Best Overripe Poems
I will release no rhyme
Before its time.
No limerick, ode, haiku, or sonnet
Will 'scape from 'neath
My poet's bonnet
'til it be trimmed, and tamed, and non-aggressive,
Or overripe with verbiage
Or punctuation too excessive.
I will not break
This pledge I take,
Cruel critics' barbs though I endure.
My verse I'll brace with style and grace
Until my place in poetry's secure.
Of course, should "laureate" become my haunt, too,
I'll release anywhere,
And anyhow,
And anytime I damn well want to.
Ripe Mangos
overripe mangos
falling from a pregnant tree-
worms ready for feast
Kindheartedness
Ellen had a lot of experience in washing nappies, six bairns in less than eight years. William
Chapman had a lot to answer for. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what poor Ellen had
to put up with. His drinking, his womanizing, and, some said, his violent behaviour towards his
uncomplaining wife.
The other women in the village tried to lighten her load without appearing to pity her. That
would never do.
Grace, Isobel, and even Nancy left bits of worn soap and washing soda by the scrubbing
board, and with Ellen being fourth in line, very often there was a good full boiler already
warmed with her neighbour’s coal. Most miners’ wives had plenty coal, but Chappie was not
above selling his allowance for beer money.
The van men from the local co-op store were also heroes in this respect. Davie the butcher
always made sure that the soup bones Ellen bought had more than the required amount of
meat still clinging to them. Her half pound of mince got another dollop after it had been
weighed and the odd sausage found its way into her meagre purchases. Then there was
Jimmy the baker who... accidentally... squashed some bread so it was not fit to sell. Ellen’s
brood did not mind squashed bread, it went well with the very slightly overripe bananas from
Ben McCabe the fruit man.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Not sure if this will qualify as a poem on kindheartedness but kindheartedness is what it was
in the 1940s
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.
I'm eating my way through the fridge, tra-la!
I'm eating my way through the fridge
Do I feel a little bit guilty about it?
Maybe a bit more than a smidge
Someone's got to get rid of this stuff
It's been here for more than a week
The plastic containers are starting to bulge
Don't dare lift their lids for a peek
Saw a big bunch of week old burritos
Get up and start dancing around
Thought I could hear a Mariachi band
It was a faint, almost inaudible sound
The vegetable bin was rockin' with laughter
As a tomato all mushy and ripe
Was cuddling up to a overripe cucc
That smelled like an old guttersnipe
All in all the scene wasn't pleasant
Next time we'll try eating faster
Before the office for the environment
Declares an ecological disaster
I'm eating my way through the fridge, tra-la!
It's a service I provide for my country
And Greenpeace is actually thinking
Of naming a ship after me!
© Jack Ellison 2012
A squirrel died on my front lawn.
I saw it fall,
As warm and round as an overripe peach.
I heard it land, like an olive dropped on hard wood,
splayed in a spot where passers-by
looked away on purpose.
Flies congregated,
brushed their legs against each other.
I canceled a dinner party because of the smell:
a low noisome hum
thick as sulphur on the head of a match just burnt,
sour as eggs.
My stomach curled low into my hips
when I searched the air outside my window,
perversely sniffing.
Swollen flies met in congress,
they rubbed their legs together,
trying to start a fire.
Autumn’s rumor
is spread in turning trees,
revealed like stains
on hems
of far Missouri hills.
Few search
or care or know
your soft fruit—
few dare taste
tart sweetness—
trouble
to spoon aside
infestations
of seeds.
Like seasons,
they go to waste—
not savored,
unused, unappreciated—
burled relatives,
overripe pawpaws
past remembering,
lingering
as age spots of early fog
on winter’s
stern harvest.
I knew I should have just walked away;
The moment I laid eyes on you I should have...
I don’t know...blocked you out
I should have seen the blaring danger sign above your head,
Should have heard my heart’s agonised screams of longing –
And I should have realised you would be the death of me
But then I guess I’m a bit funny that way;
I always seem to walk straight toward death,
I seem to throw my arms around my own destruction –
And draw it deeper and deeper inside me,
The way I did to you...
Perhaps it’s just masochism, or perhaps I find death enchanting
Well, when death looks like you, who wouldn’t?
You are so beautiful it beggars belief;
It almost hurts my eyes to look at you –
Your radiance dazzles, and causes me to trip and fall
To fall so hard my heart cracks - and bruises like an overripe peach;
And meanwhile you never even stumble
You just breeze effortlessly into my life, into my body,
Into the aching chasm of my heart,
And there you leave your mark, carving it into the living flesh...
Proclaiming me your latest conquest, your latest homicide
Christ you’ve hurt me; Christ you’ve got me good
Clasped so tight in your Judas grip you fill me to the brim with love
And then with brusque indifference you slam the door in my face
And melt into the desert sands with not even a backward glance...
And as for me – like a dumb fool I sit and watch you go
Speechless with suffering, wracked with raping pain
I know there is nothing I can do to stop you
Know it’s my fault you’re gone – if only...
If only I were prettier, funnier, purer...
If only I had never let you in
If only I had listened to my intuition and wistfully walked away....
