Best Blubbery Poems
We dragged the slopes to our feet.
On the summit, we burnt our clothes
for wood and there shuffled our feet
in the hush of the falling snow.
We had come out of the scuffed grass.
With one look back in unbelief
exhuming the long trek
the silent keen
puffing through blubbery fingers.
We pulled the hoofed trail through
the trapdoor of our unchained links
foisting for new heights.
Beyond the Appalachian Mountains
the hanging fern on pine dripped snow
on moles burrowing in gashed hollows.
We paused. In that doubtful moment
we rued the climb, succumbing to the assault
upon this stilled millennia’s eerie silence.
All that time the swivelling blizzards raged
shifting soil, eroding avalanches.
Below, burgeoning customs
unmaned the silent dignity of bisons.
All bore testimony to a familiar preparation.
And then, suddenly before our eyes
the solemn ground rose with the breeze
the spangled map changing to the quick:
Chicago Pittsburgh Kansas City
wild barnyards dry-coughing, pop-corning garages
horrent timber ribbed the coasting steamboats
the linoleum walls
the mild Indian piqued he was
by the mahogany cubism of our speech.
We wondered if coming so far
only mattered, we would be content
to build a fire, here and now
and unpack our horses.
We saw little need to go on.
One night the summit might open
up and swallow us all or old age
would come upon us like a lonely neighbour
on a pretext to the door.
© T.Wignesan 1964
London, U.K.
[from the collection: tell them i’m gone, 1983; published in Fire Readings (A Collection of Contemporary Writing from the Shakespeare & Company Fire Benefit Readings). Paris-Boston: Frank Books, 1991, pp. 36-37.]
From morning to time day is done
Sunflower follows the sun
There is a brief nostalgia then fun
As around the sunflower children run
The poppy flowers are red
Like once on Monte Casino blood red
Poppies there are kind of sad
The victory is great but they say poppies are red
Because they feed on the blood of soldiers that are dead
That is why they are blood red
Roses are also red
But looking at them is no time to be sad
The strawberry
The raspberry
Blubbery and gooseberry
They are all delicious healthy and reveries tasty berry
They are for jams and preserves
That my aunt serves
Aronia is berry from which liquor is made
But fresh aronia has taste which will never fade
In the time of May
When one walks that way
The beautiful cherry tree
Shows of its white red flowers in full majesty
The smell is divine
Of pollination time it is sign
I don’t know whether evolution or God gave the tree
This mesmerizing beauty
But its smell awakens the soul
So beautiful so delightful
That it can be mistaken for a portal
Portal to actual land of soul
Yet in this garden there is a tree
That actual portal would be
It is unassuming tree
Yet decoction from that tree
Awaking deeper senses will be
And answers to questions one will see
Questions about immortality
And destiny
After having one smell
Answers to those questions one can tell
How to make spirit not need consciousness spell
And if this is only the base it can tell ultimate spell
After just one smell
It can show how to make a spell
As complex as answering what is beyond abstract
To as practical as in event of a crash how to keep body intact
The garden is a work of art
Yet for many such garden is only in their heart
If we continue to destroy our planet even more
Gardens of all kind will only be in folklore
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?” I haven’t a clue
What day is it? Who’s at my door?
“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”
Says some stranger who slept on my floor
The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea
Turns my stomach inside upside down
Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee
Of a banging night out on the town
“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”
I may have blacked out after midnight I fear
But now I’m…remembering…Stuff
Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind
As glimpses emerge from the fog
Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind
And my new Christmas phone down the bog
I thought I was hot but in retrospect not
In the morning light nowt could be plainer
And that I remember I like not a jot
My naked and drunk Macarena
Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state
And last year we gave it some welly
But if anyone had not enough on their plate
We’d do onesies and pizza and telly
My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch
They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right
But last night I must have been well out to lunch
For I reckon I started a fight…
It was something to do with a girl I once knew
And a joke that she did stuff for money
And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo
Well, I thought the punch line was funny
Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat
As I’m clearly not Super or Dry
And what are the words that are writ on this note
‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’
And I’m going commando, hilarious bants
Will be had in regards to my loss
Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants
On the top of the Market Cross
It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood
Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra
Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud
And a wing mirror nicked from a car
I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt
And at some point I’ll have to atone
But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt
Crying blubbery tears for my phone
by Gail
Oh, foolish man! I told you I'm not a clinger
Don't grab my tail 'less you want to be bitten
and if at me you keep pointing your finger
I'll show you the contempt of an angry kitten
Be off with your horde and their petty assails
or I vow to scratch the eyes of those with you
whose fatty buttocks are blubbery like whales
Your gaggle flings vile insults as you pursue.
