Best Retching Poems
Thru maritime miles of minions in motion
We hedge our opinions while pledging devotion
To serving the Captain and sharing our smiles
Through barrels of onions and flea-bearing trials
But even the pirates who pose in a rumble
Are learning the merits of those who are humble
The path of our choosing where sinning is pleasure
Is better for losing than winning a treasure
I plunged overboard when I soared off a plank
At the point of a sword and a sore lady's prank
The captain's first mate made her daddy agree
That my fate was a date with the fish in the sea
I knew she was baiting my body at brunch
To catch me in waiting and serve me for lunch
All pirates are worthy to fish and to feast
But no one should make me a dish for a beast
From well on the brink to a splash in the sink
I fell in a flash for a female fink
I knew she was watching me fall in the tank
And laughing discreetly with Daddy to thank
I should have resisted the words that she said
But when she persisted they went to my head
I told her I loved her but so did my mate
Who never returned from his very first date
It seems bloody retching but fatefully true
When somebody fetching is fatal for you
You flee from the danger but fractured you find
That pretty young stranger has captured your mind
You think she is true but you never can tell,
Her saltwater stew is a bitter farewell,
A mob in her keep is the poorest of help,
Who force you to leap in a forest of kelp,
Though mad as an adder I drifted from reach
To bob like a bladder in search of a beach
The Great White beside me was my willing host
To have me for dinner and eat me the most
Then something resembling a storm with a tail
Came surging at me in the form of a whale
I lost my composure and when I passed out
She tossed me all over to sit on her spout
Upon this brave lady who skirted the water
I fled for my life from the ship captain's daughter
She brought me to land on the girth of her blubber
To flip me ashore like a lousy landlubber
From deep in the sea to a seat by a seal
The freedom I keep is a cheap kind of deal
The beach that I sleep on is sunny and hot
So happy to be where my honey is not...
Categories:
retching, adventure, fantasy, funny, humorous,
Form:
Epic
He's running out of Colour.
*eternity eternal mind over matter
*He forms combative images of daffodils and lilac hedges
The Grey Seeps From his Eyes.
* His heart holds abundance, life close, close as a shield
Nature is Turning Black.
* All of the mind intent melds a joyfull palette into an encompassing black
- Can't You Smell Their bitter Entrails?
* Retching he adds fodder to ripen the ground for rebirth.
He Could. He felt them weave
*Balance sought to assert dominance over discord with the Fathers hand.
In and out of His Senses,
*Mesmerizing optiforms presenting themselves
Alienating his Perceptions.
* He strains to hold human concepts dear.
- Count the Bodies, Count the Women
and The New-Borns if You Want?
* From Death, Life, from Life, Death
*the endless circle sustains his weakening heart.
It's Just Math. No longer
*The count down, or up? continues…….
Did Time Stress Relevance.
The Sky was Red: and Empty.
*Empty, yet, the promise of nature abhorrence of a vacuum ..screams.
- If You Wait, They'll Come Back for You
*And you, son of God, child of the Mother will deal……-
He Walked Through Various Flesh
*Seeing the shell for what it was …casing of soul…..
Obscenities, Traveling for Miles.
*Caricatures of Man, insults only to ego long gone.
But The Smell, The Smell Had Followed Him.
- Where's Your God Now?
*………………Now and forever, his soul answers, eternal in the heart of man
*……………………beating with the pulse of the Universe……..
*…………………………Ashes to ashes…..dust to God……….-
*I felt it necessary for my soul to reply, please forgive me Conor? A month of wicked was
too much without a reply.
Categories:
retching, faithheart, heart, daffodils, universe,
Form:
Free verse
Emotions numb, I've come undone a long time ago.
In a trance, this is a second chance it's all I know
I've got to make it this time, keep my feelings blind
turn off my heart and listen to my mind.
