Best Rumps Poems
I Love Horses: A--Z
A is for... Appaloosa. They have
blankets on their rumps.
B is for...Belgian. They work
hard and can pull up stumps.
C is for...Clydesdale. They're
BIG bays with white fluffy feet.
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony
from the moors--so sweet!
E is for...Egyptian, the finest
horse on desert sand.
F is for...Fresian: Big black War
Horse--a Knight's demand.
G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare
beauty like fairy tales.
H is for...Hanoverian. The best
all-round from England hails.
I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal
horse that's black and white.
J is for...Java Pony. He's
Indonesia's working sprite.
K is for...Knapstrup. He's a
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey
leapers known in the Big Tops!
M is for...Mustang. Wild and
Free--roams America's West.
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed
black and drives the best.
O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage
ribbons just get bigger.
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers
named his, Trigger.
Q is for...Quarter Horse,
cowboy's fav'rite! Does
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His
ride's so smooth it will make
you sing.
S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse,
Gaited beauty everyone loves.
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing,
"The Sport of Kings", he does.
U is for...Ukrainian Riding
Horse: Beautiful born after
War's end.
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish
black stallion and true friend.
W is for...White (Albino) Horse.
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's
Mongolia's riding draft horse.
Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut
pony from Japan.
Z is for...Zebra: African wild
but tamed by man.
A personal therapist long past
the end,
The love of a horse...is the
love... of a Friend.
deborah burch
02.28.2013
Have you ever seen a duck come in to land… on land
It’s an eventuality that nature never planned
For ducks that land on water such a graceful splashdown make
But should they land on terra firma… it sure ain’t Swan Lake
Each one does a belly flop, a cartwheel and a stagger
They get up and compose themselves, but ducks weren’t made to swagger
They have no shame so simply waddle with ungainly gait
Toward the back door of my house where they all stand and wait
This morning there were six of them, I watched them all crash down
“They’ll need a pint or two of seed,” I muttered with a frown
Their heads were first to hit the deck, their rumps stuck in the air
I went out with a jug of seed to find them gathered there
As I stepped outside I felt like Moses on the shore
The ducks made space for me to walk and not a hair’s breadth more
Two partridges were standing by and I also fed those
And when the pecking finished, well, I almost checked my toes.
Bird seed by the quarter-gallon gobbled up each time
I wouldn’t mind but it ain’t half a kilo for a dime
But it gives me pleasure and as I stood there this morn
Two more kamikaze ducks crash landed on my lawn.
Those condescending Royals in their pristine
garden, primp and preen among the other flowers.
Their porcelain pale skin so fragile; they make
a wide berth, around me. I feel like a thorn
in their flesh, an oddity at best.
The stately cedar would not deign to give
his daughter to my son, saying she already has
a place at the palaces of kings. I bristle for without
this lowly thistle, their lives would be boring.
Why, they’ll be sorry to find me and my kind
honored on the Highlander’s Royal flag. One day,
my thorn will puncture the proud, topple them from their
high horses. They’ll slow down, their careless
stride and fall, as the thistle's prick is pulled from
their perfumed and powdered rumps.
After: Thistle in the Field, by Fidelia Bridges, 1875
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 10
16 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing 24 February 2016
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
Asinine
The Poem
Spit and glue
Tape on glasses
Lace on wrinkled rumps
Lipstick on lizards
Ants in bee-hives
Parties in the cemeteries
Toothfairy bank robbers
Dunces in libraries.
Rhymes on caution signs
Large Letters for the deaf
and hearing aids for the blind-
Asinine.
I think, to see a cripple crabs with crutches,
bow-legged spiders with a pigeon toe-ed cat.
Or a knock-knee-ed rabbit- with a Multi-Colored Bat
Apes eating hor devours
Amish wearing Hats no-more
Imagine the scenic scene
That we would see-
If the Sky replaced the sea-
Spit and Glue will never do-Spit
won't do, when you need glue.
Dressed to kill with taped up glasses,Lace on strippers
with wrinkled rumps
It's a crazy poem but I really feel
You should never read rhymes on caution signs.