My whiskers are trimmed and yours are scruffy
You know what I mean when I spit and hiss?
You're not insulting me when you call me Fluffy
I'm an aristocratic feline. I only answer to Priss.
If you draw nearer, I'll swat you with my paws
Keep your dirty hands off of my marmalade coat
or I swear I'll scratch you with unsheathed claws
For your insolence there should be an antidote!
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching cellular skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
A rundown duplex in an old inner city place
The walls smeared with dog in an outright disgrace
It smelt of no hope and no future for her anyone more
The neighbours complained of loud music and bad language behind her door
We were called one evening and she answered to us
Bleary eyes and drunk she wondered at the fuss
The scars on her face a sad story told
Of a car crash that maimed her in drink and speed story so old
Photos showed there was a time when she was a good looker
Gone now forever living life as a low class hooker
When she spoke it was slurry and blubbery
Wanting something she couldn’t have in a horror story
We turned the music down and said it had to stop
In a useless charade they was all that we got
So we left to go back to the world
She remained there a lost soul with little left to be held
And alone she lived on in this downtrodden place
In filth as a struggle with no time or grace
I wrote on the log in upper case
Music turned down AQOL NFPA in the appropriate place
Once and a while we had to go back again
For a similar job and a result that would never an end.
© Paul Warren Poetry
101 is a police code for a disturbance.
Madam Merry, the Principal of the school
Contrary to her name was neither merry nor cool
Igniting sparks of fear, she remained a terror
No wonder, students looked upon her in horror
There was an uncontrollable anger streak
In her genetic makeup! When it reached an all time peak
There was an aura of distressing menace,
Even when she advanced from a distance
She would enter the classroom like a sweeping whirl wind
Causing waves of fear in every child’s mind
Startled by her appearance, children would forget to greet
All their polite manners would then go to the back seat
Besides hot temper, she was puffed up with self conceit
Neither patient nor humble and was far from sweet
If at all she called anyone by the name
Each knew it was to put him/her to shame
Corpulent and blubbery, she weighed a ton
As she walked she wobbled. Watching her was fun.
Rumors ran, this lady banged her ‘hus’
For not responding to her wishes always with a ‘Yes’
Once we children decided to teach her a lesson
That would make her arrogance and haughtiness lessen
We spilled some sticky oil on her way to the class
And in her hurry, slipped on it as on morass
With a loud thud, she fell flat on the floor
And lay unable to move, close to the main door
By the time the other teachers came to her rescue
We children escaped, not giving the slightest clue
Even after years, when I think of Madam Merry
With laughter, my cheeks color like a red cherry!
5. Jan. 2022
Funny Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Natasha L Scragg
Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.
PART THE FIRST
black coffee beans
bountiful in Bismarck.
rich provisions for the soul
and succulent dinners for the heart
I met a waitress once
she gave twenty-three reasons to prove to me that God exists.
each one delicately worded with vigor and puissance
it was bittersweet like the coffee she would serve me before work.
Precise like the trill of a piano
Ideas that capture the mind
longing to be heard by a starving ear.
Washed up whales who were transfixed by the promise of a better life
they wanted the land when they did not realize the beauty of the sea.
Overrun by greed and the longing for a break in their chains.
As they give their last breaths, it is then they realize the error of their ways
regret floods their blubbery minds as the giant of the water gives up
How now, mister man in the moon?
On this day we do mourn.
Not for the dead, or the gone, or our dearly departed.
But we do mourn for ourselves.
Yes, we mourn because there’s nothing left.
Our mind has been stripped down to its core intentions
Basic, selfish, feeble, and alone.