Mountains weren't made for climbing with string
I've got to have strength to reach my everything
Close doors on dreaming make things happen
Set sail to the oceans becoming the captain...
what about me says the little voice inside my soul,
the free spirit I've buried in the suppressive dark hole,
chemical passivity blocking the energy
staring at the mirror just wanting to be me
I'm a clown with a fake upside frown
changing the ground so I won't let you down
But what about me! what about me!
Validation of my frustration
This is the situation, product of generation
I'm not a robot, someone you forgot,
Pills sedated, I f*king hate it
retching repeat I need to break it.
I can't be a stupid drone
who cares if I'm alone
I'm not the enemy I just want to be me
Break it! Break it!
But what if there's better on the side,
what if I can make if I tried.
teeter on the edge, a thin ledge,
I'm falling! falling!
where ever I will land, that is where I will stand.
for now I'll keep falling, falling.
Categories:
retching, anxiety, emotions, lost,
Form:
Lyric
they're not speaking to me now, the Muses;
they're being stubborn,
witholding information, like beetle-browed accomplices -
their mouths pulled tight as drawstring purses.
they sit on their twin thrones of epiphany and genius,
smiling silently,
mockingly, while my fingers twitch with impotent yearning
and the chambers of my mind are cold,
dark and hollow as a cave.
i have become a contradiction in terms -
the wordless poet strikes again...
writer's block is the yoke around my neck,
the anchor that sends me drifting lachrymose
into the suffocating depths -
i am drowning,
swallowing tendrils of seaweed and tufts of
gossamer melancholy.
a struggling artist shouldn't have to work this hard -
to pay the bills yes, but not to create;
without the birthing process there is no artist...
yet there is still hope, a smidgen, a dark smudge on the horizon.
some knight errant might appear, with golden locks
and a smile that trembles the knees,
to inject love and longing back into my sulky heart.
he might extend his brave hand, down into
these murky depths, and yank me up;
dragging my creativity, bedraggled, choking,
retching, into the bleak light of inspiration's flare...
but then again, who believes in knights these days?
i am just as likely to wither away down here,
among the fishes and the wall-eyed anemones,
until the words have all filtered from my brain
and poetry is just a fond memory
from long-ago halcyon days...
Categories:
retching, angst, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
The swings you go through with a child
Are not unlike a coaster wild.
The terror, stark, when they arrive:
“How do I keep this kid alive?”
“What idiot allowed discharge,
And placed with me a care so large?”
When you have lost all hope of sleep,
And dark depression settles deep,
Then you will wonder in despair,
“How long, O Lord, too much to bear!”
But then, when first she smiles at you,
And suddenly dawn’s light breaks through!
Until the day you feed her meats
And gagging, retching, white as sheets,
You’re sorely pressed by toxic waste,
And all that fondness fades, erased
By thoughts you banish from your mind,
“How could I ever been so blind
To think this nasty little brute
Was a delight, a darling, cute?”
But then she talks, she says your name;
You’re launching to the moon again!
This surely is the pinnacle,
Parental heights you’ve scaled in full.
But comes the dark night of the soul;
Your daughter’s now thirteen years old.
Who is this alien life form?
When will your days resemble norm?
The slightest thing; all hell breaks loose:
A train that’s led by its caboose!
Back on the tracks, to wreck again,
Of late, you pray, “Why, God?” and “When,
When will this horrid phase be through?”
Completely unbeknownst to you,
This phase, designed, the needed fuel
To send her, gladly, off to school.
And then you sit, an empty home,
Berate yourself in brooding gloam
As night falls on parental days
And you imagine all the ways
that trouble will befall your child,
How by the world she’ll be defiled
And grieve and want her in your arms
In safe protection from all harm.
And after school, she needs you less
Until it’s time to buy the dress.
For her, elation and much joy!
For you, “And just who is this boy?”
But as you learn, she’s picked a man,
All goes according to the plan,
And you have this to comfort you,
For it is clear he loves her too.
So for a time, you are at peace;
The cycling has much decreased.
And yet, when they have fully grown,
Then suddenly you want them home.
You yearn for time spent with their kids
At intervals the miles forbid.
And if you’re being honest, too,
You’re hoping they’ll take care of you.
