Best Clorox Poems
Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch
To outfox the pox:
kill yourself first, with Clorox!
And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!
No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!
Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!
To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!
To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!
To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!
Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
NOTE: The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!
Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch
BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?
Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch
Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.
Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air
Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch
A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch
Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.
Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America, USA, giggle, political, natural disasters
Walking through the streets of my home town
Reaching for the Memories of days long passed
Seeing nothing of what I once knew
Accepting the fact
That I can never go back
To the time when doors remained unlocked
And no one ever knocked
When a whole section of town converged on one home
A death in the family brought neighbors to your door
There was a sense of community and
Dignity was not a status symbol
Wednesday's the miner rested
In the afternoon possibly at a local bar
While clothes lines decorated back yards
Clorox making it new again
Found a quarter equals five on the pinball unless
She was there
Making three and two cokes a better selection
Baseball glove dangling from the handlebars and
there was no charge for dreams
The park beckoned the wild bunch with a pack of Luckies
Never thinking twelve was too young
And not knowing
The tragedy of progress
Those days when friendships bonded a town
Anger only lasted until the fight was finished
There was a game tomorrow night
Winner and loser going to see it together
And the only real enemy was
TIME.
Scrubbing Bubbles, Dreft, Life Buoy, and Shout.
Help me to get my greasy grimy out.
Irish Spring, Dove, Windex, Borax too,
I turn to them when I am blue.
Cleaning is something I resolve not to do
unless I am in the throes of a horrible boo-hoo.
Clorox, Borax, Tide, Dawn, and Ajax too.
They only come out when I am mad at you.
If you see the Pledge, you had better run.
If I bring out the Zest, for you it is not going to be fun.
If you see Old English you know you are a cad.
Because I only clean like this when I am truly really mad.
Or if company is coming, which is only two or three times a year.
Where are you going,- as I reach for the Tide - afraid of me, dear?
I have my friend frog,
in my pocket tucked away.
Because if my mother sees him,
she won't let him stay.
He smells like the fish gut,
I have on my hands.
We both need a bath,
and our feet's full of sand.
In a bath full of bubbles,
I splash and I play,
knowing my friend,
is hidden away.
Green bubbles squish
between my toes,.
Green bubbles splash
right up my nose.
Climbing out of the tub,
I look for my clothes.
Oh, no! She has taken them.
My Mother, she knows!
I hear the swish, swish, swish,
of our washing machine.
Then, my frog leaps out,
Clorox clean!
Now the green soap bubbles
are out of my nose,
and my wrinkled, white frog,
smells like a pink rose!
Brangelina, the quasar, came to a motel
Of a small Cambodian village
Where smog was spread all over.
As they entered their room
They felt abodaroma infesting the room.
As they looked down to the floor
There were shoop stains all over
As they did not take off their shoes.
Brad had an urge to go to washrum
He opened the door, but needed Clorox
As the washrum has become smelldorado
Brad had vomitrocious feelings
Added more stains on the floor.
Angelina snarked on spitting Brad.
“Cut, the camlit off” Authovoice heard
“Shooting will resume tomorrow sharp
At 5 in the morning”
+++
August 18, 2014
Form: Verse -
Theme:portmanteaus
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place Win
Contest:portmanteaus by Debbie Guzzi
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Portmanteaus words used in the poem:
Brangelina (Brad Pitt + Angelina Jolie)
quasar (quasi-stellar + star)
smog (smoke + fog)
abodaroma (a play on "abode" and "aroma"):
Shoop – shoes with dog’s pooh
Washrum – wash – room
Clorox
smelldorado
Vomitrocious – Vomit – Atrocious
Snark – Snide-remark
Camlit- camera + light
Authovoice- Authority + Voice
This silent heave grows much too thin
when this dreary night is ripped by transient stars
and black fire. I bleed, bleed and rake
like if I never belonged to a world
now made from recycled
apathy---piles of rusty acid in the rain---
where the god-forsaken screen
of days are holed by mangled rays .
Should I run on byways where fetal
trees never lived, clipped by axes
and formed as decorated beds?
Even daisies grow under the tyranny
of Ash Wednesdays riddled with Clorox
from urban laundry. I tell myself,
the air I breathe is soot and mud: my skin
grilled in toxic regret: damn, how often
can moments linger in July's charms
when I'm deprived of the thrill
of summer's lust in an age of ice?
My eyes grow sullen, lonely...
I stand outside waiting for some kind
of fresh wind to taste my frozen tears.
