Best Itched Poems
When I was a kid, home remedies were the thing!
No trip to the doctor for a cold or bad cough..
Mama had a fix for near every hurt, big or small
or in between. The worst, the most dreadful, the
run and hide treatment..the Mustard Plaster!
Some flannel cut into big, big strips...Cover with
mustard until it drips..into the oven to get
steaming hot..then slap that sucker on the spot.
Around your chest, fastened tight..must keep
it hot..althrough the night...It burned, it itched, and it
smelled to high heaven..Who knows if it helped at all..
but I do know that we learned not to voice
minor discomfort..it had to be a real disaster..
cause if you complained.out came the Mustard Plaster!...
'Twas the night before Christmas
and there was a heat wave
Poor Santa's beard itched him
The man was dyin' for a shave
But I've got a brand to protect
He reasoned with mirth
As he glued on his fake beard
and adjusted his girth
So Santa waddled shed-ward
to saddle up the reindeer
When his eyes lit on a sight
that ruined his whole year
Now just what did he see
that disturbed him no end
Why, he saw Mrs. Claus
in the arms of ten men
Those new elves he'd just hired
Millennials all
Handsome as hell
Every one over six-foot tall
What could he do
'Twas time to depart
How could he go out there
with a big broken heart
'Folks,' Santa shouted
'Whatever this looks like --
No presents this year
~ 'I'm going on strike!'
November 21, 2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Tell them!
Look on to my face
And let fall the secret
We hided in the invisible bier
Of eternity
When all eyes and ears
were blinded and deafened
By sleep
Let the vultures
Of the evil forest
Spice my body
For a glamorous banquet!
Say it!
I have heard already
The gossip from the women
On the way to the stream
At dawn
From the Nayiri's gong beater
I have heard the fearful decree
And equally,
I have seen
the spears of monstrous laughter
Burst the cheeks of our foes
Sister,tell mama,
To weep no more
For when the stubborn fowl
Digs deep the ground
It exposes the bones
Of its ancestors
The mouse madly
Went to the cattery
To buy itself the meat
Of a kitten
Love,love,love!
like a cunning fox
Baited the hungry fowl
With the meat of a cockroach
And not could it have resisted
I knew forbidden
was the eaten fruit
But what cause or reason
Could have the dog
unleash the juicy bone
The broadened hips of Nasara
Made visible by her
Tight-shortened kente skirt
Could have made me
Grill my fingers
In a wild inferno unawarely
The sight of her
ladybird-like skinned beads
Lustfully stimulated me
And i would have mounted
A bull forgetfully
What of the well-filled erected
balls on her chest
That itched my palms always
For her round botty,
That swayed like a leave
Quaked by a violent tempest
Did nearly broke my neck
For vying with it always
In each direction it went
The fearful taboo of chastity
We have smitten
The womb of Nasara
Shelters the flesh of my blood
And there awaits no option
Other than a bloody execution
If tumorrow meet us not,
Remember the aged love song
We sang togather
When the full white moon
Came passing
Remember the soft chorus
I Joined in with
That silenced the envious song birds
The mucus may do it worse
But never does it go off
With the nose
I still remain your only cow boy
That robbed you milk and cheese
And paid the penalty
With my bare back
That suffered the pains
Of papa's whip…
There I am cold and wounded lying in the dirt. Bullets flying by my head as I cry out I'm
hurt. Nobody listens to my plea; they are all to busy trying to flee. Lying on the ground
scared and alone l feel like nobody cares and I am on my own. When I joined up I
planned to fight, knowing I’d be battling each day and night. I have made it this far in
the war with just a few more weeks until we settle the score. I want to live to see that
day so my best hope now is just lie here and pray. I don’t know why but my eyes really
itched, that’s when I saw it a five foot ditch. If I wanted to live I would have to crawl
only fifty yards out that was all. My adrenalin was pumping through my veins. I could
feel my emotions going down the drain. That’s when I did it I got up and ran! I ran to
the ditch as fast as I can, I ran I ran with all kinds of pride I felt my fallen brothers
running by my side. It felt like forever but I was finally there, I dove in the ditch and
started to stare. I started to stare at a medic there! I asked him in shock to radio help
but he didn’t speak he just yelped. I grabbed his phone from his pack and called in an
immediate air strike attack. I thanked God that they got my call. They will see a big flash
which will end it all!
There was a guy who itched for a fight
Wanting to beat the first man in sight
But let his guard down
As he faced a clown
And then laughed for the rest of the night
The human race has but one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.
For Write With the Wit of Twain Contest
I knew he would find his way there and back, we had practiced that.
Quarters and pennies, he understood, counted them just as he should.
Confidence prickles could easily be his many dimes and nickels.
Born challenged, adding them was at times grim unless I helped him.
My 22 year-old son had never dared a walk to the shopping square
without me or someone else who cared, also walking there.
True was his need to try and I truly itched for him to succeed.
If something mean happened to him, I would need the bully to bleed.
My son was upbeat, his confidence keen, so I didn't dare intervene.
Praying, I saw him pocket his house key while walking away from me.
