Best Mopped Poems
“Pretty lady”, let me love you, take you places you’ve never been
All the pain you’ve gone through, I’ll make sure it don’t happen again
I promise to always comfort you, your burdens I will bear
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to prove to you I truly care!
As long as there’s a sky, and those stars continue to shine above
You will always see it in my eye what I feel for you is 100% love!
"Sexy Man," you are what I want plus more.
Your comfort mopped my tears right off the floor.
I love the way you caress and touch me.
Arousing the inner beauty for all to see.
My world you conquered when push came to shove.
I give you my thoughts, my emotions, my lust, and my "100% love."
In my cluttered kitchen, I've mopped the floor,
This busy day, this task once more.
I've cooked a chicken a thousand ways,
The same old bird a thousand days.
I know I shouldn't once complain,
"Routine", I moan, "is always the same."
But when it comes as one more chore,
My daily grind seems such a bore.
I glance up, weary, at my task,
And then, through freshly, sparkling window glass
Suddenly, what I've taken for granted,
Becomes, in fact, to be enchanted...
This view of lawn, an acre green,
Fruit trees swaying, in a peaceful scene,
Rolling hills, and oaks in groves,
Sky is blue, and birds in droves.
Our house sits high, where we can see,
The hills in golden symmetry
In all it's glory, with snow-capped peaks.
How could one have such thoughts so bleak?
No buildings, or high-rise blocks the view.
Just nature's wonders, as if the world is new!
Mountains and valleys capture my eyes.
The joy of living, a wonderful life!
God help me never to take for granted
This wondrous vision that I've been handed.
Carrie Richards 11/6/11
Old Inky dinky parlay voo
Had a race with a green kangaroo
They stood side by side
Inky’s laces got tied
By jingo it caused a foo doo
Poor Inky fell over a murdle
Whilst kanga the murdle did hurdle
Kanga leapt on ahead
Inky’s twang how it bled
He mopped up the blood with a turdle
Kanga ignored poor Inky’s dilemma
And sped off like Pete Smockeremma
With a boing and a bounce
He did loudly announce
I’m the winner of this no problemma!
But Kanga was deemed to be cheating
The lace tying was his unseating
The squidgehawk of the race
Wiped the smile from his face
And Kanga got a blubber beating
The moral of this quindy story
No cheating to obtain false glory
Just ensure you squok fair
And make sure you’re aware
The squidgehawk’s judgement’s mandatory!
Inky Dinky Parlay Voo Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
03/25/20
She pumped the air and whooped,
'The holidays are through!'
She danced a jig, she spun,
and did a moonie too.
The grinning mother yelled,
'They're back to school again!'
But then her laughter died,
she groaned in awful pain
and mopped her furrowed brow,
for she's a teacher now...
written 20th August for Francine's Back to School contest
A brotherly jaunt through sinister mirth
behold the brothers Death:
gowned and guided, an ill century
the fourteenth, an alliance of crop, of plague
in ground-down death of torrential pains
in sores and blood under the rains
that drowned the land, starved the bellies
there echoed howls of ill exclaim
a wanting of a light to shine
is where the brothers thought that they
worked well together, effectively
one would scoop from ruined crop
one from sickness, war, attack
the beak, a sign, of the plague mask
in shacks, where hags mopped weeping rot
crosses on doors, on floors of straw
with nothing in the cooking pot
the brothers danced and sang their wealth
of many clientele they sought
and on they went, and on they struck
perfecting songs on appetites
of pestilence and of disease
hand in hand like trees whose leaves
do smother, smite, in murderous breeze
the brothers, down the ages tease
and beckon, wreaking havoc on,
like rolling waves of seas on high
always taunting their sister - life
Dragon ran excitedly, into my family room.
He’d been out all day, doing what was anyone’s guess.
He claimed he needed money, a thousand dollar loan;
It was for my birthday gift; or so that’s what he stressed.
“That’s not the way it works”, said I,
“You don’t buy it with my money”.
“I know”, he replied, “but it’s more than I have,
I need a loan and I’ll work for it Mummy”.
And so he scrubbed and mopped; swept and saved;
until he had his dough.
Off he went and spent all day;
not for his meals, did he ever show.
When my birthday rolled around; he handed me a box;
“It’s professionally wrapped”, he proudly claimed.
Obviously it wasn’t for it looked like a mangled fox.
“Open it”, he cried while clapping paws with glee.
His enthusiasm, non-contained; it was oh so raw,
said he’d gotten it more for himself;
I eagerly, opened it with my own two paws;
It was such an amazing sight; he’d gotten me an elf!
“Whew!” he said, breathing a sigh;
“I thought you’d not open it in time…”
“You wrapped a house elf in a box, alive?
No wonder he’s pale white!”
I pulled him out; gave CPR and he was revived;
although, still a bit woozy, from his recent plight.
Oh so delighted my elf was, just to be alive;
he’s dedicated to me; for the rest of his life.
Coffee is a reasonable substitute
for spirit possession.
