Best Intestinal Poems
This road is snake-like except
for the crusty scales of an intestinal
late dusk. A boy treaded on the
lane tracks lean and nomadic...
burnt shoulders grilled and toasted by
the sun, as if his coal skin sparked like
burning diamond weeds. In a flash, a tender
sorcery poured in my veins. There and then,
I longed to whisper a tune, play the tambourine or
partake of the loaf in my sack with him.
But he waited for paper clouds to ruffle his hair,
seemingly undisturbed by pilgrims like me
holding unto holy relics and bones of night. The gauze
shirt as his frock winged with the silver winds,
windblown stroking my ebony tresses with a whisper
hushed by his delicate omnipresence.
In a dimly lit bus, sand wheezed tribal notes
moist on my eyelids uprooted by uncontained
temples of longing, now becoming thick
as woolen destiny. If only for a flicker of time,
his eyelids met mine so briefly... parting saline dust
of sacred, smiling gazes. I was inside a cell
of a wombed bus. He was outside enlarged by a
hundred stars exploding dewdrops, inviting eternity.
For a fraction of silence, we met somewhere
between the fluorescent of our twin eyes. He, the angel
first fondly encountered ; I, the dreamer ever bewildered…
I remember...I was five.
---oooo----oooo---
(( P.D.'s " your Own Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud))
Categories:
intestinal, mystery, uplifting
Form:
Lyric
The mean old housecat has bulgy eyes
when she looks at us in our fish bowl
Oh, how much we've come to despise
that big mouth of hers, the black hole
Poised to pounce with sharpened claws
She's taking jabs with hatred brimming
that ugly feline beast with drooling jaws
for us little fishes, innocently swimming
Our little bowl is cosy, room for only two
bad kitty on the outside, always looking in
If her paw ever grabs us, what are we to do
we’d be much safer in a smelly sardine tin!
If she ever catches us, we’ve got big troubles
perhaps in her dreams she sees us as fat trout
In fear we produced a stream of gassy bubbles
If only our owner would give bad kitty a clout!
All the chaos made us soil ourselves with poop
so we let that mean old cat feast on a tasty treat
When her nasty tongue slurped intestinal goop
the beast screeched in horror! Revenge is sweet!
Our owner came home and cleaned out the bowl
Soon we returned to our safe sweet smelling home
Kitty got banned but can see us through the keyhole
Now we don’t suffer from irritable bowl syndrome!
Categories:
intestinal, cat, fish,
Form:
Rhyme
Take a look my Love
do you see how the diamonds of our dreams
are burning so brightly and violently
silhouetting the lips of our wishes against the walls of ancient Latin gold
in the sacred villa of Love's Kingdom where there is no escape
where rescue is unwanted,
where we survive and grow stronger in the gymnasium of passion's glory
did you notice that above the rose vine gateway
the phrase Sancta Simplicitas is carved deeply into the black and white marble,
do you feel the crimson love stress within your throat,
do you taste your soul's intestinal fortitude
surfacing on your spiked tongue
as we wrestle eachother ruthlessly, like champions that die in defeat,
moral armbars, clean elbow strikes to the jaw of flippancy,
pressure point pinches to the arteries of our inhibitions,
intellectual left and right hooks landing on the cheeks of our wisdom,
poetic hip throws to the mat of hard lust
defiant choke holds of love, flawless in tight execution
penetrating the blood brain barrier with the ecstasy of warrior fervor,
and as we lay sweatied and spent on the ground of this rough enlightenment
we look at eachother admiringly and realize like young romance
that we live for a single, shared purpose
to teach love what love means,
If they ever say diamonds to diamonds, dust to dust
they'll be speaking in bereavement of our beauty and bravery, of our best,
and I won't allow that,
as I know damn well
that you will not tolerate such misgivings either my Love,
instead,
we shall build a war machine of divine desire
that will destroy the proven walls of conventional psychology
erect a fortress of love that can withstand total despair,
and they will know the strength of our diamond love
as it guides the lost and lonely
through chaotic oceans of heart hysteria as with us,
no one will ever say our love died,
because we fought for it to live my Love -
Sancta Simplicitas is an ancient Latin phrase meaning...Holy Simplicity...
