Best Grubby Poems
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
Who am I?
I'm an American who ordered my head to remain buried in the sand
but due to the lunatic holding office, it refused to obey my command.
Finding no reasonable sensibility in the mind of that mad creature,
I shake my risen head, watching the horror of this double feature.
Each day is shadowed in darkness by yet another ruthless crime,
of the catalyst, sans morals. The unacceptable excuse for a paradigm.
The narcissist president who should be a mime like a circus clown,
the wanna be king of the world who brought our country down.
The predator of women, and of countries he thinks he can own...
A blowhard mentality, a bully who would sit on every nation's throne.
He's made us the enemy of Canada, Mexico, and now for gosh sake,
Denmark's Greenland, lusting for whatever he thinks he can take.
He wanted the Nobel Prize for Peace, but his demand was spurned.
With grubby hands he took it from its owner... an honor not earned.
Claims he doesn't want China or Russia to be America's neighbor.
He doesn't know how to read a map! Verbal abuse he likes to belabor.
He put his name on The Kennedy Memorial Center for Performing Arts
but it would make a better target on a game board for playing darts.
Sick is what he's made many U.S. Citizens with his presidential farce,
hoping remorse is felt by followers who should ask him for a divorce.
Who am I?
I'm a poet who'd rather not be an ostrich, not hearing the blathering,
but spending time writing of other things, daydreaming, woolgathering,
but it's become impossible not to hear, read, and be able to ignore
the catastrophic problems caused by the one Duke Beaufort calls 'Igor.'
FROM HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
As the bitter Northern wind howled in the grey early morn,
Sat a young child half frozen, looking sad and forlorn,
He came from a rundown broken home, with 6 siblings,
Where there was little money, no hope and poor beginnings.
Rob always sat on the same flat rock in a nearby littered field,
Not dressed for the biting winter, and his body to shield,
Sat aimlessly, blankly gazing at coal trucks driving by,
Tears rolling down his grubby cheeks, he’d let out a heartfelt sigh!
His father drove trucks, would he come home, even late, tonight,
Would his mother be sober, kiss her husband; say all would be right,
Would there ever be enough food for a big family of nine,
Or would they forever stay hungry, sent shivers up his spine!
A young girl his age noticed this boy, whose name was Rob,
Dressed in a warm coat, gloves, ear muffs, but was no snob,
Lived in the suburbs, often saw Rob today, she brought him a coat,
A slab of chocolate, a warm scarf for his head, ears and throat!
Young Rob liked this young Missy, they began to meet every day,
Lizzy invited him home, met her parents, went there every Sunday,
Their friendship grew, and blossomed and they fell madly in love,
Rob studied, got a scholarship to Technical College, rewarded from above.
Lizzy’s father was the Mine Manager, and he liked this young man,
When finished his studies, made him foreman and gave him a van,
They got engaged in December, married in the spring of the following year,
Rob became a dad, loved his wife, who had pierced his heart with a spear!
They grew old together, as did Lizzy’s parents, who both got ill and died,
Rob became Mine Manager, this family had adopted him with such pride,
But he never forgot his own parents, and his oh so humble beginnings,
Always sent them a monthly sum, and for them always had feelings!
Grouchy is a grubby feeling,
with the nasty taste of blah;
makes you out of sorts with living,
the opposite of hurrah.
You don’t like anything
you used to really love;
instead of giving kisses
you would rather pinch or shove.
You are bored to tears;
your toys - worn out and old;
you sit before your breakfast
until the eggs are cold.
No one can please you,
not even mom or dad;
and if you are not careful,
you’re in your room for being bad!
Some people say, “You got up
on the wrong side of the bed;”
maybe you should get back in,
crawl out the other side instead.
What makes you feel so out of sorts?
You think you just might cry
and mommy says she’s sure you ate
a slice of gritty grumble pie.
We all have days that go kerplunk;
we do some things we shouldn’t do,
but it will soon get better;
pull your feet out of grouch goo.
Just put a smile on that sweet face
and tell the grump to go away;
the sun is up and life is good,
get busy, go outside and play!
© September 18, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
The caricature of a gentleman, nameless, scorned,
The infamous savage of the famous street was wobbling:
Scruffy, shaggy, ruffed beared, tousled haired,
Disheveled,
there went the odious appearance, bumbling.
Soubriquet: lunatic, fierce, rowdy with murky torn clothes,
Was sitting stigmatic with grubby means,
Was teased and thrown stones,
To drive away from the decorous street!
He was spotted pitied with meagre chuck,
While feeding a destitute;
Taunting and sneering didn't perturb him,
Gave his share simpering, only to be starved!
The antithesis of savage, the man of the hour,
Silently paved his way then, bare footed tottering,
To be again the savage of the decorous street!
Tediously bored, Sir Drake
Prolonged afternoon of tea and cakes
Jam coats his chin with gooey paste
A beard of crumbs hangs from his face
His manner somewhat hard to grasp
Small fingers smother giddy laughs.
