight
In the past mother was necessity,
but she grew weary of the pace;
her birth city received her
The old Jewish woman was left
with stage three pressure ulcers
while the twain bender in Atlantic City
Their backsides were not masked by mother’s conformity
My mother's now defiant fingers work dutifully in another excrement,
goat stool in her callaloo garden
Before the recession, money was tossed in all directions;
I took hold of a few green ones.
She lived to outdo her alliance,
but high seat killed Miss. Thomas’ cat
Mother watched her outshone the Jones
The recession was never her downfall;
immorality got the better of her.
Jesus was overlooked
“put the WORD to work,
compensate the guardian of your youth”
She had to let a nation know how well off she was
Her enemies know her silver spoon was achieved
Her splurges buried ethics, and smiles were wide as graves
She let me know in scripts:
“A new being I am now; My shine is unlike years ago”
Vanity is not here in show, but her heart remains the same
Like the Jewish elder, mother is spurned
with bruising on her heart.
Freedom of the Press
The hallowed freedom of the press
In the west
Doesn’t sit well in the east
when Islam is made fun of.
So leave them alone to worship
Allah their way,
Millions of backsides exposed
to an ignorant world.
We can make fun of the Germans,
the frog and sex mad Swedes
We laugh and giggle
until someone gets up and
hit the offender for going too far.
when saying someone’s mother
is a ****
Great democracy the elite tells us,
but do not go too far
and never make fun of a Jew.
Our Political Divide
Miracle Man Opinion
6/17/2022
Each time a problem, of any kind, rears its head,
the establishment quickly looks for someone to blame.
Efforts should be directed toward problem solving instead,
but one party or the other goes all out to disclaim.
No matter what happens it’s the other party’s fault,
they’ll appoint a commission and hold kangaroo court.
Then ravage each other with a constant verbal assault,
while distorting the truth, to the media they resort.
Some wonder why many politicians aren’t respected,
they're adept at speaking from both sides of their mouth.
They cover their backsides and the people are oft neglected,
while our country is invaded by those from the south.
“When they call the roll in the senate,
the senators do not know whether to answer “present” or “not guilty.”
Theodore Roosevelt
We six sheep of Bethlehem be
Bogg, Whiff, Wheep, the triplets and me*
We all get fed and sleep in this shed
It's simple, but so are we!
O star of wonder, star so bright
Guiding strange folk here tonight
Unsuspecting sheep affecting
Oh, what a holy fright!
Who's these people? Oh Golly Gosh!
What's a'doing? Bish! Bash! Bosh!
There's a stranger in our manger,
Offsprung into our nosh!
O wondrous star, so satnav wise
Heaven guiding fat rich guys
Who needs peasants bringing presents?
Kings give the best surprise!
It's them shepherds - oh, what a pain!
Nosy types - a sheep's daily bane;
Off their backsides from the hillsides
Interfering again!
O wondrous star, O shiny thing
Even a sheepie can look at a king
Happy greetings, birthday bleatings
Who knew the sheep could sing?
O party star, O star so true;
Kings and shepherds having a do
Dancing clapping, no chance napping
What's a tired sheep to do?
Our bedroom's filled with brilliant light,
With people that we didn't invite
And something odder in our fodder;
Oh, for a Silent Night!
*Sheep can count but, as Eric Morecambe might have said, although they have the right numbers, they are not necessarily in the right order.