Best Slurped Poems
The mean old housecat has bulgy eyes
when she looks at us in our fish bowl
Oh, how much we've come to despise
that big mouth of hers, the black hole
Poised to pounce with sharpened claws
She's taking jabs with hatred brimming
that ugly feline beast with drooling jaws
for us little fishes, innocently swimming
Our little bowl is cosy, room for only two
bad kitty on the outside, always looking in
If her paw ever grabs us, what are we to do
we’d be much safer in a smelly sardine tin!
If she ever catches us, we’ve got big troubles
perhaps in her dreams she sees us as fat trout
In fear we produced a stream of gassy bubbles
If only our owner would give bad kitty a clout!
All the chaos made us soil ourselves with poop
so we let that mean old cat feast on a tasty treat
When her nasty tongue slurped intestinal goop
the beast screeched in horror! Revenge is sweet!
Our owner came home and cleaned out the bowl
Soon we returned to our safe sweet smelling home
Kitty got banned but can see us through the keyhole
Now we don’t suffer from irritable bowl syndrome!
Surly Sally slipped and lost a flip flop
at a hearty party in a bungalow with Billy.
while dancing and prancing to hip hop
whirling and twirling and spinning silly.
Can you reverse and remember the flop she flipped?
Well it ludicrously landed in the party punch bowl.
Nobody noticed while they slurped and sipped
and the dancers dipped and ripped and rolled.
They dipped, danced, pranced and laughed,
pirouetted, and sweated,
tipped and turned till totally daft.
Beer and booze abetted.
The next night they stayed sober and soloed somber.
Crashing and complaining Billy’s head hung,
both believed they’d been belted by a bomber.
Surly Sally swore she felt like dung on a rung!
Let this be a lurid logical lesson,
to those who think it’s only fun and frolick to abuse booze,
Or you too could be confessin’
And for lack of the light of this litany you’re liable to lose!
An answer to a challenge for John Freeman’s Alliteration contest
by my poetry friend, Gwendolen Rix.
Tim had all the necessary ingredients right next to his ancient burner
Shark teeth dangling from a sunken necklace at the cutting edge but
The amulet had turned into chains and shackles grinding the chef’s mind
A lost recipe for happiness but and he had no appetite for nourishment
Attrition boiled over when nutrition resembled a poisonous chalice
Too tired to take stock he dwelled on his primordial soup turning back
Primitive and involuntary he turned on the gas and smelled his demise
Rotten onions had depleted his tears thinly sliced and disguised
Fetid leeks leaked misery a trickle or two at full stagnant pace
Spoilt thyme oozed malodorous rosaries into beads of corrosion
Squashed tomatoes splashed foul decomposition into his eyes
Fennel funneled his vision into a bubbling hell of indigestion
Olive oil splashed straight into his heart with no glimmer of peace
Cantankerous garlic would not fend off his festering demons
While a bay leaf could not keep mortally morose sadness at bay
Great white oblivion but slowly Tim made friends with predation
Resolved he was allergic to fishy feelings and toxic distaste
He did not remember at first how to simmer emotions and passion
But onions started to sprinkle tears of joy and the shark pointed the way
Soon leeks from a Welsh legend delineated friend from mal-aligned foes
Thyme soothed his splattering cough and he found his true inner voice
Tomatoes seeded bright red orange chakras from base to the top while
Fennel fought of bloating depression and conquered agony’s cramps
Previously oblivious oils from virginal growth re-birthed him into life
He licked his wounds and wild garlic from an ocean of wonderment
And chose the berries from a long forgotten and noble laurel tree
Tim had barked up the wrong perspective and had muted the roar
Eventually he conjoined ingredients recipe and fortunate blessings
Left the sharks out of the chowder and slurped smooth soup into his shell
I was a lonely flower whose petals were withered, whose colours were faded and whose sweet nectar was slurped by the deadly demon of diffidence.
Then the face in the mirror said to me, "You are worthy".
I took to refill the parched springs of nectar.
Slowly, butterflies came to quench their thirst with my nectar.
In return, they gifted me my lost colours.