.
To sup he’d need a tuning fork
to confound the smacks from lamb and pork.
Lanky strands of cabbage slaw.
Gravy splashes grease his jaw
Pastries flurry dandruff flakes
A grubby mess, grandiose Sir Drake
Theodore Aka Teddy Bear
With soggy paws and matted hair
Needs a scrub from his stout chin
to the furry spats about his shins.
Carried off by loving arms
A bath restores his stately charm.
(Re Old Poems)
A gaggle of girls lounging in the sun,
In the green grass many pairs of legs, stretched out
clad in their blue jeans.
My old pair, many memories...
In them I dug into the garden soil,
planting my spring flowers; my jeans grubby.
A girl gamboling in the rain,
water soaking into her and every pore of fibre
of her blue, old jeans.
Many moons ago, my jeans
touching his knees;
they remember the feel of his bare hands,
as he smoothly traced the lines of those blue jeans.
The hems got frayed, threads hung loose...
They'd seen better days, blotches of old paint,
colors that stayed.
Spent many autumns, growing old with me
My rough old jeans.
I looked far, into the dipping sky,
The soaring waves, breaking into foam,
Turn to the grey hills, as I spread my wings,
braving my last journey,
for the bird to be finally home.
..
Written for nette's contest 'Blue Jeans'
One dark night takes me on a ride to an isolated hill where I inhale unpleasantness ..
Wide gleamy monstrous gate opens as the mighty wind blows,
creepy ferns crawl all over the floor.
Eerie garden awaits the lost lover's presence;
There stands a haunted home with a grubby porch at the entrance.
The magnanimous door welcomes me unwaveringly;
To the right there's slaughter hall polished with blood stains.
On the wall, hung portrait of a lady wearing a long red gown with a silver hat and a golden rosette stapled;
Beside protruded, a yearning window decorated by cob webs;
To the left led staircase ,as I step on railing, it crackles like hatching eggs; Carefully I manage to reach the first floor and confronted a quiet room occupied by constant whispers & spine-chilling whimpers...I slowly move inside and envision nothing strange,but I feel something moist dripping on my cheeks from the roof above.
When I look up, the entire strong ceiling collapses,
disembodied spirit arises,floating on air,observes the decaying house from a distance.
14-7-2020
~Deepa. V~
First place in the contest:-)
Note: Decaying house Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by A Dear Heart(Constance)
WHEELIE BIN JOE
On the north side of Brisbane lives a man who does no wrong,
He pongs a bit, he's grubby and his beard and hair are long,
He sits upon the footpath mid plastic bags all sorts,
Black garbage round his shoulders and white ones on for shorts,
A yuppie down the footpath tripped,
and soon fell over Joe,
Recoiled in shock as horror gripped,
climbed off the "so and so."
So now they leave him on his throne,
cross the street to the other side,
From his house front boards, the nails have flown,
weather boards have gone to hide.
The prophet peers from neath his robes,
bags plastic shuffled flies,
In trance the seer discards his clothes,
as fresh plastic he applies,
Oh he'd tell us all of what he knows,
If he perchance did speak,
But plastic fumes get up his nose,
and cause his brain to squeak.
So if you pass the prophet there,
do spare a thought for him,
see his waiscoat's very shiny glare,
but the plastics getting thin.
The winter wind it whistles but Joe has cause to grin,
for the masters call, he's waiting to right some deadly sin.
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Do You Know The Cardboard Man?
You start out green and new, as a brand new shoot, nurtured by a ‘Loving Mother Tree,’ and surrounded by lush, growing sibling leaves all
In relative, naive Harmony.
You mature and grow into The Most Beautiful Version of Yourself, peaking a little too early, given the length of your life cycle.
After you’ve served Your Purpose (you were never told what it was), your kindly mother turns on you;
Once she nurtured you, watered you, and warmed you by sunlight.
You were whole and thriving and complete.
Now, She cuts off these vital nutrients.
All of a sudden, you’re given no light, no food, no water.
And no answers about WHY.
Your sibling leaves are going through a similar situation,
So they are of very little use to you.
Frankly, they’re every bit as confused as you.
You slowly starve and dry up until you’re officially “desiccated.”
Then, the Mother Tree drops you.
The winds of change blow you onto a completely random path, forcing you to intermingle with leaves you don’t even know,
Making one last splash as “fall foliage,”
Which you don’t even enjoy because you look so differently than you did in your prime , you barely recognize yourself anymore.
The next thing you know, you’re 5 miles down the road, in a Stranger’s yard (not even a nice one),
Being raked into giant piles and stuffed into suffocating black garbage bags,
Kicked to the curb to ferment a little while, and then
Carted off by some rather grubby-looking men to be burned and cremated.
By that point, you welcome it.
DOWN A STORM DRAIN GONE FOREVER.