CAUTION
Look up here
have no fear –
There have been
twenty-six
accidents right here-
When you slow up
to read this rhyme
you may get hit
from behind
cross the white
line and smash
over the medium
Congratulations to Donald Trump
Who gave Hillary Clinton the dump
She looked as clueless as Forest Gump
As voters saw her as Obama's chump
Election night went bump bump, bump
Republicans began to jump, jump, jump
Democrats now in a slump, slump, slump
Their throats feeling a lump, lump, lump
Supporters of Donald shaking their rumps
From women who are pleasingly plump
To the proud soldier revealing his stump
Nary a reveler with the face of a grump
He managed to get over a critical hump
Speaking about women he wanted to pump
Turn up the volume, listen to the thump
Of our 45th president, Donald Trump
John j jr
Dear Ma and Pa: I'm now a proud United States Marine!
I've found it purty easy to slip into their tough routine.
Some of them city fellers think things is really rough,
But growin' up on the farm has really made me tough!
Why, they even let us sleep-in 'til almost five o'clock,
Then, sergeants rant and rave to awaken us hapless flock!
You make your bunk and shine your shoes, if time will allow,
And then march to the dinin' mess for some hearty chow!
On the firin' range I've got three medals for aimin' true,
And though I'm only a hundred pounds and am but five foot two,
I can out-run and out-jump anyone on the obstacle course,
And flip them macho guys to the ground with but little force!
Pa, this shore beats sloppin' hogs and shuckin' corn,
And gazin' at mules' rumps a-plowin' at the break of morn,
Or milkin' cows, tendin' goats or hoein' rows of taters,
Or sweatin' under the Hoosier sun pickin' pecks of maters!
There's even an indoor outhouse and all the hot water you crave.
This shore does make it handy when the fellers need to shave!
Shucks, I'm a-thinkin' about makin' a career as a Marine.
That's all for now, as ever, your lovin' daughter, Darlene.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Hands a-clappin', boots a-thumpin',
skirts a-twirlin', rumps a-bumpin'.
Feel the vibes and hear the noisy
Idaho cowgirls and Boise.
Back to the city we go
We leave you winter ghosts
To sway away on your hanger hosts
Until next year or never more
It depends on my poor dad
If he can dress himself
Next spring
Still in his UAW gear.
I stand for a moment in his empty closet
Like a hat stand in a cardboard box
His callused gloves resting in a drawer
And outside on our deck
The rocking chairs race
Side by side
Like horses jockeyed with October wind
Boards creaking beneath
My lures sparkling like mother’s jewelry
Jigs spoons plugs
Hung below
In the shed’s metallic flaps
An autumn tambourine
Shaking at the rumps
Of a pair of summer swans
Pounding their wings in liftoff.
The jumping jellies in wellies are singing like la la la
Space suited shells are quite adept at leaning through cubby holes and travelling for a long time. A long time is a lengthy length leaning. But not leaking for leaking is akin to leering and leering belong to lecherous old whales in suits sat on many benches in rows. Rows reaching raiding retching rumps. And rump steaks are mashed to a pulp by a size six hundred shoe having a hop down a stairway. Never mind the beeswax ear drums and kettle fish dance for ot is merely a movie shown here on a screen. A flat screen is often displayed on a suitcase isn't it? Wow how often the occurring jam configured jar invites the ham to a sandwich party. Quite often. But a table top clap is a riot of absolutism that abolishes apple pips. Eradication eating eggplants. Oooh mystic moo tune. Great. Dance then. Hahaha the sponges are riding the paperbacks. Hahah swan dip in the cup. Xxxxx colonisation z z z z at nineteen herrings hearing harpsichordists' to fourteen financially dynamic dynamited digital dogs. Z so why wobble wobble with curd then z z z z z z zbhvq at platform five six seven. Z
kids are all tested
on reading writing and arithmetic
trade workers are tested
to ensure they know what standards fit
industrial and institution leaders are tested
before they take over to eliminate personal
why then are presidential candidates not tested
for their humanity and mental abilities as well as their logic
reagan was who many wanted and he was tested
and proved out of it by dementia but allowed to stay on as a patriotic
t-rumps uncalm can't walk talk think (his education bought not tested)
his traits more serious than just symptoms of a frontal lobe that no tick
daily he threatens to overthrow election results if he's bested
this shows his ego's panicked and seeks a legal trick to remain the big dick
got to quit the us-against-them and we'll-not-be-bested
demon-cracy's not democracy and doesn't deal with all sides like the sick
many democracies health care systems beat that of the wont-be-bested
more than two political parties (a voice for all sides) and acceptance the trick
stan sand
The school bell rings, we all get up from our seats,
Like ladies and gentlemen, and walk out into the hall.
