Best Smeary Poems
Carrots for breakfast, carrots for lunch, Carrots for dinner, crunch, baby, crunch.
What are your immediate feelings about soup on a plate?
Vegetable and broccoli potato are both well worth a wait.
Don’t gag on the mushrooms,
You big ugly buffoons.
Crunch them up meticulously slowly, and good luck,
Don’t be afraid of disease, though they’re grown in the muck.
Pudding for dessert,
Who would, you blurt.
Oh, sorry, I mean, what’s that you say?
You could eat pudding any ole’ day?
Enjoy your leisurely dine,
And eat your pudding refined.
Chocolate, caramel and pistachio.
They are all stirred up warmly nice and slow.
Delicious delicacies on paper is a poet’s go-to write,
Everyone loves to think about taking an enormously tasty bite.
Spaghetti, pizza, meat loaf too.
All main dishes for me and you.
Hamburger, egg salad, smeary and good.
I’d eat it all up and be completely satisfied if I could.
Did she say time numbers or prime numbers?
I was sure it was not rhyme numbers.
She is staring at me. Miss Johnson, math teacher.
Takes daydreaming in class as a personal affront.
Her eyes narrow. I yawn. Bad move.
Could you demonstrate this on the board, Caren?
Out of all the students in all the math penitenturies in all the galaxies….
Miss Johnson moves her head toward the blackboard.
When I get there I pick up a piece of smeary chalk.
Where to begin?
“Make two columns,” she says primly.
I understand now why no man has been desperate enough to marry her.
“One for prime and one for composite.”
A clue. Maybe prime is odd and composite is even?
I make the columns.
The second I throw down the one and the two hands are up.
Every classmate wants a turn to redo my work.
The math brains are dying to show Miss Johnson they were listening.
I remember thinking “When am I ever going to need this?”
That was fifty-seven years ago, and frankly, I never have needed it for any reason.
Prime, crime, rhyme, dime, lime, mime, lime.
Who cares?
P.S. Miss Johnson never did get married.
Something about paint
I absolutely adore!~feeling more
fluid-thinking when wearing an
old smock, branded with dashes and
blobs, to my mind each
one a stripe of rank with starry
splashes my medals –
like coral reefs
like florescent algae
a new canvas primed, runny
with liquid motion; I thrust
my igniting brush...somewhat
sad when all is dried and
framed; yet the good ones
remain tacky to the touch,
delightfully smeary to
the eye~like the wetted
hands of children, bringing their
innate patterns into active focus --
I think, when it comes to poetry
the ocean will never be entirely
emptied: what mysterious lyrics
lurk in such black, unrhymed depths –
by the magma-vents, like moths
writers are drawn to eerie glows,
shadowy forms~dauntless, ready to
risk even death for fiery licks
and rapturous cuddles....
Chocolate Sass-Mouth
Spacklefudge grinny
Sloppin’ down my chinny
In it to winny!
Chocolate Sass-Mouth
Butternut cream
Smeary goo team
Gurgly dream
Chocolate Sass-Mouth
Spittin’ out sass
Unburdened by class
Dirty hall pass
Chocolate Sass-Mouth
Twisted face covered
Misty-place lover
Never recovered
More chocky please
I sit alone on cold winter nights, thinking of how my life became dreary
Is it something that I had just realised? or is it just another theory?
Am I content with what I have in life? And is life my only query?
There isn’t a year that goes by, without my body slowly growing weary
With age strength is hard to come by, but you do tend to become briery
It is on these pitch black nights, that my thoughts become leery
Even the stars are absent from the skies tonight, so is the moon who is so deary
I do yearn my younger days, but my eyes quickly become teary
Nothing but the good in life counts, the rest is to your soul smeary
Only when day light breaks again, does my mood finally become cheery
Saleh Ben Saleh
Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
Kelso is old enough
to be free of care,
his dog don't care neither.
At the prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobsters
in their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the dickering markets
cobbled narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
saucy daughters.
Gummy smiles he shares
with the crones;
their thin cranky bones
thrill to his beard-wagging ways.
At close of day he seesaws,
half-cut and tottering
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eat a kippered mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Tomorrow he will do the same
if the lobsters appear
in his pulled-up smeary pots,
if not
he will sup upon a dark brew
and make a meatless stew
of beetroot and hot
fried
pickles.
Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
(as he always does),
to smoke a care-free plug
into a fumy fog.
