Best Humped Poems
Lapping against the shoreline’s edge,
Fluid quartz-crystal of waves rush
through my toes . As I align home-made
paper boats wiggling against ebb tide,
the looped hammock of moon gently cradles
strains from Jobim’s notes, ‘ Agua de Beber, ’
where summer memoirs drip inside my veins:
On this familiar trail, he would nestle
A cocktail of stars unto my hands… riding
upon the torrid pulse of a bamboo’s gyre,
quietly leading me into the fragrant sea
that we, dream-walkers , mesh atop an islet’s breast.
Yet now, only silence mates a heart gazing at
paper boats, humped sandstone far off a ridge
that in August’s glittering last queue,
hints of ‘Agua de Beber’ speak to me
about a current, paddling on a waterfront,
Gentle and wild as the tidal net of retrospect.
Contest: Laura Loo's Any Poem written in February 2016
Submitted 2/12/2017
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Originally posted 2/ 5/ 2016
To a two humped camel
She must seem really odd
For her humps are both displaced
on the front of her strange bod
They must throw her off balance
as she walks on just two feet
They're sure to get in the way
Whenever she try's to eat
It also seems distracting
As she goes about her day
They're bouncing bouncing bouncing
In a most peculiar way
Why are those fellows drooling
As they watch her walking by
I'm sure the two humped camel
He must be wondering why
My son has a new dog called Brandy
By jingo that pup is so randy
He caused quite a to do
When he humped my left shoe
No wonder his legs are so bandy!
07-07-17
Light and shade are vital to life's beauty, charm, and richness. By Poet.
sun
sunshine
dawn to dusk
nature supplies
vivacious hues clash
cumulonimbus cloud
sprouts expanse toward the sun
every day, it swells keen and vast
as crocus sprouts muzzle widespread breeze
in stark peacefulness through the strides of verve
Melted gold gleams in the thoughts of moonbeams.
As light wanes, faint stars tackle to glow.
they shimmer like zillions of studs
while embedded to sunbeams
Scudding blue-purple swarms.
soar through azure sky.
gazed birch leaf buds
and clean grass
spring's rays
warmth.
scour
the bliss
tweaked and deep
blue fades to mauve
humped at hearts of stem
stream heavenly keenness
as waterway of sheer praise
sequent the path of least toughness
same as a flower's smell loads the air
linked to bode love, uttering lease to flow
Written: February 15, 2022
1st place contest winner
E Forms- Etheree - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
I've heard about the arrival of fanciful fushia strangers
but I've no fear of them and not worried about dangers.
They seem a bit nonsensical; funny the way they speak
To me, everything they say comes out sounding like Greek!
Maybe on their planet, peaches have three turquoise eyes
Could they be humans, just wearing an alien disguise?
I've never heard the haloed moon referred to as mother Mary,
nor of opulent opal oceans and a three humped dromedary.
I call them fluff nuggets; an accurate description, I think
Their gibberish makes me shake with laughter, quick as a wink
Life forms like these AI are manipulated by puppet strings
They're infringing upon planet Earth, inhabited by Earthlings.
*These are my thoughts and words, but if you take umbrage with
any of the lines, I'll throw Jan under the bus, cuz she started it.
Standing hoeing garden stones
Eyes awash with tears
As memories flood back from
More than sixty years,
To the little village churchyard
For which my dad cared
And which duty I, as a child,
So very unwillingly shared.
He dug the graves, cut the grass
Scything carefully around
Each sheared and flower strewn
Humped burial mound.
All the paths were of loose stone
Which, after ever spring self seed,
Just attracted and harboured
Endless stretches of weed,
Each year it was my job
To shim and hoe them clean
So that those spick and span paths
Matched his carefully mown green.
I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child
Complaining every single year
But dad was quietly firm in spite
Of my every tantrum and tear.
Now he comes gently back to mind
As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care.
Just for a while it’s the old churchyard
And we are both back there.
Good job done he says
As we stand side by side
And we both inspect that path
And my chest swells with pride.
And now I stand here
Leaning on my garden hoe
Thinking of things I wish I’d said
All those many years ago.
