Best Grovel Poems
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
The moon is hidden out of sight
I come to you at dead of night
The latch is lifted on the door
You stand aloof as I implore
I kneel and grovel on the floor
I am aware of the full score
The whip is flicked; I crawl to you
In leather dressed, I take your cue
Out come the blindfold and the rope
With knots and teasing I can cope
You have your urges and the need
To act on impulse and to feed
On domination, unrestrained
Within the mind it is ingrained
You find release in mistress role
But I, the slave, am in control
Now is the time to beg of you
At height of passion what is due
Intense the climax of this game
I reach my aim; you call my name.
[Pride of place I shall fill
....... On Camera & Quill!]
------------------------------------------------
11th October, 2015
Contest: You Want It Bad-Then Bribe Me...
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
Placed 3rd
Chosen POTD ~ 12th October, 2015
Grovel for blood, grovel for blood you bastards
Hunger for bodies of innocent children and flee
Amidst webs of mayhem you throw the world asunder
“Zionists we are, all so powerful, all so free!”
And again the injustice of war compels me
To speak in anger and utterly be
I am sorry fellow poets if harshness comes with words
But the news gives me not any joy, not any glee
For the people of Palestine are now in torture
And all I can do is watch Ghaza fall to become debris
I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
I'm so doggone ugly,
I look like a faded roach;
If I were a pile of roadkill,
The buzzards wouldn't approach!
Oh sweet mirror on the wall,
Why stab me in the back?
You tell me that I'm beautiful,
Then fall to the floor and crack!
I went to a local photographer,
Here's something you won't believe,
He took one look at this ugly mug,
And paid me just to leave!
I can't go to the chicken coop,
To gather a single egg;
Those hens won't let me enter,
Unless I grovel and beg!
I never committed a crime,
Though my picture's on the wall;
Ugliness is a criminal act,
It's certainly against the law!
A cop pulled me over,
I asked what I did wrong;
He took one look at this sourpuss,
And said..."Nuthin', please go home!"
When I walk by flower beds,
The petals begin to wilt;
Every time I play pinball,
The game automatically tilts!
I married an ugly woman,
Someone uglier than me;
We bought ourselves an ugly dog,
Now we're as happy as can be!
The USA is not perfect
never has been
never will be
Unlike Russia, which has
‘no alcohol problem’
‘no civil disobedience’
‘no LGBTQ populace’
Not to mention no truth in the
information it disseminates to
suckers around the world...
Yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
not with George Washington
the 1700’s slaveholder (gasp!)
on our currency, not to mention
Susan B. Anthony, who was proudly
anti-abortion, pro-life – for shame, for shame!
~ Our ignominious past consigns us to eternal penance ~
Unlike Libya, where an ancient slave trade flourishes
to this very day: Muslims enslaving black Christians
which does not fit the media’s narrative
so most people aren't aware of it
and the rest don’t care about it
Unlike Afghanistan, where the repression of the 'Old Taliban'
is now fully in place under the ‘Newer, More Gentle Taliban’
or Syria, whose butcher of a ruler has made refugees of half his
citizenry, gassing thousands of others with chemical weapons…
But yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
Never has been
Never will be
Let us forever grovel in abasement to all the tin-horn dictators of the world
not to mention our home-grown squadrons of regressive radical progressives
Down with Jefferson, Lincoln, Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, Truman and Reagan!
Up with Omer, Tlieb, Pressley, Sanders, AOC, Corey Bush, Schiff, Nadler...
Long live Maduro, Castro, the Mullahs, Xi, bin Salman, Abbas, Gaddafi et al!
Lies are Truths Might Makes Right Facts are Opinions
1 9 8 4
Paradise Lost:Technology
No, sorry, won't grovel at its electronic toes!
People so busy on Facebook or texting.
Figures show younger people have
even stopped loving sexing?
So stuck to their computers are they!
Worse, human communication skills suffered the most.
"I'm good ", "thank you" and "O.K is all people can say?
Nor can they speak or write intelligently.
Dinners are the worst,when cell phones
jump out of pockets like juicy liverwurst.
At least in poetry I find, far more than
insipid three words.
You all blow my mind, your love, oh,how
it shows.
Whole paragraphs and wonderful life
experiences live here.
Poetry Soup~ our very last human hemisphere!
Panagiota Romios
4/7/2019
I tarried for a moment...
I was tender to the sun.
Not sure I would be welcome...
I lay burdened by the one.
My loss of Faith was tragic...
Life's filter gone awry.
It seems of some importance
As I face towards the sky.
Who am I to grovel
For a life that's gone askew?
But one who stands exulted
And in Faith begins anew.
I fear not the nonexistence
Some associate with death.
The Grace of God awaits me
As I take my final breath.
The End
All the things that make me tingle
All the things that make me burn
All the things that make me quiver
All the things that make me yearn
All the things that make me giddy
All the things that make me sigh
All the things that make me shiver
All the things that make me fly
All the things that make me insane
All the things that make me scream
All the things that make me grovel
All the things that make me dream
All the things that so ignite me
All the things that quench me, too
Are all the things that are found, love
In the very core of you.
