Best Kick Out Poems
More than anything Nature fascinates me
Men living in close proximity to nature, I love to see
So I ramble into the city’s far outskirts
Watching ordinary people in commonplace pursuits
Imbibing much from the life of the peasantry
Whom none can beat in life’s lessons elementary
How they interact devoid of all cold formality
And remain free from all artificiality
I inhale the fragrance of the wayside blooms
Watch kingfishers and parakeets in colorful plumes
My eyes never miss Nature’s minute caprices
And I rejoice in home bound birds’ sonatas
I watch the daylight paving way for the night
And the sun willfully surrendering his might
I listen to the invisible choir, singing in the dark
That breaks the sacred silence of the dusk
How these common scenes fill me with delight
Nevertheless making me sorry for the unhappy plight
Of those unable to enjoy any ordinary scene
And turn their backs to pleasurable sights umpteen
Blessed are those who have eyes to see and feel
And remain happy being close to Nature’s heel
Whose ears are attuned to the beats of the average
And who need no other intoxicating beverage
Those who get a kick out of the commonplace
And seek everyday banal sensations to embrace
________________________________________
May.21.2022
Fascination and Awe Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Jeff Kyser
He will make everything fabulous
Wait and see
He has a way of doing things
He knows what needs to be done first
And every step thereafter
He knows how to do things
Plan things and make things to come
We don’t even have to worry about the details of it
He is in control
Every minute second
He is on top of it
Don’t sweat, hyperventilate, exasperate
Irritate, gripe, aggravate
The Maker of this world is presiding
In charge
Why agonize, discompose, fret, nervous
While the Father has of hold on his making
God meant for us to enjoy things
Life and everything goes with it
Don’t be a grouch, a wreck, a grumbler
A troublemaker, a moaner, a nitpicker
God meant for you to be happy
Live life, sing a song, dance a storm
Make someone happy
Make yourself happy
Take delight in what you do
Take pleasure in what you accomplished
Be pleased
Get a kick out of things not called for, earned
Have a ball
Have fun
Live a little
God rules
Well and I Get A Kick Outta All That Kinky Stuff
You do to me, the way you blow and stick your tongue
In my ears, the way you spank me and make me
Beg for more, the way you pour honey all over my body
And lick me clean ooh wee well I Get a Kick Outta
All That Kinky Stuff you do to me, the way you kiss
And bite my neck, the way you tickle me 'til I almost
Piss myself, the way you tie me to the bed and run ice
Down my happy trail just sends me into orbit well and
I know you get a kick out of it yourself especially when
You use that toy on me; I swear you get into it as much
As I do...I've never had such an innovated lover before
Ooh wee baby, oooh wee I Get a Kick, I Get a Kick
Outta All That Kinky Stuff you do to me, ooh wee
Ooh wee baby I want more, more, more yeah make
Me sore, I Get a Kick Outta All That Kinky Stuff!
Light dances with the idea of love
the sharks circle at mere plight
of weakness but you cant kick out
a ballerina tiptoeing across rivers
red flowing with contemplation
and the final twin feather bed calling
Tomorrow's successes seduce
the captain's chair empty
he's gone out for air
backed up pickup but the limbs won't move
just need another reason for loving you
The walls are built by more than just an emperor
The chains are laced in verse of discrimination
but I'm building a bridge to you
just don't jump and leave us to clean up behind
and as the cock crows it's going to be alright
Day one out of the womb – had a full crop of hair,
black like my daddy’s (it later went more fair).
Early childhood – Mom kept my brown hair short
because I’d twist it into knots. What a silly sport.
Peanut butter and some gum in my hair might stick.
Never a long hair style could I ever pick.
Pre-teen years – at last I saw my dark hair grow.
Pony tails and pig tails were ways my hair might show.
Junior High, late 60’s, hair piled high like a hive.
A wonder that no bumble bees were seen in there alive.
My hair was also parted always on one side.
I’d wear curlers in a store. Did I have no pride?
High school days – hair longer. In boring math at school,
I sat there pulling off split ends. Must have looked a fool!
College days – used a cheap product from the store.
“Sun-In” gave me reddish-blonde. I used it four times more.
The 80’s – got a perm. The curls were tight. Had oodles.
Now I can have sympathy for cockapoos and poodles.
90’s – used extensions. A lot of folks I fooled.
Strawberry blonde seemed to be the color then that ruled.
New century. New color. My hair was very blonde.