Surely your heart will tremble,
open the gateway
for earthquakes to exist
within the fault lines
of your fingers —
but at least your pants will be piss free
when the officer asks you
to dance along the straight line.
And when he asks, “are you nervous?”
you’ll respond in the affirmative.
Explain how since 1996
you’ve been waiting for the day
an asteroid directly impacts your car
as you sip espresso
heading southbound on the I-10,
on your way to work.
And you won’t have to explain to your coworker
why your pants are missing,
ass in the air,
bad decisions spilled
on the fresh mopped floor —
dreading the ride in,
knowing he knows
you’d never compete
with his fresh ironed shirt.
This morning I chose slow drip,
because life moves fast enough.
My mother was an excellent cook, not fancy but home cooking,
Our kitchen was always full of delicious and mouth watering smells;
We kids had our favourites, of course, and it was spaghetti and meatballs,
The succulent aromas drifted and floated throughout the house.
Even to this day when I eat this dish I feel the love of my family,
It was not just the handmade pasta or the thick sweet sauce;
Or the delectable meatballs with parmesan cheese all over the top,
And how we mopped up the bowl with a piece of Italian bread.
It was the whole scene, now memory, the vision of togetherness,
Such a simple dish of pasta and sauce is still a bowl of comfort;
Always a family night favourite, so robust and sweet, and flavourful,
And around the table we talked of life and things that mattered.
I found my mother's recipe diary in her belongings after her death,
It is full of meals of my childhood and a lot involved pasta;
Alphabet soup, macaroni and cheese, ravioli, lasagna and fettuccini,
Recipes for long and short shapes, tubes, twisted and flat pasta.
Now that diary is my treasure, it takes me back to the kitchen,
Where mother and father taught me about morals and ethics;
While I helped with the pasta and holding hands at suppertime,
We thanked the Lord for the food before us and for our family.
But today, I still love pasta and I follow mother's recipe almost,
Except for ethical reasons I make mine vegetarian, still good;
The pasta with a sauce of tomatoes, basil, oregano and garlic,
So yummy and scrumptious, it gives me that feel-good feeling.
_______________________
September 9, 2015
Didactic Verse
For the contest, Didactic Food, sponsor, Tammy Reams
First Place
“cat o' 9 tales”
Like a cat has 9 lives
every witch in every Lilith
lives to write another day
woe bedtide the poor oaf
who gets in Her way
like Heathcliffe he’ll be tortured
from here to kingdom come
and back under the Hades rug again
where all good sinners
and their sordid secrets stray
to die another day -
roses placed just so by the fresh roadkill
let hungry eyed vultures have their wicked way
don't you know?
the broomstick’s not just for sweeping floors clean each day ...
Dorothy has Her way
like a cat has 9 lives
every witch in every Lilith
learns to fly strong again,
lives to write Her grimoire spells forever
each and every other powerful day
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very unremarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
(Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own)
“What fresh hell can this be?”
(Dorothy Parker)
"If the doorbell rang in her apartment, she would say, 'What fresh hell can this be?' - and it wasn't funny; she meant it."
betide. :)
One fine day, as hot as Hades,
Six respectable old ladies
Decided they would take a trip
Before the winter chill could nip.
They drove out to the countryside
With rolling hills and river wide.
The place was quiet, full of charm,
But, oh dear me, the weather warm.
Gran became a trifle naughty
Heat made her a little potty
Decided she would take a chance
You only have one life to dance.
Removing both her diamond rings
She cast off all her under things
And dived into the swimming hole
Then with a flash, the show she stole.
This lady in her autumn years
Was young at heart, for her, three cheers.
The other ladies’ eyes, they popped.
While with their hankies, brows they mopped.
Then one declared, ‘It looks so cool.’
And all at once, a river full
Of naked ladies having fun
Beneath the hot and blazing sun.
The story of his pomposity
The gaiety of a been-to
Embroidered in revenge.
Tunde Canada!
Timid and denied by folks and friends
In his prime when the springboard, the hemisphere
At the time when chicks announce their appearance.
His ordeal was woven in ancient penury.
He was in the enclave of the rejected,
An outcast before his friends,
Whose hands, fortune, has benevolently endowed
But he was happily disowned by his entire ally.
Tunde Canada!
Determination and spirited humans
Benignly lifted from the corridors of poverty
He suddenly became great.
How yesterday’s pain gone
And friends who cast aspersion are back as friends.
He became the cynosure of them all
How fast humans forget the misdeed of yesterday!
Tunde Canada!
Now great!
But revenge beclouds the reciprocity of goodwill.
He mopped up his old friends for a drink,
And left them to bear their debts after tipsy,
And stayed in the silt gutter.
Tunde Canada
In the frailty of human foible,
Revenge robbed him of his life achievements.
At last, betrothed to a bride of a rich-dynasty
And before the oath on the altar,
Absent from his wedding, either for tipsy or else,
He left the bride, the audience and the priest alone in the church
Staring at his endless arrival.
