Best Fictional Poems
Theres this knawing in my tummy
A burning in my ear
I feel your presence next to me
Yet you are hardly here
I'm not sure when it happened
but now it's crystal clear
Though your body's in the room
Youre vacant. --Insincere
I wonder- was it worth it?
To throw it all away?
All the things you squandered
to keep the pain at bay
All the things you had to pawn
just to get you through your day
Traded growth for comfort
Traded gold for hay
And I don't think you'll ever realize
the person you used to be
Now on a quest with no direction
In drunken ecstasy
These thoughts so sick and twisted
They make me want to flee
Spinning round in circles
A pirate lost at sea
I wish that you could see it
the way I clearly do
Suddenly I wonder
Who am I talking to?
Look around one last time
There's no one here. It's true.
And that is when reality
finally does come through
I see it there in front of me
A reflection in a mirror
I know it now for certain
Death is creeping nearer
I poor myself another drink
I hold my poison dearer
Then anything I've ever held
Reality becomes much clearer
I know I'll never break away
from this cage I built
It's destiny to end it here
There's nothing left but guilt
So I gently shut my eyes
And pray I'll quickly wilt
I look for one last sign of comfort
Grab tight to my quilt
The one my mother gave to me
on her final day on earth
She died too from the bottle
Pitiful, without self worth
I set a lonely fire with a lonely match
I watch it slowly flicker as I lay by the hearth
There was never once a chance for me
Doomed from the day of birth
From the moment we met
he'd treated me like a princess
I was young and naive
flattered by his attention,
misinterpreting it as a forever love
Mum took an instant dislike to him
She said he was like a chameleon
and I should be wary of his dark side
but I was too loved up to listen or too much in love
In fact, it only made me want him more
Within a month
I'd moved into his flat
Swapping girly nights out
for cosy nights by a blazing fire
He revamped my wardrobe
threw out my sexy dresses
preferring me to wear jeans
Mum used to ring me
but he told me to ignore her
said she wanted to split us up
I deleted her number from my phone
Friends stopped calling me
I always said I was too busy
One night I burned the pizza
and he went ballistic
A black rage engulfed him
His eyes flashed as dark as coals
and his fists pummeled me
like a volley of cannon balls
Vivid, violet bruising covered my body
He couldn’t see the scars in my heart
and I doubt if he'd have cared
He begged for forgiveness,
said it would never happen again
Like a fool I believed him
I even blamed myself for ruining dinner
Next morning, I put on a long-sleeved blouse
painted on a smile and went to work
It was then the cycle of abuse began
Verbally, he’d fly into a rage
sometimes over the slightest thing
Then, physically which ended up
with him using me like a punching bag
One night, he went too far
grabbed a hammer and beat me
neighbours heard my screams
and alerted the police …
Hours later, I woke up in intensive care
Mum was sitting by my side
a look of sadness in her eyes
instead of one that implied, "I told you so"
I only wish I had listened to her
Christmas Day has arrived; the thought fills me with such dread
For over twenty years they’ve come to me; it's doing in my head!
I get up at the crack of dawn to get the turkey in the oven
Gran moans about my cooking – she belongs in a witches’ coven
I always arrange the festive table last thing on Christmas Eve
I don’t sit next to granny; her table manners make me heave!
My sister is so overweight; you should see the size of her fanny
She belches loudly when she eats, so I’ll sit her next to granny
The taxi arrives at twelve o’clock and I crack open the sherry
When they sit down at the table they are starting to get merry
I slave over a hot stove; no one moves they act too grand
I’ve given up asking for help, they treat me so off-hand
Well this year I’ve rebelled and put laxatives in their soup
I’ll smile secretly when off to the toilet they will all troop
The soup has been devoured and I clear away the plates
When the laxatives take effect they’ll be in dire straits!
The turkey has been carved; all the vegetables are piled high
Uncle Albert grosses out; he needs a trough in a pigsty!
Turkey, and all the trimmings they will quickly devour
Granny moans about the sprouts she said that one was sour
I quietly sit seething whilst they get all get steaming drunk
Uncle Albert farts loudly – he’s worse than a blinking skunk!
Christmas pudding is eaten, followed by juicy mince pies
Sister Annie stuffs her face, as more fat piles on her thighs
Single handily I clear the table, and then we open up the gifts
It costs me an utter fortune; you should have seen their lists
Annie has knitted me the most disgusting baggy jumper
I smile sweetly and thank her, but I really want to thump her!