I could have saved myself from death on that very first black day
I wish I had a pill to forget the wicked words
that some have said.
And put away from memory the vile scripts
that I have read.
I always hoped when in my prime
I would be unable to sustain.
Those heinous thoughts which lie freakishly
appendaged to my brain.
These words I know and hopefully never use
still sit overripe and beg for my attention.
Should I lose my temper and emotions rage
and spew their sad redemption.
Knowing I will be eternally judged
on but a single thought or word.
And be forever sentenced to a life
where the scrutiny of dregs will long occur.
And in a moment of Human weakness
should I stumble at Heaven's door.
Will God and Twitter offer a tacit forgiveness
for my uttering of a word we all abhor?
But from what I've seen... something weakly said
can never be taken back.
As the fiendish hounds on a demented Twitter
enjoy blood stained euphoria in their attacks.
Let the person free of earthly sin be brought forth
to cast at me their hellish stone.
And in an ever lasting judgement take from me
the sixty years of kindness I have shown.
Or am I wrong? Does some gentleness thrive?
Are there people who feel less depraved and bitter?
Yes. It is my guess... they do exist...
They're just far too smart to be on Twitter.
The End
*For those who are interested. I will be posting my cartoon 'Bob's your Uncle' on my homepage. A new one will appear every second day.
Dusty day departs
Nightfall brings rest;
Home awaits heart
~~~~~~~~~
Weary day retires
Night birds coo Good Night;
Sleep on sweet dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Electric words whiz
Electrons on iPad;
Swirl of feelings
~~~~~~~~~
Silent hours
Rain washing panes;
Streaks of lightning
~~~~~~~~~
Fragrant kitchen
Food on the stove;
Happy meals await
~~~~~~~~~
Jasmine flowers
Scented explorations;
Garden party
~~~~~~~~~
Old tree guards
These ancient grounds;
Final resting place
~~~~~~~~~
Death comes around
Unexpectedly sudden;
Another friend dies
~~~~~~~~~
Crimson sunset
Somewhat different;
Misty drizzle tints
~~~~~~~~~
By this bench
No words separate;
My lover and I content
~~~~~~~~~
Watch the haste
World in a swirl;
Indifferent stillness
~~~~~~~~~
Hot weather ferments
Overripe pineapples;
Sour odours pierce
~~~~~~~~~
Small market stall
The Bisquit Store;
Tons of crackers
~~~~~~~~~
Mobile devices
Cellphones and stuff;
Brisk evolutions
~~~~~~~~~
Talk and chat
Nothing new to add;
Rancid conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Good housekeeping
Sparkling and clean;
Homemaker's pride
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
21 August 2014
Singapore
God wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkeyGod wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkey
To dazzle the curious populace
That might wonder if now its the time and place
To shed the over familiar embrace
Of a pale, stale, overripe monarchy
The media's wet dream fantasy
Filling front pages with hyper hysteria,
'Did Andrew deflower a teenager under the wisteria...?'
What will it take for everyone to see,
He's no emperor and, without clothes on
He's as naked as you and me....
snow rain purple leaves
foam crested waves returning
black night coming down
cardinal landing
shooting star on twilight sky
blooms after summer
overripe berries
beautiful sunset goodbye
splashing waterfalls
avalanche starting
butterflies settling on blooms
weeping willow tears
When I was young
And felt a little glum
My Mum would cheer me
With a plum.
I began to eat them daily,
Demolishing entire punnets
With aplomb.
How I loved those big, fat,
Red-purple fruit bombs
Juicing between my lips,
Never failing to elicit
A contented ‘Yum!’
But one night after
Dinner my Mum
Offered me a yellow one.
I turned my head
And mouthed disgust
At the pale, pus-like
Imitation of my habitual
Fruity dream feast.
This fruit was diseased.
I refused to feed.
I snubbed that sickly grub.
My mother paused,
Then held her breath,
Turning black
Like an overripe plum.
“You know what your problem is,”
She cried. “You’re racist!”
Then she took the entire
Crate of plums and pelted
Me until I was welted
With plum coloured bruises.
“You see, discoloured plums
Still have their uses!”
Now I am grown up
And Minister for Equal Opportunities.
On a celebrity reality TV show
They hooked me up
To a lie detector machine
And asked me if I had
Ever been racist.
I blushed (like a plum).
Miss Jenny Lee ran after afterlife
Life was a boat full of fruits overripe
So, Jenny Lee jumped
To the heap, she bumped
And ate up all fruits and began to gripe
Summer, to me, is an overripe peach:
It’s messy and drips on your face.
At this time, it’s usually quite out of reach,
Impatiently eying spring’s space.
Yet once in a while, it plans an attack,
So sneaky you aren’t prepared
For the sweat that will suddenly roll down your back
And the bellies the women have bared.
Most people seem thrilled – there they are in their shorts,
Their flip-flops and tank tops or tees;
The crowds fill the streets and the weather reports
Tell us it might hit ninety degrees.
So I don my capris and, Scrooge-like, I go out,
Not enjoying my sweaty shirt-cling;
And I hope that the weatherman carries some clout
‘Cause he said next week we’re back to spring!