Best Fudged Poems
Colorado Cowboy Saga
Grandad became a cowboy,
Though born in the mountains of Tennessee,
His family moved to Colorado –
Just when he turned three;
Fleeing from the Civil War’s animosity
Traveled in a wagon ‘cross the wide prairies
Four brothers taught the youngest child
How to ride and brand
How to feed the cattle
How to take a stand
How to rope, how to ranch
And care for the land
He grew up tall and strong
Like the mountains of his heartbeat
In winter and in summer
They called his restless feet
And Grandad knew the mountains
Like city kids know streets
And with his pinto pony
Rode the mail every day
Nederland to Central City
Oh, he knew the way –
Sometimes frozen in the saddle
For warm weather he prayed.
Drove the cows to Denver
From high country fields
With sharp whistles and with yells
He stayed on the cattle’s heels
Through the cut at Boulder
For the sweet autumn grass revealed
When I was a little girl
On grandad’s lap I’d sit
He’d tell me of his boyhood
Cowboy tales true grit
How he loved his cowboy life
Maybe he fudged a bit?
The city was my birthplace
I knew and loved it well
But in my heart grandad planted
A cowboy song to tell
Though he dreamed of bustling cities
His heart bewitched by a cowboy spell.
True story.
Even though my grandfather became an entrepreneur, he never forgot his childhood as a cowboy in the mountains and prairies of Colorado.
1-31-21
Contest: Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
***Disclaimer: This is not so much a poem, as an exercise in stream of consciousness. I just sort of wrote what I thought about. Sorry if it makes little or no sense to anyone else. ;p
There is an intense power
misunderstood.
A little white lie,
a whopper of a tale,
in equal measure
alter, in the mind of listening ears,
reality.
In fact, the white lies,
those minor, subtle changes
conceal more believably
the truth.
But so what?
Nobody gets hurt.
Maybe one fudged things a little,
to get the deal,
to get the date,
to get what was wanted
and who cares?
Alternate realities
existing in varied minds
matter little in the long view,
or the grand scheme,
and yet…I wonder:
What is betrayal?
How far can we bend truth
how distorted can we make reality
how flexible is another’s trust
how forgiving?
The line seems to be getting blurry
or maybe it always has been
for lack of clarity
due to lack of information.
Convincing another of a lie
is compelled ignorance
of reality;
is playing God.
Which raises the curious point
of whether God
so toys with men’s perceptions.
But let’s not digress down that road,
we’ll save it for a sunset chit-chat.
Bear no false witness.
Swear on the truth.
Integrity.
What meaning have such morals
when at a word,
men create illusions
and other men gather
in a pretended utopia,
or dystopia, united.
Sharing drinks and tall-tales
lying to rest arguments
nobody is making.
Dispelling false realities
with their own false realities
But why not?
What is creativity if not
false expressions of what is.
Is abstraction not equally vile?
Perhaps then, there can be no art
without deception.
What if deception is,
at the core,
an art form.
Confident strokes of illusion
disassemble reality
one harmless lie
layered on another
in a hypothetical Guernica.
…and such are the times.
George worked in a construction company. He spent all his days walking the steel beam but when he got home, he became the master of inventions. One night he borrowed his wife's ironing board and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich by pressing the iron to the bread. It was an ooy-gooey delight. While all the other men sat down to crusty bread, George pulled out his panini forkini pastrami alla bellini. He bit into it with great delight. The mozzarella sang to his tonsils, "Eres bella, Eres bella" Tiano's boombox voice was heard, "Heh George, there are 4 of us," which translated into, "Yo George, where is our bench pressed sandwich?"
That night he got an earful from his wife Juanita Delacruz, the Spanish Queen of complaint. "Dam it George. The ironing board is full of melted cheese and it smells like recycled beef " It was time to take the invention to new heights.
He made a mean machine of good taste. This is how George Foreman was birthed. In George Papadopoulos's shed. Though he was no son of a priest, he knew a blessing when he saw one. He was recompensed by a happy wife
and a jolly foursome crew.
There are rumors going around that it was really invented in some other form or way. I for one will stick to my story dear readers. If I fudged is just a bit please forgive me. Its a tad more entertaining, don't you think ?