J.A.B.
Categories:
intestinal, inspirational, love,
Form:
Romanticism
Today is all we need worry about
Tomorrow will take care of itself
Yesterday is gone, no changing that
Good advice for our mental health
So many factors can influence us
And create a mood we can't hide
Being strong in the face of adversity
Shows strength of character inside
The news of the day is ugly at best
Depressing as world news can be
It can make or break the kind of day
So ignore it and set your heart free
Intestinal fortitude is what we need
Nothing more extraordinary than that
To face head on the challenges to come
Move forward, let nothing distract
Before closing I feel I must add
It's in everyone's power to succeed
Intestinal fortitude and a strong desire
Once you have planted the seed
Today is all we need worry to about
Tomorrow will take care of itself
Categories:
intestinal, day,
Form:
Rhyme
Who cut the curd cyanide cheese,
thinning out the rank suspect crowd?
Who gassed death in the air bleed,
releasing an odor murder most foul?
Follow the phew olfactory clues,
motive scented everywhere ghoul smell
Mrs. White was it your grey hairs ...
leaving a poison bottom bottle mist trail
spiraling down the Library stairs?
Professor Plum where did you
just Hallway fruity fungi come from?
The Observatory Room window was open,
but now it’s mysteriously been closed
Did you concoct this suffocating wrench plan,
and what’s with the cotton-stuffed nose?
Everybody here got the crimson royal flushed face,
that could only mean one candlestick thing —
Miss Scarlet’s been butt creeping around the place,
no doubt, looking for the hidden bling-bling
Still, who got the super bad mojo Bathroom bowels,
so flatulently criminal ... making eyes roll?
Who put Mr. Green’s intestinal aerosol-laced towels
in the Kitchen behind the snuff dish bowl?
What do those Clues tell you, Lady A.C. detective,
it’s a foul play odor-kill so Murder She Wrote
A farted-out farce, very nasal encore hard to sniff —
the last big reveal is an Insp. Clouseau note:
Colonel Mustard did it
with a gastronomical strangling choke
In the Guest Room
with a belly-loosened, vapor belt rope
Categories:
intestinal, fun, humorous, mystery, word
Form:
Light Verse
Sniper hid vapors
tend to always bullet strike
with stealth air carrier accuracy
Silent noxious assault
pierced the nostrils
with oxy painful inhalation,
of the non-ventilated third degree
Deadly gaseous arrows
hit the overcrowded banquet room target;
and killed a-many healthy appetites,
with an alarming,
depressed tongue rate-of-mortality
Hurried footsteps exiting
is all the flatulent evidence I would need
to likewise proceed ... very quickly
Some intestinal terrorist
was dropping
lite ranch dressing bowel bombs,
most heavily
And the near-suicidal rush to escape
has gag damaged many throats,
most indiscriminately
I don’t cruelly mean to turbo fan
butt-of-joke rumors
with word-of-mouth rapidity
But ... it really was
a silent butt deadly graduation affair
And I say this,
with the utmost, stiff upper-lip respect:
Scented air peace
from an anonymous tip identity
This upwardly mobile yuppie —
Troll emoji catphish-ing bottom feeder
harbors no low-brow,
high school dropout insensitivity
Categories:
intestinal, fun, humorous, satire, word
Form:
Light Verse
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the whistle of wind in cutthroat pipes,
the jolly japes and spring heeled capers
in the sepia pulp of the Sunday papers
and in all the Jack Tar bilge in your head,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead
the gory tales of bright crimson stripes.
the intestinal spool of viscera and gutting,
the slashing swipe of steel blades cutting,
and the opening wounds awash with red,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the love-a-duck and strike-me-blind,
the dear boss letters and cunning stunts,
the hunter or hunted in Whitechapel hunts,
and the feverish sweats in every bed,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the buckle-my-shoe and daily grind,
the Juwes and gin and pea soup nights,
the whore flesh slaughter and ghastly sights,
and the legends of all I did and said,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
Categories:
intestinal, allegory, death, history, people,
Form:
Verse
The pressure is on, can't let a day go by
Without writing a poem... that would be unthinkable
The Poetry Police would be breaking down my door
And exacting severe punishment
Us poet guys are committed (or should be! LOL)
A bit of humour there...