Oh, a revenge against the society
Pain to his ungodly quest.
A victim of his retribution
Our relationship rose over the horizon
We were very happy and the sun burned
You touched me in places where I enjoyed
The newness and the caresses
It was fresh
And like a crystal clear message you sound
You are the one that I'm meant to melt
And my heart filled with tender thoughts
We rolled through flowered fields in hunger
And still
The first fight and burned our memories
But then hugs and kisses and a smile
Doubt crept between those clean sheets
We tried bleach but it only made white
And then
You swept the floor with me and then mopped
The love was squeezed and wrung
And like flowers in a vase wilted
My heart shattered and burned as the last ray
Sunset
ON THE ROCKS
Talk about bad luck, I hit rock bottom and broke a leg
One advantage to hitting rock bottom is at least I know which way is up now
I hit Rock’s bottom and he promptly kicked my bottom from one end to the other
It usually bottoms out when I hit rock bottom
WAXING PHILOSOPHIC (YEAH YOU MOPPED, BUT DID YOU WAX?... I THOUGHT NOT!)
A tree fell in the forest and a hearing impaired gentleman was nearby so it did NOT make a sound
You think, therefore you are and just who do think you are, anyway?
What does not kill me only makes me weak in the stomach when I am presented with the hospital bill
People who live in bakeries should not throw scones
DONCHA’ JUST LOVE IT?
Love is blind and keeps bumping into things
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! Um…
I loved her to death but got off on a technicality
Star-crossed lovers occasionally get crossed up and can get rather cross about it too
I SAW ONE THE OTHER DAY I SWEAR TO GOD I DID
I made a Snowman that frankly speaking, looked Abominable
The Abominable Snowman retired to Florida and melted on the spot
Bigfoot treated The Abominable Snowman and family to dinner and footed the entire bill (however, things got pretty hairy when his credit card was refused)
Bigfoot often puts his foot in his mouth and he’s got a big mouth too
YOU’RE A REAL PAIN IN THE ASS AND STOP ACTING LIKE A HORSE’S ASS, SMART-ASS AND MY ASS CAN WHIP YOUR ASS ANY DAY OF THE WEEK TOO
A mule got a species change operation and made a real ass of himself
So WHAT if I’ve got it all backwards? (You whole-ass- b_tch-of- a-son!)
Secretariat lost his ass in a High-Stakes poker game
A horse was unjustly discriminated against because it was a horse of a different color
My Favourite Pastime
I long for a cozy blanket
Secure and wise.
As warm as a down filled pillow and a snuggly five year old.
Never alone or adrift,
My memory stands, with my favourite past time.
It extends as far back as the ends of the earth or heaven sublime.
As deep as a murky ocean with foamy tides, rising and rising as far as time.
My favourite pastime,
How you have comforted and wiped my tears.
I sink in gratitude
On a couch or a bed.
The day ahead looks better.
The worry of yesterday forgotten in wonder.
I grew up in your arms, words that eased my heart never lost.
Where was my mom, I never asked, though her willing arms were left outstretched.
As soon as the teenage years hit, my confusion twisted like dust mixed with dread.
I could have curled and mopped in my bed but I picked you up, quite ruffled and pulled with threads.
Now,
I come to realize.
I clutched this pastime, not as a pastime, but my lifeline.
A father, a mother, a soft bosom. Your words dripped long and deep in my heart. Like the sweetest honey it eased down and filled my soul.
Now,
I know my idea of heaven complete would have aisles, stacked with wisdom.
Now,
I pass on your gifts and read with my child.
It was unnerving
a growling demon of
deprivation,
an
enemy that lurks
in shadows, but
the eyes don't lie
silver spoons
do tarnish
with lack of use
they're tucked
away from public eye
shamed by the ideals
of the elite
without capital leverage
they can't bargain
for slices of pie
alone,
starving souls
often remain on
the threshold of pain
reaching for anything
to fill the void, to
cease the sound of
Hungry cries
the soul, the stomach,
the heart, the mind
all needing substenance
to sustain the firm form
Significant Human dignity
Poverty leaves souls
in the frigid cold
it's hold sounds
like empty stomachs
in Public Schools
Empty minds, and
wagons rattling
needing to be heard
"Feed Me"
even the scraps
will do like
outdated textbooks
and budgets
The elite always has more
A brewing storm
if the belly isn't
fed the norm
hungry they are
the forgotten faces
sifted out via
The Politics of
Education
Urban and Rural
The Hungry bottom
Forced Servitude
Or they hide in
the park after dark
under Bridges
swept and mopped
into Shelters,
or hidden shantytowns
What happened to
The Highest Ideals
of Man?
On Loans,
Or Dream Deferred
and the best
eat and the least
wait in stale
Souplines
while hunger pangs
wale into the night
2 Fish, 5 Loaves
Considering the consciousness
Of America still has a Heart
To feed all that Freedom
That's reached when
All have reached
Satiety
Let us all be
Full and fed
Led the sound
Of hunger be dead......
Kevin Guru © 2019