I'm not lonely anymore.
the dogs were happy
did not have to dig deep
in bomb craters and
makeshift graves
they licked at pulverized bones
and liquefied brains
slurped up the proceeds of war
and roamed the street
sluggish and flatulent
saliva dribbled as well
from the industrial military complex
fused joy with sore fingers
from counting the money
Dmitri wondered
what had become of his folks
and where the flowers had gone
before he pegged his rag doll
to a skull bone that floated
in a sewer of lost hope
his young soul was confused
with reality and fake news
and yet his scarred mind
was never far from revenge
as he waded through carnage and destruction
he found remains of his pet
and smeared a bloody reminder
on his feverish forehead
picked up a land mine
and bode farewell to one of his arms
because the weapon exploded
never one to cease with belligerent ease
Thus, do I write of simpler things
Of missing buttons, knotted strings
Of mystery when the doorbell rings
For I have seen the snowman fail
To answer long forgotten mail
Crazed pumpkin faces slowly scowl
As quickly fades the midnight howl
I write of fingers new to mittens
The tempting lure of purring kittens
Of threadbare shirts and tattered jeans
Of baby steps, of living’s themes
For soup is better when it’s slurped
And babies happier when burped
I write of ripples, not of waves
Of what one gives, not what one saves
I seed the edges of the soul
For loneliness makes no one whole
And dare not peek over my shoulder
For I am aging not growing older
John G. Lawless
©7/28/2026
My favorite dining place in town is a place called La Baguette.
'Tis a quaint French café and I haven't found its equal yet.
They serve the most scrumptious French onion soup west of Gay Paree,
And it is slurped by discriminating snobs as well as we bourgeoisie!
They serve other grub such as baguettes and burgundy beef stews,
Escargot, pate, salad maison and an assortment of cheese fondues.
And Monday through Friday they ladle bowls of soup du jour,
But each and every day they serve French onion soup for sure!
Eating French onion soup is a challenge and requires a bit of skill,
Especially, dealing with the stringy cheese in that delectable swill.
The glob of provolone clings like a boa constrictor to my spoon,
And dangles from my noble chin making me look somewhat like a goon!
De mal en pis (just when my dilemma has gone from bad to worse),
Faire bonne mine (to put a good face on matters) I tend to curse.
To save face, next time I'll ask the waiter, "S'il vous plait (if you please),
I'll have a bowl of your French onion soup sans that stringy cheese!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt,USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
The Bible says "thou shalt not kill"
now proudly join the army lad, and go kill,
come back home, and follow your Bible again.
O middle class, your fathers built your homes
with union help, now disperse those union halls
and happily work for minimum wage, six days a week,
chant bribed politicians working for hidden oligarchs
reaping 100 million dollar bonuses, crowded apartments
will suffice.
O Appalachians, your once proud mountaintops now
miles of desert, debauched by profiteers, unbridled by
regulations written by lobbyists, clothed in frothing
chemicals, drowning your despair in burgeoning liquor
stores.
O beautiful blufflands, along my Mississippi,
I see you now, your royal crowns
decapitated,
your limestone sand greedily slurped by
frac-monster gargoyles wearing saville row suits,
entombed in New York skyscrapers.
O broken occupiers, etch your days in Heaven,
on your jail cell wall.
Truths, all truths, build slowly,
but truth must fight on, for your children's children
will know you tried to save our people and planet!
...we must fight on!
....we will!
Two Dogs at the Gateway
By Sy Roth
They slurped their saliva,
huge globs,
big, barking mouthfuls
dripping from their jowls like milky icicles
Teeth-bared lips,
They guarded the gateway.
Pleased by their vacated spittle,
their noses now sniffed the air, and
like a marching band of electric ants
they ogled the nearing invader.
Anew, the soppy, conglomeration of spittle
wells at their muzzles
forming a frothy milkshake
determined to expel the approaching trespasser.
His hands stretched out flat in peaceful kindness,
prophylactic, heavy-breathing
moseying him to the gateway
wraps him in a pulsing eagerness.
A satyr’s blessing upon him as he approaches
Where the two dogs growled ominous presentiments--
Twin Cerberuses,
Headache kin of dashed wishes.
Evening shadows stifle all desires.
Lips part in anticlimax.
He rolls to the other side
away from the yapping hounds,
away from the uncomfortable pauses,
away from the anticipation
onto a sterile, flattened field
where done yet reeks of a flaccid fantasy.
A grotesquery of mordant imagination
content to sleep on the other side of the booming roar
away from the slurping beasts,
he drops hands down to his side.
Tomorrows march on and the gateway,
a finale wrapped in the twins’ slurping,
slams shut.
Felix was angry I could not blame the cat for that
Mr.Schrödinger should have opted for a clean bowler hat
His experiment was a chiller
Prussic acid was a sly killer
Felix could not endure the cheekiest quantum rat
But Mr.Erwin Schrödinger was a great digger of truth
He went straight to Huttenstrasse's " Who-will-bell-the-cat" booth
And He slurped his Irish Mooligan
Caught Patrick "Pat" Peter Sullivan
And put him in the black box and played qubit with Ruth
Sponsor Carol Eastman
Contest Name Humor Contest
14 January,2015
I've slurped chili from border-to-border and betwixt the roilin' seas,
In fancy five-star establishments and greasy spoon eateries.
I've sampled some that has caused anxious gastrointestinal uproar,
But I'm a glutton for the stuff and always go back for more!
