Best Kvetch Poems
I can rhyme on a dime
And I must say that I’m
Pretty good when I put my mind to it.
I can’t cook but a book
Will entice me to look
And I’ll read if I have time to do it.
I’m a city gal, witty gal,
Not a self-pity gal,
Though I complain and I kvetch.
I’m Type-A, so my day
Doesn’t handle delay
And some frazzle’s not really a stretch.
I’m not young but I’ve clung
To the habits I’ve wrung
From my middle-class family youth.
Though I roam, when I’m home
And I’m writing a poem,
I am happiest – that is the truth.
Ilene Bauer
Occasionally we should expose the wackier lobe of the brain
in order to better appreciate the more sensible side of the mind.
~THIS is one of those times...
I capriole between my arabesques
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps
indifferent to their misanthropic mocking
and cheeky syncopated schisms
BUT LET THEM SCOFF!
I derogate their arrogance
in silent smirking repudiation
for they know not of the decoctions
spating rapidly through my veins,
nor of the massive assemblage
of my miscelany grey and white matter.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking;
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
that I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
After reading this write of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I am a dimwitted addlepate.
There is more than one kind of crazy!
*********************
A translated version of the above nonsense,
so now Jan doesn't think she's hopelessly lost.
I dance as if I were a ballerina,
a total klutz, but I don't care
if they laugh at me.
LET THEM MAKE FUN!
I don't care if they smirk at me because
they don't know what I feel or think.
The funny part of my silliness is that
I'm really rational, pretending not to be.
I'm really smarter than I look or act
so let those idiots say that I'm
as crazy as a loon.
Now that I've read these words,
it's clear to me that nothing I've
written is clear. Soooo....
I'm either clever at writing an oxymoron
OR I'm crazy.
I will eat liver periodically despite doc's kvetch
When I cease to function, upon my cold granite stone you may etch:
"Too much cholesterol clogged the veins of this unfortunate wretch!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for No. 5 in Dr. Ram's "Triplet" Contest - August 2011
Ronald Reagan in his prime
Was a foodie, way ahead of his time
Though others thought it 'kvetch-able'
He daringly labeled ketchup, on meat, a vegetable!
January 23, 2019
Entry in "Educate Me with Humor - Leader" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
I'm never really in a rush
To traipse through gushy, mushy slush
Like that on any city street
Where puddles form from melting sleet.
The passing traffic sends up sprays
Of wetness that's seen better days
To splatter on your favorite coat
(And splash avoidance seems remote).
So in your boots just stride right through
And do what all New Yorkers do,
Which is to shrug or maybe kvetch
'Til we complete this slushy stretch.
The Bichon Frise
The Bichon in chiffon looks so frou
That the crowd duly wowed has to coo
‘Til the dog starts to droop
And its owner to scoop
Some acutely embarrassing doo
The Border Collie
It was not Albert Einstein who dared
To think E = mc2
But rather a Border
Who brought cosmic order
One morning while out with his laird
The Bulldog
My Bulldog won’t frolic or fetch
His face may cause others to kvetch
But he’s gentle and sweet
With the kids on the street
And the ladies all think I’m a ketch
The Cairn Terrier
Cairns have been bred to hunt vermin
Be it Spanish, Australian, or German
Its body is wee
Though as tough as a tree
And as ruthless as General Sherman
The Chihuahua and Great Dane
Chihuahuas and Danes one surmises
Are extremes when it comes to their sizes
The one is so small
It is nothing at all
While the other is big and wins prizes
The Chinese Crested
I passed one of these down on Lincoln
For a moment I thought I’d been drinkin’
He looked so bizarre
That I stopped in a bar
To keep my poor eyeballs from shrinkin’
The Collie
To many a Collie means Lassie
The wonderdog faithful and classy
But on re-run TV
(Or is it just me?)
Do her eyes look a little bit glassy?
The Corgi
The Corgi is not one to hurry
Much preferring a stroll to a flurry
If you happen by chance
To invite one to dance
He’ll say, “Hey, I am not Arthur Murray!”