At four o’clock the taxi comes and they all go off home
I sit by the fire with a cup of tea, I’m so glad to be alone
Next year it’s going to be different; I’m going to go away
Booked a luxury cruise – I’ll be abroad on Christmas Day!
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There was a poet from France,
Who thought he really could dance!
Up onto the Eifel tower he went,
Not walking straight but really quite bent.
Whoops and ooh-la-la!
Onto the French earth he fell..
Oh, poet dear, your very last tear.
Pooling and gleaming, ever so tragically
in your ear.
May you f'ind yourself, tout suite, in a warm,
welcoming, French poetry heaven!
With Victor Hugo, Honore de Balzac......
Charles Baudelaire and Albert Camus to name,
but a few.
Oui, mon ami!
Even as the soft cathedral bells so very
mournfully strike seven!
July 10th, 2019
5:30pm PST
Let’s have a little game and see how you do.
Guess my riddle with each hidden clue.
I walk on all fours but fly through the air.
I’m a fictional character and I have brown hair.
I’m on a team but not on a list.
I can point and kick but I can’t make a fist.
I have two horns to help clear the way.
I’m really fast but allergic to hay.
That last clue comes from a poem I wrote.
If you come to my home it won’t be by boat.
I’m not in the front and I’m not in the rear.
Now guess my name and be perfectly clear.
A fictional family wedding
Came home late last night
Was about half past ten
when to a wedding today
was the best man for my friend
riad and Charlene get married to day
I Was the chef so I the plan the feast
Julie was the brides maids
And the girls them sugar junior was the priest
latchman was the best man
Charlene was beautiful dress in blue
Amanda play here come the bride
Hannah was missing and Sara and rianna too
After all the ceremony
The party starts in side
junior made us all laugh
When he ask to kiss the bride
It was a their wedding day
So riad told us to stay late
sugar boy and roger drinking a beer
And chung taking Chinese in a plate
Just a bunch of friends and family
And they are having a ball
we are all best friends for ever
And I guess that said it all
When I went outside
There was thunder and rain
osman play some bob Marley
so we all start to dance again
Sarayyah comes late
And Suzy just reaches on time
Rose say tomorrow
we all going for a beach lime
Julie bring bees ice cream
She never share before
Brad and Kris went for some
While saleem dance on the floor
don’t know about the honeymoon
or what plans they make
But when they get back
shakela waiting for some wedding cake
Sea bath the next day
The guys with a hanger over
Eating oysters and doubles
We trying to recover
Written on January 26, 2020
By Gail DeBole
Drink up daredevils!
It’s not a joke.
The human toe in your drink
Is not just taking a soak.
It’s challenged many drinkers
And many have exclaimed,
“Ewwww, What’s going on?
And who has been maimed?”
But there are the hearty
Who take up the call
To be close to the toe
Soaked in some alcohol.
Yes, the toe is plunked in
If the bar patron says, “Sure!”
To the challenge of swigging
A toe-drink that allures.
But one of the patrons
Who couldn’t live without
Made a home brewsky
After his wife heard a shout.
Before he put on his bandage
His wife could not look
At the painful outcome
Of the action he took.
Now he is satisfied drinking
And doesn’t mind his nine toes.
He has daily Sourtoe cocktails
And now everyone knows!
That he’s not a toe-totaller.
He has a daily drink
And must have his cocktail
While he takes a deep think.
And if there is an error
Of swallowing the toe by mistake
He plans to live comfortably
With toes numbering eight.
Disclaimer: This poem in no way condones the actions of this fictional character.
Note: For the facts that inspired this poem, go to https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/sourtoe-cocktail. This is based on truth with a few gulps of poetic license.
My PC has been infiltrated
DR.DOOMvirus in the E-mail
I mistakenly opened it
HE(or SHE)has free reign
to cause my DELL more insidious pain
Sir Putnin of Russia is coming down
hard on the U.S. stance of force
Especially on the proposed American
Defense shield that would protect us
from the NUTJOBS with their hand
squarely on the finger trigger
North Korea wants to keep their NUCLEAR
options handy,despite the cries from
our own country(which has it's own ATOMIC ties)
WE are choosing our own course
A TASTE OF AMEGEDDON
Mama can't seem to hold back her fears
Daddy is too busy,gulping down his
Cupcakes and beers
And ME??