Even on those days when it feels like we're brain dead
We must call on all the intestinal fortitude we can muster
Even if it's a five line limerick
What about a five line narrative?
Does that work or am I twisting the rules?
What do you call this thingy dingy that you're reading now
Ha! Gotcha... it's a POEM!!!!!
What a tricky guy I am...
When writing about writing a poem, I'm writing a poem
(titles are everything)........
Categories:
intestinal, anxiety,
Form:
Free verse
Government policies that toilet stink
Presidentially approved
by a potty-mouth politrician rat-fink
Give the progressive town halls
more executive bathroom stalls
Read the foul language scrawls
on the Oval Office latrine
dollar-bill green painted walls
Flush the rank noise
with a few
smelly issue tissue tweet bawls
That dung aroma gon make your nose blink,
bowel vapors
will have your thoughts vomiting in the sink
Get the voting public
standing at nausea attention
Prep the ballot masses of breathy dissension
with sound bytes
of bitter chocolate bung mint,
duly veto sent
Tell ‘em it’s their sworn patriotic duty
to greedily eat the excrement
Taste the butt-hole flavor
of nasty worded inhalation torment
Truth got swallowed whole ... intestinal sold
Filthy lucre lips
do love the ruble con savor
Condition the brownie-nose party bound chumps
to double dip the cow chips
into the raw sewage salsa with the brown lumps
Be stricken by the loose tongue,
back-end diet
of diarrhea verbose crying
A cheeky butt buffet ...
odious motives with odoriferous intent
Buy the all-you-can-eat lying,
go feast on the swirling fear excrement
Categories:
intestinal, political, satire, slam, truth,
Form:
Rhyme
HEBRIDES
Big waves crash on a Hebrides shore,
Horizontal rain slashes the rocks.
There’s no shelter here, not even a crack,
There’s no wood here, and nothing to burn:
Frost giants hurl slivers of ice.
The sun will rise twelve hours from now,
But by then, they say, the snow will be
Knee deep, and nearly slush.
I’m dry enough, but stranded atop
A granite pinnacle miles from shore.
Yesterday I clambered up
To say farewell and then to leap;
But now I can’t, and the coward man
Whimpers and lives for no good reason.
They’d rule a fall from here an accident,
Insurance claims would pay my bills
And spare my family funeral costs.
The fall, I think, a moment of terror,
But actually, not much pain.
And as for the afterlife –
Rosicrucians say
I’d repeat the same act over and over and over
Falling into a self-created hell.
But escape,
That’s not an option.
Friends look at me and say:
“Better choices you need to make:
You’re not paralyzed from the neck down,
Retching from intestinal cancer,
Helpless in bed with chemical burns,
You haven’t lost a wife or a child
To a tsunami or a terrorist attack,
You’re not foaming with addictions
Or exposed in shame on national TV,
So what’s your problem?”
TRAPPED! I tell you, I’m trapped
Inside the same old wretched self,
In a prison too small for the animal life
The monkey and the otter praying to play
In sunflower fields abounding in streams
Where fountains sparkle joyously
And rainbows lift the sky to the sun –
Away from the hamster chained to a log,
Away from the failures and toxic romances,
Away from the husbands choking their wives,
Away from the igloos buried in ash,
Away from
Away from
Away from
Away from the hollow men
Pulling the strings.
