Best Gas Poems
Our oldest light goes by the name cosmic
microwave background radiation—
CMB for short. She's everywhere:
fluorescent birdsong of modern offices,
hum of corner store ice cream cases.
Have you heard of her? This gal was born
screaming into freedom from the expansion
of a bang so big we're still talking about it.
Expelled from the recombination's gender-
less cervix, before there were names for things
like body, or heat, or quiet. She slid through
the pitch of first dark, not yet sure what
edges were, dragging the weight of a beginning
behind, shelter for and shedding of photons
loosened from a fire she didn't start.
Somewhere in this thirteen-billion-year drift
her lips kissed the eyelids of stars that hadn’t
learned to die yet, passed the chubby fists
of planets still cooling in their cribs. Fell into gravity
wells, bent her spine around a gape of black holes,
and climbed back up again, tired but full.
We call her background now, like she's an afterthought,
the hum of hums beneath the humming—we call her 'it'.
Add a T to her beginning and we might as well
call her mother. And when she reaches us, frail
and stretched thin, we catch her in our instruments
(where we found her), our desperate, outstretched hands.
For our effort, like a good genie enduring a bad rub,
she tells the story of our origin from a certain point—
then distracts us with tricks when we ask her about
the end of it.
Lumpy Rumpy, now a high school lad,
I'm afraid is still acting very bad,
In his school laboratory he did amass,
Some stinking, self-made, rotten egg gas.
He corked it up in a chemistry vial,
Then down the town, he strolled for a while,
Choosing a site, the local paper shop,
He went in with the vial and took the top off.
He hid it behind a large magazine rack,
Waiting outside for the putrid gas attack,
In three minutes flat the shop emptied out,
People holding their noses as they ran about.
The fire brigade called, putting masks on,
To find the rotten aroma, so very strong,
Finally the brigade captain emerged holding the vial,
Lumpy grinned to himself,
Another prank done with such style.
I feel a blockage has occurred...
It must have been all that stuffing and Turkey bird...
The gurgles, the rumbling, the passing of gas...
It’s beyond my control ,Oh dear, please let this pass...
We have guests you see...
So I don’t have the privilege to just get up and flee...
No one should ever be in this state...
And I should never have put so much on my plate...
Cause now I’m paying and to my demise ...
The rite of passage has been denied...
I feel like I may blow up and explode...
It’s times like this when you miss the commode...
Jan caught a jet plane to New York
Where bacon does not come from pork
To end her trip
Jan let one rip
The Captain delivered a stork
Jan's flight was Economy grade
Stuck between an old man and old maid
In the middle row
Which way should she blow?
"Hey! I've got a new hearing aid!"
Hot air will rise up to the Heaven
Where degrees are numbered to seven
But Jan's chocolate farts
Broke all of the charts
And bounced back to suffocate Devon
Donald Trump and May made a pact
To abolish the Clean Air Act
For with Jan on the loose
Even Trump could deduce
Air stinks as a matter of fact
Jan could hear the wind in the willows
And lay down her head on the pillows
But one gust of wind
Would quickly transcend
Her sheets into shuddering billows.
So Jan wanted to go back home
But her agent booked her to Nome
The crews final task:
"Get oxygen mask"
Jan's luggage was blasted to Rome
Jan thought that she needed a rest
So she flew off to Budapest
She let off a few
For Captain and crew
Now she oompahs Oktoberfest
They are going to put up the prices
But say we will hardly notice the cost
They plan to increase the standing charges
But spread them out so we can’t see what we’ve lost
The standing charge it will increase
But the cost of the gas will go down
When the meter reader arrives
I guess he may start to frown
For people won’t be able to use any gas
They will struggle to pay the standing charge
Some will put on another blanket and jumper
And wish that they lived on a barge
It’s the old folks I feel sorry for
Their pension provisions hardly rise
It’s fuel or food – which should they choose
It really is cause for alarm
Manx Gas has the monopoly
There is no other provider we can choose
Folks may consider switching to oil heating
Then Manx Gas are going to lose
Suppliers need to look after their customers
Without them they may go bust
So use your voice – we have a choice
Vote with your feet find someone you trust
13th October 2015
If you hear the sound of rat-tat-a-tat
It's not a woodpecker or a chattering cat
Tis George F. Latulence an aristocrat
Playing ping pong with his gold crested bat.
A competitor and show-off he deems to be
Dresses each day in his noble finery
Pantaloons his normal fancy day wear
His ancestry, finery, regalia, style flair.
He never shares glory or plays with a partner
Winning trophies for himself, what he is after
Agile and swift, rarely points he would miss
The downside came, when you did get that whiff.
To gain advantage, a parp he would do
Clenching bum cheeks, in case he followed through
High class energy foods for his body to sustain
But his parping was every one else's nose bane.
George on first serve, parped, as he hit the ball hard
Swiftly attacking, George butt did bombard
In that spilt second threw off his opponent
Point gain to George, aided by his flatulent moment.
Silent and deadly they all came out fast
Odourous gas from George nuclear fueled ar$e
If one made a noise he'd give a loud grunt
That was his bum burping cover up stunt.