Now here is my research paper on the matter, short and sweet.
"Truth be told ? It was promoted by a former boxing champion George Foreman. Since its introduction in 1994, over 100 million George Foreman grills have been sold worldwide.
Inventor?: ?Michael Boehm, Robert Johnson Inception?: ?1994"
Freddy Farkle, fumbling forecaster for Forestville,
friggin' fudged Friday forecast....fair?!
first florid felicitous, falling flurries followed,
froze flowers, foiled!
faraway farmhouse, furrowing farmland,
frigid fanny, furious, frustrated,
frumpy, frazzled!
furry forest friends furnished flannel frock,
finding Freddy's fails funny, frivolity,
fortunately frequent fallible forecasts
found Freddy flying faraway,
fallaciously forecasting for fermented folks!
The Ducktwirt sat fudged in mud.
The gills rippled in worrying curves.
Danger was near.
The Quagmire Sea was no joke.
Skillets, Searpuckers, and Throttlecocks
Ravage these waters.
Ducktwirt's don't stand a Wormblat's
Chance in a gungle reef.
Then came the Zoomer
With its triangular cords and its dalliphins,
And the low limbering light hushing
Through the chillier depths to find the Ducktwirt's 4th eye.
It leapt towards the light
Florid with vigor and screw-all.
We eat it, now,
This Ducktwirt.
With lemon and basil.
Sandra caught it.
My youngest.
Pictures of the event
Fluttered in the air,
Above her smiling face,
Awash with glee.
Cherished lovers ...
only in a magical mesmerizing moment
coloring passion remembered.
Passion ... someone's perfume perhaps or,
a desire for chocolate fudged to ebony.
Sweethearts embrace
held in pre-alzheimer snapses ... cuddling.
Such a pity, or perhaps ...
a blessing? Why swoon or sway in the silence?
Just rest in a sweetness
of simmered leftovers
embracing this soul that knows
mountaintop peaks,
starbursts of ectasy
forever and always.
We have come from every district
In the whole of our large state.
We hold a big convention,
Every year around this date.
We greet each other cheerfully,
I’ve been friends with some for years,
Then turn back to our creations as
Completion deadline nears.
We know what the judges hope to find,
They come from our own ranks.
They look for beauty and harmony.
Their only pay is thanks.
We’ve memorized the scale of points
On which entries will be judged.
Each judge knows the rules by heart
And will notice if we’ve fudged.
I stand back from my exhibit
And sincerely make a try
To see not as a mother views her child,
But with honest judge’s eye.
I carefully adjust another line
Before it is time to depart.
The judges are impatient for
Their judging rounds to start.
I wander to another room
Where judging is all done.
I find to my amazement that
My chamaecypais nookatensis has won.
It has taken the arboreal award.
That is a nice surprise.
But it is in the other room
Where result of my labor lies.
We try to cheer each other
As we stay to hear our fate.
The judging books are closing.
We will not have long to wait.
I spy from far across the way,
Red ribbon lying there.
My flower arrangement’s taken second,
Which to first cannot compare.
I hide my disappointment
And hold back a falling tear.
And vow to win the big one
In the Flower Show next year.
I entered a contest the other day
Waited patiently for it to be judged
Oh drat - I’ve got yet another N/A
The ‘glowing comments’ I received were fudged!
So I thought I’d change my poetry style
To see if a new strategy would work...
ANOTHER N/A's added to my pile
Now I feel a complete and utter jerk!
Guess now I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
So I’ll try harder than ever before
If I write Eve a fabulous sonnet
It will be a winner with her I’m sure!
I’ll pen a great poem for Eve’s delight ….
I just need to think of some words to write!
Checked with how many syllables
08~26~16
“Do not judge unless you would be judged,”
We are warned but we rarely comply,
And “treat others in ways that feel fair,”
Still we lack what God’s angels supply,
Believe justice can always be fudged
And think our lives are our own affair.
I think this is how judging God starts
So enamored with our own device
We forget our creator is there
And in loving us paid quite a price.
As He ransomed Death’s claim on our hearts
And thus won our release from despair.