Categories:
intestinal, depression,
Form:
Blank verse
To be successful in this life of ours
We must be prepared to be in it for the long haul
Grab the brass ring and hang on for dear life
It's surely not for the weak of heart
It takes a lot of intestinal fortitude
To make it through, to be content, to be happy
A total commitment that no matter what obstacles are in our way
Our approach allows us to circumnavigate them
And enjoy life to the fullest
We only get to go around once so make the most of it
Listen to me... as if I'm some kind of expert on the subject
Throughout life, it's a learning process
Some of us never understand that and ever get it right
For those that do, the rewards are magnificent
We're very fortunate that life is so forgiving
Few of us ever get it right
To sum it up, don't sweat the small stuff
© Jack Ellison 2014
Categories:
intestinal, life,
Form:
Narrative
Don’t give in to adversity
Don’t accept defeat
Put your best foot forward
In any challenge that you meet.
Stick to your convictions
Hold your head up high
Know your limitations
Then you’ll be able to get by.
You can weather any storm
No matter how severe
It takes intestinal fortitude
Let me make that clear.
If at times you feel inept
And things have gone askew
Don’t wallow in self-pity
There’s plenty you can do.
Don’t give in to adversity
Don’t accept defeat
Put your best foot forward
In any challenge that you meet.
Categories:
intestinal, inspirational, life, philosophy
Form:
Rhyme
my agent grew nervous
when he discovered
like the rising sun
on a sea of shark fins
that one must gauge and become the gauge
what is it that heralds an improved model
claiming to have superior knowledge
my hospital masturbates immobilized patients
the cure rate is astounding
it’s all in how we conceive ourselves
the oil and tincture panaceas
were giving me intestinal upheaval
but my inner cephalopod still had
a couple of pots of ink in him
and swore by his mother's nipples
when info comes a-knocking
best let it find a seat unaided by grief
everyone rigs the game
we are all defiled by propaganda
here let me wipe you off
we all want to be authentic
so gimme the straight story for once
the sigh of the wind for once
must have been the stoning squad's day off
tarred and feathered instead
the world may not owe us a living
but it does owe us an explanation
I think it all has to do with
branching cascades and nested infinities
is it rain on the roof or radio static
I'm pretty sure it's a comedy show
there's a lady in the front row
bearing her breasts at me
I am quickly hypnotized
turns out she’s KGB
I hope I'm the lucky stud
that gets to climb her stairway
in an experimental courtship ritual
we rubbed pudenda for an hour
before I heard her secret name
it's still secret
her guillotine blade warm and wet
cut through me like a 3 dollar car wash
through fresh dung
OK why 3
for you double meaning compulsives
I'll tell you
but you must obey my commands
they are buried throughout this message
because 3 is like the fingernail relics of saints
and he'd rather be thundering back at Zeus
which got him everything he wanted
not so much money clothes cars women
since he didn't set out to establish
an empire of invisible influence
but he was a free man
free to disintegrate periodically
my advice is to keep
something for yourself no matter what
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Categories:
intestinal, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
NOSE WOES - limerick
My nose told me it couldn’t get riper
as I opened and peeked in the diaper
one last gasping breath
succumbing to death
single shot from intestinal sniper
John G. Lawless
5/30/2015
Categories:
intestinal, baby, father, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
The pressure is on, can't let a day go by
Without writing a poem... that would be unthinkable
The Poetry Police would be breaking down my door
And exacting severe punishment
Us poet guys are committed (or should be! LOL)
A bit of humour there...
Even on those days when it feels like we're brain dead
We must call on all the intestinal fortitude we can muster
Even if it's a three line limerick
What about a three line narrative?
Does that work or am I twisting the rules?
What do you call this thingy dingy that you're reading now
Ha! Gotcha... it's a POEM!!!!!
What a tricky guy I am...
When writing about writing a poem, I'm writing a poem
Strange eh!
© Jack Ellison 2015
Categories:
intestinal, humorous,
Form:
Narrative