There's no running allowed in the halls
Or the teacher will send us straight to the principal's office.
I couldn't wait to get out on the playground for recess.
The most fun to do, is playing together with friends.
I run towards the low-hanging swings
Shouting, Yes! Higher, higher reaching for the sky.
We’re laughing and yelling as we go, round and round
Holding on tight to the bars on the merry-go-round
So, we won't fall off with high-speed.
The seesaw is the best. I sit at one end
And my friend on the other, up in the air
Up and down, up and down, and feel the hard
Thump on our rumps as it hits the ground.
We all wait in line to climb up the ladder
Waiting for our turn on the slide.
Some of my friends picked sides to play baseball,
Others basketball.
Rrrring. We turn to the sound of the school bell.
Shucks. It's time to go end.
6/22/2021
SEXINESS
Knowing me as a sensitive and caring person,
What I find sexy, as you may have suspected,
(Although by rationalizing the situation it will only worsen)
Is based on real people with whom I have been connected
For example dark hair about jaw length
A dress with a flared skirt and narrow white hem
Chubby women with very little strength
And the Sudanese national anthem
Not to mention the long-haired beauty
When I was fourteen who liked me to divest her
And who showed me my duty
In her daddy’s combine-harvester
Oh, those John Deere s still send me to goose bumps
Or a really big Massey Ferguson with platform attachment
Can be even better than the weak ladies with plump rumps
In generating sexual excitement
I do not wish to discuss the anthem of Sudan
Although you may be curious
Because it involved not a woman but a man
Whose affection turned out to be spurious
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written, tongue-in-cheek, by Sydney Peck
Entered in Nette Onclaud's Contest SEXY!
They talk so much but do little
Yes that’s it, for that is all they can do
When we used to walk distances on daily routine
It was enough to say things can be made better
Horses, bicycles and carts saved the bare-footed walks
But oh, it takes so much a time and still exhorts our energy on sunny days
Then the cars came with roofs, comfort of the seating, air conditioning, radio and all…
What else do we need?
Look!
The road is too bad for our commuting with the cars,
We need better roads.
The road, when graded to eliminate the pot-holes and straightened;
The road has taken part of my piece of land,
The road makers destroyed part of my property,
The road is too dusty that we get dirty and sick after commuting,
The houses close by are living in a hell of dust.
A well asphalted motor way would have been the best.
This newly constructed asphalt road is killing commuters and pedestrians due to over-speeding
The speed rumps will do us some good.
This speed rumps are so many;
Delays the smooth running, and our waist pains after our journey.
The lantern is too smoky and gives us catarrh and even the kerosene is scarce.
We hate this ‘dum-sor’ with this electricity that has spoilt us.
One can apparently do nothing when the lights are out;
Not even to cook.
There is no ‘light-outs’ now but the electricity bills are becoming unbecoming;
In fact, it is too much so they have to do something about it.
This flooding has become per annual event in our cities,
Can’t we get any of them to turn things around?
They now want to deny us even where we stay,
They have collapsed some nice expensive building just to create a gutter, oh!
Even you are not save as you walk on the streets,
A man was arrested for just throwing a small polythene on the street,
And a woman with a baby at her back who threw pampers into the gutter…
We have no jobs but have schooled all these while.
Youth Employment is here for you,
You expect a graduate to plant vegetables or work for Zoomlion?
Or be a bead-weaver?
spam it is ham in a can
or just big boobs appearing on my screen
never let your computer to land on someone laps
as you will be invaded with meat not to your taste
vegetarian of human flesh I do not care for the abs of young males
sailing their trade as the udder of young cows do nothing for me
delete will send me the world of obscene
I miss the birds and the flowers
the good stories of gentle souls taking their rumps in privacy