Best Bibs Poems
Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)
A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
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If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low
Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger,
straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself
Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dry grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood,
overpower any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs
Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T
By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood)
Date: 12-15-13
~*~
Categories:
bibs, abuse, anger, angst, how
Form:
Free verse
Woman
legs ~ breasts ~ thighs
hips ~ lips ~ eyes
Man
strength ~ muscled ~ arm
masculine ~ grit ~ charm
Children
fun ~ run ~ toys
playful ~ girls ~ boys
Baby
cradles ~ diapers ~ cribs
sleepers ~ cryers ~ bibs
Grandparents
canes ~ glasses ~ walkers
old ~ wise ~ talkers
Family
fathers ~ sons ~ brothers
daughters ~ sisters ~ mothers
Six Word Couplet Series Encore Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
10/10/2018
Categories:
bibs, family,
Form:
Couplet
Kittens In The Barn
He stops and removes his boots before opening the door. He enters the kitchen and smells the familiar aroma of morning coffee.
"Breakfast's ready, have a seat. How're the kittens" his wife asks.
"Damn cat" he says. "Should have run her off when she showed up last year". "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted". "Nothing but a nuisance is all she is". "Now got all those little ones running around". "I hate cats".
She gives him his plate and pours him a cup of coffee. He hungrily digs in, sopping up
his eggs with a warm biscuit. He tips his cup and pours some coffee in his saucer,
blowing on it to cool it off. "Damn cat" he mumbles.
When finished, he carries his dishes to the sink, rinsing them and setting them aside.
When her back is turned he quickly grabs the saucer and stuffs it in the pocket of his
bibs. "I'm going to milk the cows he says". "Take care" she calls, pretending not to
notice. In another moment he is gone.
He grabs his stool and bucket and sets to milking, the warm liquid quickly consuming the
container. He rises and walks into a distant stall. Bending down, he pulls out the
purloined saucer and fills it from the bucket in his hand. He places it beside the
squirming litter and watches as they stagger to its brim.
"Damn cat" he mutters. "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted".
Categories:
bibs, animals, people
Form:
Narrative
First you learn to crawl around
Then give a step a chance
Bit by bit you learn to talk
And not to wet your pants
When it’s time to go to school
Get on the bus and go
It’s scary to be on your own
With kids that you don’t know
Then you enter puberty
And share that first time kiss
A few bouts of puppy love
Then a love you can’t resist
Wedding bells, a honeymoon
A family would be swell
Diapers, bibs, a rocking chair
Night time stories you will tell
Start planning for retirement
You’ve got grandkids all around
Wrinkles come from nowhere
You know you’re slowing down
Now you reached the golden years
It’s time to just have fun
Take a nap, do what you want
Your race on earth is done
Categories:
bibs, lifetime, time,
Form:
Quatrain
Sworn to secrecy, she told me it had been a long time..
as we sat swinging in a hammock in the late day sun.
'What., are you sayin' you never did it?'
I thought what my mom would do if she caught me, and replied
'brought up different I guess'.
She leaned back into the netting, perhaps chewing on what I said..
half her face streaked in sunlight.
Suddenly aware of her leg touching mine. So warm...
My cotton red racing striped trunks from Sears, with a secret webbed key pocket..her faded OshKosh B'Gosh bibs she wore all summer except on Sundays.
(Sundays were saved for wearing that white & pink pleated Victorian get up she so detested; a gift from her Grandma bought from Macy's mail order catalog)
She ribbed me with her right elbow, as she jumped clear of our swing..
when her mom yelled 'time for supper Kat!' from the front porch.
But she turned back with that dangerous look I'd learned, leaned in close, and licked across all her teeth.
'Milk's colder and better ya know..
drunk straight from the carton.'
She ran inside letting the screen door go with a full slam..!
I thought about all the times we watched Jonny Quest at her house,
eatin' our Quisp or Kaboom with that milk..., and smiled.
I kept Kat's secret safe..,'til just now anyway.
dialogue
Categories:
bibs, 8th grade, adventure, childhood,
Form:
Narrative
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
Categories:
bibs, character, hilarious,
Form:
Free verse
The lollipop lady and laborer,
Driving to work we can see who it is.
