Best Posh Poems
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
I have a friend named Archibald Green--
Strangest pig farmer I've ever seen.
Now, this weird friend of mine
Always transports his swine
In the back of his stretch limousine.
Pish Posh, I was taking a bawth round about half past three
When all of a sudden in my window I spied a man in a tree
He was leering and when
I looked back again
Pish Posh, he was gone, guess he freaked out at the size of my weenie
(Thanks to my new friend, Lin Lane)
© Jack Ellison 2015
A posh lady from posh avenue Tarook,
Broke a nail when reading a book,
A cataclysmic event
Causing her such torment,
Her emotions were quite overtook.
I have a posh poodle whose name is Miss Sentry
All night she stands vigil to stop a theive's entry
But she treats them like kin
And ushers them in
As if they were noble French gentry
by Robert Gorelick
Thieves love the posh poodle Miss Sentry
She awaits their canoodles aplenty
Though the posh poodle's on guard
The thieves melt her sweet heart
By bringing her steaks to gain entry.
by Belle Bellevue
2/27/23
Collaboration 3/11/23
It was our first date and I had to impress her
While fighting the urge to move in and caress her
I’d have to be subtle and somewhat refined
And show her an intellect dwells in my mind
It wouldn’t suffice to say, ‘Fancy some nosh?’
Took a taxi uptown somewhere awfully posh
I tipped the head waiter to get a good table
Kept up the decorum as best I was able
The vino was tasted and two glasses poured
She licked her top lip and my temperature soared
Her manicured nails browsed a pure vellum menu
And we ordered the very best dish of the venue
We chatted, I felt I was holding my own
For not even once did she check out her phone
Dinner was served, to hell with the cost
My eyes drank her in and I knew I was lost
But I fell in love when my date got het up
Oy Geezer, she bellowed, got any ketchup?
The posh Tart.
She, an old fashioned girl, when walking past me
dropped her handkerchief, gallantly I picked it up.
and hand it to her, it was scented and had enticing
aroma of womanhood. Said her price and my face
fell into the street where it was dragged along by
a cleaning car. She didn´t look that way- short skirt
beret and red handbag-. Said she only picked up
gentlemen, I was going home from a literary party
consisting of pork pie, hot air and warm red wine.
I walked into a bar, had a double whisky thought
about what she had said… calling me a gentleman.
From the inside of the bar I saw her drop her silk
hankie again, like bait, this time she caught a fish
and off they went to make posh love, I marveled
over my everlasting naivety and wondered if she
called him a gentleman too.
‘Oh I say isn’t this spiffing or what?’
says Jeremy taking the horse for a trot.
It will be pheasant for dinner which the butler will sort
followed by Havana cigars and a nice drop of port
in the billiard room where the gentlemen play,
then a nice game of backgammon if it’s on a Wednesday.
The silver spoon in his mouth means he speaks rather strange,
words like golly gosh, old bean- all rather deranged.
The Rolls will be cleaned for a trip to the course
where golf will be played in tidy plus fours.
Then it's off to the cricket with the boys for a jolly,
joined by stock brokers and bankers with plenty of lolly!
It’s lunch at the Ivy or tea at the Ritz
all terribly posh, just like St Moritz
where his chalet will tend to the winter delight,
skiing with royalty on champagne powder of white.
The hallway displays portraits of the old,
founders of industry which took hold
securing old money to ensure a liquidity
where one will never face financial humility.
The turbulence of a tube in a rusted bowl is akin to a striped sky. Acronyms are quite quick to jump over a lake at dawn. And districts discussed dominatrix in an iron ball. Cavitation clapping in a vest that is pink. And five hundred lemons laid out bare. Interesting how a slug does have no flippers in a watery drift. And a biscuit melting in a cup. Bits. Misused. Miscellaneous page of itemised devolution. Require no more. Thirst is a barrel. And a barrel in a chest. Young. Factions form filled. Gone gone gone. In a honey comb drip. Good. Exemplorary examples. Hahahaha beer bread. Hahahaha fortification fortified fries with forks swinging. *** parliamentary z
Posh Avenue
Beautiful avenue big trees on both sides lend dignity to palatial homes,
tall walls with broken glass on top and silence. Yet it is the wrong kind
of hush like a solid melancholy that April days are unable moderate.
This wide avenue has little traffic except for patrol cars driving up and
down protecting the values of houses that are empty and gloomy.
