Best Grotty Poems
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.
Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.
We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.
I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.
You're calling my name? Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my? Have you answered my plea?
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!
~
For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.
Spring begins as a spring, the roads shining wet, the earth desultory floats the water as
the lawns are pricking green welcoming the Spring. At dawn the birds chatter with delight
at the worms' awful plight while commuters mutter imprecations to one and all as if
weather lore will do for us all, until they remember the Easter holiday that still seems so
far off as the weather seems to be spoiling our lot.
Snow shovels the warm dry sunny weather we had for over a week far away as it reminds
us of its power to be bloody awkward of its own accord.
In Spring we all fancy a smile that is not wry and weather to warm our bodies and souls
after a grotty winter. Let us Hope!
This is poetry for us all when you can’t find the words.
Acerbic, angry, awful is this poems dream.
Bad, boring, balderdash are its major themes.
Childish, contemptuous, cynical to the last;
Daft, dizzy, desultory meanings that are vast.
Egregious, extemporaneous and extra bad,
Foolish, futile, fantasy, that's pretty sad.
Garish, grotty, ghastly that’s the score,
Hogwash, horrible, haunted what a bore.
Idiotic innuendos of the lowest kind,
Jumping jeering, jesters come to mind.
Kinky, kooky killjoys everywhere,
Lamentable lamebrains, all without a care.
Muddled, mindless mutterings in the night,
Nutty, neurotic nuances come to light.
Obtruding oafs with highly opaque lenses,
Permeate our all pervading senses.
SPRING IN AIR, LOVE ONLINE 20/02/13
Nowadays , life is so unpalatable and stoic.
So unnecessarily busy and eventfully hectic.
Young folks thus gather in a shadowy discotheque, to kill,
The retreating winter shedding its last chill.
The chirps of the departing migratory,
With massacred green in a concrete urban factory,
Welcomes the spring breeze, and the cuckoo melody tune,
That too so rare,
For a short term vacation, in a vanity fair.
Some emotional fools and roaming vagabond,
Can feel the spring air and reminiscences their fond,
And cry for the past and the long lost love bonds.
Beside them no one dares to mingle,
Their soul with the colour of butterfly twinkle.
No one cares to see the young green boughs,
Dancing in a frolic of crispy air that jingle.
All is there, in the air, except love my dear,
‘Cause love is now confined,
In another little world so secure.
Where there’s no hasty rushing,
No meaningless blushing,
No hassled waiting, no worrying restriction.
Love is just a ready-made parcel,
At a press of a small button.
Love messages, e mails , tweets, face books ,web cyberspace and profile update,
Takes all the bothering responsibility, does all the necessary tete-a-tete.
No need for time taking arguments,
No need for extra commitments.
Sometimes, meetings could be arranged, but
Oh! Never in public park or in a hopeless garden.
It could be in a shopping mall or a cool coffee den.
The gorgeous and the grotty,
All gather at a V-day party.
Those who are privileged,
Share their love with diamonds and wine.
But for others, not a single grape,
Is sour in a vine.
Everything is taken for granted,
Just simple and fine.
‘Cause love can also be shared,
Simply free of cost on line.
The snot monster’s got me
He’s inside my head
I shouldn’t be working
But home in my bed
I’m sniffing and snuffling
And blowing my nose
I’m trying to hang on
Till the snot monster goes
The snot monster’s got me
I’m feeling so grotty
It’s hard doing work
When you’re bunged up and snotty
As I sit here and cough
And I shiver and shake
I am wondering just
How much more I can take
The aches are subsiding
The coughing has eased
I was getting quite miffed
About being teased
Remarks about man flu
Drove me round the bend
So I’m pleased to announce
I’ve infected my friend
CHRISTOPHER, BLAIR AND CLAIRE
Young Blair was a shy boy,
Somewhat a nerd,
He just simply could not make a friend,
The nursery school teacher,
Who was my mum,
Enjoyed her job so,
She was never glum.
Christopher was the lively one in the class,
There was a seesaw and jungle gym
On the grass,
Teacher told Christopher to please
Play with Blair,
Christopher asked, may I also bring Claire?
Claire was Christopher’s imaginary friend,
She was real to Christopher,
He didn’t pretend!
Break time, teacher and helpers were about,
As two dozen screaming children ran out!
Christopher very mischievous,
Thought of a plan
Quite excited, he said to himself, I’ll do it
Tomorrow if I can!