In bright fluoro orange and yellow
Retro reflective people wearing high vis.
There’s vests and jackets and singlets and bibs,
Worn by these people like a fashion design.
Drivers of forklifts, bulldozers and utes,
For safety all day and night time.
Every worksite embraced this vogue of a trend
Begun years ago by a single fire fighter.
Years ago when people just wore normal stuff
But now we all appear brighter.
Call me old fashioned, I like normal work gear
Denim jeans, overalls or blue tops.
Covered in grease or mud you could see
They look good in the mechanic workshops.
But alas we live in an age where we’re blind
To what’s aesthetic, beautiful and nice.
Replaced with high intensive colors of vivid,
We evolved to walking flash lights.
Categories:
bibs, clothes, color, fashion, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
Flaming steaks and ice cold drinks
you thought good food had become extinct
until you ate here and gave us a nod and a wink.
Appetizers galore with soft stringy cheese sticks, artichoke hearts deep fried
with a taste of parmesan cheese and a dip to please.
bacon wrapped shrimp you might want to frame, seared sea scallops that
make you want to gallop, stuff mushrooms that'll make you croon, escargot
and baked claims as you eat them you'll definitely leave a stain
Ice burg lettuce or romaine with fresh dressing all homemade.
Lobster bisque soup with a deep rich taste if you don't like
seafood try Tomato bisque instead, French onion soup either a bowel
or cup just don't be a glut.
Your auntre is about to start your just warming up
hot garlic bread with a wonderful spread, Chris's secret recipe if he
told you how he made it you'd be dead.
Succulent steaks porterhouse, ribeye, serlion, T-bone and of course filet
add garlic or lemon butter to dip, 'hooray!'
Chicken flew by giving you legs and wings deep fried
want a little less oil try the fresh grilled chicken
fit for a royal.
Hamburger, cheeseburger just choose your cheese and of course
add bacon please. Want an egg on top sunny side up
when you squeeze the bun it will definitely erupt.
The beef is so fresh the cows stopped mooing when
it hit the grill with no sign of stress.
Vegetable melody or a little broccoli please.
The potato why so many things I can do
baked, French fried, homefried or even mashed
some round or shaped like a torpedo.
Baked fish Talapia, Flounder or even Sea Bass
'Oh' so fresh. We have an aquarium in the back,
just teasing we use a pole and bait at our near by lake.
End the evening as you sit back with a luscious sweet dessert
but please don't drool bibs are provided if needed
or even a paper sack on your way out.
Just remember as my Daddy always said,
'You all come back now you hear, friends are like family
and we hold you all dear!'
Coming Soon: The new "Fire and Ice Grill and Pub"
T Reams
Categories:
bibs, celebration, food, imagery, success,
Form:
Verse
Now the wedding had drawn to a close the ceremony past
We found ourselves together and thankfully alone at last
We packed our bibs and bobs into suitcases very quickly
Rushed straight out the door though I felt a little sickly
The shining taxi was waiting to whisk us away
Airport then plane our trip was finally underway
On the plane to his charms I was not immune
This was going to be our magical honeymoon
Coughing and spluttering in the hotel I did lay
Could not get out of bed each and every day
To cruise rugged fiords our plan said next
So out of my sick bed I raised perplexed
This is not what I was thinking to expect
Romance and passion seemed to disconnect
On a small ship along the rugged coast we then did sail
Reveling in the sweet air with every breath we inhaled
At last I thought my dream has finally come true
Our honeymoon would be joyous and not blue
At the Close of the day to the hotel we wandered
Through this night our love would not be squandered
It was wishful thinking we were soon to realize
The honeymoon room had a bed but only single size
This is not what we expected when we happily set out
Dreams of intimate passion is what we thought about
The journey continued at a sedate pace
The wonderful views put a smile on our face
Sadly food poisoning hit me I was constantly sick
Sat hours in the toilets, hubby didn't take the Mick
I can now look back at my honeymoon from hell
Twenty four years married we are doing quite well
Categories:
bibs, funny love, love, marriage,
Form:
Couplet
In our town lived a crazy old crone
with no spouse, and her kids were all grown.