There were two guys in a tram in Rio that I conned.
My friend who looked American knew every word they stated.
About my natural color those guys in Portugese debated.
They finally decided my blonde was natural.
I got a kick out of those young fellows’ folderol.
Later on, my hair got over-bleached. I showered, and
lots of strands of it crumbled right into my hand.
After that, while growing out dark roots about two years,
I wore a wig until uncolored hair went past my ears.
A co-worker , not knowing I wore a wig at school,
told me that my hair had never looked so cool!
By 2010, my hair was in a rut.
Only one side of it grew, so I’d always get it cut.
Turned 60 and got cancer. Ate better to be stronger.
Miraculously my hair AND nails grew a whole lot longer.
Since then till now, my daughter’s been my dear beautician.
She keeps the gray away and my hair in good condition.
Were my hair not dyed, salt and pepper it would be.
I love my gold-like hair, thick, and long and wavy.
Some people think a woman of my age should wear a shorter “do.”
Decades it took to get this look, so NO (and I’ll keep my cute bangs too!)
Ask is love blind, or deaf or dumb, still kind.
At eleven, what hypnotizes me -
Imagining perfect, like braids entwined,
His eyes always on mine; and all is glee.
Wide smile on screen, his star-studded jumpsuit.
Sings puppy love, in midst of brothers, cool.
He is all mine, I think - he is so cute.
Alas, I must look to those in my school.
Dream-talk things out in a gentle manner.
Godmothers are real at this juncture.
Our children fly harmonious banner.
Can’t foresee a fairy-balloon puncture.
My gaga-ness sits well - can’t wait for date.
The cuckoo clock strikes knot - open the gate.
The cuckoo clock strikes knot - open the gate.
Whee…here’s reality…he’s hopping mad.
There’s making love…then each other frustrate.
With seasonal beginnings like nomad.
Throw kids in mix, tantrums of grown adults
Who wipes behind - changes diapers; and mind.
Answer: I consult God with good results.
I listen intently, lean into find
That nothing’s perfect all the time, but love
Is the kindling, bittersweet fire, sublime.
We can smile now as kids kick out and shove.
We work as one unit - we’re at our prime.
Why are beginnings called going steady?
Prepared for what life brings? Are we ready?
Prepared for what life brings? Are we ready?
Looking around, at emptiness, I see
Our empty nest - kids have left already?
At sea, we lose our minds on a cruise spree.
Small time later, our knee-decks creak, languish.
And side to side, we’re off balance - at sea.
Can’t find the shore, went overboard. Anguish
About future of aged, of you and me.
Mom’s eyes sealed shut, we had to say so long.
My dad kisses her lips, holds wedding rings.
My mother had cancer but she was strong.
Looking at my husband- the gifts life brings…
Rejoicing when in dark closed room, confined -
Ask is love blind, or deaf or dumb, still kind.
"Placebo - Part 2"
There’s little sins and HUGE SINS
Little mistakes, possibly forgiveable.
HUGE MISTAKES, HUGE SINS?
That’s a different kind of metronome
marking time over a head, while
a recidivist waits for his deal with God.
You ask those little girls and boys
who are divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous ways -
if they think you deserve a deal with God,
while you look at photos of them being defiled,
or worse, you are in the filthy piece of Celluloid with them.
You ask those little girls and boys
who have been divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous of ways,
who have been killed and thrown
like bags of rubbish somewhere -
if they think you deserve a deal with God.
You ask the families of all that have been
inflicted and their lives unalterably changed -
whether they think you deserve a deal with God.
They say there is no God.
Well, perhaps there isn’t.
Why would a just God let that happen?
“Suffer the little children” etc
What if God is truly “I Am”? And that
“I Am” is in you.
And the you that is lying there
concerned for your own remorse,
your own deal with God -
not the deal and mercy
a child deserves to be given by God
(even at this moment, somewhere in the world,
a child all alone crying out for…);
well, you just
turn over in the cot in your crib and cry like a baby,
thinking you are all alone.
What if God that is the "I Am"
could kick out of your body
the other lesser god, the god
that is the "I Isn’t"?
Is it possible at this point, I wonder?
I guess it depends on what stage of diarrhoea,
you’ve contracted.
Because when you get down to the
nuts and bolts of it,
this Life we have,
is all about Contracts.
The officer on duty knocks
opens your door hatch, and announces,
“You’ve got a visitor”.