Just one look, and I am trembling
Just one touch, and I’m on fire
Just one word with passion laden
And I’m consumed by desire
All the things that bond me to you
All the things that tie my heart
Each and every single impulse
In you, my love, has its start.
You thought me spineless,
so in a fit of anger you tore mine out,
Bloodless, I rose sword swallower,
strengthened by my tattered paper edges.
The abyss of your barren soul wrapped me in
gauze, shrouded me on parallel partitions;
nailed to the crossbars of your lust;
only mother me did you revere.
All hail the hidden seal*-- nailed to the missing cross,
white cloaked, virginal, tresses unbound-- lay me not
across the landscape of your desire-- grovel at my shrine.
The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo’s
*the word seal has been used to comply
with Soup Guidelines
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 2014
Lying on the same bed holding their breaths.Even though makingup was in their hearts each guarded their pride.Each looked sideways glances mingled exploded in laughter.When anger was a crease in the brow and silence a catastrophe.When making upwas a mutual smile and a glance a gift.Now just look at this mess that you've made of that love.You grovel at my feet and I berate you and can't let my anger go.My lover get rid of your anger proud one.What have I done out of anger you haven't offened me.All offenses are mine so then why are you crying yourself hoarse in front of me.So what am I to you you're my darling no I'm not that's why I'm crying
I Will Rise, Above Heart's Weakness
(I Will Rise Above -MY - Heart's Weakness)
Shall I bend, to your massive will
break chains of my aching heart
Or with infinite time wait until
life gives love's sweeter restart
Shall I cry, into your bad heart
show pain dripping in blood
Or wait until we dare race apart
in a deluge waiting to flood
Should I weep, for your mistakes
eat truth to save your soul
Beg forever even more hard retakes
and love burning like a coal
Should I grovel, in abject shame
a man dying in his despair
A fool uncaring of his family name
begging again without a care
I will look, again into dark eyes
fight blackness that stares back
Choose to forget your very bad lies
seek deeper love that you lack
I will rise, above heart's weakness
cut out my longing love needs
Forget your sexy body and sleekness
which my dream forever feeds
Robert J. Lindley
Note: Written decades ago but edited
this morn to remove too many very personal verses.
The original stays private within my journal.
Unfettered lightning lash through the fury of the rain,
Sizzle mouths dry with shock of glory.
Athlete that made our jubilee golden, mighty Usain
Inciting the petrified blend each new victory
Nested within love of hope and love of glory.
Bridge us through the overbrimming and the pride
Olympian, orbit history like a carpet before
Love's lesson cannot be spelt again. Be strongly sure
Thunder will not break the pact between possibility and dream.
ii
Usain Bolt, do you know what limit is in our flesh
Surfing on opponents wind strainless to the end
African panting away from the hard invisible mesh
Inflicting us with pain - memories with me contend
Naturally, for the ***** rises as human again.
Bold man of grace, runner with the panther's ease
Ovations rise from within and without the race
Laurels for the worth that we may not grovel on our knees
Triumph has many friends where love secures its place.
iii
Understanding only a form of speed tells nothing still
Simpler in the hearts denied a brighter beacon burns
A worth within the breadth and scope of human will
Insistent above the error of history, respect now earns
Nation and ***** a voice to speak in all the cause of man.
Bridge me then delight into the glory of your jubilee
Omit me not to light a princely tribute for your deeds
Lovelier than the loveliest of gazelle in raptured glee
Thundering in hostile skies where only lightning succeeds.
iv
The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church
One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to the pub?”
“Nay, it makes no odds to me, and we do some cracking grub”
The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars
And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars
And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred
The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little *****”
The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “I reckon a short, and some beer”
The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw
Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo
Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door
Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more
Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit
And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it
The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state
He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate
“Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say
If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way
You are no better, sir, than I, no better, and no worse
Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse
I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor
I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more”
The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent
Muttered softly “Sorry God,” and got his coat and went
The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short and sat
“Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that”
© Gail Foster 2016
Every night is the same here
As the night before
They make us drink a couple beers
Then men come in the doors
And have their choice of whores
We’re supposed to flirt and smile
Encourage their attentions to us
But when you’ve done this a while
It’s hard to sell them lust
When all you feel is disgust
If you resist, they’ll drug you
And sell you anyway
You’ll wake up broken and bruised
And sore between your legs
(Or worse, if they have sick tastes)
So try to find the nicest perv
And take him to your bed
Don’t count on those pimping jerks
To help; help yourself instead
And choose the best prospect -
The answer is in their eyes
Soft or warm eyes are best
If they give you chills say bye
And move on to the next set
Before their appetite’s whet
If you can’t get away
Don’t let them see your dread
Above all, don’t grovel or pray
Or even play dead (think pummeled head) -
That’s how their power is fed
Just imagine they’re someone else
Like a lover from long ago
It’s easier to take the abuse and dwell
On happiness you used to know
And keep that horseshoe of hope
If you lose hope or die, they win
So don’t make it easy for them
Pick the best guy and give him a “grin” -
It’s the only control you’ll ever get
In a rape contest
Revised 3/6/12