Desolate desolate me.
I bow to this final amen of glory be ,
as the linings of my soul defrocks itself
to feel the naked peel of virgin stars.
Skat A's Slam The Slam Contest
by nette onclaud
It's my body, and I'll cry if I want to!
Lie if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you.
No vaccine pricks my skin.
Absolute is my right
to randomly infect another,
yes, randomly kill if necessary to preserve
my freedom! My entitlement!
Like your neighborly sprinkler system
I shower you each time you come near.
Few people know the truth.
Bill Gates hired space aliens
now infiltrating scientists
and creating these vaccines
to poison us.
It’s my body and I’ll cry if I want to!
Deny if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
These shots made by Bill Gates and Democrats,
The list of deep state conspirators so long.
I know how to connect all the dots.
The vaccines pump you with magnetic goo.
And you will quickly become autistic too.
The vaccines are full of biotoxins
And millions will find their coffins.
It’s my body, and I’ll cry if I want to!
Defy if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
COVID is cured like the flu.
Cow de-wormer will do.
Or simply reach
For the Clorox bleach
And drink a cup or two.
Nobody knows where my family has gone.
They left along with my friends.
No hospital beds for hundreds of miles.
While the stiffs pile up in air-cooled trucks.
It’s my body and I’ll cry if I want to!
Standby if I want to!
Justify if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
In global pandemic,
It’s everybody.
You can cry if you want to.
No boundaries parse flesh and blood.
Together, it’s the whole human broth.
Inspired by 1963 pop-rock hit: It’s My Party performed by Leslie Gore and produced by Quincy Jones.
Diane Perna
BURNT TEARS
I remember a tormented childhood with
Dad’s words laced with poison and Mom
tossed acid on my tears by saying no words
to stop it and even joined it.
I remember that even though I was a small
and frail child that didn’t stop them
these parents left me to thrash about life
with their painful insults.
I remember because my spirit was crushed
I wore an unmistakable frown
the wounds of my heart were inimitable too
as was the damage to my character.
I remember Mom laughing when I swallowed Clorox
and should’ve warned it wasn’t apple cider
what I was left with was swallowing burnt tears
and always wondered if anyone could tell.
I remember my sorrowfulness like
hot molten metal running over me but
I kept it locked up and bound because
I only found judgment that silenced me.
I remember pressing on through to another year,
month, week, day and minute with the blare in my
head of the brutal belittlement so evermore
I carry the memory of those burnt tears.
In scratchy swales emitting Clorox gas,
Matador houseflies cross paralyzed eyes;
A kaleidoscope scene where jagged glass
Cracks beneath footsteps of love’s promised lies;
Forgotten by choice through hell-flickered sight,
Confusion screams at a dead mobile phone,
Gripping slick sanity ever so tight,
Un-stabled by speaking to Nothing’s tone.
Tormentors nearby prepare their escape,
Entrusting blindness to suffocate truth;
Black swans are they, drinkin’ ‘shine to undrape
Wounds nearly healed from a vi’lated youth –
A normal day in an abnormal cave,
Where hatred rules whipping peace claimed its slave.
Began so promising
As thoughts of a new year approached
Some called it a year of new beginnings and clarity
That 20/20 vision of sorts
Unknown and foreign
You found your origins in a faraway land
Yet soon enough, you would break the barriers of
Race, class, religion, and international borders
YEAH! You’re indiscriminate
Lock down, shut down and shortages
A daily struggle we endured
The knowledge of your existence, coupled with fear
Put the world on notice that we were in control of NOTHING
You wrestled even the healthiest to their breaking point
Them now depending on machines to inhale and exhale
You took the weakest and oldest, showing no mercy
Masks, gloves, tissue, sanitizer; even Lysol and Clorox
Became luxury items
Almost two years later
Vaccinations, side effects and still, MASKS
Are a daily reminder that
Covid made it’s way to every point of the world
And still; we are in control of NOTHING
December 30, 2021
Contest: Coronavirus (COVID-19) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Robert James Liquori
"Just how long have you believed the
wasps have it in for you?"... my psych therapist
He must be new in the neighborhood--
he wasn't told If he builds it, She will come.
Never mind he flies in the fast lane,
(no air controller needed), to decorate her wall
with his devil's daub for a family home
he's planned on high, where he imagines
it won't catch her eagle eye. But,
there's no site inconspicuous enough,
and she's surely woman enough,
to climb an eight foot ladder, bearing bucket
and sprays she's been hoarding for days
for emergencies like this. First, there's
a scrape with the shovel, then Clorox, then
a Tuffy to scruffy up his unsightly hovel.
