Best Punter Poems
Written: October 02, 2023 For Robert James Liguori Contest
_______________________________________
Fervent mishaps start life's biggest wins.
The first crocus shrieks and grins.
A bird's song caused snowflakes to bloom.
Pink, peach, and gold hues in the sky loom.
A fib said once might have afar-reaching effects.
Even as there's time for the truth to tie its elects,
I once took a pathless route to a sluggish win.
Suitable people can clash with the truth within.
Appearances may mislead, and secrets may hide.
A brave and savvy tale, hiding an enigma inside.
Cross rivers and lofty hilltops to find the truth.
Seeking truth amid a world of lies and sleuth
Aged tale as Eden Tree, vernal as a raw tooth
Men grasp lip-thatch form, art, and truth.
Erstwhile, tales, and fables tell.
Truth, rising from the depths of its well.
Authenticity faces life's storms defenseless.
Yet slyness stays sealed to strife senseless.
Justice and fairness ensure all are rated fairly.
Dark deceit and evil send spun wiles sparsely.
Be brave—the liar is a coward and a slave.
Sneaky, skilled at scams and lies, awful knave.
Being honest is punter than money and status.
Stick to the truth, relish light, do not tend to fuss.
Righteousness is power; truth must prevail.
True bravery for an hour typically will avail.
Under any disaster, selfish wails yield no gain.
Inspire with grit and firm will, not always pain.
"It is neither wealth nor splendor; but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness". By Thomas Jefferson
A place where the zeal of my heart dwells
The appeal of a simple life, as lucid tale tells,
within a framework of some tranquility.
Slower flow and less agony ooze credibility.
A sulfurous fury emanated from the darkness.
Nostrils flared with a fiery, acrid harshness
Roaring voices mutilate the uttermost peace
It is impossible to tango with a noxious piece.
My chest heaves, and my lips unclench in a sigh.
Release suffocating lighting with the word "supply."
I'm blessed in my peace, and that lets me smile
embroidered with power and dominance style.
To admit a stroll when I could spare some time
In a casual way down an uphill road, sublime,
I absorb it all in whilst I walk through the forest
Each idyllic scene unfolds for an hour of rest.
Where I'd stay is beside an almond tree,
Its gentle breeze murmurs as it hugs me
where I'd quietly sit by the windowpane
holding a mug while glancing at the rain.
A place to catch the firefly's graceful elegance
Relax amid a velvety starry sky for your dance,
A little peace and quiet amid life's frenetic pace
So my soul is punter attuned, full of helpful solace.
Written: April 13, 2023
1st place contest winner
Writing Challenge - 'T' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Your body men desire
It fills them full of fire
They want so much
To feel the touch
The gifts you have for hire.
You walk the streets so dark
Your future bleak and stark
You work for bugs
To buy the drugs
That really hit the mark.
Your pimp is a drug dealer
A professional money stealer
You feel the pain
Hooked on cocaine
He is your true fate-sealer.
You passing nobody to mourn
Thirty years since you were born
You only know your punter
Who really was your hunter
But it’s you the people scorn!
(Victorian artist William Holman Hunt was
both attracted and repelled by his models)
Can we agree that, terrified of sex,
Hunt couldn’t help but hunt it, seek it out?
There doesn’t seem to be a shred of doubt.
He felt his women exercised some hex,
conspiracy throughout the lower decks,
full frontal on his Puritan redoubt!
He hated what he couldn’t live without
(the only punter in the multiplex).
And Annie, Fanny, Edith – on they came,
alluring, curing, reassuring, fey,
and Hunt (who fastened fast on blame and shame)
was racked by guilt and had to run away.
Another mantis, but the same old prey,
(mixed metaphor) Hunt headed for the flame.
Present, but not independent,
Of societal flows, expectations,
Not understanding sisterhood,
Out with reachability and love.
Together with a voice each,
But screeching sometimes,
In a soft note or look away,
Fondling community law.
Hard for me, but it’s ok,
As we all exist existentially,
Relationship are assumed,
Between you and punter.
Our fine speech narrates,
Our posture, our identity,
With the joy of free will,
Carting societal standards.
Not our families or friends,
Nor TV, teachers or crooks,
But our lives are formed,
Only by our own voices.