But looking back, it’s all a win;
You’d gladly take this ride again.
Categories:
retching, parents,
Form:
Rhyme
Written Nov. 10, 2012
Gail’s Note: Not for the Faint of Heart
Rated PG-13 (Poetic Grossness – 13 out of 20)
What part of this is true?
Answer posted at the end.
I was at the hospital.
It was a quarter past two.
I was waiting for my husband.
There was nothing to do.
The emergency was over.
His gall bladder was out.
He was coming back home
Better off, no doubt.
The next day our daughter cooked
A special meal for her dad.
To celebrate the ending
of what could have been sad.
Instead we were all at the table
Treating my hubby like a star
When he eyed the counter
And asked, “Where is the jar?”
My daughter’s eye caught mine
And she instantly knew
That this was no ordinary
Meat and Potato stew.
She ran into the bathroom
Her face turning green
As she quickly zoomed
Bypassing her scream.
And while she was retching
I quickly followed behind
And while she was queching
I spoke to ease her mind.
“Your meal is bladder free.
The jar’s on the garage shelf.
Come, look with me.
You can see for yourself.”
And when she saw the jar
Her eyes met mine.
I could tell she was beginning
To feel just fine.
She went back to the kitchen
And I did some retching myself
Because I had just fibbed
About that jar on the shelf.
The bladder in that jar
Was an old one of mine
And dad’s had been cooked
With potatoes, carrots, and wine.
So the moral of this tale
Is to say, “Thanks, but I’ll pass,”
When given a memento of yourself
From the hospital staff.
Answer: Person who had the gall bladder removed was my cousin. The hospital really gave him his gall bladder to take home in a jar. He really set it on the kitchen counter. (Ugh!) His wife made him move it to the garage.
Categories:
retching, funny, imagination,
Form:
Rhyme
HEBRIDES
Big waves crash on a Hebrides shore,
Horizontal rain slashes the rocks.
There’s no shelter here, not even a crack,
There’s no wood here, and nothing to burn:
Frost giants hurl slivers of ice.
The sun will rise twelve hours from now,
But by then, they say, the snow will be
Knee deep, and nearly slush.
I’m dry enough, but stranded atop
A granite pinnacle miles from shore.
Yesterday I clambered up
To say farewell and then to leap;
But now I can’t, and the coward man
Whimpers and lives for no good reason.
They’d rule a fall from here an accident,
Insurance claims would pay my bills
And spare my family funeral costs.
The fall, I think, a moment of terror,
But actually, not much pain.
And as for the afterlife –
Rosicrucians say
I’d repeat the same act over and over and over
Falling into a self-created hell.
But escape,
That’s not an option.
Friends look at me and say:
“Better choices you need to make:
You’re not paralyzed from the neck down,
Retching from intestinal cancer,
Helpless in bed with chemical burns,
You haven’t lost a wife or a child
To a tsunami or a terrorist attack,
You’re not foaming with addictions
Or exposed in shame on national TV,
So what’s your problem?”
TRAPPED! I tell you, I’m trapped
Inside the same old wretched self,
In a prison too small for the animal life
The monkey and the otter praying to play
In sunflower fields abounding in streams
Where fountains sparkle joyously
And rainbows lift the sky to the sun –
Away from the hamster chained to a log,
Away from the failures and toxic romances,
Away from the husbands choking their wives,
Away from the igloos buried in ash,
Away from
Away from
Away from
Away from the hollow men
Pulling the strings.
Categories:
retching, depression,
Form:
Blank verse
Simon has been gone a long time
Does he think we are playing hide and seek
I remember him saying 20 minutes ago
He was going to take a leak.
I open up the bathroom door
I can't believe what I see
Simon sitting on the bathroom floor
His trousers around his knee's.
His head bowed over the toilet rim
Shouting Hughey into the bowl
Are you ok , I ask of him
but he's busy retching up his soul.
It must have been a virus
Ha , That's a likely tale
I don't suppose it has a lot to do
With downing 8 pints of Yorkshire ale.