There does NOT go the neighborhood--
he's gone for good. It's out damned spot,
she knows it's hot, but is here to swear
he'll seek homestead elsewhere.
for Dr. Ross
She crawls out of her skin, folding it on bath water
Noticing the ring of a former lover,
With cleanser she scrubs his territorial insignia,
With Clorox, bleaches white again, the tubs virginity
Glances at re-hung gambling hand towels, dirty mans hand print
Flung from the bar they go,
Rapid walking to the wash,
Powder and sand and water flow, swish, swish, swish, to and fro
Up and down jollies on a ringer swill,
Timing the buzzer, she pulls,
Wet load to the line for solar solitaire,
Fling, fling upon the skinny wire,
Pin, pin the wooden men,
Inside she scurry’s before the doorbell rings,
Glancing about the room for her under things,
Stuffing them in cushion’s, out of sight of men
Evidence secured, a virgin’s plight, again, and again, she'd pretend
______________________________
Inspired by: Michele Nold-Godleske
e e cummings contest
Strum the strings of that ukulele.
Whistle a tune I've never heard.
The music in my head is ruined-
by the sounds of drunkards puking
and old men courting younger ladies.
I am the Blues.
Take me places my mind never dared to go.
I cannot comprehend myself.
My head is as big as a globe.
It hurts to think.
The hands of the clock play tug of war.
My heart is on fire and it
spins
spins
spins, around the bottle-
love drunk and almost entwined.
Soul and body clashed
trashed
smashed.
Wake me up.
Pick me up.
I’m falling.
The houses on the hill stand still.
Lights going on and off.
Shadows of people making love.
In the other window, a mother-
filling up the hole in her heart with Clorox.
Ocean elevating in pixel-waves.
Moon looking down in disapproval.
The feather reed grass stares at me.
It is screaming:
There is more to life than this.
There is more to life than this.
For years, those homegrown scents have been stuck in my head. It's mother's home-grown and freshly cooked mustard and turnip greens. Neither jiffy mix nor Marie Callendar, but it was mama's own homemade bread. That sweet aroma of blackberry, peach, or apple pie was a little boy's dream.
I cannot forget those awesome smells after school of a pot of pinto beans.
I smell the smoke from the pits of daddy's homemade drill. I hear the sound of a handy device made for parching peanuts. Daddy is barbecuing burgers and ribs from a very recent pig kill. For years, those aromas arrested and captivated everyone of us.
And everybody in the community thought that daddy's meat was a must
My Multi-tasking mom cooked, washed cloths, and listened to a pastor preach. Smells of cloths being washed and dried out back by the sun are unforgettable. Mama always used tide or cheer for laundry, and Clorox was her only bleach.
My wife often speaks of how mother's homemade corn bread was irresistible. The aroma of grandma's coffee and mama's fried chicken? Most memorable.
02252018 PS Contest, The Scents of Baking Bread......, Sara Kendrick English Quintain, ababb, 3 stanzas; HM
Stomped down reprogrammed
I like eggs don't like ham
Spam have to be turkey sized
Milk down buttered based biscuits rose high down size
Chopped phones all lies
Recorded conversations tripped up tap sized
Revised
Stem down legacy
Clorox germs toxicology
Results clear found bacteria made ironically cloned see
Genetically caster sized down grated pole
Seize the day with hard clay
Drones with no way
Watching people filtrate
Castrate cows without hooves
Jail cells cruel bills
Operated and over sized
Built down with blind eyes
Test thy legs and brain size
Tissue blown up pimp died
Hair follicles stripped clean
Down the drain nipped bean
Boxed with no socks
Troll pay been popped
Clash titans guilt stopped
Too tall chop shops
Who looses without pay
Clock in pro tops
Raise checks been cropped
Wage been dropped
Paused sales real not
Vote count been boxed
Hidden messages cleaned hot
Hits climbed all charts
One hit no mark down streets broke hearts
No love hall cops
Flash light wanna be’s
Mixed drinks without leaves
Watered down dramatically
Stage ran into pros
Bullet shot there it goes
No name been marked around schools and ball parks
Bent in stood up
No mark shirt cuffed
Shocked drilled theses signs
Result action abused mind
Hypnotic case finds
Who it be who made time
Follow flows without cuffs
Who abused us
Repeat, Repeat measures making cakes without cups