Best Slathering Poems
The future holds no premium
For a person brawling with their past.
There are no birds in last year's nest.
There are no rememberings to unmask.
Memories are the fruits of our existence
Where some bloom and some may die
When exposed to an aura of understanding
Life's lessons shall provide.
'Tis Human to learn from our mistakes...
Making bold of life's infections
Slathering a healthy dapple of forgiveness
As we sinners surmise a new direction.
We should freely right past wrongs...
Banishing past transgressions to the night
As the journey may task our very soul...
So it's best to travel light.
I no longer fear a backward glance
Or the breeze of yesteryear.
I have made my bed and here I lie
With a spirit crystallized and clear.
I ignore the minions who dredge my past...
Casting forth their hellish stones...
As I eagerly embrace one of God's greatest gifts...
Which is a future yet unknown.
The End
My dear friends, bow not to the "father of lies"
He prowls as a lion...only in disguise
Waiting so patiently; hour by hour
Seeking the straying sheep he'll next devour
He licks his vile lips in anticipation
Hungering for the fallen of creation
Dripping as honey, one slathering falsehood
Can slide down as easily as the truth would
But soon in our sickness, we weaken and die
We curse at the heavens as we wonder why
We've eaten of evil for too many years
And fatally deconstruct from our own fears
Let us not give one more days' satisfaction
Instead let us purposely spring into action
We'll tackle that liar with Truth from our Father
And let Satan know that he just needn't bother
Even within a most imperfect world
We're stronger than anything that he can hurl
For weaker is he that would see our joy die
And greater the One who will come, by and by
To take home His children that stand 'til the last
That day, at His feet, our golden crowns we'll cast
As He wraps us up lovingly in His embrace
We shall weep with joy when we meet face to face
So, dear friends, bow not to the "father of lies"
Just fight the good fight, keep your eyes on the prize
How do you want your eggs he says
while turning the hash browns he has
added cut up turkey sausage to?
I reply, any way you want to fix it,
I only want one. He insists I choose,
so I say, okay 'over easy' then.
The egg sticks to his too hot skillet
and becomes broken and then begins
to resemble scrambled.
I try not to laugh and reassure,
it doesn’t matter at all.
After a heavy slathering of mustard
I dine like a pajamaed queen!
© 2014 Connie Marcum Wong
Note:
Just a quick note to let everyone know that my
Husband had an angiogram and his arteries are
not blocked so the doctors feel heart surgery
is too risky to remove his aneurysm so he will
just live with it and we hope it doesn’t grow
larger. Thank you all for your prayers. We are both
relieved that he won’t be having heart surgery.
That steamy summer day
At age fourteen and three months
I stood awaiting the kiss
Of the tall, dark, handsome hunk
My stomach was in knots
As terror snaked up my throat
Would he think it was okay?
Would he, with flowery words, emote?
His luscious lips descended
As I closed unbelieving eyes
A thrill rushed through my body
I was weak from feet to thighs
Then, suddenly, his tongue
Darted out and squished around
In a sloppy and slathering mess
My feet never left the ground
When the “kiss” was over
I couldn’t look at him the same
He was a dog; no longer a boy
And, now, I don’t recall his name
Inspired by John Heck's contest, "Egads, My First Kiss?"
There's a legion of doc-ologists to keep us on our feet.
A glance in the telephone book reveals a list complete!
Seems there's an "ologist" to care for us from head to wiggly toes,
Prodding, poking and dosing to ease our miserable woes!
Praise the Lord for geront-ologists who care for folks my age,
To ease our minds, hold our hands ushering us t'ward dotage!
Then there are the psych-ologists who meddle in our head.
The practice of the proct-ologists is better left unsaid!
The dermat-ologists who cleansed our faces of acne as a teen,
Now hassle us about slathering ourselves with sunscreen!
I'll never understand how anesthesi-ologists operate off hand,
But I know their potions ease the pain as we relax in la-la-land!
Gynec-ologists specialize in treating ladies' singular ills,
Including that vexatious time marked by hot flashes and icy chills!
Cardi-ologists are vital for keeping us alive and kicking,
Checking aortas and such to ensure our hearts keep ticking!
I'll coin the term "the-ologists" who deal with our languid souls,
Directing our thoughts upward beyond mere earthly goals!
Radi-ologists, ur-ologists, "other-ologists", I could go on ad infinitum.
Lastly, there are cosmet-ologists to pretty us up when we succumb!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Scooping out avocado
slathering it all over the lettuce
mixing in some beans
adding some chopped eggs, then dressing
Getting creative
I've never made a salad like this
I hope it tastes good
like something made for Thanksgiving
Putting together
whatever I have that's available
feels like playing
little Play-Doh artist in the kitchen
SKB
He walks the moonlit moor,
With eyes all aglow,
Hunting down his next victim,
Bringing death unto us all.
His ears are perked up,
Listening to the sounds,
That fill the night sky,
From the bats to faint footsteps,
And horses neighing in the distance.
He makes his way through the woods,
Seeing the faint lights of the streetlamps,
Showering light upon a figure,
Huddled beneath it's glow.
He licks his lips,
Tasting the fresh blood that will soon,
Fill his slathering jaws,
The tender flesh tearing in his teeth,
The high shrill screams echoing into the night,
That will end in bitter silence.
Moving through the woods,
Keeping his eyes plastered to the figure,
Knowing if he looks away for a moment,
His victim may flee without a warning,
And thus he may be vulnerable to the hunter.
For aeons he's wandered the world,
From Japan to the Polynesian Islands,
And now the US is where he resides,
Feasting on the aristocratic flesh,
Of prominent families.
He stops at the edge,
Turning his head,
Looking for any that may stop him.