You swing off the top level of the bunk
you’re dying of boredom in,
trying not to kick the other “effer” in the head
and you are let out of your crib.
You’re off to make your deal with God.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
“MOTHER, is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children” William Makepeace Thackeray
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_bYLcTjnPA
One morning Dee woke to find the most unusual toad
Perched o’er the water line in the “bowels” of her commode
She put on gloves and sought to catch the elusive creature
But no matter how hard Dee tried, she just couldn’t reach her
So to the local newspaper, Dee wrote for assistance
A letter to the editor described Dee’s persistence
To her shock, the letter appeared the very next day
With her email below it for helpful hints to convey
Nearly seventy emails made their way to Dee’s inbox
Suggestions aplenty on how this critter to outfox
Some offered to come to Dee’s house and catch the motley toad
A biologist warned, “It can’t swim; don’t flush the commode!”
Dee lived very privately and wanted no strange house guests
So she declined “in-person” offers to pursue this quest
By day the toad managed to slip out of Dee’s gentle grasp
At night Dee reached for a toothbrush, felt a slithery clasp
The toad she called Todd was quickly escorted out the door
Although the potential for warts, Dee certainly abhorred
Newspaper staff got a kick out of Dee’s predicament
They called the next day to find out how her efforts had went
To all of the kind emailers Dee wrote of her success
But the public’s interest Dee was unable to suppress
So she wrote another letter, proclaiming, “The toad’s gone”
Concern for this toad was a noteworthy phenomenon
Beneath Dee’s letter describing Todd’s new outdoor abode
Was a cartoon and an ode to the toad in her commode
*Believe it or not, this is true!!! Happened to me when I lived in a wooded area.
A helpful biologist said it was a "tree toad" and couldn't swim.
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
TOURETTE
Tic tic tic
Twitch
Jerk
Lash out
Kick out
Click clack
Stutter
"Those are the tools of Tourette's trade"
My psychiatrist says, and he is smiling
"That's how your body's brain is made,
Such is your brain's different wiring"
I merely assumed that stuttering
Caused extreme concentration,
Made extremities flail and fling,
Hoping for better pronunciation.
"No", he says, "but you can learn
To suppress and focus for a while.
Channel surplus energy in turn
To writing, singing, dance. So smile!"
Yes he is right, it's just a name
For what I do, it seems, a lifetime.
But deep in me I have such shame
It may be me, it's far from fine.
All the surgery the future brings
Will improve my life, I love it
But won't silence Tourette who sings
And dances as long as he deems fit.
So I will dance with him and stutter
My words on paper or from my mouth
My face will tic, my hands will flutter
With dignity, because I am proud
This here is me, I'm writing colour,
Paint images with written words
It's giving happiness, therefore
I am allowed, I may be heard.
Frank Sinatra’s name still has instant recognition even today.
He was perhaps the greatest singer of the twentieth century
And possessed those famous “Blue Eyes” and that trademark
Voice which thrilled and fascinated audiences worldwide.
For most people his music was very special and moved their
Spirits along a unique and subtle path that only Sinatra could
Create and hold with his voice—mesmerizing them and
Charming them every step of the way.
Entertaining and enchanting the audiences in America and
Abroad catapulted Frank Sinatra to a special iconic status as
A world-renowned singer, entertainer, and Hollywood actor.
Yet, singing became his common thread and link over decades
And generations to most willing audiences who hungered for
The tenor and pitch of his voice and his fabulous songs with
Most memorable lyrics, and haunting and evocative melodies.
Some legendary songs reflecting his status and long reach with
Audiences worldwide include: (My Way) (New York, New York)
(Strangers in the Night) (I Get a Kick Out of You) (That’s Life)
(I’ve Got You Under My Skin) (Summer Wind). All these songs
And many others were trademark, vintage Sinatra and brought
Audiences to their feet while he serenaded and captivated them
Like a Pied Piper, bringing each listener momentarily along with
Him as an invited guest into his very own special vocal dimension.
Frank Sinatra was part of the Greatest Generation along with other
Famous American entertainers who packed audiences and dazzled
Them with music and dancing, and created an aura of legendary
Perfection seldom seen in today’s twenty-first-century world.
Frank Sinatra—You’re The One!!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen,
Germany (November 10, 2014) (Biographical Narrative poetic format)
I reckon I'm showing my age and am pretty well set in my ways,
But I have zero tolerance for the 'noise' called music nowadays!