Cash makes the world go round, spin
Don't I look like money, that's my twin
Gettin' money, like it's going out of style
I keep throwing it up, like it's bile
Got cash all over me, like it's a rash
You better chase that paper, stack that cash
Start it up like the kick-off, I'm the punter
I'm looking for the bucks, like a dear hunter
Lunatic with the paper, money-crazy
I sit back and count it, they call me lazy
Countin' all this money gave me paper cuts
Pockets' on full, fatter than donkey butts
I got eight figures, like I was ice skatin'
That's figure eight's, you know what I'm relatin'
I got bands, not the ones on your wrist
Yellow canary jewels, same color as piss
No manners, go to the bathroom when you pissed
Mad at me 'cause me and your girlfriend kissed?
She's curious, wanna know how money taste
Your chick's gone, like the T.V. show, 'Without-A-Trace'
Just like the problems, money comes with females
I'm bringing in all this paper from street sales
Our internet freedoms
Say quotes?
Say Facebook pokes?
Say avatar Say hashtag,
My computer handbag?
Or smishing, dishing or instant phishing?
Our musical freedoms
Say princess of pop?
Say queen of hip hop?
The king of orgasmic rock
Who got writer’s block?
Or the Fab four, the king, say how to sing?
Our gourmet freedoms
Say double whopper with cheese?
Say double quarter pounder please?
Say 12 piece meal with 3 sides
Cheese burger with fries?
Shrimp toast, shrimp egg, shrimp halls, or shrimp balls?
Our television freedoms
Say you think you can dance?
Say a geeky romance?
Say Australian idol
Or celebrity survival?
Got talent, Bogan hunter and the struggle street punter?
Our literal freedoms
Say greenie?
Say bluey?
Brickie
or schoolie?
Cobber or dobber or jaw breaking gobber?
Our medicated freedoms
Say candy man cartwheels?
The back alley deals?
Say ripped with ice
When you name the price?
Knocked out with the burnt out, washed out, drop out?
Our freedoms were cried for, died for,
Romanticized, and politicised for.
They’re songbirds, they’re poets, and dark night sky comets.
To be questioned and spotlighted not hidden unsighted.
They’re sublime with a rhyme for all your lifetime,
To be sung from the tongue of that defiant young.
Never pass up a good cartoonity This an encouraging stick about punting Charlie lay on the ground inflatus position Wondering why he lies at the feet of the pundit kicking this idea around in his head Why he is the receiver and never the punter and the kicker is just a squib, scrambling for the goal Flattening a big head is always funny Who can aaurgue with that Lucy’s swift kick in the pants, a lasting romance Tribute to Charles Monroe Schulz (November 26, 1922 – February 12, 2000 1986: “You look forward all year to a special moment, and before you know it, it’s over” to the inspirational
Red Rum was pounding the turf down at Aintree,
Going as fast as any horse can be,
Ginger was there looking on at the side,
And the whole of Liverpool, filled up with pride.
For the third time now, this great horse had won,
The greatest steeplechase under the sun,
At Aintree a Horse is more likely to die,
For the third time Red Rum, the odds did defy.
Around the world the bookies all suffered,
The betting fraternity knew they weren’t buffered,
To lay off a bet when the Horse is a hero,
Is not easy, so most, were left with a zero.
The ordinary punter, who fancied a flutter,
Even, the tramp, who lived life in the gutter,
Joined with the housewife who bet the housekeeping,
On the horse with the heart which always kept beating
Because they all knew Red Rum would win through.
I have a couple of internet Friends in Australia
We like to joke around some, so I wrote them this,
To the tune of "Talk To The Animals" (Dr. Dolittle)
If I could talk to the Aussies
just imagine it
Babbling to a Bloke, in Blokaneses
Imagine Bantering with Bludgers
Chatting to a Cobber
What a neat achievement that would be
If I could talk to the Aussies
Learn all their dialects
Maybe get an Aussie slang degree
I'd study Cone Toad and Dag
Galah, Dill and Bag
And of course Ab-bor-rid-gin-e
I would parle in Punter and Piker
And would curse in fluent Kangaroo
If i'm asked , "Can you speak 'Banana Bender' "
I'ld say "Both Genders, can't you"
If I could talk to the Aussies, learn their languages
Think of all the things we'd disagree
If I could walk with the Aussies
Talk to an Aussies
Slang and Bang and hang with an Aussies
And they could Slang
and Bang
and Hang
with Me !
