Best Pot Poems
There’s a poet who thinks we are not
such great writers, yet she’s not that hot!
What that smarty pants spoke
was like saying to coke,
“You’re illegal” when SHE’S like pure pot!
For the the Dumb and Dumber Personal quotes Poetry Contest
I always liked the expression "The pot calling the kettle black"
but because of its racial overtones, a guy did a blog in which
a person identified as Celyn came up with this alternative more politically
correct quote: "Like the pot calling the coke illegal." It really struck
me as clever, and to me it went really well with this situation that I
describe in my limerick, which, sadly, I have seen more than just a
time or two, here at Soup.
Clement weather is often just my dream.
I don’t mind wispy white clouds way up high,
or marshmallow ones topped with whipping cream.
Alas, brooding nimbus are drawing nigh,
I yearn for azure skies and one sunbeam!
Raindrops fall, I hear them pitter-patter,
then hail stones bounce upon my brand new car.
I daren’t go outside and watch them batter
my garden, too. Ice storms are so bizarre
and their crashing makes such a loud clatter!
Rain still teems down, it’s been pouring for hours.
Where’s the warm sunshine, and vivid rainbow?
Torn to shreds will be my lovely flowers,
trellis of sweet peas, just starting to grow.
How I loathe these sudden April showers!
Dark clouds start to lift, a rainbow appears.
Sun’s peeking through a minute patch of blue.
Prisms of colour, I’ve so adored for years.
I’ll venture out to get a better view
for such a welcomed sight moves me to tears
It would be fine indeed,
if we could wash out the mind
each morning.
Thoughts get stale,
the mind like an air deprived swamp,
begins to stink,
and the only way
to go out into the world anew
is in the same way
our souls came into it.
It is wise to swill and pour,
flush and evacuate,
drain and empty,
tip and spill,
ejecting all that collected piss
we’ve been carrying around,
for so many yesterday -
that overfull pot
we call our feelings.
The humid air sweats streaming curls down the toddler’s flush cheeks like Fusilli hot from the stove. The golden ringlets cling to her forehead, bouncing like Slinky’s in front of her, blue-agate, eyes. The backyard’s sounds-bat cracks and wise cracks-surround her. Squeals echo from the mounds of loam behind her new house. The homes out back form a red, yellow, blue, green monopoly board configuration.
The sand box she sits in is full of scrap two-by-four blocks. Using a naked purple-haired troll doll, she attacks the pine-block castle, tumbling the battlement. A plank spans the puddle
(created by the leaky green garden hose). The barefoot tike, troll in hand, starts across the board toward the moonscape of mud mounds; where her sister and friends run screeching armed with rotten tomatoes. She almost makes it before falling in and running mud covered to mother.
Polish Catholics, Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics, lived side by side with English Presbyterian’s and we errant, runaway, Jews. The scent of tomato paste, knackwurst and borscht wafts through the same soupy air, where we play King of the Mountain. Big Boys and Plum tomatoes flew indiscriminately through the August air like missiles. The only thing which stopped the action was the distance ringing bell of the Good Humor truck, here on Cherry Tomato Alley. Here where each new neighbor had transplanted themselves: their children, their gardens, their sprinklers, and their cars to fulfill the American dream.
First Published in Melancholy Hyperbole Spring 2015
Medical they proposed to be
Arnold Schwarzenegger and me
Relentless advertising - negativity
Individual battles - the Ebay girl - a possibility
Judging seventy-two year old's virility
Under cover all some political pot heads
Another election seeing thin, colorful threads
No one's thinking clear, a foggy way to go
Andele, Andele, - Arnold and I will end up in Mexico...
for Carolyn Devonshire's Contest "Election Humor"
The California Proposal of Legalizing Marijuana did not pass... :)
Election results for Governor of CA: Meg Whitman (R) (former CEO of Ebay vs Jerri Brown - 72 (D) He won.
ándele excl (Méx) (=¡venga!) come on!, hurry up!
The beauty of diversity..
All shall join hands..
Come together as humanity..
One size fits all..
It matters not what size one wears..
Differences in race and culture..
Is the epitome of universal love..
There exists no hierarchy..
As the beauty of diversity is unique..
The uniqueness is what sheds light on unity..
There is no better ..
There is no best..
All is equal..
All is one ..
All is the breath of life..
As each and every single life is precious..
As the melting pot is filled with blessings..
We are all sacred..
It matters not ..
Where one is born..
We are all born with the loving light of the Creator..
May all of our love and light ..
Bring forth peace and harmony..
All shall join hands..
Unity..
As we continue to come together as humanity..
A plant in a pot so fantastic
I watered for months like a spastic
'till the day that I found
to its pot it was bound -
that plant had been molded from plastic!
I got out my pipe and stuffed it with pot,
You better believe, it held a whole lot.
I whipped out a lighter and thumbed up a flame,
Then sucked down that smoke which comforts my brain.