These dwellings are bought as an investment for rich foreigner, who can
use them as a bolt hole if the situation in their own countries wears
towards revolt by the people tired of odious kleptomaniac affluence.
Homeless people sometimes try to break in to one of the houses
the dream is to sleep under silky duvet hot shower and scented soap.
Alas, there is no hot water, all is turned off and the mattress is bare.
the night in the splendour of immense room is a cold and lonely as
the intruder waits for the rain to stop so he can flee to freedom of
relative poverty, food banks and supermarkets´ out of date yogurt.
Posh Poetry
How was I to know, the invitation to a poetry reading was a posh affair?
Thought it was the usual thing with sausage rolls and warm red wine.
Felt as the poor relation to the royalty of poetry, sensed I was ignored,
no one looks at any one who has made a tailoring error. I had a couple
of poems on a folded sheet in my beloved jean´s jacket, just in case I was
asked to read a poem or so – pure vanity-. Had two glasses of wine before
the séance started but only two, three my inferior complex awakens and
I tell people to piss off. Just before the show ended and an actor had read
poetry of a famous dead poet, I was asked to read… I did, but was met
with griping voices. The poem was about rich, pretentious bastards who
thought poetry was a parlour game, the organizer cut me short. Later in
the bar, the actor thanked me for my reading thought it daring telling my
truth about this kind of recital. More drinks, later that evening I had to find
a taxi for the actor and I had to go back to find the posh accent he had lost
in the bar. He was as working lass as I, but had gone to acting school and
had the face of a lord, or the way we think a lord should look like.
The poor actor was never invited back, he swore in the bar, nor was I for
that matter, but we can live with that.
He made his way across the pond
when he was twenty-three,
an upper-crust Brit who even spoke
the finest, English R.P.
His name was Albert Framingham,
but to all the people here,
he’s the posh, English cowboy,
and lord, he knows no fear!
The first time he ever rode,
he fell off seven times,
got to the point that half the town
started rolling their eyes.
But Albert was something special,
a true, determined man,
and before two months was up
he’d been hired as a hand.
Ride, Albert, ride,
you magnificent bastard.
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride out and cut that herd!
He soon got a reputation
for never once getting tired,
he’d ride for days across the mountains,
that boy was cut from iron.
Though he liked a spot of tea,
he still went out every night,
with his pards to Randy’s Bar,
and drank everything in sight.
He soon had himself some sweethearts,
three in just one small town,
and in truest cowboy fashion,
not one could rope him down.
He had himself a wool slouch hat,
and tall boots for riding,
God forbid you ever lie to him,
he sure was cross when mean.
Ride, Albert, ride,
young man of steely nerves,
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride round-up with the herd!
One day he decided he would try
the local circuit rodeo,
roping he knew, the rest he figured
he would learn on the go.
His first time one a bronc lasted
a mere second or two,
but by the end of the season,
he rode eighteen seconds through.
His parents once visited him,
and could not understand
why their son sat by a fire,
eating beans from a can.
He’d gone to prestigious schools,
earned himself high degrees,
Albert shrugged, saying,”Mother,
this is what makes me happy.”
Ride, Albert, ride,
to the life that you deserve,
Ride, Albert, ride,
the greatest of cowherds!
Oh you
Maker of this golden street
You must know
It does not matter
Whether one follows
Or Leads
But them all ****
On your good deeds
Whenever, they are on
Your golden street.
It's just one of those things you say
When your friend has got carried away
She thinks she's all posh
She won't eat any nosh
So I just say Oh Apple Pie
Its one of those things that you eat
When your veggie or not eating meat
Its a lovely little pie
but I couldn't say why
So I just say Oh Apple Pie
Its a saying I say quite a lot
When People I know have forgot
That I went to posh school
Was kicked out coz im Cool
And so I just say Oh Apple Pie
I am the earth and you are the sky,
You are the lid to cover the secret.
I am like an extraordinary dish while you are the special guest to savour it
Pretty posies I make for you,
Come and enjoy my pomegranate bloom
The Potter(God) made different types of clay pots with immaculate designs and shapes
Some turned out less perfectly shaped
Come and enjoy my pomegranate bloom
Pretty posies I make for you,
Come and enjoy my pomegranate bloom)
Translate By Ruhool Ahmad Kawa