Standing near the front of the queue
The boy rehearses his lines
"Just three or four pints"
Over and over again in his head
Focussing on every step
That takes him to the inquisitor
Stray too far to the left or right
And there's no way back
Behind him, the underage drinker
Tries his best to blend in
Three years underage but
Looking sharp in his best togs
"Play it cool," he says to himself
But the doubts creep in
As butterflies mingle with
The Merrydown in his gut
Further back, a girl peers
Into her make-up mirror
As she tries to remove the traces of vomit
From that alleyway spew
The icy wind drags its nails
Through her ample bare skin
But it fails to break her concentration
There's drinking to be had
The guy behind can't help but admire
As she bends over to dab
Chilli sauce off her high heels
With a Johnson's baby wipe
With girls like this around
He will surely add another
Notch to his bedpost
By the breaking of the light
A more miserable night beckons
For the punter round the corner
As a half-empty bottle of beer
Smashes full in his face
As the perpetrator takes flight
With an impressive turn of pace
His victim crashes to the ground
And awaits the siren's call
I’ve made some money,
But she’s made more.
Knock knock!
Another punter at the door.
I slip on my shoes,
Put my lipstick on.
This man is eager,
Again, comes a ‘ding dong’.
He picks me,
I should be happy,
But I have to have sex,
With this vile chappy.
His eyes light up,
As I give him head.
The things you do,
To butter your bread.
Is it worth it,
To make a few quid?
I’m only doing this,
To feed my kid.
I want to punch him,
He’s demanding “more”
I get the urge to pick him up,
And drop kick him to the floor.
I fake on a smile,
And do what he pleases.
He is disgusting,
He smells like four cheeses.
The service is over,
He chucks me a tip,
Whilst looking at me,
Like I belong in a skip.
He leaves the building,
Looking elated.
I’m just a working girl,
Who now feels degraded.
Is life itself merely a matter of perspective?
Does cogitation dwarf the poet's reflexive?
If only my words could spread across the paper.
Build a punter world faded from a barren taper.
Has tied together details with his utterance.
This ringed world is bathed in such radiance.
There, as it blazed, the finest fury was sown.
The glories of lofty notions must be shown.
His clever mind shows words to shove.
The fading sun's beams, the genesis of love
Spur one's heart to beat with goodness.
The globe's first torn-and-wrung governess
Or daydreams when yield is in full flow.
The width of this real mental orbit grows.
the same as in this busy, boisterous space.
My mind rises, free of servitude in place.
It might happen with each passing year.
My name, my life, and my manner endear.
And amid the dust of a poet's silent rest,
Maintain contact with the wise and best!
Exert one obedient deed in one fading hour.
Or heal a fading face with a genuine flower.
My lines are fortunate despite a tight scope.
for their nimble date, on the apex and slope.
Still, this verse is my finest leisure option.
It follows a sly path across the attraction.
One time only, deny a brood urge to revive.
Chase only a sigh or lull a worry not alive.
From brick and frame to flowery blitheness.
Our walks have bred humility and forgiveness.
While conversing, I softly stroked your face.
He commands us to protect this holy place!
Written: February 04, 2023
Written: July 28, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There will be rainfall soon
Quietude is how we spot roots
of creative impulse
Its fragrance permeates the air
There is a brief pause in the music
There is also motionlessness in dancing
I draw deeper breaths
Yoga seeks self-awareness and focus
We must learn how to quiet our minds.
Stifling heat is gone
I relish the fluky summer shower
Focus your prayers solely on God
No punter thoughts of you
Oh, restless saffron, a hermit
What are you hoping to gain?
You are doomed!
How do we create a wagerer world?
Unless we improve ourselves.
A slow, steady trickle
Misty droplets trickle down
Cool air dispels the heat
Unraveled as if time forgot
Trees run through Haze
Thank you for respecting us
You maintain your balance
When riches long for a palace
I crave meadows
As fields tend to be evasive
Things will deteriorate with time
As the world around us crumbles.
I cannot rescue you from shadows
An unidentified person appears hungry
What can we observe?
We don't fathom where we're going
When the only thing left is a dream,
When does it first start to rain?
In a world where clouds never break,
Maybe I run till I'm breathless
Despite this, I will sustain my mask
Stars illuminate the sky
Kids wonder why
So, abide by them
with stories and explanations of why.
Gone with the wordless wind.
Confined by the source of the mind.
A world that found punter ways.
Is an abyss full of yesterdays.
A permanent resident of the rock.
Where variety becomes a roadblock.
An aesthetic view is a mark of quality.
Or am I the only one who has curiosity?
Written: May 14, 2023