Best Bon Mot Poems
lifted
my words just barely dried
a poem appears in Spring
draws breath from a widow
close at hand, open to new
worlds across the land.
gently are these bon mot
teased into the silken air
escape capture on white
sheets fly to the magnolia
in full bloom. birdlike they preen,
cavort as do all new things in Spring.
When we drink, we get drunk.
When we get drunk, we fall
Asleep. When we fall a—
sleep, we commit no sin—
When we commit no sin,
we go to heaven. So—
Adapted from a bon mot of
George Bernard Shaw
6x6 square, math/poetry
headland harbored primitive biota abut
mint for exotic sole terrain sustaining
sole terrain sustaining seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova
seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova , et cetera gut
preserved within mine follicular pores, sans
I secured per woof and meow wing warp organic matter
heir in to fore shielded from elements akin to thatched hut
aware wrenching kamikaze eradication
of countless critters from many Godaddy longlegs;
creepy crawlers, hops scotching,
shimmying with schmaltz, moon walks, et cetera
lost when germ warfare obliterated vast majority
since advent of civilization ordained Proletariat and Plebeian Primate
(cherishing, fostering, insulating bon mot infinitesimal dot re: future mutt)
dogs and also cats off limits
asper demise of other creatures decimated – tut tut
atop thine noggin housed (within thimble size nut)
rare and near extinct flora and fauna, what
species of plants and animals, whose preserve comprised
equivalent of indigenous village people huddling within microscopic yut.
Thus, this bipedal simian angst riddled at experiences
forced at figurative crossroad
when itching scalping a dead giveaway clue
to lather up hirsute growing via bald faced code
at further expense invisible life forms such action would erode
fast dwindled diversity, hegemony, longevity
i.e. population except *****Sapiens who didst goad
forefingers needed to massage and scrub thine scalp
as like a field getting hoed
sometimes applying solely cold water knob to un load
a healthy plethora, where gushing shower head would send them
down the drain perhaps displacing their meal times,
or feasting on louse see pie ala mode
aware that survival odds regarding
getting thru water treatment plant, premonition aye node
and greater chance to avert total mortal kombat avoided
if I trekked to Antarctic anti pode
so...similar to other occasions necessitating me
to lather 50 shades of gray –
as if subjected to being snowed
quite aware many people would avoid me like the plague
(which reaction eagerly embraced) if knotty,
oily, straggly natural headresss
hence, this outlier surrendered and got gently toad
value of hygience – and lost as if playing tictactoe x/oed.
After becoming confident
(das ernest frank gent) handled ignition
jerryrigged knobs, levers, motors,
nameless other parts quintessentially,
set registers to “understand” vital www xy zone.
----------------------------------------------------------
A blitzkrieg capstone detonated explosive forcees
generating horrendous instantaneous jolt,
Krakatoa lost mighty noise,
outrageous phenomena qualified regarding
tremendous unearthly violent
whiplashing xing yawping zeitgeist!
----------------------------------------------------------
Imagine; The giant from Jack and the beanstalk, deign
Paul Bun, or the Jolly Green Giant,
straddling an imaginary line
between fall and winter. Therein lied the rub
(a tub tub three men in a tub), a question of mine
if pecking peccadillos peculiar per pretend puppies
engaged in any...Snoop...doggy style spine
tingling homosexual behavior,
no who matter intimated naked playtime also flourished
amidst can dyed cornicopia of good 'n plenty eats
contrasted with paucity,
life and death, Halloween evolved
as a celebration and superstition with wine
woman and song. Such weaning of the hallow,
or hallow of the weaner originated
with ancient Celtic festival of Samhain,
when village people would light vanity of bonfires,
and wear politically incorrect costumes
to ward off roaming ghosts of inept leaders
if necessary rivaling Tarzan impressions
swinging on a vine.
The Mound of the Hostages car bon mot dated
(by this amateur sigh hint hussed)
at 4,500 to 5000 years old, or there about
suggesting Samhain celebrated long before
first Celts arrived in Ireland
about 2,500 years ago with no cleats boot riveting clout
Samhain (pronounced /'s??w?n/
SAH-win or /'sa?.?n/ SOW-in,
Irish pronunciation: without,
or possibly Greek to this doubt
ting Thomas – [s??u?n?]),
a Gaelic festival marking the end,
when pollination ceased to flout
ushered advent of harvest season,
and beginning cust tomb of caw king grout,
discussing the epic winter of Gilgamesh,
or the "darker half" of the year,
when one feasted on giblets and sauer kraut
Halloween rooted er beer reed in ancient biers
caravansari doggedly exhumed along route,
66 (the third beastly 6
Coal face
disgrace
Bad vibes
from tribes
Dark art
at heart
Big deal
surreal
Uptight
yeah right
Sky high
my eye
Who knew
boohoo
My god
that’s odd
not half
a laugh
High five
alive
Stock phrase
daft craze
Buzz word
absurd
Smart tek
brain wreck
Sour pus
missed bus
High horse
off-course
Slow coach
cockroach
Big cheese
feels squeeze
Sore thumb
by gum
Hells bells
death knells
Fast lane
Insane
Bored stiff
with gif
Calm down
you clown
Joe soap
might cope
John dough
skid row
Jackpot
great scott
Long run
such fun
Clean sweep
knee deep
Bon mot
for show
Quick quip
takes dip
False dawn
a yawn
Created and posted : 10th October 2022 for Brian Strand contest
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this toke kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the potty
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber pot
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)
while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry
older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices
inside my noggin) a potential Hun
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only
sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel
(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated
concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected ejaculation exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.