He listens to the dimming sky
piddle over the wallowing town,
hears the night rolling in
over the seas lap and swell
tucked up and swaddled is he
in his oily cot, and swaying low;
he most pleased to be,
yours consistently -
just old Kelso.
She came charging down on me with her full weight.
I wanted to be invisible, but it did not happen.
I was gripped tightly in the throes of death.
She was tearing me apart, in pieces
Unconcerned with my screams.
I was quiet now, smeary, a bloody mess.
A carcass in pieces. I watched horrified.
Worried about what my Cub Scout troop would see in the morning.
Never try to outrun a grizzly, my dad had always said.
I knew I was supposed to drop down and play dead,
but who can do that? My grandmother put her arm on my shoulder.
You have seen enough, she said.
We headed toward the light.
We are all following the crowd today.
We are looting and burning and shouting hooray!
It is fun to be in this group, they have painted me gray.
I am a mascot, and some want to hear what I have to say.
But wait. An internal me is feeling sorry and sad.
What we did today will make others feel extremely bad.
I want to leave, but I do not want to make my new friends mad.
I make excuses, blaming my mom and my dad.
They scoff and make fun of me. There’s much laughter in the air.
I take off anyway, for now about their friendship I truly don’t care.
To live my truth, to be fully and completely my most compassionate me.
I have to stand up for my beliefs, not follow these follower bees.
So I leave the mobsters, the looters, the meanies and thugs.
I see through my windshield wipers dozens of smeary ugly bugs.
When I reach my parents, I am embraced with acknowledging hugs.
I decide to go back later and help fix the things I did with the thugs.
Alice, murdered by Dracula’s daughter
White rabbit keeps secret as he ought’er.
He sits on her throne
As Halloween gnome
Skulls laugh at the smeary night blotter
Striped legs and a red hair bow pretty
Dracula’s child morbid and witty
Secrets secure
Alice has no cure
Crying from the bowels of evil city
The smeary fingers,
Left unwashed.
Leave prints,
All over the gloss.
On bright metal handles,
Drawers semi closed.
Up and down walls,
Even on a nose.
Momma said, "Wash your hands!
Your fingerprints,
Are all over my things, I think.
Makes the ins and outs of kitchens,
Grimy with goo!"
Not realizing of what she spoke,
Continuing on with grimy fingers.
The day caught up with me
And my nose!
My hands got stuck,
To my nose!
Rolling about on the floor,
I began to roar.
"I don't want to walk on my knees.
Or shuffle on my toes.
Please help me get unstuck,
From my nose!"
Momma just smiled.
Took a hot wet cloth,
Got me unstuck from my nose.
Stretched me out and washed me from head to toes.
Now I wash my hands.
Many times, a day.
Make many bubbles,
Put them in my hair.
Momma just sighs, "Try not to get soap in your eyes."
Purple unicorns prance into my mind
Polishing up ideas
Worthy of a princess
Followed by kittens wearing toothbrush hats
With smeary feline smiles
Diabolical laughs
Trixie takes over immediately
Pirate queen gives them the boot
She is ready to play!
Orange hair, brown hair, yellow hair, sometimes called blonde.
Green hair, black hair, blue hair, purple hair, lavender for old ladies.
Yellow, blue and orange hair, a vivid combination.
Pink, purple and white hair, one of my favorite paintings actually.
Blue and orange hair, needed yellow for the “pop” effect.
I dab on a little yellow, but it gets smeary, and I know I should have left it alone.
Pink and purple hair, needed some white. I will not waste any more time,
Start over on a new canvas.
I am making a little note to myself: stop making all of my dolls red-headed with
Green eyes. Why I do that is obvious, they are my cutest ones, for some odd reason.
Hair here, hair there, hair everywhere, and the eyes never stand out as much as I had hoped.
So here I am concentrating on the hair again.
Being an artist is taxing and telling. I have revealed more to myself about myself in four years of being a canvas painter than the sixty years prior to being a canvas painter. To add poetry to the fray, was a coup. I doubt I have ever known myself this well.
I am confident my grandchildren who may not be interested now, may be interested later. They will have a lot of things to remember me by as I am leaving legacies along the way ahead of their interest.
What kind of pizza do you want?
I don’t want Dominos or Jacks or Pizza Hut.
My favorite pizza is vintage Chef-boy-Ar-dee
We used to fry up hamburger and make this greasy delight
It was so smeary red greasy, it fell apart in our hand
We had to use a fork, and the crust was delightful.
Making it from a box, seemed like making it from scratch.
I loved it so much, I dream of it sometimes.