Best Glob Poems
It's Christmas Eve and through the house
there creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair
and finds the cookies waiting there .
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.
He gazes with wonder at the tree
and the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
a mystery tale to tell his spouse,
when he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
he has drunk of some spilled gin
that had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
he has concocted to amuse her.
She is homebound, we must excuse her.
He once came home all out of breath
to say he had been scared to death
by a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
"While I was nibbling off some cheese
to bring to you, my love, to please,
he almost had me in his paws.
I'm sure he wasn't Santa Claus".
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
and wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
carrying fruitcake for his wife.
Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
for the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas feast
from food their dad had saved from beast.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
and a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn't like it, they'd still taste it.
This food their mama set before them,
their dad risked his life to get it for them.
11/22/14
Soon the curious swelled to a mob.
as they gathered to gape at the glob.
Someone prods with a stick.
as another screams: " Quick!"
"We must run for our lives! It's the Blob!"
Hair brain glob pores;
Scape congested cog webs spores;
Covered chrome top
Afro?
4/5/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2021
My favorite dining place in town is a place called La Baguette.
'Tis a quaint French café and I haven't found its equal yet.
They serve the most scrumptious French onion soup west of Gay Paree,
And it is slurped by discriminating snobs as well as we bourgeoisie!
They serve other grub such as baguettes and burgundy beef stews,
Escargot, pate, salad maison and an assortment of cheese fondues.
And Monday through Friday they ladle bowls of soup du jour,
But each and every day they serve French onion soup for sure!
Eating French onion soup is a challenge and requires a bit of skill,
Especially, dealing with the stringy cheese in that delectable swill.
The glob of provolone clings like a boa constrictor to my spoon,
And dangles from my noble chin making me look somewhat like a goon!
De mal en pis (just when my dilemma has gone from bad to worse),
Faire bonne mine (to put a good face on matters) I tend to curse.
To save face, next time I'll ask the waiter, "S'il vous plait (if you please),
I'll have a bowl of your French onion soup sans that stringy cheese!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt,USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
I was feeling mighty low one day
Till wifey-poo came to the rescue
“Close your eyes, I've a big surprise!”
I was tempted to take a peek, wouldn't you
But held 'em shut tight and played the game
I could smell this aroma so sweet
Heaven had descended on this poor soul
Smelled like that glorious treat
It's a smell that really can't be disguised
Described as the food of the gods
Chocolate oh glorious sweet chocolate
It takes you where angels fear to trod
Finally she said, “Okay open your eyes!”
And there in all of its splendour
Lay a bowl of sweet chocolate pudding
I just knew I had to surrender
Adorned with a glob of fluffy whipped cream
And a yummy red cherry on top
My heart started pounding so fast and loud
Thought my ears were going to pop
When I had gluttoned myself like a piggy
I slumped back down in my chair
The air was filled with the sound of angels
Spent the rest of the day without care
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION
Chocolate is a bean
A bean is a vegetable
Vegetables are good for you
So chocolate is a health food!
Enjoy my friend, enjoy
I was feeling mighty low one day
Till wifey-poo came to the rescue
“Close your eyes, I've a big surprise!”
I was tempted to take a peek, wouldn't you
Held 'em shut tight and played the game
I could smell this aroma so sweet
Heaven had descended upon this poor soul
Smelled like that glorious treat
It's a smell that really can't be disguised
Described as the food of the gods
Chocolate oh glorious sweet sweet chocolate
It takes you where angels fear to trod
Finally she said, “Okay open your eyes!”
And there in all of its splendour
Lay a bowl of sweet chocolate pudding
I just knew I had to surrender
Adorned with a glob of fluffy whipped cream
And a yummy red cherry on top
My heart started pounding so fast and loud
Thought my ears were going to pop
When I had glutted myself like a piggy
I slumped back down in my chair
The air was filled with the sound of angels
Spent the rest of the day without care
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION
Chocolate is a bean
A bean is a vegetable
Vegetables are good for you
So chocolate is a health food!
Enjoy my friends, enjoy!
© Jack Ellison 2015
I could do the body all day
Perform in a sexual way
The bump and the grind
Massaging the mind
And making it seem like a play
I took one look at her wonder
Deciding just how I would plunder
That beautiful ground
That grew on her mound
And that's when I slid from up under
I'd start with my fingers and tongue
The way I did when I was young
A hey diddle here
A play fiddle there
And over the moon we were flung
It was hard when I finished the job
I went from the shaft to the knob
But the fluid was slick
And I got such a kick
That I helped her wipe up the glob
Rockman
For the "Bawdy Limericks II" contest by Roy Jerden.
