Best Slow As Molasses Poems
THE OLD FART SONG
(sing to the tune of "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys")
Verse one:
Old men ain't easy to love and they're harder to mold,
so train 'em when young, girls, don't wait till their bones have turned cold.
They're slow as molasses, wear cheap reading glasses, they're hearing aids give them away,
they grumble and mumble, they bumble and stumble, what hair they have left turns to gray.
Chorus:
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
Their best parts get limber, their brains turn to timber,
they spend too much time letting farts.
Ladies don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
because when they're home, you will wish you're alone
and they think they have all of the smarts.
Verse two:
Old men like old stuff, ain't that some strange stuff, how antiques will make 'em feel young?
They whistle like thistles, sling advice like missiles and sing like their a**es got stung.
They're always ploying and tinker toying, they usually, always repeat:
What did you say dear? SPEAK UP NOW, DAMMIT! and, When in the hell do we eat?
Repeat Chorus
Verse three:
Old men like talkin' way more than go-walkin', but listening, well, not so much.
Don't try to change him or even "re-range" him, or mess with his habits and such.
Changes upset him, so you better let him, still think he has plenty pizazz,
or he will snuffle, kerfuffle and shuffle, doin' stuff that's a pain in the azz.
repeat chorus
Verse four
They say that old soldiers don't die, that they just fade away,
it's the same with your old man... remember each dog has his day.
Don't nickel and dime him, remember to prime him, be kind as he turns into dust.
Through thick and through thin and through silly and sin, you're together for better or bust.
FInal Chorus
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
let 'em be babies and let 'em be children
and let 'em be heroes again.
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
When they hit bottom, be thankful you got 'em,
'Cause soon enough it will all end.
The look of diamonds.
Were caught by the candlelight.
Dove-colored clouds passed overhead.
As a summer storm came riding in.
On a cold wind ~ soft rolling seas.
Colors from the sun had all but disappeared.
Into the night of glistening starlight.
Summer days were drifting on by.
As slow as molasses.
You might even say.
As the diamonds rolled down.
Oct 2, 2015
Be A Better Putter
Was with naughty iron that is a nine,
Which some say has become benign,
That balls seemed slow as molasses;
Did need to take a few more classes.
From whole golf course would be cut;
Had played never learning how to putt,
Should see each scratchy terrible scar,
That was received for not making par.
Received setback and a major mishap,
Ball again did end up in a sand trap,
And occurred a complete catastrophe;
Drove my ball hard from tee into a tree.
To avoid all trash along with the clutter,
Wanted to try and buy a better putter;
From terrible putts ended up insane;
On course my golf bag does remain.
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/best/33466/james_horn
Golf Putter That Did Sputter
Have naughty eight iron and a nine
That are starting to become benign;
My small balls were slow as molasses;
Did decide to take a couple of classes.
From whole, entire course soon got cut
Because I never learned how to putt,
And should have seen the horrible scar
When they beat me for not making par.
Then golf game suffered a major mishap
Balls ended up being in smooth sand trap;
Was an incredible, complete catastrophe
Had hit ball hard from tee into a tree.
Wanted to replace old one which did sputter,
But I never could find another better putter;
On course, well-cared dead corpse remains;
All those terrible drives drove them insane.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
River Sea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
hampered by deep snow
progress slow as molasses
in January
------------------------------
wild and howling wind
opens the portal wide to
the reign of the wolf
-------------------------------
21st May 2014
Contest: Two Haiku (Describing The Month of January)
Sponsor: SKAT A
Superman’s Other Achilles’ Heel
By Elton Camp
Truth, justice and the American way
Superman pursued every single day
Bullets bounced right off his chest
Everything that he did was the best
A locomotive was weaker than he
Steel he bent with hands, you see
Able to leap tall buildings at a bound
He was the strongest fellow around
Only time he got into a tight
Was in contact with kryptonite
At least that the way the story’s told
But all forgot that he would grow old
For now his hair has grown thin
He has developed a double chin
X-ray vision won’t work with glasses
His reflexes are now slow as molasses
Firm muscles have turned to jelly
And Kal-El now has a beer belly
No matter how hard he may try
He’s now far too obese to fly
This little story may be hard to believe
An elderly Superman’s hard to conceive
After Midnight Musings - impromptu
cleverly staged
the way you are
slinking in your
trinket-ed skin
oozing pure milk
and manuka honey.
cleverly staged
the way you are
slow as molasses
a flaming lick of
hot lava, the
epitome of life's
thirst-
life's thirst for
a mere droplet
to be overcome
by your
charming ways
the way you are
cleverly staged.
You can’t make more,
But you sure can waste it.
Sometimes you want it
So much you can taste it.
It is fleeting thing,
Or it as slow as molasses.
You can run after it,
But you can never catch it.
You can watch it,
But never really see it.
The hourglass’s sand
Will reveal it.
Before you know it,
It is up.
T
I
M
E
Be A Better Putter
Be A Better Putter
Was with naughty iron that is a nine,
Which some say has become benign;
Balls seem to be slow as molasses;
Do need to take many more classes.
From golf course she would be cut;
Played never learning how to putt,
And you should see her terrible scar,
Received for not ever making par.
Received setback and major mishap,
When ball would end up in sand trap,
And occurred a complete catastrophe;
Drove ball hard from tee into a tree.