The world is spinning round mate
He begged me to leave him on his own
Would I call his missus
So she could drive him home .
I heard him say '' I effing love you''
You're beautiful you are
Then I heard her snap You drunken prat
Get in the effing car .
I would hate to be in his shoes
This morning when he wakes
Last night his wife looked so angry
I felt the earth around her shake.
She won't ground him forever
Even henpecked husbands don't get that fate
and in the pub next Friday
He'll have to face his mates.
Categories:
retching, funny,
Form:
Verse
Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
As the craft not art of constructing poetry for expediency
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
Isn’t each word a brick a stone a rock in the poet’s craft
That simple folk through the ages filed sans hypocrisy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
What representation of experience can by craft be wrought
To distill meanings imbricated in sensuous mosaic artistry
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
Do English words sound the same in a loud Indlish mart
Or evoke the connotations of a Shakespearean century
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
A South Asian voice reading Pope must sound like fart*
To a Dryden stunned by a Malawian’s Jacobean poesy
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
The sense of sound divides Indlish poems from English craft
As galactic spaces loom in between Indlish pen and literacy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
* A reference to Eric Mottram’s comment on hearing Dom Moraes reading his poems on the BBC’s Third Programme
in the fifties, characterised as an imitation of an Oxford don farting…. Cf. Alive in Parts of this Century: Eric Mottram
at 70. Twickenham & Wakefield: North and South, 1994, p. 17.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
retching, england, poetry, poets,
Form:
Villanelle
Canines of cold bite down hard
Frigid daggers pierce the bones with reality
Pack ice, pregnant with the dynamism of glacial creep
Screaming and retching as it births its icy progeny to the Southern Ocean
Relentless gales turning billows to tiny needles of ice
That slap the skin to pain and then numbness
Replacing the now absurd definition once held for 'hell'
There can be no other than this bitter maw
The scorching breath of Hades would be welcome here
And yet ...
Water, ice flow, land mass
Even rooted far under the pack
Everywhere in this seemingly hostile icescape ...
LIFE ... burgeoning
Blood feeds tissue and respiration
Cells divide and divide again
Sentience and impulse command the macrocosm
Neurons fire in countless succession
And the remorseless but necessary circles of nature spin on
All for the primary concern - the focus of all intents:
Continuance.
A realm of such brutal beauty
An extraordinarily merciless allure and bloom
The very last place any sane creature of acumen would remain
Yet it blossoms and bursts with courses and extent
Even the night sky is alive with color and motility
Ribbons of wonder and movement
The sparkling flags of the antarctic heavens
Waving for all the hearty creatures
That make this gelid torment ... home.
Categories:
retching, adventure, earth, environment, nature,
Form:
Free verse
God called on Jonah to do something he didn’t want to do.
So Jonah beat a path for Tarshish to hide from you know who.
But when he was on the ship God caused the sea to rise,
His shipmates thought that tossing him over would probably be wise.
Then God sent a fish to swallow Jonah and give him time to think,
But after spending three days inside a whale Jonah began to stink.
So Jonah prayed to God and promised that he’d try to do much better,
He’d go give the word to Nineveh if it meant he wouldn’t get any wetter.
So God made the fish puke him up somewhere near his goal,
But the smell of fish innards and bile was starting to take a toll.
By the time he’d walked to Nineveh the stench made Jonah sick,
But the combination of the message and retching odor seemed to do the trick.
Nineveh promised that they’d be better than God could ever conceive,
If only Jonah would hurry to the city gate and oh dear God please leave.
I guess that old saying is true, the one that people with in-laws tell,
That after three days of being around, both fish and prophets smell.
Categories:
retching, faith, funny, god, fish,
Form:
Light Verse
Smelly people in the queue,
Wafting B O from each shoe,
And from their bodies, both unwashed,
Then to cap it all, both are sloshed,
Swaying back and forth as they,
Wait their stinky turns to pay,
And I am right behind them too!
What's the best thing I can do?
Should I just hold my breath?