This is the day that we sob and pray for ourselves.
A battle raging with the fires of a thousand suns
Internally.
White blood cells as silver as the snow
and as cold and unforgiving as a blizzard
fight the misunderstood and unrepresented bacteria
a merciless battle, fitting for a fight to the death… and beyond.
the outcome predetermined by a higher existence
it would be best if you weren’t involved anyway
you are, ultimately, unnecessary to this process
you are, ultimately, unnecessary.
I stay on this side of the wall,
Where the wind is sharp,
And the stars shine.
I go about my daily chores
With fervor and promptitude.
Cutting the grass, clearing the fallen leaves,
And letting the vines hang on the wall.
I am happily discontent.
But, when it comes climbing over the vines,
Precariously, to my own side of the wall,
My precious side of the wall,
I become unhappily discontent.
Lightning thunders with admonition,
And the morning light shuns me.
And before I can discern my malcontent,
I find I have broken down the wall.
I cast my blubbery eyes upon the broken pieces,
Hurl a few of them around,
At nothing in particular, and prostrate,
Hoping for mercy.
And when the snot dries up the next day,
I pick myself up from the stone cold floor,
Set brick upon brick,
And build the wall again.
A former slender man (lapsed Unitarian anorexic)...
deplores adipose tissue gain
No Holiday music can soothe savage beast
washboard abdomen weight watcher's dream fleeced
skinny bag of lovely bones permanently leased
body snatcher somewhere amidst policed
madding crowd of carolers singing,
where mine sinking spirits ceased
rising today December 18th, 2020
analogous how unleavened bread
(i.e. matzo) lacks yeast.
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy (Etsy) as add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy, plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller wannabe at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching consumer cellular
skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
Still calling to me
Getting my attention
Rubbing
Scratching
Wrenching them.
Blisters,
Dry skin,
Cracking,
Even bleeding.
Rubbing them raw.
Only stopping when the pain is too much,
Or when other eyes on me.
Clenching them in fists,
Driving me nuts.
Then a 360....
A gentle touch
That has my eyes instantly swell up,
My face becomes blotchy,
The blubbery mess I avoid.
I stop myself.
My eyes ever so blue,
Glassy appearance.
The hurt is there.
The fight for denial
Only brings more awareness.
I've seen it before.
I've said it before;
The eyes do not lie.
Still.
These damn hands of mine.
Begging me to let it go.
Cry.
The sobbing girl spent fifteen minutes gasping
Trying to get out words that made sense
Her chest was heaving, and her speech was blubbery
What happened? The Queen of Spades asked.
I know said the Jack of Diamonds. She was attacked.
By whom?
The fours, sixes, two’s, and sevens.
Why?
No one knows.
Queen of Spades was tired of these thugs.
There will be consequences, she said.
We do not want people to think that playing cards are thugs.
Too late, said the child.
astronomical anatomical atoms
buying brilliant blubbery bimbo blobs
collecting claustrophobic colorized clandescently clams
depicting deplorable dependable depraved dendrites
enticing and enlisting energetic enthusiastic enigmas
finally fueling fussy frisky flatulence, forming fleece finders
giving gluttonous glorious gargoyles grinning grace
holding heavy-handed hospital heathens
Ignoring impassible imaginative ideas of interlopers
justifying jiggly jealous jaundiced jugglers jumping jury joyrides
killing kinesthetic kingly Kansas killjoys
leaving lighthearted Larry lollygagging lower than legumes
memorizing momentous miracles of magic meaning moroseness
nudging nebulous narcissistic nightly northern narwhals
occupying octagonal orbital ostrich-like ocelots
pursuing persnickety picky perverted pencils
quizzing questionable quails and quacks
redeeming respectable rustic ricocheting roadrunners
scalloping scuzzy scared scarred skeletons
teasing torrential test tube tarantulas
undermining understated underwater umbrellas
validating villainous vagrants verifying vigor and vim
worrying wiggly worm-like women wasps
‘xasperating ‘xpensive ‘xpansive ‘xtraordinary ‘xtraterrestrials
yielding yellowish youngish yippy youngbloods
zooming zealous zebras zigging and zagging in Zimbabwe