Best Humph Poems
Less than twenty-four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the anus of this guy
which bout with rectal obstruction
found me doubled over with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil, which akin to Drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent to cease LivingSocial would try
humph enjoining this lvii year old married male
to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered out five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture
and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
During the bloom of youth, in the spring of vitality,
Everything is sparkling and has a fresh, real quality.
Summer is the season of growth and rebirth in life,
Every day brings fresh dreams of conquering strife.
In the fall of life, it is time to slow back,
peace of mind and confidence—nothing we lack.
Autonomy and wisdom in winter arise,
It also soothes and reflects tears wiped by the eyes.
However, life continues beyond these seasons,
Each spirit is revived for the most sturdy reasons.
This is a calm fifth season and a bright first spring,
renewed, purified, and wearing a hedge ring.
If only the fifth season could be possible,
I am perplexed as to what this may be.
In the fifth season, would it be invisible?
Allowing a smile that you can see.
I do not require the new year to be happy,
For every post you write, I celebrate.
I do not lack gifts, as when the night is sappy,
since every word, you say is equally satiate.
Each of the four seasons is crammed into one,
A quantum season is a rush of momentum.
Alternatively, a bright or black hole in the sun,
What about the soul of your heart ramentum?
It was lauded in the fifth season above,
Breathe your last free sigh, since this is love.
The sky swirls up, and things are drawn in cursory,
It no longer observes its bereavement anniversary.
Can the brain be used to conceal this perspective?
Can time-beat insight and distance be effective?
Can faith that rises far above reason triumph?
Can love be a fifth season or a sly wood humph?
Written October 30, 2022
The Fifth Season Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
I am a full figured woman
inside and out
Embracing my shape
as each curve tells her own story
My head you no longer enter
my heart you can not break
now you mad I no longer give,
SO...."ha ha" now you can no longer take
I am a full figured woman
inside and out
my arms and my mind wrap around new found joy,
yes this I receive from a real man, not a little boy.
And you thought I could never love again, "ha ha ha"
you silly, silly child
Your words no longer hold my attention
I fully understand how I can grow freely
not needing you, not one more minute
"Humph" you couldn't deliver anyway
I am a full figured woman
inside and out
no longer stuck in your ruts of disrespect.
I see me more clearly
blessed for a higher potential
Go on now, move out the way.
You blockin my light.
Yea I see you squintin your eyes, unable to stand my shine
in your eyes sight
Who did you think you were anyway?
I shook you off my pole, throw that fish back
after all this time you takin and I'm givin
I'm the one whose skinny and your the one whose fat?
"Naw brah" I ain't havin that
Thick, I am meant to be
curves full for all to see
I am a full figured woman
I am free to be me
SO...from my head to my toes
from my heart, down deep to my soul
proudly I sass, curves and all, by mirrors glass.
reflections and satisfactions
of a full figured me!
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
Ah, Paris, is still calling me, as a romantic lover that has been the
background of my dreams. Though life passes by like a falling star
the hopeful trip still flows through my bloodstream. I’ve put off
hearing ‘Comment-allez vous’, which is an old reminder of what
someday I must do. Sometimes my thought’s wander to the
banks of the Seine yet I’ve never been except in pictures back
then. Will it ever happen? I long to stroll down the Champ
De Elysee for a whole day during the lovely month of May.
And when I gaze upon the Arc De Triomphe, I won’t state
‘humph’, rather it will be my own triumph. I’d love to
sit for hours, and be transformed by the power of the
Eiffel Tower. There will be plenty of time to visit the
Louvre and Notre Dame which are two good reasons
why I came. I’ll also see the castle Versailles before
I die; only as long as I give a try. And when hunger
sets in I’ll order café au lait in a sidewalk café on
the Champ De Elysee, and maybe I’ll say, merci.
A baguette with some brie will go wonderfully
With this bucket list spree in good old Paris.
Paris has always been the X on my treasure
map, though wrinkled and worn going way
back, I had sworn to dig up my dream, ah
some day, some day. Au revoir mon ami.
Le Bucket List by David Fisher for Bucket List Contest
You’re the world’s worst hiking buddy
How did we end up so muddy
Not even sure we can scrub it!
How would I know
Can’t stick my hand in that hole
I thought you had the first aid kit
Yea I dragged a little back
Put too much in my pack
Still we came here to walk as a team
So I wore the wrong socks
Got my foot stuck in the marsh
I figured you knew a way through the stream
I got some cool pictures
Don’t forget to text me those few vintage
I didn’t have time to give my phone a full charge
What else is there to talk about
We’re in the woods isn’t that where Bigfoot’s at
You know they say he still runs at large
I know I saw a cell tower
Had to call my mom on the hour
I can’t believe you left me behind!
I’d be here till I’m old
If it wasn’t for that dog
For all that has happened I’ll whine, humph
So where are we going next weekend?
"Come closer, you kids, let me tell you a story:
now you all see that there morning glory? Well
that was the blue of this little boy's eyes, born
right in this village; they named him Eli."