Nothing but the figure seems to haunt the night,
Beneath the fading streetlight.
Thrusting himself out, he runs,
Forcefully through the thickened night,
Towards the careless human,
Claws stretched out before him,
With blood-lust burning within his eyes.
Suddenly he stops and lunges,
Landing on top of the person,
And begins ripping at their throat,
Realizing there is no blood,
Is when he feels a sharp pain in his side,
And drops to the ground.
His yellow eyes look about,
And see a figure in the dark,
Smoke fills the air around it,
It's the hunter he fears,
He tries to scramble to his feet,
But is brought down by another piercing pain.
The figure moves closer,
A barrel of a gun comes sliding into the light,
Followed by the figure wearing dark clothes,
Walking slowly through the night,
Gun pointing down at the beast,
That lay wounded before him.
He musters up enough strength,
To lift his heavy body,
And tries to lunge,
Bang!!!
Is the last thing his ears register.
Contemplating the versatility of Mayo
And all that can be done with it
From the slathering on whilst sun bathing
To globbing it on my bologna sandwich
I find it tantalizing to the tastebuds
And it sure does sizzle in the sun
I once applied to much and set my toes on fire
Lucky for me I lost only one
Thank goodness I was near the water
When my foot went up in flames
I guess that's why God gives us ten toes
In case we lose any along the way
As with anything you can even get bored with Mayonnaise
That's why I strive for different ideas
So I put my brain juices into overdrive
And came up with this amazing list
Instead of milk in a shake you can use Mayo
Please wait till the end for all the applause
I'm still having trouble dealing with thickness
And have yet to get it through the straw
Perhaps if I leave out the ice cream
And just add Mayo, milk chocolate, and ice
I guess I'll just keep on experimenting
When it's ready you can be the first in line
And who doesn't like mayonnaise on anchovie pizza
The perfect combination at best
Even better than peanut butter and jelly
If only I can figure out how to package it
Mayonnaise is also the perfect conditioner
You could leave it in your hair for days I suppose
But try to avoid to much time in the sun
After all...remember the toes
I'm going back to my room for more ideas now
Or as I like to call it..."The Mayo Think Tank"
I know my family thinks I'm a genius
Cause they always leave me in there for days
Glistening skin,
Rays beating me from pale to bronze,
Slathering sun serum to push away,
Every beaming UV ray,
Rising earlier to start my day,
Bumblebees,
Humble me,
Find bliss by water,
Cruise from music to music,
Shower me with the beats,
Summertime is how we live.
Slathering down with margarine
Making it easier to slip and slide
As I do my very best
To squeeze my way through life
At the start of each day, pull out the Parkay
In the 5 pound economy tub
I used to butter up with a stick of Country Crock
But in the thick of life that's clearly not enough
Plus margarine is less fattening
I've read the statistics of what's going on
And believe you me when it comes to the squeeze
A fella's gotta watch his form
That's why margarine gets a 10 out of 10
When it comes to the slip and slide
As I do my best in my quest
To squeeze my way through life
Pressed between twin stale realities,
a mixture of marble thoughts
Dark desires swirling around light devotion,
closet of moth-eaten moral legalities
Lettuce bed of flesh profiteering,
aorta slices of tomato fears
Asphalt of exhausted tears,
lip loyalty was bordello bought
Egged on by the sweet taste of a tainted tart ego,
soul slathering jive turkey flattery
Belly paradise of cooper acid reflux ...
Vomiting worship of dollar bread covetous regal
Mayonnaise daze of pickled yoke poverty,
rich irony is gut baked into the plight
Wry sandwich of crypt-o coin delight,
cemetery carry-out is a bottom feeder notion
Apple cider vinegar voices ... tax packet pocket oppression,
eye sprinkle condemn-mint dissent
Another time, same place location —
Spread the inequality plague of mayonnaise last days lesson
The pop corn patter of spring rain
slathering the landscape
curling the fern fronds
closing the dandelion’s ruff
gully washers
speed through stone stream beds
marsh mallow yellow flowers
the lowlands and a misty
burgeoning peace settles over
a fresh May day.
There’s a part of me that say’s I’m jealous
Another thinks my golfing friends just zealous,
Whilst I crave fresh air and healthy motion
They’re busy slathering on the lotion
Before they mount some little cart
That with intent they simply point to dart
At breakneck speed from hole to hole
The putting of that little ball the goal.
Then there’s the clubs, that myriad bunch
The choice of which for them the crunch,
To make the shot or fail once more
Blaming each for that bad score.
Tortured, ruffled, discontent,
They soon repair to that drinks tent
To then replay the whole long game
Masterful excuses quickly turning lame.
But here’s the crunch and my dilemma
The doubt that heightens my antenna,
What are they hiding, sharing not a bit
Of why such torture never makes them quit,
Instead they plan and scheme each waking hour
For that free day the calendar they scour,
When they once more may hold that special club
With surging will some dainty green to stub.
The quacksalver’s quicksilver cure--
slathering a salt salve or quaffing mercury--
might sound like quatsch, a bad wine
of qually quality, but remember a time
when faith aligned with alchemy,
before the querical became the enemy
of the clerical, the quisquous nature
of faith mirrored that viscous commodity;
when quiddities were not quisby oddities
and to quop and quob before mysteries
did not portend holy querimony
but recognition of the quintessence divine.
Fluffy tailed performers
Chitter chatter among themselves
No one listening, everyone slathering
Juicy gossip
Taking daring fifteen foot leaps and dives
From magnificent heights, barely landing on
Tiny branches.
Flinging themselves with wild abandon
And oodles of faith into the air, flipping and
Swirling. Contortionists.
Sliding up trunks the way others slide down.
Landing with a well-earned acorn in their jaws.