There was once a wicked, jealous old human,
Who lived in a house down the lane,
Not far from us,
Ugly and mean sounding, couldn’t tell
If man or woman,
Was narky to the neighborhoods children,
Including me,
We discovered this human was woman with
One large bosom!
She lived on her own, no children or husband,
Or even a pet,
She always wore the same apron, her hands always
Hidden in this grubby apron,
My friends decided on a bet,
That she had a gun and would should shoot,
Us all dead
Why else would she always keep her hands
In her apron we said!
We could never have guessed the truth
About this apron.
One day we saw two young girls laughing at her
She was furious, fiddled in her apron
And immediately,
Upon doing this, the girls fell, and each
Broke a leg!
We couldn’t believe what we had seen, I noticed a
Hairpin on the path, going back, very sharp,
And then another and another,
Each one, a different color.
Obviously someone was throwing the
Used pins away,
In a very careless way!
I have to find out what is in her apron pocket,
I said to my friends, so early the next day,
We all met
Behind her house, I was chosen to be
The pickpocket,
So I crept along the bushes outside her house
Waiting for her to have her afternoon snooze,
I saw a locket around her neck which was open
And from it peeped bright colored
Hairpins, she was asleep,
With one eye open, I thought I could see
Her eye socket!
Terrified I stretched out my hand, put it gently
Into her apron pocket,
And pulled out a tattered faceless little doll,
Home made from potato sackcloth,
A voodoo doll, screamed James,
He was certainly not wrong for he played
A great deal of TV horror games!
She obviously pricked the voodoo doll
With colored pins,
Every time someone annoyed her, she would one
Day pay for her sins!
As quickly as we could we ran to the nearest drain
Down the street and dropped it in, it fell silently
And disappeared, gone forever,
That woman was not sane!
The next day early we walked towards her house,
The house was empty and the horrid old witch gone,
We breathed a sigh of relief as we watched
A new morning dawn!
Contest: Down a storm drain, gone forever,
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Date entered: 2019/03/02
Sticky, grubby fingers,
Chocolate covered faces,
Dirty prints on wallpaper,
Put parents through their paces.
From smelly, messy nappies,
To angelic little smiles,
These are some of the wonders,
Of our parental trials.
There's tears and tantrums,
Fun and giggles too,
Even on the tough days,
When we get covered in poo.
Parenting isn't a hardship,
It's a treasure to behold,
So be kind to your little rascals,
You'll need them when you're old.
Ceaseless demands
each one a folly
To which I respond
my answers jolly
Lesson time
Minds are weary
Endless chopping
Meals so healthy
Shopping ordered
Food a plenty
Excursion time
To burn the energy
Fall from tree
call emergency
Lost child
Panic temporary
Sibling bickering
I Chide impatiently
Bath time soon
Wet and slippery
Brushing teeth
No help from me
Each to sleep,
Cuddling frenzy
Stealthily creep
To bed with mummy
Waking together
Hour so early
Getting dressed
Uniform ready
Breakfast now
Clothes grubby
An hour to spare
Time to go crazy
I love to join in
Childish levity
Forget the time
Need to be hasty
Unbrushed hair
That’s got sticky
Scramble for bags
For each activity
Unkempt they go
To school so happy.
T`was all in a day, but a day long gone.
Though in that house
Shadows of our former selves,
Forever shall live on.
William kekaula all in a day 09/09/2020
Street Walker in Oslo
As the black-winged night occupies my balcony
and spread its wings in triumph and shop lights
try in vain to illuminate and gladden a grubby street
I see you leaving your flat and begin your night shift
As you walk past splashes of yellow light,
I can see your white powdered face has not yet
settled into its customary inviting grin and your
lips are a machete slash where blood has coagulated
into lumps long ago.
Dressed in red tonight in the hope of attracting
rampant lust, but since you are an old bird
you are reduced to service those with a putrid need
for violence, but even in your disgrace I know
your heart is pure.
When I was a child,
horses raced across my consciousness
like storm chased clouds.
They sprung from my crayons
onto a blank pages,
horse words filled reams of paper
in my exercise books.
Every book written about them was worn,
read and re-read,
stained with dirt from my grubby hands.
I schemed,
prayed to gods-indeterminate,
to have one of my own.
On screens of black and white,
their images smudged, movement’s jerky,
manes and tails flying,
hero’s rode into myth.
They were magical
in an un-magical world.
A world of loneliness,
an earthquake world,
where each step
might lead to nothingness,
a gray concrete world
of uncertainty and pain.
The dreams of a little girl
who would seek them
at fairs and carnivals,
where poor ponies stood patiently,
look for them along the road
during our many moves.
Would find them in any town
we stayed in, however bleak.
Would work all day at a barn
just to smell or touch them,
joy of joy to be able to ride one.
I knew that each one was a safe place to be,
to hold all the love I could give,
with my arms around their neck
my head on their shoulder,
not once rejected.
Impermanent and fleeting as it was,
I knew that they were a safe haven.