The Dachshund
The Dachshund’s a marvel on skis
Little legs that stop short of its knees
It can schuss like a pro
Making furrows in snow
(Though its privates are given to freeze)
The Dalmatian
Dalmatians are doomed to be stuck
In the seat of a fireman’s truck
When they’d much rather cruise
In a Jag that’s chartreuse
On a track that’s for testing your luck
My pet mouse Louie is a connoisseur of exotic cheese,
But when it comes to gratifying him, he's mighty hard to please!
I have my own choice of cheese, therefor, 'tis an ongoing clash,
Between me and Louie at which he has become somewhat brash!
If I set a snack of limburger before him, he'll turn up his nose,
And I learned mighty quick to no longer on him that crud impose!
I happen to like a simple cheddar but Louie will clearly voice,
His desire for an expensive gouda if he had to make the choice!
We both abhor cottage cheese on that we can readily agree,
But he savors bizarre cheeses such as Greek feta and French brie!
The latter two I can barely tolerate and well-nigh cause me to retch!
I hate to divulge this but Louie is becoming a bothersome kvetch!
Lately he insists on me catering ricotta, swiss and mozzarella.
(Ain't gonna happen, you can bet your life on that, little fella!)
Alas, my dilemma was solved by my cat who relishes tasty mice;
Louie was devoured by ravenous Jeff the cat which wasn't very nice!
Entry for Barry Stebbins' "Poem About Cheese" Contest
(15 November 2018)
Here, me on the shore,
Botched to retrospect the apathy of the world.
One in charity, one in triumphant,
Herein lays a callous heart without remorse.
Here, me on a mission to win,
Unkempt the very thing I wanna covet.
The tasks without forbearance is annoying.
Herein lays the gimmick of lust.
Here, me on a verge of doom,
Sudden kvetch shook my heart.
I will not yen to greed howbeit raise my arms to give,
Herein lays irreversible assessor.
Here, me to the living,
Yield on to what is faultless.
Supper to the craving,
Herein lays the kvetch end.
Tonight we change the clocks, which means
Tomorrow when I wake,
The world will look transparent
And will not appear opaque.
It’s nice to have some morning light
But not worth what we lose
And darkness in the afternoon
Is not what I would choose.
For shorter days just make me
Want to hurry up inside,
Cocooning in the coziness
That lamps and lights provide.
But that’s a paltry substitute
For sunshine and fresh air
And when the daylight lingers late
Indoors just can’t compare.
We can’t fight City Hall, they say,
So I’ll reset the time
But I can still complain and oh,
I love to kvetch in rhyme!
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
If life were always caviar
And chocolate and champagne,
We wouldn’t have the luxury
Of getting to complain.
And wouldn’t that be awful!
Every human needs to kvetch.
Come to think of it, both caviar
And bubbly make me bletch!
It's something that is not quite true
And fits some limousines.
It helps before you exercise
Or lets you put on jeans.
You do it when you're waking up
Or else when tired, maybe;
And it can leave some tummy marks
When you have had a baby.
When reaching for an item
Way too high upon a shelf,
You might employ one if you want
To get the thing yourself.
If we could never use this
We'd have cause to moan or kvetch,
But we're lucky that in all its forms
It's possible to stretch.
How shall I deal with this wandering mind?
Meandering through a meadow of ideas,
Seeking truth among noxious weeds I find
Since early childhood I have been curious
Always sifting through my brain’s cogitations
Accepting new concepts; discarding previous,
Tossing thoughts like a machine’s agitations
Chewing on choices of words, so indecisive,
Practicing precise grammar with conjugations.
Fending off debaters who are often derisive
Debunking theories that sound far-fetched,
While trying not to be obnoxiously divisive.
How far should an agile mind be stretched?
Let it go unchallenged and it becomes static
Drifts into rumor, relishes meaningless kvetch.
I choose to allow my mind access to the attic,
Considering all the randomness that intrudes
To avoid, as much as I can, becoming dogmatic!
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
The theme song of modern man:
Kvetch, complain and demand!
Gratitude, thankfulness...
Are you serious, my man?
No way, no how, blame is their game.
Doing nothing for humanity, just driven to shame.
Twisted souls, tormented by needs.
Not realizing they, themselves are pictures of greed.
Wanting a world with nary a synagogue or a steeple.
Just muttering masses of kvetch, complain and demand sheeples!
June 8, 2020
10:30am PST
Poem # 1229