"The Sky is Calamotastrophing!"
Screamed little Jenny Lou!
And everyone panicked, running this way and that!
I just didn't know what to do!
Amidst all the commotion,
I quite calmy asked,
"What does calamotastrophing mean?"
But Jenny didn't reply back.
The sky was calamotastrophing
right on her head!
Boy I bet she wished that today
she never got out of bed!
There were huge chunks of white stuff
thumping on the ground!
I could even see a glimpse
of a spark come out of a cloud!
The sky thought it'd be funny too
if it dumped water on us as well!
And so we were drenched with water!
Jenny wasn't happy! I could tell!
"Why are you doing this?"
I yelled to the sky.
It answered back with a freezing glob of powder.
Why?!?!?!?!?!?
But soon, the sky stopped
calamotastrophing for good!
"I'm glad that's over!" I said aloud.
At least the word calamotastrophing I finally understood!
It’s Christmas Eve and through the house
There creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair
And finds the cookies waiting there.
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.
He gazes with wonder at the tree
And the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
A mystery tale to tell his spouse,
When he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
He has drunk of some spilled over gin,
That had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
He has concocted to amuse her.
She is home-bound, we must excuse her.
He once came home all out of breath
To say he had been scared to death
By a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
“While I was nibbling off some cheese
To bring to you, my love, to please.
He almost had me in his paws.
I’m sure he wasn’t Santa Claus”.
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
And wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
Carrying fruitcake for his wife.
Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
For the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas meal
From food their dad managed to steal.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
And a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn’t like it they’d still taste it.
This food their mamma set before them,
Their dad risked his life to get it for them.
Her Cheekbones, smooth as pebbles
Grasped tightly in his sexed up hand, sweating indelicately
Resembling that night the thoughts between the sheets were conceived
Weighing like soaked white carpets
Beneath flea market stands
She Is Beautiful, she is beautiful
Belladonna, noxious
Dusty eyes and wavy hair
Neruda book shoveled away somewhere deep
Inside her closet full of chewed up bones
Illumination, dying in Latin never seemed like
A juxtaposition before the closing of the soul
At least his eyes are a Cambridge blue
Jazz muted in Mortality sings on dangling participles leaking out
From the saxophone
What is that worth?
Thick waist, hourglass coke-a-cola
Mama-sita, mira mira
Lolita-like N.Y.M.P.H.O.ed up eyelashes
Coating tears with manufactured glob
Somebody put in a bottle
The higher your skirt the more your face value
Goes up, up, up pass the mystery between monogyny and the thighs
Right between the slit ice
Like Mmmm, and he slides past the first three bases
Oooh Girl you look so good in those Six Inch Heels
What is it worth,
to throw away your
Worth
For a toaster oven and a washed up guy sitting on your back porch
Scratching his head waiting to be given a pardon for his misdeeds
While American Media stole him away
And blamed it on the graffiti on the Church Walls when it was really
Hipshot for the Hip-Hop , This shameless act of cytotoxicity
when it was really
The Devil trying to slow dance with the pretty girl behind the stage
Eyes that lie time after time and are almond shaped but see no further
Then 6 feet deep and a saxe blue sky
Baby girl, on auction in the club
(Going once, going twice, it’s okay we’ll sell her half price!)
Like a slave, a sycophant child to some sick twisted game
Dancing in the Matrix style of killing the clock
Biting off the hands, to chew them up, spit them out
To pretend like the world isn’t ending over our heads
Seven kids, bloated waist, waitress fingers and lips
Smile, Misfortune dotes on you, Lucky One
What are you going to do when your looks run out?
Heyyy girl, what’s your face value?
I’m dying…I really am
And those around me see the forces pushing me out
Sticky black outlines me, scratching its way inside
I feel like the divided creatures are availing…
My heart is failing
Is there a worse feeling?