I'll eat chili with or without beans, it really matters not,
Jes' so there's plenty in the pot and it's rather spicy hot!
I'll even deign to open a can of concentrate in an emergency,
But I much prefer a great chef's favourite and secret recipe!
Many are the chili cook-offs I've sauntered my way through,
Tastin' gawd-awful concoctions, my face turnin' a reddish hue!
Those guys toss things in the pot about which I wouldn't care to know.
Their recipes are closely-held secrets and there ain't no quid pro quo!
Now, usually I can tolerate chili from any hot and spicy batch,
But, boys, I'm here to tell you that today I finally met my match.
Satan himself must have brewed that beastly olio!
I gasped, shed copious tears and my ears assumed a ruddy glow!
I'm told its a social blunder to crumble crackers in your soups,
But what care I? I ain't concerned about jumpin' through no social hoops!
Some of the glares I get from folks are embarrassin'ly chilly!
So what! Me worry? I relish crumbled crackers in my chili!
Turbulant radient red sky with sheet swirl mashed potato
cloud mush peered lazily through a curious brown
haze of dirty armpit fizz, enlisted somewhere
bewteen a prebeginning solar start dot deposit burst peak
and a futuristic nuclear waste singulsr hand mitten
all in lieu of a sadeyed slowburn glowing tuxedo-still
and looking on with rolled up flannel sleeve gross
passivity. I slurped around the grand gravel
entrance up and down brown round and rocky
pinging and jumping. Wide spaces
grappling with the refuse laden humo motif of
endeless manwomanchildpet pickings. I round the teetering
trough trench like curves unwitnessed to the sight beholding
ever present but none as gigted. Poor mouth
super excrement excuses like duct tape type at the end
of its reality roll---never enough for the final fix.
I watched as multitruck things silently
dispatchingly dispersed and unloaded their
grusome garbage waves on good mother earth.
Battles can leave muscles working as man and time spitspent
slowcuspocus appendages working at top mph
pushing shoving shoveling piling before the light
pace calls it another disgusting dillday.
without the slighest the remorse--my stomach began
to wrenchabit and my eyewells passed be free
me. The gulls some truck lenght away were
spuriously sifting smilingly through the
human wreckings in a last light meal
remedial refrain--as intense as
the dumpers became the dumpees. I angered as
the populace as myself delivered my putrid parlay
and proceded to the mass exit as if it were
OK. The quality of messy mercy stops at the buck. I need not squander the dull likings of my kind
of indifferenleunce on the hapless mis constraints of
a well informed psuedo citizenery. I hope the land rebels
someday and eats us all by the very
seeds we so sow. Garbage is as garbage does
but it's the tidy attitude of human complacency that
wipes my ass so clean---look to the trash cans for---hope.
Limerick crochetés: Once Angela signed pact with Doctor Jeckel
Once Angela signed pact with Doctor Jeckel
Needed urgent help her kitchen all pell-mell
In far-off torn country
People turned refugee
By turnip-head Mephistopheles in Hell
Angela’s wise friend Faust told her to toll bell
To tell the world how much her heart bled with knell
She’ll take in all who flee
Bitten by bee or flea
Life-jackets galore Mephisto jumped to sell
In Mid-Land-Sea punctured floats jackets did spell
Drowned refugee yells worse than arrows Will’ Tell
Angie slurped sea-green tea
With Jeckel invitee
While survivors charged through blockades raising Hell
If Angela dug an underground Chunnel
From her kitchen to Mephisto-lands un-well
Käse-Kuchen* Mummy
Made by hands refugee
To boost her economy – Angela! Hail!
*Käse-Kuchen: German for cheese cake
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
I've got a voice
Actually I've got two
They serenade the crevices of my brain
And tell me what to do
In one ear
We've got Mr. Nice
A misleading Name
With this guy, mercy won't suffice
Blood... guts
He lives for the gore
I just wish...no, I pray
That he wouldn't talk to me anymore
In the other ear
I hear Dr. Kill
Pretty Self Explanatory
This guy's mentally ill
His whisper's like that of an angel
His commands are inhumane
I can't live another day
With a mind so insane
For these voices
I've killed
Slurped the blood
That spilled
Danced with the corpses
While they decayed
Punctured my own skin
With a razor sharp blade
Stop talking to me!
I don't want to hear what you have to say
Never mind, I think I like it
Goddamn it! why am I this way
I beg for that third voice
But it hides
Cowers behind the shadows
Of the other guys
Please conscience
Come back to me
Why can't we be friends
Like we used to be
But that's my head
A soulless slaughter mill
A psychotic structure under the reign of
Two voices named Mr. Nice and Dr. Kill
There once was a man named Gar,
Who came from the planet Mars.
He had fun in the sun,
As he toasted his buns.
And slurped his drink from a bar.