I am sitting here writing this piece of tripe
for the benefit of the EYES of tomorrow's
children that my peepers forever see
La Boheme Series Haiku — Mimi Dies
songs call love ~
bread with wine beg warmth ~
too late come some chances granted
——————————————————————
————
(c)sally young eslinger 6/2022
Thanks be to God
With hugs, dear Puccini
Here in Toledo
I live in a Flat
Infested with rats
who keep crawling up my back
My toilet needs a plunge
From the crap that I keep
It is starting to smell
My nose can't even sleep
the Stew on the stove is a week old
Milk of Magnesia is my poison or so I've been told
The landlord wants the rent
But the money has been spent
on fixing my cot that continues to rot
Sick and feeble I keep using the needle
Ants are nice to eat but so is that beetle
John is a friend who likes to drop down his draw
But his waist is a bulge,that much the ladies all saw
Sad times are here as I throw up my beer
My tv set crashed so the eye sheds a tear
It is never boring in Toledo Heights
Where the man is unashamed to display his unsightly tights
Streets to get mugged on,Avenues to booze
I like this wacky environment, it's the only life I choose*
*Please don't be offended by this poem.It is purely fiction and is not applicable to
the city,the people or their environment
Please recall Louise is fictional.
She cannot walk in the park with a dog,
or do somersaults.
She won't be found at Bartholomew Library
reciting poetry.
She is and always will be fictional,
so cannot be so viewed.
Again, I stress she's fictional, completely, completely, for all time,
for already you imagine her with dog
that won't stop barking,
admire her cleverness in Bartholomew's gymnastic class,
or hear her quiet voice
giving poetry something it hasn't had for years.
4/5/2023
Well, Howdy, Miss Belinda.
I am Rob, Pangie’s hearthrob.
Her TV is tuned to Waco,Texas!
To watch Trump in satisfaction.
That mensch, is who he is!
That’s her next POTUS in action.
Though the Left wants him in traction.
She admires his integrity.
Won’t bend to Woke Satisfaction!
15,000 of all colors in attendance!
We all raise our glasses high.
To America, to have a rebirth of abundance
Best wishes,
Rob, Newscaster
*********************
NEWSMAXTV.COM
AVAILABLE TO ALL DEVICES
HIS SHOW, ON 4pm and 8pm PST.
3/25/2023
No love like a fictional love
Sung, drawn and written about
I would give everything for a love as above
Real love is just not the same
Writing fiction
Has no restriction
Unlike the journal writer on the list
Asking ‘what is this’
Raising their fist
Not allowing anything to be missed
Dependent on a quote from someone else
Driving them insane straight to mental health
After a reporter decides they have the space and time
A source says ‘I decline’
Only to call right before deadline
Stating they are sorry
Forcing a whole rewrite to an inch and half story
An author on the other side
Has full control in this information ride
As a writer
A powerful imagination fighter
Creating interpretive setting is the plan
When distributing thoughts the reader will understand
Relaxing and reflect
If the subject matter is interesting and connects
Only fantasy characters get hurt
When throwing the dirt
Story telling made up
While drinking from a legendary bar fly cup
A message is told
Opening communication peacefully soothing the bold
Characters may lie, die, or cry
While others try, sigh, and inquire ‘why?’
These ideas give an author entertainment in their mind
No need to drop a nickel or dime
Encouraging them
To pick up a pen
And weave the scripture twine
Playing God surgically working on Frankenstein
Writing fiction
There is no restriction
Getting one’s way
Despite no pay
Saying it is okay
When tightening the noose
On the artist’s targeted guilty muse
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got thrust adjacent
to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes
aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own
after graduating top of her class
where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
at ma dough less brother hoboes
(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
unanimously chosen valedictorian
dressed in Calvin Klein
Harris tweed, couture
and silk panty hose
like me prolonging, promoting
on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules,
asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
and pronouncing, predilection
exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,
or just mows
zing nonchalantly
(though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
easily camouflaging as civilian
all points on the compass,
where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
where she did propose
to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
Pennsylvania 19426),
thence a great huzzah a rose
an immediate nauseousness welled
within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
which would accentuate personal woes
popping, snapping, and smarting,
and slapping skin raw tib bits,
ache'n to yanked strings
of mama's heirloom yo-yos!
Poet Script:
trials and tribulations,
visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
kid sister enterprising ingenue,
christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung
a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle
every Christmas, a decreasing
number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!