But the past is the past
And we both know it’s for the best
That I wish his memory goodbye
And let him slip gently back to rest.
Judging Others By Appearance
By Elton Camp
For some we have a hatred or fear
Almost as soon as they come near
The lady dressed just a bit too cute
Some assume must be a prostitute
Perhaps a boy dressed a certain way
Is, by others, immediately called gay
A man in a suit, respect won’t lack
That is, unless he happens to be black
A priest with his collar turned around
As if he’s a pedophile, others frowned
The humped man, old and gray
“An old fart,” is what they say
When a Mexican some now see
“An illegal alien he sure must be”
What shows up on the outside
Another person, though, may hide
It is not as simple as merely changing one's name
You must understand the cauldron before that came
And the hustler's hair caught fire burning into red anguish
And the water is disconnected to out the wish
Something about a mother's prayer and father's faith
Like all the islands were one Caribbean state
Jamaica and St Kitts came together beautifully in his fate
I mean the old Garveyite dead upon the track's wrong side
And from his Nebraska to Michigan the fire follows and chide
Those admitting schools where a child's vision died. Wait
Till the latch is pulled on the city's yawning gate. Here
Behold the child crushed into streets by livid fear
ii
So Malcolm by way of Michigan from Nebreaska came
Flesh "red" with fire, eyes knotted with black desire
I mean nothing to aspire to better than a street name
A pimp, a runner, a hustler and only addresses retire
From New York to Boston the criminal element slithers.
Through windows widowed of locks, and doors deprived
The white margin keeps the black space in small fetters
The heist hoist him over the humped wall showing real
Chain this time and literal boundary for a black dream
Religion is borm always in our stillness, bringing zeal
To transform our weakness, and in his a eyes a gleam
Making name and nature one in Islam's deep embrace.
Prison begins for Malcolm the new prosedy of the race.
This gentleman and a scholar, this soldier strongly suited
O glorious comes morning after pilgrimage of night
And through its light this self-made man of sin uprooted
Was Africa's apostle articulating her children's plight.
So brother Malcolm, like a native prince valiant and bright
Took on the citadel's of false history, and with all still
Stoop and lifted sultry minds of sable children with might
And with his balm of words O mended their broken will
Could you have seen him compared with himself in the fifties
Could have sat and listened to the legal logic of his mind
Humbler and humbler he became, a pilgrim in the sixties
But after the firebombing you know death is near behind
He then like his father forewarned came to their end
By tragedy, and for such only the great ones God will send.
A faint outline appeared in the early morn
a full moon still shed its light, dark shadows
spread across the land casting an eerie
shadow over the far distant hills.
An old buckboard clattered along a dusty
road bumping roughly over pot holes
washed out by an early winter rain.
The old mule plodded along - ribs
showing from a life of hard work prolonged,
a rather tired animal trudging slowly along
tugging at its heavy load.
The old man sat humped over on the seat,
nodding as though he was asleep.
A low hanging branch served to awaken him as
it slapped sharply against the side of his head
causing him to sit up straight, grabbing his hat
that was about to be shed.
A road traveled more than once,
from the old farm down to the general store,
bumping along on rutted roads, filled with
holes, not a friendly ride it was, but
one that both the rider and mule
had made many times.
On either side of the road rows of tall trees standing straight
with leaves long since gone, the trunks
appearing as gaunt ribs rising up from the ground
much as the old mule appeared,
as it pulled its heavy load quietly by.
The day was cold, a north wind blew, chilling
both with icy fingers that cut to the bone;
but the old man and the mule just plodded along,
going silently down that dusty road bumping
over the ruts and pot holes worn by time and use itself;
two old friends working and waiting, serving out time
as they repeated their daily chores.
Time and work takes its toll,
as man and beast move along
worn and traveled roads
doing never ending chores of old
until the end of a road is finally reached.
When I was a little girl,
Mother said to me
on my dad’s side there had been
a pure Cherokee.
I felt so proud that I had
in my ancestry
blood of those who roamed this land
throughout history.
I’d been born with thick black hair,
and my nose grew long!