The negation of debt leads the way
When we start finding fault with our God
His creation goes right out the door
Random chance is the doubter’s facade
That is heralded as cabaret
But in truth there’s not much to explore.
The dynamic of God that is real
Is God questions reflect on our soul,
If the universe simply exists
Then a flag can't be found on flagpole
And no reason to love the ideal.
Without hope, why would man raise his fists?
The real problem with judging our Lord
Is that we have no ground to stand on
For our gifting is only His Law
Not a scale that is adverse to con
Our worst punishments rendered untoward
And our courts filled with man-made hoopla!
For unhappiness brings out the worst
That a man’s heart is capable of
As we try to shift blame when we can
While still wearing our own bloodstained glove,
Tortured fate that my tale seems rehearsed,
And man’s suffering God’s only plan!
Brian Johnston
Aug 13, 2015
His knees shake, he's feeling weak
His hands tremble and he cannot speak
He got an email early afternoon
It's tax time again - it's much too soon
His accountant queries things long past
But his filing system is not up to task
Bits of paper cover the floor
As he prints reports by the score
He can't remember, his mind won't budge
What he's declared and what he's fudged
IRD is breathing down his neck
Wanting answers now - he is a wreck!
Interest is charged, he is aghast
Late paid penalties are mounting fast
A refund due would be as nice as pie
But it's more likely pigs can fly
Complex tax rules blow his mind....
It's a bloody stressful taxing time
Murders in Utah, Using Glue in lungs by upstairs neighbors
is this the work of and over active mine (mind)
should i call the who?
or should i call the what?
bam-sham-a-dam
the is so fudged-up, all the way up
and i don't won't to get messed up
but it seems someone, gotsa to go
and it look like its gotsa, to be me...
so long cruel world
you fudge-en suck
and i've got, the hell to go
where its said to be always hot
don't worry i will save you a nice
red hot spot.
with all the fans you will every need
the ones who will watch all the things
i thought up waiting to bring you to
your screaming singing knees...
so here to me i gave more than i got
and i got very little for the world
but pain and misery
but they took millions from me!
so when you spend all your money
on the finer things
just pray
i' m not whispering in your ear
some evil thing...
because i'll be, the first in line
to let the devil know
just how much it took
to send me here
to met
him in his fiery Paradise...
and beg he lend me his ear
so he will know of my woe..
and how i came to be
murders up from here ...
there was a girl named Alice
preferred to write while braless
wrote poems by rules
while wearing her mules
her fingers were getting a callous
the contest rules were too hard
needed written by a true bard
she wrote anyway
hoping that one day
someone would say “blank card!”
her happy chance came from John
who meant just write for the fun!
a simple contest
wrote her very best
her ideas were simply spawn
judgement day came much too fast
she had to enter her cast
it was simply judged
nothing had been fudged
she felt her freedom at last!
I followed each an every rule,
I never fudged a bit.
I crossed my t's then drew an "i"
And carefully dotted it.
I stayed within provided lines;
conventions I observed.
But when I said, "To Hell with it."
My art was better served.
June 23, 2015
I've become a ruddy thumb twiddler
Checking out the box called “in”
Haven't eaten properly for days and days
Starting to look a little bit thin
Not obsessed with accolades though
The small talk is what I'm missing
Okay I fudged that just a tad wee bit
I do crave the hugging and kissing
But when you really get down to it
We pay for all this smooching
To receive a pant load of happiness
Gotta do a little hoochy cooing
So I'm no longer gonna jazz you
You guy's have nailed me cold
Poetry is second to friendships
Worth more than its weight in gold
© Jack Ellison 2012
It’s often used in lyrics
Since the music cuts some slack
But each time I get to hear it,
I am taken some aback.
For to me, who is a purist,
It’s a point in fact that I’m
Quite a stickler who objects to
Any near- or almost-rhyme.
Sometimes laziness explains it,
Or the closeness of a word
To a rhyming one makes writers
Think a real rhyme will be heard.
Often there is nothing fitting
With the word the poet chose.
Finding others to replace it
Is a job each stickler knows.
There are many who will argue
Even Shakespeare sometimes fudged
Though that knowledge doesn’t faze me;
My beliefs will not be budged.