The next day,
He took something out of his school case
Put it in his pocket and showed a bland face.
Break time was very soon
Christopher thought,
And hid behind his back what
He had brought!
He whispered all, to imaginary Claire,
Don’t be afraid silly,
You sound too goody, goody and frilly!
He went up to Blair,
And put out his hand,
Do you really want to be my friend?
Then eat this, Blair desperately wanted
To be his friend,
So took a very big bite and went quite red
Blair spluttered and cried,
And gave everyone, a huge fright.
Teacher ran to the scene and found a
Half bitten chilli
Lying on the ground,
But Christopher was nowhere around,
He couldn’t be found!
I’m on fire teacher, the poor
Young boy said,
As his nose also bled!
Teacher had already phoned
The local doctor,
Christopher was now hiding, the little actor
Blair was asthmatic, which was another
Contributing factor!
Plump Doctor Dawson, said Blair
Would be fine,
Teacher did a headcount as the
Children fell into line,
She had a lost child, was about to
Call the police,
When Christopher appeared,
He wanted to make peace!
I’m sorry teacher he said, but girls
Are really naughty,
Claire made me do this terrible deed,
Which was grotty!
Christopher then offered Blair a hand,
Covered in grease,
The two boys wanted their cold war
To cease!
Being yet a child, and still with innocence,
Christopher said to imaginary Claire,
Come over here, and play
With me and Blair!
This is a true Story
I haven't had a quiet life
In-fact it's been quite busy
When I think back to how it was
It sends me kinda dizzy
I have had a lot of men
Of which I can recall
I could name most of them
But could not name them all
Alan, Steve, Wayne and Mark
Jimmy, John, and Jack
Edward,Tony,Geoff and Lee
Have had me on my back
Colin, Gary, Paul and Neil
Ian, Chris and Scotty
I have had each one of them
Some ugly and quite grotty
Some were big, some were small
Some were long and fatter
But I didn't mind the shape or size
In-fact that didn't matter
Short or tall, young or old
Ginger, bald or hairy
I just want all the world to know
I ain't no Virgin Mary. X
The world was going to end in nineteen fifty-nine,
according to my grandma. I know; she told me so.
Not because of Russia and its threats of nuclear war,
but because Italians had moved into the house next door.
"The street, the neighbourhood, will rapidly decline,"
That's not what my friends and I thought, though.
My mum was just as bad, "they've painted their door bright red.
Brown is the only colour for a rightly English door.
Just look at it," she moaned each time we walked the street.
"Some people just don't understand, the nerve, conceit!"
"And have you seen the clothes she wears?" "You wouldn't catch me dead."
But my friends and I; well, we all said; blimey, cor.
My dad took me aside one day; sat me down, and said,
"Take care, the folk next door are not like us at all.
They're Jews or Catholics; one or the other;" he confines.
"I saw them all out yesterday dressed right up to the nines,
walking with a bag of fruit and strange-shaped bread."
My friends and I didn't care; they had an ice cream stall.
We became good friends; me, and the boys next door.
We pricked our thumbs and pressed; became blood brothers.
I learned cool words; Bellissimo, Chao; and in Italian how to cuss.
And in return, I taught them English words like grotty, snot, and puss.
Grown-ups were wrong about Italians moving in next door.
When you make friends, there is no them or us, or others.
Jaundiced Eye Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Date wrote: 20-June-2021
My daughter, my joy and my light,
Let me share with you a secret sublime,
For most people, they never know of this
ignoble plight,
Lives spent broken backs bent before
unremitting time,
Once I was a sprightly youth, innocent and carefree,
Ways of this prurient world still unknown,
But as the moments of life burn and
roam with rhapsodic glee,
Notes of the feminine tune string upon
the instruments laddish hearts once stone,
However, often the tunes turn into a lackluster jibe,
When we the grotty castoffs come and go,
Any futile attempt we make to pay for
love's perilous bribe,
In the metaphorical corners of our minds still
we try to let you scions of Eve know,
Just a glance for a meteoric millisecond,
To give the infinitesimal gift of
Hope,
Upon these Cupid dared not aim his amatory dart,
The missile's missive not meant for those
who bear not attraction's prepossessing mark,
As a voice for Failure's Childe I beseech once more,
Please divert no longer from us your
lenitive gaze,
Though we may be gamers, geeks, role-players
and nerds,
Still we avidly seek just one more chance gratis to win your secretive heart,
Though may a step might cause to stumble,
Or words of ardor may scare you away,
Remember, precious one though these seem
low and unworthy,
A half of a whole, the race never won, an end
without a beginning, the power you have
to save Failure's Childe from one more
inefficacious day
She woke up to the song of the rising sun
Dealt with the domestic chores in one quick run
When it's time to set to the duty outdoors,
she locked those grotty wooden doors.