I asked God if two, well-tested angels were free to guide his cash spree.
I saw an hour scatter before my son came home all smiles and chatter.
Lifting his arm, he said, ‘Mama, you must see this really cool watch.
I can do it by myself, put it on, take if off, and close the notch -
if I count to five, I stick it in the right hole every time and stuff.”
Thinking him an absolute joy, I asked if his money had been enough.
My son sat, and just like that, gave both his knees a loud slap.
“Two golden ladies, you see, asked if I would let them pay for me.
They hoped to fill a need by doing a kind Christmas deed.
Can you believe that golden ladies would choose to help me?
They smiled and paused to hug me after I said "Merry Christmas",
then thanked them and told them twice how nice their deed was."
Walking along the Tiber's River walls,
one discovers hieroglyphics
depicting images of Romans
engaging in battles; they seem
mythical warriors so appealing.
As legend goes, Romulus
became the first roman king,
he founded Rome once
an insignificant rural village;
in the shortest time,
it grew into a powerful city
that ruled the ancient world
with intimidation and atrocity.
Each hieroglyphic tells
a story of victory,
of defeat, of conquest,
of cruelty and dominion:
hear Julius Caesar
speak against his enemy
in the Roman Forum!
It's such a sorrowful echo of distrust;
hear the shouts of proud citizens
overtaken by anger and disgust...
even louder they would be after
his premeditated assassination!
Every empire old or new
has known its glory in full;
and Rome more than any
empire has excelled them all.
If those hieroglyphics tell
of its greatness and superiority,
they also should expose
the evil minds of some emperors:
like Caligula, Nero and Diocletian
who ruled with a steady iron hand.
Constantine's conversion
to Christianity brought harmony,
the inhumane slaughtering
of innocent Christians was halted.
Would this empire have survived
without its legions of mighty stronghold?
Hieroglyphics itched in triumphal arches,
temples and monuments attest:
that the rise to power takes
an ingenuity which begins
with a strategic concept.
Today a world government
is in its raw state, other
hieroglyphics will be carved,
and along with holograms,
one sees images beyond
imagination and belief.
Will humans leave
a testament of their
existence with
a science so brief?
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Story: Heart Of Gold
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2015
There is a little boy, maybe
eight years old, in Freeport, in the
Bahamas, that doesn't know he's poor,
and hustling to survive.
His gracious soul left me with
a humble heart, and the image of him,
will always be itched in my mind.
He was polite with a smile
that lit-up the harbor, as he sold his
mother's tea cakes from a cardboard box
for a dollar.
His unselfish spirit, and
Yet, sad eyes, greeted me,
long before he said a word.
He was setting on a concrete slab
near the waterfront, behind a dilapidated
wall of ruins, to shield himself from
the (unusually) cold February Island winds.
His clothes were torn, tattered;
he had no coat, and he wore no shoes,
and his eyes defined the meaning of,
"below the poverty line."
Yet, he was a kind little boy,
and through life's short coming's,
he remained grateful, humble, and
still managed to smile.
The thought of being poor
never crossed his mind, he did what
his mother ask him to do, just sale
tea cakes, that she made for a dollar.
The image of this precious
little boy, from Freeport, will
forever be captured in my mind,
and in my heart -
So when you go to Freeport,
in the Bahamas, I hope you're blessed
to meet the little boy with the great
big smile, and a cardboard box,
selling tea cakes near the waterfront.
Fourteen-thousand years ago, a devil played a game
In his garden with an angel whom I shall not name.
The angel won or so he thought, “Now you must pay what’s due”
I’ll take your mirr’, your favorite one, and break the thing in two.
The mirror was a magic one of evil dark and black
“The beauty of a perfect world, now what’s the fun in that?
This one’s far better, it twist, it pulls it shrinks before my eyes.
Instead of showing true reflections, this one shows me lies”
“I’ll tell you what, you won it fair, it’s yours but let’s do more;
I’ll help you break it here and now and it will be no more.”
The angel smashed it into two, his hammer in his hand.
“But why stop there?”, the devil said and smashed it into sand
The Devil grinned, “Good work my friend. See, I don’t even care”
He scooped a handful of the dust and blew it in the air.
Among the people of the earth, the grains of mirror blew.
The angel warned them “Close your eyes!” and blew his trumpet too
“What gift is this?” some people thought, Eve’s lesson was not learned.
and soon awoke with crusty eyes that itched and teared and burned.
“I see it now!” the faithless said “I am no longer blind!”
“Don’t be cross” the devil said, "Their eyes see now like mine".
Some were seized with a panicked fear, “The enemy is nigh!”,
and with cruel rocks marched on their neighbors and sentenced them to die.
Others were charmed by shiny stones “Supplies are running out!”
The simple gifts that God had given were left to lay about.
Some saw themselves with grandeur high “I’ll wear this mighty crown”,
I’ll be the King, you be the serf, and bow when I’m around.
The other ones yoked to the plow, “These types aren’t men at all”.
I’ll tolerate your presence if you're at my beck-and -call.
Of arrogance and fear and greed the mighty nations grew.