To avoid all of the trash and clutter,
She then tried to buy a better putter;
Terrible putts did drive us all insane;
On course brain and golf bag remain.
Jim Horn
TIME
Precise and constant it marches on.
It waits for no one, yet will stop to heal a broken heart.
Measured in thousandths of a second by swimmers
And in millenniums by the Creator of All Time.
They say it’s money—but it doesn’t make sense
That last weekend can seem so long ago
Yet each day went by so quickly.
It’s fast as lightening and slow as molasses.
Two can stand side by side and it flies for one and crawls for the other.
A friend to the child who anxiously awaits the school bell at the end of day.
An enemy to the lover who waits for the 10:35 to take her soldier to a far away land.
It means everything to the watchmaker
And nothing to the boy fishing on the riverbank.
It’s “Time On My Hands” and “Time In A Bottle”
And if you drop the e and add an i-n-g, it’s Rotten - and it’s Perfect.
And twice a year it laughs at those of us who
Spring forward -- and then Fall back
Thinking that we can change it.
Mariruth Pyatt
Not that folks out there are keeping score--
But I envision myself as something... more
However, the main obstacle getting in my way
Is predicting what could go wrong every day
Particularly because I tend to be strait-laced
No place around here is hiring me with haste
I didn't succeed in school to prep for a career
Now I lack proper income, year after year...
Even with 2 A.A.'s-- and scads more classes
Finding my niche has been slow as molasses
Now I found out that with just my library card
There's access to free courses which I regard
That should have been my entire college ed!
But they made me go, so I got debt instead
Sometimes I feel I do not belong in this city
But independence requires being more gritty
Yet since my goal is not merely to impress
I often long for simplicity, something... less
Imagining rising early-early to tend a small farm
Except I can't myself cause an animal any harm
I could gather hen eggs and learn to milk a cow
Would I be dedicated with my hand to the plow?
Fickle as I am, my indecisive discernment
Confuses me as where to be God's servant
Would I find purpose in the White Violet Center
Helping with crops and alpaca, being a mentor
Or am I destined to keep putting up with this mess
Stuck here in a trial of patience, & learning to bless
Being here for my mom later, in her elderly age
As she was here for me, from my earliest stage
I don't mind my role as a helpful "volunteer lady"
But I hope for job security, without turning shady
Perhaps my hobbies and art could be an online biz
Earning my bread without shoplifting as in Les Mis
Probably I missed my chance to be a cloistered nun
Now that I'm too old, & tried to have too much fun
It's just as well, since I need to take care of myself
Avoiding kidney stones doesn't contribute to my pelf
And in what climate could this Little Flower grow...
Do I really need all this sun, or could I endure snow
Have I been complaining literally this whole poem?
Guess that's what happens when I'm bored at home
Through it all, God has done great things for me
I'd like to offer more to show how He set me free
cleaning windows helps me to see
'course at present I too, need glasses
not just through, clearly, but metaphorically
yet without caffine I'm slow as molasses
but still I can get some insight outside
window's panes shine with spiritual gains
able to separate my own Jekyll and Hyde
both the Doctor and the madman do explain
that what seems to be seen as the truth
may be something entirely opposite and
may be in need of a more discerning sleuth
for my intellect to be able to understand
what at first look, seems black and white
may be the gray, between mistaken and right
© Goode Guy 2012-03-19
You are sweeter than honey
As fluffy as cotton
But, can be slow as molasses
Love like diamonds
Touch as delicate as a flower
Mind so inspiring
Talks with the quickness
Anger like the steam of an engine
Hugs so warm to the touch
Kisses as sweet as sugar
Compliments so smooth
Opinionated, yes you are
You are my teddy bear!
My Father’s Hand!
My father left me when I was a baby
and all that remained of him… was his hand!
The hand that edged its way
into the last photo he took of me!
As I grew, I used to study that hand
searching, rooting for details of personality;
a reflection upon my possible characteristics.
Did I see a loving hand, skinned in kindness
or a selfish one, boned and heartless?
So I aged, feeling different, aware of scarring.
Occasionally, I tried to break free from solitude
but my partner kept whispering me back
until I would try to cry
but not understanding the steps.
I was poor on love; overfed on loneliness
but sensing the tremors of isolation in others.
Thirty years later and a father’s day email!
Then gradually, slow as molasses,
I unlocked, I opened my front door,
tentatively, anxiously allowing him into my life.
Eventually a pleasure, a confidence, a warmth,
began to seep, to trickle into my soul.
The abandoned child had been found
and the next part of my life could begin.
I discovered a father, one who wanted forgiveness,
and, at last, I could part company with
the stings of rejection, the stabs of loneliness
which had serrated away at my life.
I could now think about all those memories
that I used to share with myself,
hoping that now I had rediscovered someone
I could apportion, ration them with.
I yearned for a father who would listen,
who would share…..
and in time, he did
and in time, I learnt to forgive.
Ian Souter
She's slow as molasses,
And really a pain.
Let her stay home forever!
We have nothing to gain.
Taking a walker down the
stairs?
Is really something, we just
can no longer bear!
Worse is her hearing, deaf
as a door nail!
She won't be able to even
read the menu.
She can watch TV until she
dies.
Or a nice nursing home?
She would be so surprised.
It would be easier on all of us,
don't you see?
After all, she's very close to
eternity!
7/3/2021