She joined her friends at the site
And majestically wore a shirt that's half white
She bunned her hair into a striped towel
Set her foot into the soil with a hoe and shovel.
The sweat on her cheeks salted her lower lip
The blisters on her palms gave her little grip
The tired muscles demanded a moment's rest
But no, she cannot afford to take the time's test.
She is the second's hand of a 24hr clock
To soothe her baby's hunger cries, she shouldn't cease to walk.
She knows just three things - work,work and work,
to nurture the baby whose long-gone father is a toxic shark.
Two hours of extra labour, would do the two a great favour.
Few extra drops of sweat,
Confer four extra drops of milk to her baby's gut.
When at the day's end, her stir-fried flesh returned home,
the smile on her baby's lips wiped the sweat on her cheekbone.
Battles of today gift blossoms in the long run.
After all, her baby's filled tummy was like a good shade under the hot sun.
The day that you won me,
I recall how you spoke of lotteries and luck,
And sang in blue and white,
From virtual rooftops with borrowed words,
About fields and fish and feeling good,
I still cherish that grotty piece of paper,
Alive like the tree it was sliced from,
With secrets spelt out with my name,
Copied them with a crumbling pencil scrawl,
Onto the secret space beneath my window,
Bathed in sulphur light,
Between dreams I would read them,
Filled with frustration that you couldn’t seem to see,
Chance was never the game,
Harbinger broke into delicate run,
And delivered the inevitable,
Led down the only path left to follow,
I could only ever fall for you.
Earth resides beneath my feet.
I feel the earth like a breeze in my hair,
For one moment my feet stay there.
I remove my shoes grotty and old,
So the soil and my feet can mould.
Walking bare footed as I was born
Too feel the air caress my skin.
Hours seemed to past so fast,
On form I am docile a child of the wind.
Treading on earth compelled I must walk,
Sources of living are now in clear view.
Dipping my feet the water is cold,
Within the earth, water and air I am free.
With no consequence of where I must be.
We are one the elements and me.
As tears fall
I open my moldered eyes to see myself
Blurred and grotty
I’m beginning to rot now
My skin melting into my bedsheets
Moldy and itching with pests
Am i one of them?
Am i another eyesore?
Am i as revolting as the blowflies?
I’ll admit that i feel
Repugnant in love
But how can that be so
When i rot for you?
Look at what i’ve done
All for you
I have never hurt so badly
And this time it’s not because
Of the bugs shredding my skin
Burrowing
But because you never left my heart
You were always there
Just another maggot
Burrowed in my flesh
There's no need to be alarmed, I'll wake up anyway,
perhaps today they won't hassle me, it will be better day;
ship was sinking, englishman said: 'Women and children first,
american said: '---- the women,' 'frenchman said: 'Is zere time?'
I listen to Chopin who designed his notes so beautifully,
the coordination from war-torn Poland categorically;
I ask myself - what did I achieve? No one had a life like me,
I broke hearts, like a cunning bridge player in spades and hearts.
Now time is running out, you wonder what death is like,
the only certainty, they say don't speak ill, but I'll strike,
at the unbelievable, how grotty some were, cast no doubt,
but then that's what this life was apparently just all about.
It's over, the hands are together, so tissue, tissue, tissue,
it's not just me but I bet you guys also had a few issue.
Who is a verse maker
Poetry is an odd art form practised where there are more
poets then writers because everybody, especially when young
has a poem (usually hormonal) that needs expression, some end
up as art teachers and prefer not to speak of their youthful attempts.
Seasoned poets go to poetry meetings, rather like alcoholics go to AA
there is always some new way, to express old truths
some of the old crusty ones run poem magazines and have a firm opinion
on how poetry should be written; the best of them
care more about content than writing rules.
The public, at large, only knows that poetry is romantic something
to do, with flowers and trees and love made on soft, green grass.
The real poetry world is a narrow one, those who are famous in that world
are spoken about with awe.
Old poets are grotty, smelly and eccentric, but are loved anyway.