That may well lead to my death,
'Cos this queue really is very long,
And their odour is really strong,
And holding my nose will not do,
The powerful pong still seeps through,
As through my mouth I'm forced to breathe,
From this position I have to leave,
Before my retching makes me spew,
I'm heading for the back of the queue!
Tom Higgins 05/08/2012
Categories:
retching, funny, life, people,
Form:
Rhyme
I have this uneasiness, which I never had before.
Started from the central chest, now my left arm sore;
Beads of sweat now all over, though it isn’t hot
Should I wake up my wife and tell her or not?
I apply a pain balm as I try myself to nurse
But this damned uneasiness only becomes worse;
My clothes drenched in cold sweat.
Should I call my friend or should I consult the net?
Ten minutes now and I can hear myself breathe
Now a vice-like pain while I grit my teeth
I get out of the bed and pace the floor
Should I get out of the bed and open the door?
I feel as though I am hugged by a beast
Or is it an elephant sitting on my chest
Whatever I do the pain wont go away
Should I call the ambulance straightaway?
Now I feel dizzy, my head is reeling
Unbearable pain, I am still feeling
Unable to stand, I cant believe I am ill
Should I go to the night store and pop up a pill?
Must be the food I ate the previous night,
Or the drink I had, though they said it was light;
Or is it the Evil Eye of my jealous friend?
Should I wake up everyone but how will the pain end?
I get this retching now and vomit all my food
Now that the food is out, I hope I will feel good
But alas, no such luck, my pain is worse than before
Should I just walk and call the Cardiologist next door?
Categories:
retching, anxiety,
Form:
Blank verse
Timeless meaninglessness chatter in ever increasing monotony. Numbers cause numbness in a bridging bus. Brief journeys epoch of encounters. Noise emitted from high circa stereophonic voices. Who paste the atmosphere with hyperness. Primarily caused by the plastic ingested. Cackle cackle cake and burgers. Hypertension from induced formulas. No natural kiss in a plastic smiling box. Unreal. Surreal. Dual reality. Yet the artful pendulum swings. Reaching. Retching. Roarings. Radios. Tampering trampling. Opinions of the other world. In a flurry of sub class division. Associated. Association. Reaching of a radioactive decay. *** calamity.
Categories:
retching, boat,
Form:
After all these many carnivore years
You can call it guilt or you can call it fear
I've made up my mind to decide
I'm going vegan this November time
So I broke down hard and read some books
Heard some tapes on what it took
From veggies steamed to veggies raw
From beans of green to yellow squash
As my nightly dreams were all filled with meat
I pushed back hard with collard greens
But still had no clue of what to do
With a turkey substitute
And that is when a friend came in
Who Tofu's the line at turkey time
So I read more books and heard more tapes
On Tofu fried, boiled, broiled, and baked
Opening up my kitchen to fine cuisine
Minus the best part...that being meat
As I promised myself I can make this work
My Tofurkey would be the finest in edible art
I had bought my Tofu by the pound
Lucky for me it is pliable
As I stretched and pulled and pulled and stretched
Until I had something that looked like a head
With my artistic abilities seriously in doubt
I'm pretty sure what I conjured was the head of a cow
So I pulled and stretched and stretched and pulled
No ones going to call me an abstract fool
As I bring to boil the "Rodin" juices in me
And baste at my skills repeatedly
Where I come up with a turkey, giblets and all
And just for good measure I gobble a turkey call
Of course cooking the thing is another road and
I sadly lost Tofurkey 1, 2, and 3 in the explosion
When 4 hit the score I invited my friends
Whose friendship with them will take time to mend
Just because a turkey looks like a turkey, don't mean that it is
I'm now learning all this while I clean up the mess
As forks went to the mouths at the very same time
So did the retching along with the crying
But in a month they'll forget this entire sordid ordeal
When they get the invites for my Christmas holiday meal
With my time in the books and tapes I will spend
Looking forward to Christmas and a delicious soy bean ham
Categories:
retching, funny, holiday, humor,
Form:
Light Verse