The metal bands and rap are loathsome to my sensitive ears.
I haven't heard a melodic tune on the radio for over sixty years!
Pleasing to the ear was Vaughn Monroe and his mellow baritone.
Likewise, the romantic, comprehensible crooning of Vic Damone.
A songster who could stir even the most unromantic soul,
Was the silky-smooth delivery of debonair Nat King Cole!
I truly enjoyed the ballads belted out by the ever-living Elvis,
And got a kick out of watching in action his double-jointed pelvis!
Delightful were the songs vocalized by cheerful Doris Day.
It was so relaxing listening to the Velvet Fog, Mister Mel Torme!
Will there ever be another Glenn Miller, Perry Como or Peggy Lee,
Dinah Shore, Frankie Laine or Jo Stafford entertaining me?
Oh, to hear again The Mills Brothers and their sweet harmony.
Now all I hear is dreadful screams and gross disharmony!
Today's drivel to my romantic soul gives me great offense.
'Tis alien to my ears and doesn't make a bit of sense.
Music back then invited you to hold your gal in close embrace,
As you danced and murmured sweet nothings face to face!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Favorite Music Type" Contest
the mother red fox
snuggles in warm den, feeds her kits...
a-oo-oo-oo-ooo
the owl in the tree
on a pitch dark moonless night ...
who-who-who-who-who
the mother red fox
says shhh, shhh, shhh, to the owl....
kits just wow, wow, wow
the crack of dawn breaks
a sunrise of red and blue ...
zzzzz, zzzz, silence speaks
I get a kick out of the whole song, "What Does The Fox Say"
but I dedicate my poem to "Fraka-kaka-kaka-kaka-kow"
Written February 21, 2014
Sponsor: Skat A
Contest: What Does The Fox Say
I did some research on the Red Fox and they make a sound
somewhat like the Tawny Owl and other trisyllabic sounds
like they are talking to each other..
They are mostly nocturnal
So you are choosing Rocky Mountain Oysters over Meatballs
You love to eat them from a zip loc bag at the mall
You grew up in the deep south eating these odd things
For instance, you choose chicken feet with toe nails instead of chicken wings
You said you would eat the Rock Oysters with spaghetti or rice, it really doesn't
matter
Sometimes you eat them fried in a Tempura Batter
Do you ever feel remorse knowing some baby pigs are missing their Pa
All because you prefer Rocky Mountain Oysters over Meatballs
I can't condone your preference for what you would call a tasty treat
Something is wrong passing up boiled eggs for pickled pig's feet
The stuff you eat would have me being a frequent flyer to a bathroom stall
I can't get past you showing favorites to Rocky Mountain Oysters Over Meatballs
Did anyone tell you what they really are
It's not something you eat with a date gazing at the stars
My mind has always been open to try different things
But I need to draw the line eating a male animal's bling bling
I've eaten camel, horse, octopus even legs of frogs
Down in Tijuana, I ate tacos made from dog
You say what's wrong with this, I share these with my in laws
Another advantage is Rocky Mountain Oysters cost less than your run of the mill
Meatballs
Have you tried them with a little bit of Texas Pete
Rumor has it they started with sheep on the island of Crete
I do however like a good seasoned batch of Collard Greens
Can't quite completely criticize the South, I am caught in between
But I do get a kick out of the deep Southern Drawl
But I am still a Yankee when declining Rocky Mountain Oysters over Meatballs
You love your poetry
much more than you love me
the cadence of each rhyme
a convoluted crime!!!
Each "form" a great delight
but I'm kept out of sight
You have no thought for me
But love your poetry
You write with passion, soul
to charm the throng, your goal
the syllables so.... sweet
are like a tasty treat
With sugar laden line
you write of thoughts sublime
But this is plain to see
You love your poetry...
Then take it now to bed
Make sure your rhyme you wed
Make love to it at night
I'll keep just out of sight
the rhythm will not please
no sexy "form" to tease
the letter curves won't fill
your finger's need to thrill
the words won't rock desire
nor will you taste the fire
of senses in a spin
though top prize you may win
you'll lie alone in bed
no bosom for your head
Though you love poetry
It can't compare to ME!!!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
A person can be jealous about anything his/her loved one is passionate about, be it music, sports, photography, or....poetry. I got a kick out of writing this one! :) It's the revenge of the one jilted by that obsessive passion of the loved one....