"Those eyes had lashes so black and so thick,
it sure was enough to make all us girls sick!
And his skin, do Jesus, was flawless and pure,
and smooth as this ole couch is, what's made of velour."
"Lord, he was held, he was never put down.
We girls took to totin' him all around town.
His hair was as black as a raven's wing,
and if that weren't enough, good God he could sing!"
"He just opened his mouth and out this voice came,
a voice that could put God's angels to shame."
"Now, y'all know how much fun little kittens can be?
But then they grow up, just filled with ennui.
Well, just like them kittens, Eli grew up, but he
was conceited and downright stuck-up!"
"Well, our village, we raised him, and we saw our mistake,
but by that time, humph, it was far too late.
He decided to grace the wide world with his presence,
get away from the village and all of us peasants."
"When he hit the big city, he was shocked and perturbed:
No one fell at his feet, no one praised him with words!
Perplexed and confused, he stared at his face:
his eyes were still blue, his complexion still chaste."
"His hair was still shiny and black as the night,
and his teeth were still even and perfect and white."
"What's wrong with these people?" he wondered out loud,
"Why isn't my beauty drawing a crowd?"
"Yes, he was still just as handsome, he touched his smooth chin,
not knowing true beauty lies under the skin."
"Well, what happened to him?" the children all asked,
"Did he come crawling back home, sad and downcast?"
"Naw, he actually did make it, he became quite a star,
he had the big houses, the money, the cars.
And girls flocked to him, but didn't stay long,
and he never did figure what always went wrong."
"So he died old and bitter, in his penthouse above:
childless and joyless, still filled with self-love."
©Danielle White
Ignatius Sprout pushed himself to the surface
As he was the foremost elected leader
Followers, Bamber, Gottre, Bovis and Night
were all reluctant to escape their prison
None could remember how or why they were trapped
Bamber's head popped out, flapping his long green ears
Ignatius frowned down at his friend's reluctance
"Up, Up," he demanded co-operation
Bamber slowly blinked, adjusting to the light
Being bumped firmly from below, he hopped out
onto the grassy green, dew wet, riverbank
"Ah! Ah!" beamed Ignatius, pumping Bamber's hand
"It's great?" indicating the Spring countryside
Bamber grunted, mopping his perspiring head
From the hole came Gottre followed by Bovis
Excitedly, the twins jumped giving high fives
Then started prancing about shouting in glee
"Humph" said Ignatius loudly, "you two behave"
Gottre and Bovis did not heed the rebuke
They were obliviously sniffing nasturtiums
And playing hide seek amongst the dahlias
"Where's Night?". questioned Ignatius rubbing his head
Which started itching from a pesky midge bite
Bamber crouched down low and hallowed down the hole
They heard Night's squeaky voice asking them for help
They all hunted around for a creeping vine
The pain of Night stretched their ingenuity
But they managed to lift him by small degrees
Binding his ankle with a soft cabbage leaf
They all ventured forth to a new adventure.
Playing favorites
In bed with the enemy.
Body language
speaks volumes.
you meander over
like...
"eeny meenie jipsaleenie"
to the one you
love the best.
Plop down,
like...
"ooh ahh ambaleenie"
somebody
just
got chosen
like...
"Atchie patchie goom a ratchi"
I Love You!
All the top choices
feel dejected.
Just knew;
That this person
would have surely
acknowledged them
first.
I mean, It’s a Political
gathering,
not a gay singles bar.
Anyway, you know, whom got
picked by you know who.?
Disgusting ill Goat.
just ignored me,
humph!
Clutches proposal...
"Well I Never" !
All hopeful attendee's
pretended that...
they could over look,
being over looked,
get over it!
Obviously, he is...
In bed with the enemy.
Body language
speaks volumes.
Dragon polished his nails and admired himself in the mirror once again; a daily ritual getting so old. The one lousy hair on his chin, protruding from a small wart which he called a, “birthmark”; warranted a razor, shaving foam and aftershave or so he insisted.
He blew himself a kiss and turned with a smile; “Do you think my fangs need more whitening?” He asked. “Dr. Raine said the last time that he “Couldn’t get them any whiter, remember?” I responded.
“Humph!” he snorted; “I can’t go around looking like some shoddy, back alley lizard now, can I? Now that I’m a professional flutist, I have a reputation to protect.” With that he patted my cheek and said, “Ciao baby, don’t wait up for me.”
I watched him grab his instrument and walk out the door. “Don’t get that big head get stuck”, I muttered softly. Why couldn’t I have adopted a normal dragon? No, I had to have the cutest one; how could I not have foreseen that ego?
When he said he wanted a flute, I bought him one; he hated it. “That’s a beginner flute,” he remarked. I want a, Master Class instrument!”
I gave in all too easily and a hundred payments later, he was playing Vivaldi, like a pro. Ok, so maybe that was a good investment.