"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, pot
tent shill slave driver subsequently not
quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding damn mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair, the little aye got
as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
what a calm sea hides
into the deepest indigo
air airwaves have settled
all that remains is a fringe of tide
the tree holds, forever
on the eighteenth day
of every second month
an invitation arrives.
not encased in a stiff
white crinkling envelope
made from the death of a tree
it is from the tree,
a passing zephyr
of whisper-breath
the merest of rustles
“come, there is space for you
we will talk”
welcome steps out,
moods follow at a distance
they never try to enter, it is futile
clouds of different greys tumble backward
coming home to a favourite place
heaven of the heart
veils slip away not needed here
shields of gauze left piled out side
there is an inside and an outside
there is no clinical, mechanical,
buzz-beep speak
altering through the air
see bespectacled dissect,
creeping through mouldering pages
looking for similarities, wrung out theories
and queries from long ago
sit and be quiet and so I do
for an hour on the dot, finis
I do not see me.
among all of these descriptions
these wise whizz-bangers,
bon mot until next time
I reach over to shake the proffered
sepulchral cartoon undertakers hand.
you will not find them here
blown up and blown away
by their own hot air.
I see you as you are gremlin minds.
There is a city somewhere,
not close by, but not far,
a place where poems live,
untold millions of poems.
Most of the poems live quiet,
ordinary lives, known only to
a few, while a few are famous,
renowned for grace and beauty.
For the most part, the poems live
in harmony with one another--
stuffy Sonnets sharing a tenement
with willowy Haiku, and the odd,
cranky but endearing old Ode.
In the grand mansions atop the
exclusive Bon Mot Hill live the
Epics, most of ancient lineage
as few are given birth nowadays.
But mostly the city teems with
myriads of unsung, unknown
beings, each a soul in words,
loved by its creator-- and
that is truly enough....
From the very depths of my inner being I cherish poetry,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen shed her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
shortlisted for Creative Writing Ink poet challenge,
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began
Only when yours truly busies himself...
Feigning to emulate NON GMO
garden variety English major oh just so
ho-hum, this ousted son and cingular bro
biological byproduct of papa's yoyo
after mama taut Peppy how to grow
big and become vein, her issuing blow
by blow stroke, thence pecker
imitated fountainhead
unleashing at apropos
time outburst analogous when an arrow
loosed from archer's bow
shooting off about hip height mo'
than bajillion microscopic
one celled lil longfellow
(Oh Henry...! wad art thou doing?)
just hmm... giving mutual sin O
Job whelp... subsequently
little squirt begot
sole son this all because sticky clot
hit bullseye right on the dot
nope, no where near size of ergot
spore, yet radiating
burning temperature more hot than...,
liquified gold prior
bitta bing bitta bang forged into ingot,
now just little more about fertilized
ova, I wanna jot
potential pluperfect parasite (me)
acquired, cultivated, fashioned...
one after another deft bon mot
while in utero until umbilical cord
severed than christened newborn tot.
Now fast forward blaw blaw blaw
when I began to clamor and claw
nope, cuz I ne'er learned how to draw,
the least significant genetic flaw,
cue laugh track and prerecorded guffaw
similar to popular nineteen
seventies television hee haw
laughter muted upon meeting
battle axe mother in law
another story... genre mccaw braw,
she excelled spewing vitriol out her maw,
thence I slowly must heard,
mixed metaphors and mastered...pshaw
modesty keeps me from bragging
yea - boot as a non sequitur
non secretor, yukon call me
the word wrangler outlaw
lo never cussing out anybody,
I can more easily whip out pistol
if captive audience
critiques mein arcane saw
jeering (matt speak feeble attempt
at wordplay - i.e. soldiering)
receiving affirmative nod
courtesy none other
than quick draw mcgraw
now ye butter listen (er... read) up
and don't blather and beast not shtupp
to conquer, when ya hear bit ching pup
that maybe be yipping faux ruse
to empty pocket inner empty cup.
Each bon mot melts with
Nuanced, age-old symbolic flavors --
Growing, changing, challenging me.
Language arts baffle me.
Institutional norms perplex me.
Slowly, I listen for that precise sound.
History’s echoes bounce off my walls,
Heaving meanings like so many dock workers.
Overhead, cargoes glide by glistening in the sun.
Movers eye the carts going forward.
Only I stand still.
Purposefully, I dream of…
Houses filled with treasures – elegant libraries!
Open-hearted, I find and survey my grotto.
Nothing seems impossible as I
Enter into a new dwelling and
Seek to be transformed.
Zip Zap Zoop Zup
You can dine; I will sup
Hip Hap Hoop Hop
You like jazz; I'll take be-bop
Rik Rak Ruk Rok
You're a poet; I'm a jock
Git Gat Gut Got
Eat Poetry Soup, a real bon mot!
footle
Monet
ok ?
Abstract art footle
begin
within
POP ART
bean tin
kitsch bin
BEATNIKS
long locks
no socks
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
Come in
Big Jim
CLUELESS
Oh no
Clouseau
STILL LIFE
tableau
stage show
LIFE CLASS
dress down
no gown
DER RING
on song
too long
footle-NOT FIT FOR PURPOSE
Useless
I guess
f
footle-OLD STRAP LINE
stop press
no less
bon mot
footle-TAIZE
rondeau
sung low
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009