I tried alcohol; and smoked cigarettes,
Though, they did nothing, but give me regrets.
My mom had arthritis and couldn't walk around.
When I rolled her a joint, she danced on the ground.
I thought I was losing my lovemaking knack,
But, after I smoked some, to me it came back.
Soon I decided prices were too high,
So I searched for some ground I wouldn't have to buy.
I bargained for seeds from smokers all around,
Then, got in my truck and drove out of town.
I walked through the woods where the wild birds nest,
And found me the meadow I thought was the best.
I dug up the ground and sowed all my seeds;
Then said a small prayer for strong, healthy weeds.
I watered at night with a five-gallon pail;
The mosquitoes went hungry for I wore a veil.
Eight months went by; I thought I would die,
'Till the Halloween moon was high in the sky.
One night I went out, in my camouflage suit,
And used a corn knife to chop down the loot.
I hung it up to dry where it couldn't be found.
Then came back and got it, when it had turned brown.
I trimmed off the buds, and stuffed them in bags,
Called all my friends and passed out free drags.
In less then a week, my crop was gone!
But, I flew to St. Thomas with love-hungry blond.
I'm sure you've all heard the story
About the rainbow and the pot of gold
Well, you'll not find no treasure there
So, listen, to how this story unfolds
You see, I was standing there one day
When the rainbow touched the ground
Now, I didn't find no pot of gold
But let me tell what I had found
There were a bunch of tiny leprechauns
Just a sittin' around and chewin' the fat
So I slowly approached their village
And asked them where I was at
Well, they said that I was nowhere
A place that was in between
Somewhere that people talked about
But nobody has ever seen
So, I began to look around their village
And by now, I was in total shock
Because I had finally found the "pot of gold"
It was the "Land of the Missing Sock"
You see, those leprechauns were kleptos
But they would only steal one thing
They'd take our socks from our dryers
Just as many as they could bring
They said they just couldn't help themselves
They had even tried some therapy
But this addiction was just too strong
And so I guess, it was meant to be
So, I asked them,"If you're gonna rob our dryers,
Why only one sock, why not take two?"
They just laughed at me and answered,
"Cause then, we'd have to steal your shoes"
Well, that rainbow started to disappear
And the leprechauns all faded away
That was the last time I ever saw that place
But, I'll never forget that day
Now, that's the end of my rainbow story
I just wanted everyone to know
That somewhere at the end of the rainbow
Is the place those missing socks go
Patty Potter bought a pot of pewter.
Yes, Patty Potter bought a pewter pot.
Patty Potter paid a pretty penny
For the pretty pot of pewter Patty got.
All we need a leader
Guide us become one of us
Make us sincere against any killing
Protects our family to live our destiny
All we need a world leader one of us making in one piece
Making it boiling it
Be part of it
In taming is music to our ears
Every morning sliding our badges
Making our leaving gone in sinful slips
Only hope rests pray our best
Every morning sinking reality
Surge become more innovative
Making us in a pot all sincere
All we need a commitment in changing rules
Where money plays reigns in market
To adapt them after turns our sake
It may be time to think learn to leave as one piece
Limericks inspired by Linda Fowler’s Limerick - Hindsight
Pot-poetry
We've had many laughs in PoetrySoup
That lift weary hearts when they start to droop
Laughters a freebie
A sure guarantee
Sup from the soup and enjoy a good whoop.
Laughters infectious, it flows oversea
Different nations writing poetry
Yet all in one pot
The pot holds a lot
Pot-poetry full of variety.
* * *
1st January 2021
Mocking the dead, is that a thing?
How many ways can one be disrespecting?
Laws that cause offenders to be free?
Rape kits that exist only to be not breached.
Little lies and big divides of right and wrong genocide.
Our forefathers could not ever predict
We would be as disrespectful as this.
Ancestors bones surely roll like river
As the wicked become powerful while weak lips quiver
Fowl language and worse ethics morale and actions
Political powers that endorse for private satisfaction.
Mocking the dead what about the little kids
Who inherit the earth in the shape of it
We enjoyed youth clean air and water
And dirty it up for son and daughter.
Looking back only with limited views
Erasing the truth of ill will and abuse
A country started by taking from the natives
Blended into a melting pot of many races
Mocking the dead playing music head like fiddler
Warming the red bed of fire for Hitler
Are we so pompous we can never admit faults
Until it is too late and we too are lost?
Written 9/21/23 For Mocking The Dead Contest
Sponsor Silent One
Like a leprechauns butch haircut,
the daffodils pierce
March’s maple blanketed bed.
Hidden gold at the end of a spring rainbow.
The golden pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow
hands made the pot run dry
It is time to put a plug
in the money that flows
from pockets of people
take it away from eastern flow
because the westerners know
nothing good will come of it
the pot of gold empty now
colours of the rainbow faded
how will we ever refill the pot
not in my lifetime surely not.