Best Greased Poems
Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
hoping my thoughts will fall like rain.
Thunder and lightning mix the brew
stirring the words soon to break thru.
Pressure builds up, clouds turn dark gray
swirling and twirling, find their way,
freeing the weight of thoughts that flow
down from the clouds to grow below.
Falling to weave creative streams
nourishing thoughts into word dreams,
forming soon a landscape divine...
rainbow of poems that are mine.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: What Was I Thinking?
Sponsor: Daniel Turner
Rules: Choose one line from sponsor's poem below
and write a poem. I chose his first line.
Judged: 12/19/2016
Between The Lines, by Daniel Turner
Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
Vapor trail dreams, from paper airplanes
Cherry red glow, watch with no chain
Ribbons and bows, tied to the flames
Anchors on strings, hanging from sails
Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
Falling through cracks, greased by the sale
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail
Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings
Broken blue dishes stuck to the king
Photos with glitches on invisible wings
Temptation itches on all living things
Categories:
greased, inspiration, metaphor, writing,
Form:
Couplet
Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
Vapor trail dreams, from paper airplanes
Cherry red glow, watch with no chain
Ribbons and bows, tied to the flames
Anchors on strings, hanging from sails
Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
Falling through cracks, greased by the sale
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail
Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings
Broken blue dishes stuck to the king
Photos with glitches on invisible wings
Temptation itches on all living things
December 11 2016
in your head contest
Categories:
greased, hyperbole,
Form:
Rhyme
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
Categories:
greased, food, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
They just don't know how to apologize, do they?
Giving something that's prone to finger bleeds
and even chunkier thighs.
I'll give you the Golden Rule:
with situations like this
it is sure to apply.
An idea I propose (if I may be so bold):
give me a week without seeing your face
and a day without hearing your voice.
Heartbroken women everywhere agree
that it truly is the safest choice!
I don't need a second bouquet
or another box of sweets so chocolatey.
Seeing you suffer for what you did
is without a doubt the greatest therapy!
But of course Don't despair
Eventually you'll be forgiven
Give it space Give it time
When you return it will be sublime
a peck on the cheek
"Honey, can you fix the bathroom sink,
it hasn't been greased
... in at least a week."
NOTE: For all you women out there that have to put up with us silly men.
Categories:
greased, anxiety, bereavement, forgiveness, funny
Form:
Light Verse
Slipperier than a Greased Eel In a Vat of Astroglide
That Hillary’s sociopathic streak is a mile wide
In case you haven’t noticed, the fix is in
But her followers love her even if she’s guilty as sin
We all think she should be a woman of greater convictions
Both moral and criminal, given her total lack of friction
She’s got a layer of Teflon thicker than Gotti
And to the Secret Service, a mouth full of potty
She looks crookeder than even a barrel of snakes will
Phonier than A William Jefferson Clinton three dollar bill
7/24/16
© By Author
For Contest: Create An Idiom
Sponsor: Jesse Day
Categories:
greased, america, political,
Form:
Couplet
filling the radio with words of availability
lot lizards selling their souls to diesel driving “Joe-s”
in and out of truck cabs under a weeping moon’s protection
Jane, works the night, wondering if her daddy knows
lipstick on and high heels strapped as the sun sets in May
call sign; “Wild Orchid” …. “Anyone looking for a good time?”
a traffic jam of radio chatter…… congested air waves
the August sun rises on a night of sexual crime
Orchid petals caressed with greased stained hands
her pale white color quickly wilts to brown
the young November night is holding her final bloom
evidence of violent pruning becomes talk of the town
a knock on the door……………….. a flower delivered
Wild Orchid’s father is asked, “Is she the one?”
he checks her stem, quickly recognizing his roots
inevitably, the withering of his blossom has begun……
Categories:
greased, daughter, death, lossnight, night,
Form:
Quatrain
Truly, the bee hive innards hum
Truly, the body inside gurgles
Truly, the cave echoes the vortex
Truly I know these sounds
from last night
4 cackling creatures spewed
their saturated sayings upon
the floor
upon each other, upon me
the hammering of the gong
the stampede of a thousand
African Elephants all were
asleep in my head before
these 4 opened the flood gates
of the Mind and the sudden
rush of tidal-wave trumpets
I had to leave, flee, rush
walking, against stone and
broken checkerboard spot-
lights I saw you.
Latin King of knowledge
and intellect came down
the Cardio-Hill and embraced
the darkness with refreshing
light. Saving me from ignorant
swine and masses of greased
filled bodies a pool of stale
eggnog that once seemed
white in the moonlight
now floats dead and
stale, a growing vile mass
unlike its former self
Breaking free from this
chain of emptiness I
went with you, oh one
from another land, took
me to a land of distant
memory and dreams
That bubbling feeling of
the Reed-Flute crying
the Baby also crying due
to separation. It was this
sound that rose higher then
the rest. That sound
propelled me to leave. The
nosey throng and join the
party of Lovers as they
dance. But this dancing
does not have to be
physical, but in the mind
that fluid motion of
loving mind-numbing Dance.
created a sensation in
my heart and soul that
the Hernia of Pestilence
was healed and I
could then, after exile
with the Latin King, return
to the normal mortals
and once again brave the
slow Caravan's journey
against the concrete sky.
