Best Mud Pie Poems
Maddie, Maddie, mud pie maker,
born to be a beaming baker.
When making mud pies she feels free,
here is her secret recipe:
In the searing summer sun, go grab a garden hose,
then scoop a hole and have some fun, perhaps behind a rose.
There you’ll make a perfect puddle, ankle deep will do,
then add ten scoops of garden dirt, measure with your shoe.
Add some bugs for extra protein, house flies are nutritious,
my pet Bill the Bullfrog says: “they taste so delicious.”
Now jump right in and stomp around, watch for little fish,
use both your hands to scoop some mud, squeeze it squish, squish, squish.
Then place the mud on Daddy’s car, or Mommy’s, on the hood,
where its hot enough to bake a mud pie oh so good!
You can eat it all yourself or share it your friends.
Best to bake on laundry day so as to make amends.
March 16, 2021
Nursery Rhyme 2 Poetry Contest Sponsored by Eve Roper
Ten for a dollar, not worth a dime.
Two bucks gone, such a crime.
The emptiness of their shovel and pail.
Left twenty mud pies up for sale.
Babysitter blues, six at a time.
We're left searching for clues, with no reason or a rhyme.
Pain around our neck, feeling bought and sold.
In a world that's lost tender hearts of gold.
Faded maps of where to go.
Yesterday just doesn't know.
We're left to wonder, where'd we fail.
To just end up with this mud pie sale.
About new town in case it's too obscurely written. Peace.
She was quite contrary
My mud-pie Mary
Lived life outside the ordinary
She had a crooked smile so wide
She had a twinkle in her eyes
As she played in puddles and made
Mud pies
She served to unicorns and fairies
Her love not sparing
Delighted and content in mud pie sharing
She would dance and sing
As mud she would fling
Pretending she was a princess of a royal King
Over time she grew
And the fairies flew
She quit singing and dancing
And making mud pies too.
She met a prince so fine
Who liked to wine and dine
And took advantage of her
Time after time
She quit talking and became quite shy
She lost that twinkle in her bloodshot eyes
And hides so no one can see her cry
The joy of youth sadly ran down the drain
Stolen by a prince who brought her pain
My poor mud pie Mary died in vain.
After the rain comes
Out the sun, soil is drenched
Time to make mud pies!
How boot a mud pie for the birthday girl?
(yes, that would be the snoozing missus,
hook lames to need mooch beauty sleep),
hence who might not arise for bajillion years.
Thou me noggin forced to remember
how me heart used to ache
asper in no help
to relieve anticipatory anxiety
doth suddenly find this
(24/7 day tripper sleeper) wide awake,
now mine dearest beloved,
ye need not break
these lovely bones remembering,
if yaw completed lix piddle orbitz
axing age iz fatalistic rhetorical question,
finding yours truly escorted to lake
chock full of fierce
allidiles or crocogators,
now worm eye gonna
get the most perfect Earth friendly cake,
rather than dastardly duck
that husbandly role i.e. man drake,
thus what better way
this stormy July sixth, 2019
to express moony times,
aye did pastimes forsake
feigning, pretending, trumpeting
loving thee tubby "FAKE,"
now...haim twice the man
I used tubby - formerly rake
hush long haired pencil necked geek
though in face of adversity still meek,
yet every now and again
rare instances flashes peek
a boo analogous to happy
go lucky boyhood doth sneak
out from down underground
self long suppressed
many times multiplied
by 52 times 7 days a week,
thus by gosh by golly
fingers quickly tap dance
akin to celebrating holly
day hootin n hollerin like jolly
roger, who pirated some loot
unlike captives feeling melancholy,
or akin to cracker offered
than immediately retracted from Polly
nonetheless, she might suggest some idea
worth parroting, thus I lob and volley
poetic pitch to thee anonymous reader
unbeknownst to me if got pie in the sky idea
how to appease wife, one costly human feeder
who gobbles everything in her wake
not affixed down with mortise
and tenon made of cedar.
Kapow! Here’s mud in your face!
Poetasting rhymes, rhythms and nuclear waste.
Playing in mud pits, kitchens and certainly laced
Everyting that’s made . . . in this mysterious place.
Prob’ly shouldn’t eat this mud in this pie,
It may be somthin’ that’s all just a lie.
Interesting reads and certainly flies . . . beyond belief . . .
High above all that’s high in the sky.
Grand Master Chefs with their heads in the sand
When they pop out unleashing their impossible plans,
Amaze me mind with swirling twirling expands
Me into magical worlds of colorful lands.
Creating recipes so fabulous and untamed
Makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’ - sometimes insane.
Like potters awakening monsters in clay,
I read with a fever . . . Poet of the Day.
New poems always put a smile on my lips,
“What’s this,” I say, “that puts new pounds on my hips.”
Feeding my soul with soupster’s gluteness glips
Coming to life like birds pecking their way thru the crust,
Flocking to screech that it’s Poetry or Bust!
Come one, come all! Don’t miss the bus!
It’s time to unleash the beast . . . in all of us.
I’m not sure I’d eat mud pie turned into soup,
But I’m sure it tastes better than anomalous poop.
No bird brains here, weird just expressing our scoop,
You’re all wonderfully wonking a world worth a damn,
Nothing here can poss’bly be wrong or a scam . . .
No hackers allowed, A.I.s or plagiarizing posers,
Only original awesomeness of incredible composers.
I see you . . .I feels you all . . . eating this soup . . . making the call
To the restaurant that feeds the needs of us all.
No one here starves, no one at all.
So, thank you for being you
And always know that it's true
you’ll always be welcome
in my sandbox of blues.