Every contest he’d entered garnered him another golden trophy; but, did he really need a tuxedo to wear when he received those baubles? My credit cards gained weight at lightning speed, as he grew. I passed his room; stuck my tongue out at that, trophy wall and noticed his vanity. Did he really need one hundred and twelve different bottles of cologne?
At two am, he awoke me with an anxious cry. I heard, “Mumsey dear, wake up…the concert was superb and the governor was so impressed, (of course, he would be…) with my playing; he’s invited me, me to play for his inaugural dinner! Can I have your credit card? I need to get a French manicure and have my scales waxed. Oh, and I’m going to need a new Tux.”
“You have twenty three tuxedos in your closet; why can’t you wear one of those?” I asked him.
“Mumsey”, he replied, “I have a reputation to maintain.” He tweaked my cheek; smiled at himself in the mirror and under my breath I muttered back, “I can hardly wait until his, ever-growing ego, gets him stuck in the doorway.”
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the anus of this guy
which bout with rectal obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease livingsocial would try
humph enjoining
this lvii year old married male
to cede victory
to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure
to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing,
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture
and asks
a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
He hit the downbeat, found the blues,
Not to mention having no clues.
The jazz man could improvise and drag,
'Bad Penny Blues' an infamous rag.
Slurring between riffs with such ease,
Trumpet proud he stood out from the sleaze.
Vamp chords repeated for our delight,
dissonance of students in bars each night.
Jazz club hero Humph always will be,
Jam sessions when all tried to follow thee.
And though no fun for your vetting,
His music alone was knicker-wetting!
Upon Discovering A Wishbone...
(to late for Hanukkah)
I attach very
little value, nee doubt
to farfetched linkedin
phenomena brought about
when breaking off
the larger section
of a wishbone,
sans effortless knockout,
my dominant hand
did hold out,
while yours truly pretended
to freak out
with a playful
twist and shout,
no matter aye attribute
"FAKE" good luck,
thus resumed crafting
this poem scout
ting for expressing
rhyme to work out
for no reason only to rollout
a silly ditty re:
guarding Bobe myseh -
I did not tout
(Old wives tale,
an untrue belief), -
on par with trout,
that could scale Mount Fisher
anticipating literary washout
nonetheless silently did ruminate,
(preposterous yen for
lower teeth to sprout),
after filling more
lines against whiteout
quickly some minutes
passed, or thereabout
aye, forgot about
the matter altogether
thus imagine my utter stirabout,
when my tongue felt
faint ridge to stickout
no, though gifted
with vivid imagination...,
an immediate welled up,
(then quickly squelched) to runabout
mine person tends tubby
low key, but...now phaseout,
could take place
for lower dentures
with greater choice of foods,
(this pork guy) could pigout
humph...naturally methought
third set of teeth,
not exceptionally outrageous,
nor exceptionally noticeable
unless...lower lip made
into a miniature rainspout.
Ho hum, the doldrums:
I twiddle my thumbs
and scratch my bum.
I bumble ‘round,
and when I’m done,
I murmur, mumble, humph and hum.
Ding-dong, the same old song:
I bang my drum
and clang my gong;
I even brought
my bell along.
Tinkle, ting, naw, that’s just wrong.
Tick tock, flip flop
My brain is oozing
gloopy glop.
That metered click:
where is my glock?
Bang! that clock and make it stop!
Pitter pat, what’s that you say?
Rin tin, rain on the roof today!
I’ll squish and splosh and dance and play
and splash those doldrums right away!
----------
for the Onomatopeia Poetry Contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
written on 07/02/2022
Traces of the masterful
impregnable prepubescent wall
still extant scads of decades since
complex edifice erected to force tall
permanently leaving me unmoored,
marooned, and furloughed ready for pall
bearers to spill soil upon my
then emaciated stick figure overall,
an unlovely bag of bones
stripped of flesh,
sans unseen deadly parasites,
who valiantly tried to mothball,
and nearly succeeded, kneaded,
and deeded landfall,
when aghast parents
at wits end betiding,
halting, and ramming ace kickball
player with serious
game of life and death,
the latter cleated toehold
unanimous decision to install
topnotch scorer anticipating
seeing his name plaque mounted
within glass encasement within guildhall,
faintly hearing inaudible teammates
praised showered, visited
head upon one, with grit and gall,
who clinched championship
wrathful excoriation against me
referee could not forestall,
who fumbled, kindled (as predicted)
loose tongues flaying hide with no rescue
to escape being skewered behind eight ball,
thus the above "FAKE"
metaphor merely to accentuate
self repudiation delivering
to this defacto scapegoat
bullies taunts endlessly berate
ting, jackknifing, and resulting
with implacable self hate
deferrening allowance,
asper my grant (migrant)
humph...pariah status
to learn social skills quite late,
and apathetically to marry and mate
despite ambivalence within my pate
even now...the entombed fortress prison wall,
I cannot obliterate
hence... no surprise WALLS - I HATE!