I want to find a healing…but the eyes keep closing
FACEBOOK masks and seething lies bleeding outwards
Murdering personality, some say
Words of poetry undeserving recognition
Minds are crawling away from me as I reach for warmth
Grabbing onto a glob of black
I can’t see their real intentions…he needs an intervention
The priests won’t stop dunking her in the waters of perversion
Spitting open Pangaea, letting them flood its base
Things are going so fast…time is ticking disasters
A quiet sadness in souls I’ll never know
I’ll never come to understand you—I can't look them in the eyes
The tumultuous pupils overflow with the blackness…sticking the eyelids together
And drying…coagulating…
Binding…blinding
Only burning flames can lick it away
But my fingers are smoldering from the metallic roll of the lighter’s starter
The fuel is running too rapidly through my veins
Smoky ambience is weathering the skies
While Pangaea is depleted…broken
The creatures are separated—WE ARE SO MAD AT EACHOTHER
Racial content bleeding from the melting wax of our exteriors
Brotherhood—merely incestuous wasteland of hornless hornets
Empty stomachs moving special organs
Singling the heart out…
Shifting the lungs that give them airways of achievement
My teeth sinking into my cheek
I can’t move them…I can’t even speak
As I watched the glass blower
Skillfully work his ware
First there was nothing
Then just a little something
Appeared.. in thin air
At first there was no beauty
Just a little blob
What skill this person possessed
Because appeared a clear glob
Then as he worked it
A form, a shape began to appear
I began to see beauty
Where non was..last year
As time passed, changes
He did make, the globe
Now amber began to take its shape
Years have passed, see
That amber bowl
Yes, that item of beauty
For the eyes to behold
God winked at me and smiled a snail
In robes of Neptune's Abigail
In the spiral stairs the sea is bare
To a crisp assail ,a snail in veil
The prince of brine a rainbow hue
a musing glob of earth and sea
You lap up the milk of moon-dew
You are as sweet as you should be
Hidden Beauty - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
20th January,2015
A hint of helping this wholesome Harris son
can across thru the air
Hence this poetic expression
of gratitude Matthew Scott wants to blare
And communicate my genuine
appreciation crystal clear
Toward one whose existence
more valuable to me and dear
As thee doth become older
with natural diminishment with eyes and ear
But lo…tis unproductive to fear
The diminishing sands
of mortal time as cognitive gear
Doth get clogged as well as one
or the other organ allowing ye to hear
The sound of silence echoing
memories of the past – now a blur
Akin to a warm fuzzy feeling
soft as moss or lichen – precious as a coat of fur
Which tomorrows speed faster
becoming yesterday’s lore
Mixed with trials and tribulations less or more
Thickening as starch and ever more difficult to pour
From the egged on noggin blended
into one glob kept in secret store
Perhaps comprising partially healed wounds
at your heart tore
As if a drafted soldier once
in tiptop shape now to the bone years wore
Away whet dreams housed
within myths indistinguishable from truths of yore
Though I too sometimes fret
as tempus fugit slinks away
Where methinks how the years spin
at a quicker pace each day
Inculcating me to savor each moment,
whether weather sunny or gray
Taking stock of self of natural world
as one named John Jay
Audubon, who captured pristine lands
of America as a frieze zing May
Whereby bounteous creatures
large and small at play
Until…the inundation
of settlers did slash, burn and slay
Indiscriminately - setting precedent
for Earth in a precarious balance oye vay
Whence Mother Nature
will win this global Olympic match – yet
By which time, both thyself
and ye will be long turned to ash
Descendants will be dust off
faded photos of me self
before senescence did dash
Totally unaware that me papa Boyce Brandon
with clenched and teeth did gnash
When I fought tooth and nail
and without a word did lash
Back as protestations against behavior
of mine ye disliked and found rash
With frustration spilling forth
like acidic froth that did splash
Slash and burn within,
yet kept mum no matter
from within did thrash.
I LOVE YOU TOO DAD
NO MATTER BACK IN THE DAY YE GOT MAD
YET NOW, AS A FATHER TWAS FRUSTRATION
PERHAPS FUSED WITH BEING SAD
AT MY LIFE & HARD TIMES WHEREIN
TURMOIL ROILED MORE THAN A TAD!
Oh, watch the people of the pen work! The writer has picked it up, inspired and ready to
write the next great novel!
The little people rush to the gears to make sure the ink flows smoothly, while the
grunts work at the ballpoint. They roll the ball along while the masterpiece is being
crafted, but will be filthy in black ink when they go home to their wives.
An air bubble has formed! The owner left it in the car overnight and the ink froze,
letting air in. They rush to get the ink going, but an earthquake has erupted! The owner
violently shakes the pen and they are unable to get to their stations to fix the
catastrophe. The little people begin to collapse from concussions due to the shaking,
and it seems the ink will never flow again. Wait, there it goes! No, false alarm. That
was just a tiny glob of ink.
The shaking then stopped and the pen is thrown into the garbage like half-eaten food,
scooped up kitty litter, and first drafts. The plant has been shut down. What will the
little people tell their wives?