Categories:
greased, allegoryurdu, me,
Form:
Ghazal
Olivia for many decades
you have been my number one
in looking back over the years
these SUMMER NIGHTS were such fun
But so quick like GREASED LIGHTNING
we would speed along BANKS OF THE OHIO
thinking of wanting A LITTLE MORE LOVE
we would feel such a PHYSICAL glow
We were at such a height of MAGIC
that TAKE ME HOME COUNTRY ROAD fast
as indeed we sped along like GREASE
making light of all we passed
YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT
because BEING HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU
wishes you would MAKE A MOVE ON ME
to make my dream come true
Such a hit in the movies too
a festive cracker with CHRISTMAS ROMANCE
XANADU so full of music verve
Olivia GREASEd us with every chance
August 8th '22 is a real sad day
indeed was when the music did die
for that distinctive amazing voice
cause without it makes one cry
Olivia Newton-John was sheer amazing
every boy loved ONJ to be his girl
now gone but never will be forgotten
Olivia's beauty and voice brought such a thrill!
Categories:
greased, memory, music, star, thanks,
Form:
Rhyme
THE PENGUIN
Way down south on a continent frozen
The penguin a tough life has chosen
Though you’d think he’d be coy
Like a super-cool playboy
You’ll find him out preening and posin’
With movement on foot unexciting
He shuffles along then goes sliding
Though on land a slow coach
In depart or approach
In the water he goes like greased lightning
He’s a little short in the leg
Dressed bespoke (can’t wear off-the-peg)
Hand it to this ice capper
He always looks dapper
Even when he is hatching an egg
So the penguin’s no slouch, he’s a winner
By sartorial standards no sinner
He’ll emerge in a trice
From the Antarctic ice
Already dressed for dinner
Categories:
greased, animal,
Form:
Limerick
SWAP MEETS PEACE--
Now reciprocal, is just the thing;
Separation divides it just bring;
War mixed with peace hysterical
Is just the thing now reciprocal?
War in peace makes peace brittle;
The social control that's really little;
How does the noise become fleece;
Makes peace brittle war in peace;
Often to keep peace dishonest ones greased palm;
Down, down, down into the darkness of the calm;
Gently goes the dreamy the muted they now cease;
Dishonest ones greased palm often to keep peace;
I’ve seen mutual happiness generation destroyed;
Feuding alloyed annoyed men now war employed;
In peace hunger for the cow and pig liver so usual;
Happiness generation destroyed I’ve seen mutual;
3/21/19
Swap Meet Poetry Contest
Quatrain poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Carol Connell
Categories:
greased, analogy, confusion, inspiration, peace,
Form:
Quatrain
elbow to elbow no room to breathe
in this place i once thought an escape
missing her more each day
and each passing moment
brown children with vaseline
greased scalps peer expectantly
at this strange newcomer
vampire handsome and strange intellect
my weakness must be apparent
fore they trust me
dancing with the devil isn't a tango
it's a tangle
our innocence ensnared
like a scared fragile rabbit
pulse racing
silken brown fur clamped
between iron rusty jaws
moving like the blood of the hare
between each strand of hair
i avoid their queries of life
after the dance
Categories:
greased, introspection, life
Form:
Free verse
They watch him like a Broad-wing Hawk
In all his comes and goes
He invades their every thought
Bugs them to the bone
He delights in the slip and slide
Like a greased pig in their grasp
Thinking they've got him this time
But they had best not think so fast
They scandalize the scandals
Beat their chests and drums
Walking on a thin line
Hoping to nip him in the bud
He has them on a short leash
They bark at his command
All big dogs is what they think
Tails wagging on the right and left
Every now and then he tosses them
One or two Chicken Little bones
Where they run and scream the sky is falling
It's not like we were not warned
As he sits behind his desk
Plotting his next move
Donald Trump and the Media
....ain't that the truth
Categories:
greased, america, crazy, culture,
Form:
Light Verse
Bread baking memories
up early to start the day
bread to make
Mom and I would start
adding to the bowl, mix and beat
then came the kneading
a rhythm was the key
1-2-3 turn and 1-2-3
as she taught me so many years ago
I can still hear her saying 1-2-3
the ball of dough took on a smooth look
just right to the touch
into a greased bowl
to rise high
to be punched down
making the loaves and buns
another trick she told me so
stretching just right
in the pan to get so high
into the oven for the long wait
smells fill the air
table fills with golden treats
fresh warm waiting to eat
butter spread on that first loaf
nothing like
Memories of baking days
Categories:
greased, day, memory, mother,
Form:
Free verse
Super grandma girl, in her long green cape,
took a quick ride on a golden grape;
she slipped, greased lightning like, over the floor,
gunned her girl motor and flew out the door.
A piercing scream out on the front lawn . . .
a grandchild in trouble???? No time for a yawn.
Like all super heroes she was there in a flash,
with a dash and a clash and a ladylike smash.
Her darling was bloodied,
pink ruffled dress muddied,
(the one she had just worn to church).
She had taken a lurch and fell from her perch
way up high in the old apple tree,
a place she was not meant to be.
Only grannie superheroes can give healing kisses
to cute little, sweet little, bad little misses,
but that is exactly what grandma's will do--
grab you up quick with loud hullabaloos,
and before you know it, you're better! It's true!
Just because super grandma really loves you.
But--one thing all grand kids need to remember:
grandma will love you the year through--to December!
You don't have to be bad and fall from a tree
to get super kisses from super old me.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, August 3, 2014
Categories:
greased, fun, grandchild, grandmother, love,
Form:
Rhyme
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast
Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic
Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white
Smoke in it's wake.
Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames
Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat.
The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night,
It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the
Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red.
Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast,
Held captive, by the leg irons of progress.
Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth,
Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity.
Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly
Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of
Fire, burning through the blackness of night.
The engineer holding the throttle to the floor,
Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning
Once more.
Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll,
Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle
Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight.
As the weeping woman cries, for her people,
For she alone, realizes what is it come.
The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open
Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be
Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts
Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves.
Around the sacred camp fires of old these
Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall
Be retold to generation to come.
The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of
Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun.
Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave,
Washing the prairies beauty away.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it
Echoes across the vast continental divides,
Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal
Shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
greased, adventure, america, culture, history,
Form:
Free verse