Once frightened by rats,
she bought a few cats,
so no longer did she live alone.
As it turns out, the cats were so nice
that they wouldn’t attack even mice!
They wanted instead
to only be fed
yummy foods like her chicken fried rice.
At her table, the old lady set
two tall stools. Yes, that woman would let
the two cats dine with her,
wearing bibs so their fur
from the sauces would never get wet.
The old woman now lives happily
knitting clothes for her cat “family.”
While asleep on her bed,
the cats purr on her head
while the rats in the house still run free.
Jan. 14, 2018 For Line Gauthier's 'CRAZY CAT LADY: RHYME' Contest
Categories:
bibs, cat,
Form:
Limerick
Fried Turkey
Inject with beer, Chow Chow and liquid Cajun seasoning two days before frying
Old shirts or bibs and a roll of paper towels per person are highly recommended...
Categories:
bibs, food, holiday,
Form:
Verse
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
Categories:
bibs, community, home, nostalgia, winter,
Form:
Free verse
A strainer for milk or for juice, a window shade
Worn as bibs, diapers, or a kerchief
Turned into skirts, blouses and slips
Plaited into rugs of many pieces.
In kitchen used as dish towels, cover for dough
Helping to pass pans so hot, to tie up dishes
To clean and polish stove and table
To abraide and to scrub from cellar to gable.
In bedroom, to dust the bureau and bed posts
Turned into costumes of October scary ghosts
Waive me to say” hello” to a distant neighbor
I am that durable and practical flour sack.
======================================
November 17, n2013
Form: Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place win
Contest:Any poem goes #27 by Linda
Categories:
bibs, social,
Form:
Free verse
Now, ol’ Twister Tom he was quite a cowboy find—
A real rock hard cowpoke, though the question begged—
Some say that he was a legend in his own mind,
He’d a been six foot six if he weren’t so bow-legged!
But standin’ five foot two he was a dryin’ breed,
So he took up wordin’ and became a poet!
At eighty-two years all the big world he had seed,
So he was a master bard before he knowed it!
So Tom the bronc twister he done went on a tour
And he read his poems at cowboy gatherin’s—
They liked his gravel voice and his odd looks for sure
And they loved all his colorful palatherin’s!
But there got to be so many versifiers,
That it started to seem lots of folks didn’t care—
So they all turned into cowboy verse deniers—
It was so dern crowded that nobody went there!
Tom joined the ranks of Barker, Kiskaddon and Clark,
Chapman, Morant, Fletcher and his great Knibbs—
“It shore beats singin’ ta all them cows in the dark,
And I don’t like wearin’ those overalls with bibs!”
And rarely in recitin’ did Tom make a flub,
But there was a lot he lacked in propriety—
They said he was so dern good he should join a club,
Like the famed Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
But with Twister Tom that just didn’t set too right—
Said, “I don’t want ta be in no society,
What takes in any ol’ buzzard just on his sight
And would accept as a member that likes of me!”
But they swore that he’d be a perfect candidate,
Yet he then said, “It seems there’s somethin’ you ferget—
Before I is one of you cowboy poet’s, mate—
They’s just one thang you overlooked – I ain’t dead yet!”
So ol’ Twister Tom he kept makin’ him a name,
He read his verse smooth and with no anxiety—
And when he was dead wound up in the hall of fame
And in the Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
Categories:
bibs, cowboy-western, death, funny, life,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
So you think you are a poet,
but your work, it don’t show it
Lots of Yeats and Shakespeare
rip offs; Wordsworth aped, many
spin-offs
Puerile nonsense, bibs and bows,
weep for me, and wipe my nose
“I’m an expert,” what a laugh!
why’d you write such utter chaff!
Hymns and sermons in profusion,
writ with gnostic’s odd confusion
But where’s “the juice,”the meat
and gravy? Please no more on
curls and baby
Writing poetry is a thrill, not twee
lines to make one ill; so why not
pen about real life; hearts, emotions,
hormones, strife?
(With apologies to the late Charles Bukowski )
Categories:
bibs, life, poetry,
Form:
Verse