Best Grille Poems
The Haunted House
Abandon all hope on haunted hill enter the house with a bitter chill
Walking bold with a thrashing thrill breaking through the rusted grille
The door slams shut as we look behind now facing fear and confined
We roam the bowels in darkness blind shaking silly to what we find
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Spiders finish their webbing spin and entangle with our shrieking skin
The house grumbles a grunting grin so it may welcome its kindred kin
Spirits approach to dance and dine as we stand with a shrinking spine
The floor is set for a spooking shrine the broods macabre now entwine
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Necromancer of the nefarious night waking the dead in a frantic freight
Evening emulous enchantress in flight descending from a haunting height
Caldrons cabalistically calm in their still before the fire breaks their will
The ravens caw a shivering shrill and the wolves salivate a bloody spill
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Open caskets appear in a vaporous view attended by a skeleton crew
Witches walking with a shriveled skew as warlocks wine in their woo
Tombstones lift above the ground the dead arise to break the mound
Admits shattering screams that surround only wake the hilltop hound.
Aug.12.2018
The Haunted House (Scare Me or Make Me Laugh)
Sponsored by: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
Placed 4'th
After a wonderful late afternoon walk in the park,
my wife and I moseyed over to the Japanese Hibachi Grille for some dinner.
What we got into was some good old fashioned drama down at BeniHana...
You see, I got me a fetish for shiny cookware,
so as the patrons' eyes honed in on the iron chef
dicing up onions, shrimp, and chicken...
mine were busy fantasizing about concealing Ginsu knives
clankin' in the kitchen.
"Brew Silly began his routine with the hot fire volcano bit
atop the flat grille.
In the distraction, my sticky fingers began reactin',
slippin' utensils inside my zipper, for a thrill.
Things started heatin' up as folks were eating up;
Spatulas started flyin'!
Mushrooms were a fryin',
My conscience stopped trying...
tired of getting beaten up!
Now, if I told you I was lookin' at what was cookin'...
I'd be a lyin'.
I mean, I was really tryin',
but the devil had me by the klepto-hands...guiding me.
Riling me up.
He said, "Go for one of them Wok's! Do it now Big Dog!
Get yir rocks off! Knock yir socks off!
Quick man...sly like a fox, Hoss!"
My heart said, "No", but my head said, "OH HELL YES!"
Sadly, I was in cahoots with the devil,
bass mixed with treble,
trouble poundin' in my chest!
So guess what came next?-
I grabbed one of them big brass bitches,
signaled Jessie's ass with a quickness,
and started gunnin for the door!
Of course, my good hearted wife started whinin',
"Honey, I wasn't done, now what are we leavin' for?"
"Listen baby, I'll explain later.
Right now it's time to go!"
As we passed the pretty little hostess,
she banged the gong and said real fast,
"AHH, Tank-You Berry Much F'wor Cummean Fwolks!"
We jetted towards the park, but it was getting dark.
My legs began to fail. The cops were on our tail.
We tried to walk and play it off, but it was no use.
We should have stayed and ate our food,
and drank our brews with "BREWS!"
The pigs threw me to the ground,
then began to squeal and bark.
They tossed us in the County Jail,
twenty thousand bail...
____________FOR TAKIN' A WOK TO THE PARK!!!
~"True story ={WinK+Wink}
Someone help me
Listen to my plea I beg you
Four walls surround me
I’m imprisoned in a padded cell
Locked up for 24 hours a day
Like a caged tiger in a zoo
I crave daylight
I don’t know if I will ever see my children again
Death would be a viable option …
This is no life; I am like the living dead
I didn’t commit any crime
I shouldn’t be here - a miscarriage of justice
Misidentified by a photo fit image
Whilst the real killer
That evil swine still lurks out there
He must be laughing at my misfortune
Yet he is free to breathe fresh air
To see the sun, feel the wind on his face
Yet I sit alone in isolation, in squalor
Bars on the tiny window, in the door an iron grille
I live in purgatory forevermore
Whilst my twin brother walks free
Contest Four walls Sponsored by A. A
02~23~16
The ornate church door creaked as I entered
My eyes soon became accustomed to the dusky light
Candles flickered, their shadows dancing on the walls
I knelt down at one of the heavily polished pews
It was many many years since I had been to this church
My hands clutched my string of rosary beads -
I’d had them since my first communion
Folding my hands I began to pray
Finally after a few minutes I opened my eyes
In the corner of the church I could see the confession booth
Suddenly the door sprang open
A wizened old man emerged; he was bent over with age
But even after all these years I recognised him
Those eyes that bored into my very soul
The abuse had started when I was in the choir
My life had been ruined from such an early age
As a teenager I went off the rails
Drink, drugs, anything to try and kill the pain
Spent years in and out of prison
Now I was finally free
Father I asked, do you have a moment to hear my confession
He turned round slowly and hobbled back into the confession booth
I followed him and sat down on the scarlet velvet cushion
He opened the little grille between the two booths
Forgive me father for I have sinned
I killed a man and beg your forgiveness
When did this happen my child…
It was then I pulled the trigger
Date:29/07/15
Contest:Give Me Goosebumps Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Hey! What if a computer were a car?