Knew there was trouble when audiences pulled faces
Some even fainted, brave stayed in their seat places
George didn't care, just wanted top podium status
His methods and thinking obnoxiously atrocious.
Audience faces were different shades of green
People were swaying, some even vomiting.
He called it his ping pong, parp-crafty-art farts
Next point to win, final round about to start.
The ball went to and fro like a speeding fast bullet
George, with match point, he was about to secure it
Hitting an ace, made a spark, that caused a boom blast
Left the audience with mix feelings of relief and aghast.
Breaking news of his death headlines did broadcast
Even able to download from what's called a podcast
George F. Latulence died from a blast from his ar$e,
He blew up one too many, too dense and not sparse.
May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Written 07.10.21
My eco car runs on natural gas
Naught to sixty, what a blast
It runs like a dream
Refueled by baked beans
All free from a humans ass
I guessed that they called it mustard gas because of it,s yellow hue.
Once you got a mouthfull there was nothing you could do.
Your throat explodes,your lungs implode as your brain screams out for air.
You rip the skin off your windpipe but you don,t even care.
Where it touches your skin, it burns right in leaving blisters in it,s wake.
Your skin looks like it.s boiling, how much more can you take.
You can hear your brothers moaning, they.re in excrutiating pain.
Soon you find yourself praying, please God, make it rain.
The first raindrops do nothing, but as the gray clouds open up.
The water tastes refreshing, and you drink fram a porcelain cup.
By now the rain is pouring,you see yellow river.s in the sand.
The battlefield goes quiet, you look out over no mans land.
You can see your friends are crawlling now,back toward thier trench.
The air smells rank and putrid, truly an ungodly stench.
The battlefield goes silent now,the gas clouds wash away.
we clear the bodies from no mans land, now we,re ready for the day.
So it's back to the limericks I go
Been neglecting my friends I know
If I make you guys laugh
And involuntarily pass gas
The relief on your faces will show
© Jack Ellison 2015
For Judy
There was an old man from Bluegrass,
who always ate green sassafras.
His tummy got icky,
somersaults and sicky,
took pills, now there’ll BEANO more gas!
A Limerick, Old or New: Your personal favorite Poetry Contest
8-8-6-6-8 syllable count
howmanysyllables.com
Written: April 10, 2018
Limerick: Once the Yogi of Himalaya
or the laughing gas Yogi
I
Once the Yogi of Himalaya
Preached laughing loud with Prânâyâma*
They thought him immortal
Put him on pedestal
Now he’s the toast of lost Gondwana.
II
Once the same Yogi Himalaya
Taught laughing during Prânâyâma*
Lungs stuck to diaphragm
Voice: phonocardiogram
Now he’s part of iced Fujiyama.
• Sanskrit for the art of breathing in yogic practices:
• prânâ = (cosmic) energy; âyâma = vitality.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Gas crisis and smog emissions
Coal war economy
Urban sprawl
Forcing rural withdrawal
While cutting down the trees.
Gas prices and tax submissions
Political parody
Fly to the moon
Live within a cocoon
But this trip will not be free.
Before technical transitions
Sublime ecology
Now it’s ride on a horse
With a meter of course
To measure flatulency.
A young man in overalls
remarked to me:
"How 'bout them Redskins?"
I couldn't think of anything
worthwhile to say, so
I refrained from speaking.
My van is on push!
Can I borrow some money
To fill up the tank.
This is for Andrea D. who asked for my Cow Gas poems. I have at least one more to
post. Look for California Cows. Mike
Cow Gas
I’m putting my cows all on Beano
With the veggies they eat – oh the gas
Eight hundred plus liters of methane
Each day through each cow does pass
Either that or get funnels and tubing
To capture the gas when it comes
And convert my gas guzzling auto
So on methane alone will it run
If cows can do it, why can’t I
A tube, a tank, and by and by
I’ll generate enough to fry
A burger on my grill
While it won’t get me very far
Were my gas used to run a car
The world would label me a star
For doing what I will
But if everyone would do their part
To capture each and every fart
That through your system did depart
Global Warming would be a chill
Mdailey
Researchers say the slow digestive system of cows makes them a producer of
methane, a potent greenhouse gas that gets far less public attention than carbon
dioxide in efforts to fight global warming. When we got the first results, we were
surprised. Thirty per cent of Argentina's (total greenhouse) emissions could be
generated by cows,' said Guillermo Berra, a researcher at the National Institute of
Agricultural Technology. Berra said the researchers 'never thought' a cow weighing
550 kg (1,210 lb) could produce 800 to 1,000 litres (28 to 35 cubic feet) of emissions
each day. Greenhouse gases are widely blamed for causing global warming.
Methane, researchers say, is 23 times more potent than carbon dioxide in trapping
heat in the atmosphere.
We can probably do the same with the typical human male. It would be no less
complicated and probably no more uncomfortable than a colostomy bag. And while
the typical male may not generate enough gas to run an auto, it should be enough
to run a gas grill on the weekends. Think of the savings and the contribution you
would be making to the war on global warming. As you all know, girls do not pass
gas (or so they tell me) so only the male species would be able to contribute in this
manner.