And men would starve and wars would rage for these unfaithful few.
So hear me now you righteous ones whom the devils would refuse:
In the game of life Good always wins, but bad will never lose.
Limerick : Once Schuhmacher/Shoemaker from Brazilia
Once Schuhmacher/Shoemaker from Brazilia
Made a shoe shaped like the Ark of Noah
Birds and beasts of forests
Fought acarien* pests
Till toes itched: that’s how Man danced the Salsa!
* mite
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Published: Edge of Humanity Magazine
July 2026
________________________
So the tree stood in the centre of the desert
mangled by winds of change and truth of joy
chains of dust and torrents of rare rain
Burnt black and senseless by an
unrelenting Sun of nightmare beauty
orange was the sand of scorpions
orange was the mirage of miracles
orange was her veil of innocence
As the tree stank of heavenly myrrh
itched to pour its oil over orange
nippled breasts and buttocks
stroke curves and carves
of luminous beauty with its
ancient branches of stony bark
as beetles made holy love in its
crevices of dark deep velvet depth
And the mangled magic of the myrrh
stood short and stumped and watched
the breath of a timeless desert
slow movements of noble camels
with long thick lashes speaking of
magnificent slowness in the lick of lick
a lip in a lip
Tree of a thousand loves
sprinklings in sparkles spaced
over a tent of chiffon on sand
slithering with patterned serpents
and eyes of dark magic, of long
limbs all in One
twine and twine and grow together
as all become One
with myrrh and magic
heavy beads of sweat and
amber laugh and scream
Moments of a tree of ugly love
as ugly melts into vacant beauty
irresistible wordless wrinkles ageless
Deep furrows of sweet scent
sent desert creatures weeping
to smiling stars as a tree of life
stood stock still to imbibe
eternal myrrh itself
_____________________
I know of a witch, with a wart on her nose
Day after day, we have watched how it grows!
It is thought of by some
That it might weigh a ton!!
How big could it get?? ...Well, nobody knows!!
It itched, and she scratched it, then rubbed it with lotion
Then guzzled two portions of wicked witch potion
She chanted a curse
Which made it much worse!!
Her nose might explode...it drips like an ocean!
Halloween came, so she saddled her broom
Climbed on the broom, but her take-off was doomed...
The wart was too heavy!!
So she got in her Chevy!
Now she drives down the road, by the light of the moon
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We sit and share a seat, two faces in the street,
wading through our wisdom and design.
‘Though in amble wasn’t said, I knew I am being led,
into mirrored thinking same as mine.
Two poets of a kind, at this establishment did find,
we have listed through a wild rhythmic storm,
where our words are meaningful, with a magnetic pull,
tossed and turned by course heraldic form.
We search for inner sanctum news, within each other’s views,
to accelerate a protest of our own,
now the writing’s in my head, on paper must be said.
So must be written, when I am alone.
I guess you feel the same, so we exchange a name,
to employ a friend and hope some day a mate.
For in this time we pass, I pray there is no farce.
The friendship we are welding won’t abate.
We discussed the poor. What we are aiming for.
You itched to ply the strings on your guitar.
Then you recited sordid stains, of little children’s pains,
highlighted for all time for what they are.
In conversation ‘bout my verse, that is wide and quite diverse,
an apology broke in through a line.
His want was desperate, a soothing cigarette;
when you took a draw he saw the sign.
His lighter was his ‘poke’, exchanging for a smoke;
you took up the offer of his bid.
Silently I’m watching you, hand across this fellow two,
thinking, ‘that’s a generous thing you did.’
Then I watched this bloke, light up his bartered smoke,
you took his lighter and the deal was done.
Before he turned from you, you spoke without review
“You might need this to light the other one.”
That was just a small time bid, though generous what you did,
an action bringing forward your trait.
With understanding for the lost, and a minute personal cost,
instantly you turned a friend into a mate.
Strolling down the streets of ancient Pompei,
I discovered the tomb of a freed noble man;
unearthed from the volcanic black ashes,
now it blooms surrounded by fragrant lilies
as it appeared in its imperial, glorious days!
Looking closer, I noticed tools itched
on its sides, the trade of a freeman
once enslaved by his wealthy master,
and to prove that he was also of a noble
spirit, he wanted to be remembered
for his achievements and his intellect!
Not all Romans were cruel as History attests,
but had a good heart helping the lower class;
had the Emperor made aware of such generosity,
they would have been killed or thrown to the beasts!
Our greedy society is similar, workers being underpaid;
its an invisible slavery and yet it gives us shivers
for their unhuman condition and horrible abuse:
Rome's mentality of slavery survives to our day!
The proud sons of immigrants will arise to avenge
their fathers rage, they will sit with the prominent ones
sharing the same ideals and status that honor freedom!
Build my marble tomb by the shade of cypresses,
plant jasmines and lilacs around it and let them bloom;
the late image of me on the top with a pen on the right
and a notebook on the left...what a lovely display
of my vocational trade! Will someone discover my grave?
The brief epithet itched in italic letters should read:
" Born a free man and died a free man in a foreign land."