So much more economical, by far!
You see at once advantages galore
With all that high-tech wizardry in store.
A virtual computer set on wheels.....
This surely is the very best of deals!
You rush to buy one of these "guided missiles",
Your automotive "Dell" with bells and whistles.
.................Fast forward now to one month down the road.
Your frenzied brain is ready to explode!
You found your car would crash three times a week!
You had to pay some sly computer geek
To get the blasted engine up and running.
(His service bills were nothing less than stunning.)
You learned that turning on the windshield wiper
Would mean you really had to "pay the piper"!
By sensing you clicked on that wiper part,
Your car would shut down and would not restart!
Your airbag system's totally annoying;
It asks you "Are your sure?" before deploying.
Your precious car insists, as it to scoff,
You must press "start" to turn the darn thing off!
Just when these gimmicks you begin to doubt,
Your car without a reason locks you out!
"Access denied!" until by luck you pressed
At once the grille and hood. (Who would have guessed?)
You feel betrayed by this hybrid computer?
You should have bought a plain old two-wheeled scooter!
ACH! Don't tell me you've never been to an Oktoberfest!
Folks, that's food, drink and entertainment at its best!
Men in lederhosen, frauleins in dirndls, all so full of cheer,
Enjoyin' tasty bratwursts and steins of Hofbrau Beer!
Jamaicans enjoy Red Stripe Beer with red beans and rice.
They like their pristine beaches and they are very nice,
But for simple pleasure and taste buds that you'll endear,
There ain't nothin' like washin' down a bratwurst with a beer!
Friends in Italy enjoy the view of Vesuvius sippin' a Poretti,
Fortified with plates of fettuccine alfredo and spaghetti.
But I can't visualize anything just a whole lot sweeter,
Than a simple bratwurst washed down with suds by the liter!
Scots socialize with their clan at the neighborhood pub,
Drinkin' pints of Innis and Gunn, eatin' haggis for their grub.
French sip Trois Monts dinin' on delicious escargot.
Japanese slurp their noodle soup with a brew called Sapporo.
Mexicans gulp Salitos Beer to quench the tamale's spicy tang.
Folks in Indonesia quaff Bintang Bir with their nasi goreng.
Of assorted foreign beers and their fancy fare I've had my fill;
I'm content to sip a Coors and broil bratwurts on my grille!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
They're known by many names - taters, potatos, pertaters and spuds.
As a Hoosier lad I toiled hoein' taters and flickin' bugs off their buds!
So I was very well qualified when I entered the service, by and large,
When 'volunteered' for kitchen police to peel taters by a mean old sarge!
There's even a National Potato Day observed with tumultuous celebration,
With a Potato Queen, parades and other such nonsense across the nation!
Politicos pontificate about the virtues of taters 'specially in Idaho and Maine,
Where they transport them to our kitchen tables by truck, plane and train.
There was a national debate on how to spell potato with or sans an 'e'!
Dan Quayle didn't know how but I would've spelled it 'tater' if it were up to me!
Some taters have a patriotic bent since some are called reds, whites and blues!
Other varieties are yellows, fingers and russets from which you may choose.
To fill a feller's paunch the lowly tater can be mashed, diced or sliced.
You can make a tater salad or tater soup though you'll want them lightly spiced!
Taters roasted on the grille or scalloped tater casseroles will go with anything.
Barbeque tater chips or French fried taters with hamburgers are just the thing!
Mom would've been horrified to find lumps in her taters when company came!
In cafes today lumps are cela va sans dire s'il vous plait and is their claim to fame!
No matter how you slice 'em, taters are savored by commoner and king as well!
And you can argue 'bout the spellin' of 'potato' but 'tater' you can easily spell!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Advancing from the earth to reach up high,
From passageways and subways emerging,
To strain with ribald fingers at the sky,
The virus of the rage distilled and surging.
To spray paint on the tiles cursed to grey,
Chipped and peeling from the ransacked wall,
Created in the night, steam cleaned by day,
So does the poverty of artlessness befall.
A motion blur upon the grille and grating,
There she stands with lustrous legs and thong,
In the shadows sits a poet dissipating,
With a voice that cracks more desolate each song.
And stand, dream, dry hump the slipstream panic,
When the tickets flutter, turnstiles clack and turn,
The chewing gum dries almost like ceramic,
The heaps of rags in bundles flap and churn.
So how to make me sad when I am happy,
And how to make me happy when I’m sad,
Four words: “This too will pass,” and make it snappy,
They’re all I’ve ever known or ever had.
Bless Me, Father
Two minutes more, Father Paul,
and you will hear another of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
When I make it to the church,
I'll confess the usual stuff with a few variations,
the same plot, the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale I have always to tell.