I supposed the Cherokee
in my blood was strong.
Mom is Welsh and proud of it,
saying I am full
of her Welsh vim and vigor,
plus a poet’s soul!
Of my sisters, there’s just one
with my long-nosed look.
I’ve got the results of the
blood test that she took.
By her DNA we see
Mom’s side very well -
Scotch-Irish, Welsh, Finnish too!
I think that’s all swell.
My dad’s side are the English.
That’s what I suppose.
There’s no Cherokee, so from
whense came my humped nose?
One small part Italian showed
on the test she’d sought.
For ONE percent is it that
Roman nose I got?
May 29, 2017/ Rhymed in 7/5 Trochee form
for the Ancestral roots Poetry Contest of John Hamilton
New York City is where people who are
disappearing go. It is very quiet
here, silent. A man and woman
made love below me. I could hear
the bedsprings ringing and the
woman singing in sensual pain.
My thoughts sped up as they humped
faster. Everything is dead in my room
except me and my plants. If I keep
on identifying my feelings with the
feelings of things, I too will be dead.
They are talking and laughing now. His deep
voice vibrates the air. Her laugh
is like water.
Villanelle: O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could be
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
If only humans were not subject to envy nor jealousy
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Our primate brother carries on his butt his Wounded Knee
We by contrast drape our tender unders in frills of Paris
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
The garbage man carts away our rotten odours with glee
While we look on in disgust the irrepressible onset of palsy
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Brothers mount thrones on humped backs in every dynasty
And slice the throats of those they love by gouging gentry
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
The primate flees from human greed into his community
While humans stoke fires to roast their brothers up the tree
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Birthplace pride makes man a hunted primate un-free
And envy turns the key in livid eyes to seething jealousy
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Once my dog humped the rug (yes, a shag!)
A new species was born. I could gag!
It is half carpet but
It is one half a mutt.
Shaggy rug dog has tails that can wag!
Happy April Fools Day, Everyone!!!
April 1, 2016 For A New Species Poetry Contest of Anthony Slausen
The grey mists of a sleeping dawn, cosetting birds still
wrapped up warm in bed, watch a stoat emerge from
its burrow and sprint across his meadow, like a caterpillar
making humped back bridges in Concertina motion
The stoat approaches the discarded shape and sniffs it
for signs of danger, life and food. In that order. Looming
like mountains on the ground and covered in a Turin
Shroud of frost, are a child's pair of crumpled denim blue
jeans, vapoured brittle-stiff with ice crystals overnight from
the nearby stream . Which still wends it's course beneath
ice-capped plates, upon which faux steam rises up like
volcanic springs.
The shape also manifests a pair of very small dumpster boots,
made for the tough little boy of tomorrow. The set is
completed by a vibrant red jumper, a little too big for the lifeless
form it covers. This hoar, this frost of disjointed frozen dendrites,
rests calmly upon this physical testament to the now peaceful
soul that lies within. Whose lungs beneath lie dormant and past
caring, whether or not the air is fresh and cold on its failed
breath. Alibaster-marbeled skin profers one hand raised in a
Post mortem wave. And a lid's refusal to fully shut one eye,
desperate to remain in contact with a living world and deny
the truth of having passed. What the eye has really become is
a dull reflective mirror for the twitching movements of an inquisitive
proboscis. This draws the eye of a man, standing at a man's
full height, able to see across two hundred paces of a frost
bitten meadow and light upon the vivid colour of red, set against
a backdrop of rime white. Eventually, a voice from the ether
confirms the location by a frozen stream and supports the
recommendation to keep the mother away. The devastation
of a hundred heart-stopping caught breaths yet to be lived.
Before the tears can flow and the utter destruction begin
The startled stoat runs away from its own reflection. Back
to the warmth and safety of its hole, in the bank on the Stream.
And the grey mists sadly watch the final act, before its last few
screaming tendrils are burned away on the coming sun
I purchased a rabbit named Brandy
By jingo, that young buck was randy
It caused such a to do
When he humped my left shoe
Thank goodness the hosepipe was handy!
HAPPY EASTER SOUPERS
3/27/18