Next week, however, things will be different.
Next week, I won't make a list
in the diner across from St. Peter's.
The waitress there knows me too well.
Last week she asked, "Am I on your list?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"What time do you get off from work?"
"5 o'clock," she said.
"I'll be back," I said,
"and we can go to St. Peter's and make
the Stations of the Cross."
Father Paul,
you can see that I'm trying
to bring women to the Lord.
So next week, no list.
I'll sit in the diner and swig
on a milkshake instead.
When I come into your box,
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper through the grille,
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I did the same stuff this week
that I did last week
but this week I did it more often."
Father Paul, if I quit making lists,
this whole process
will be easier on both of us.
Who wants to hear a grown man
recite forever what Yogi Berra called
deja vu all over again?
Donal Mahoney
Cowboy rides horse cowboy boots in stirrups
Cowboy hat waving in hand, yeehaw it’s grand,
Cowgirl is on the range! Lasso by corral
Appaloosa horse hurrah! Glad he’s a cowhand.
Dreaming of equipage horse-drawn
Carriage with attendants at wedding,
Hoedown rootin’ good time with
Root beer float, now kiss bride in west heading.
Galloping palomino golden tan coat
Rapid pace fast on each stride,
Cream-colored mane and tail fly high
Fair beautiful daughter sure and firm in abide.
Stagecoach rolls on by, near town Apache Junction
Locomotive sporting cowcatcher grille,
Black Stallion feisty and alive; husband’s
Love abounding in firm steadiness still.
Texas longhorn cattle cowherd on the range
Equestrian horseback riders like cowhide,
Head ’um out, move ’um out, rawhide! Open land wander and graze
Riding habit outfit, western sunset love now wide.
The best
I did.
The wounds
I hid.
Violent spell
And silent smell.
Torn tail
And thorny trail.
Black beret
And blue bubbles.
Strawberry
Treachery and troubles.
….........
The last
The first
The Foaming Fat.
The past
The rust
The Rotten Rat.
The glow
The crow
The Cunning Cat.
The goat
The boat
The Bloody Bat.
The thrill
The grille
The Groggy Gut.
THE FORGOTTEN JUDGES
I had forgotten them because it was long ago
But nothing is forgotten
It is all written in the book
The great ledger showing credits and debits
Used to think of Judgement as being
A guy in a white beard totting up
The debits and credits and then awarding
Some sort of final gift based on the balance
Now it has suddenly become clear that
There will be perhaps a small handful of
People from the past, now long gone,
Facing me as I approach the teller’s grille
They stop me as I try to join the line,
And draw me aside to their small group
I can’t remember them - but they remember me
An old woman all wet from the rain,
Two guys looking down-and-out without jobs or hope
A schoolkid with broken glasses from some class of losers
And an African child, way too thin to be healthy.
They all smiled and talked about incidents
Where I had touched their lives somehow.
With my weekly cheque, the African had survived and become an engineer.
Glasses-kid graduated school, grew up and found a wife in Chicago.
One old guy had died soon after I met him,
But with a warm meal inside his belly and hope.
Other guy liked the job I got him in some recycling place.
Old woman had spent my cash on lessons for her grandson -
Every bag of her pickled cabbage I bought on that windy wet street
Sent him to school and he earned enough to look after her
In her older years, much to her relief.
I said I was glad to see them again, looking so well.
Even though I didn’t remember them –
But that I really had to get in line for the grille
They said listen up - you can
Skip the line, go straight in the white door over there,
And say we sent you - you’ll be ok.
Driving home
Driving back to Algarve we took the long road
more cafés and restaurants by the roadside and not
so many crazy drivers.
The restaurants were full of Portuguese people on vacation
they like their lunch in this country
Grilled chicken
Grilled meat
Grille the unspeakable innards
Stewed meat
Bacalao with cream
Red wine
Fresh fish
Beans in its many variations
Water, cold from the well
The worst of the summer heat had gone good mood prevailed.
People talk in this country
at the same time.
The din of happy, eating people was symphony of summer time
a few weeks of freedom, the paying of bills could come later
I love this country called Portugal even when I’m in a hurry and
the women in front of me and the check-out person talk about
grandchildren.
High Noon in Downtown Chicago
St. Peter's in the Loop
Two minutes more, Father Cal,
and you will hear another
of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
Once inside I'll confess
the usual stuff
with a few variations,
none essential,
all accidental,
the same plot,
the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale
I have always to tell.
Next week, I promise,
it will be different.
Next week, I promise
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper
through the grille,
"Father Cal, it is I.
You know the rest."
Next week, I won't make
another list in the diner
across from St. Peter's.
Next week I'll swig
on a milkshake instead.
Father Cal, you and I
will both profit.
Donal Mahoney
once a young pumpkin named bill
yearned for a bigger life thrill
though lacking in feet
he'd roll down a street
into the nearest car grille.