Best Soiling Poems
Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink
Or smelled like a dozen red roses
Beautiful music was heard when we tooted
There'd be no need for holding noses
We'd relish the thought of soiling our whites
To show off a new shade of pink
And proud to fart Ludwig's Fifth Symphony
While sitting on the throne by the sink
It can possibly be construed as a bit unusual
To be writing a poem about poop
But pink poop deserves special recognition
So let's all just let out a big whoop!
Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink
And smelled to high heaven of roses
We'd be so proud of our load of pink magic
There'd be no need for holding noses
© Jack Ellison 2013
Last flickers of a dying flame still burn
I strain to see every bitter remembrance
lain before my feet
pain stained mendacious propaganda
blackened and singed upon my soul
words have risen and taken toll
right or not, secrets have been sold
out of mind into the hands of masses
such asses, cutting out the tongues of old
forcible suppression unfurled
into self-made sterilization
white sheets billowing in the wind
masking an unpure infantile soiling of intellect
sociopathic manipulation
senseless stripping down of the senses
we're utterly defenseless
gather round as smoke heaves
and smothers imperious will and wit
free thinking dies as another chapter
cries out and is carried
to an unmarked grave
Original version:
Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know that I wanted to ask you-
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
~
My version:
Do phone for a pizza Norman,
since Olga is having a strop.
Then say that I want it delivered,
you’re not going down to the shop.
We’ll have to get Desmond to call in,
the sauna’s beginning to leak.
My microwave’s out of commission;
the hoover’s beginning to squeak.
I must send a text to Jemima.
We may get an email from Max
and when you’ve stopped surfing on Google,
do put some more bumph in the fax.
Now give me some thoughts for our party,
the one at the end of the week.
It’s got to be terribly ethnic,
all ouzo and feta and Greek.
I want to have proper moussaka,
souvlaki that’s straight from the grill,
oregano and fresh coriander,
all drizzled about with some dill.
Oh Norman! For God’s sake kick Olga,
she’s getting me rather un-nerved.
And tell her to open the pizza,
I do want it daintily served.
~
Taken from 'How to Get On in Society@ by John Betjeman for the Copy Cat Contest.
We have so much color all around us
so much beauty to fill our senses
everything we see and touch and taste
in the songs we hear
in the scent of lovers mingled
in everything we've been given
there is a rainbow around us.
A multitude of shades and hues
from the bright of light
to the richest deep dark
to the red of blood
the essence of all life
coursing through the flesh
in which we live.
Red the color of life.
But hate has no color
it is void and blank
lashing out in its blindness
not caring at who it strikes
or what it takes.
The smell of hate is rank and vile.
It leaves a bitter taste
on the tongues of all who it touches.
It feeds on our minds
breeds in our hearts
makes us spill precious blood
planting its seed wherever it goes
soiling everything in its path
and fouling the air with its stink.
The color of hate is death
but the color of love
is a rainbow.
Love binds us together.
Unites us.
A tightly knit prism
of many hues blended
each one of us given a choice.
We can sow love into all we do
into every life we touch
and into all that we say
or we can hate.
I choose rainbows.
Unblemished pages without soiling mark
stretch out ahead of these expectant eyes;
trembling I wait dark midnight to embark
upon my journey, promising and new;
what delights, what sorrows await, disguised,
before I bid this infant year adieu?
Tolling clocks engrave with new year's song
first lines where timid steps engage the scroll;
time's manuscripts record both right and wrong.
Some far tomorrow when I stand again,
as now, this new year past and marked the poll,
shall conscience call the writing loss or win?
Unblemished pages without soiling mark
tolling clocks engrave with new year's song.
Copyright, December 20, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
Oh how I hate thy haughty hours oh Halloween!
Your thorns and thistles are these terrifying teens
who wear worried looks, walking, wobbling…woeful;
daring doors and deeds that are dreadful.
Cruising for candy: the core of thy course oh Halloween!
kind kids from keen kindred knock their kith and kins,
playful princes paint pure palaces in pale, purple and pink;
Spreading stones and soiling streets with sweets... that stink.
In the hollow of thy haunting hands… oh Halloween!
mighty men melt at the melodrama of masked men…mean;
Trick or treat, terrors or treasures? The termites ask the tall trees,
waiting, willing and working to waste their wares and wears.
Oh how I hate thy hit and run habits… oh Halloween!
Sharing sudden sweets for strangers you have never seen;
heating up the heartbeat of happy husbands and wives,
you turn lively, lovely lads into lurking and longing lives.
The Ancient mutiny of the Twain
In the beginning were both made
To dwell in unison and not to trade
You abode with each other in Eden
And never was anyone a burden.
The Author made one with the soiling sand
Molding him beautifully like he had been caned
So there he laid breathlessly dead
Until the creator’s speech you fed.
And then you arouse, man and woman;
He made you to guard the earth like a foreman
Visiting you day and night
Until the day your lust took you to flight.
Then I recall the commencement of the ancient mutiny of the twain
The flesh against the spirit intertwine
The world; since then the flesh held in bondage
The other kept it from all damage.
The flesh waging a wailing war at the spirit
To eternally take man to hades to seal it
Till the ‘Spinner of life’ sent Love
To the earth He had given man ancient to have.
Love paid the price to set the epithelium free
By then both had been divided like the walls of the red sea
Only death on the shrub could breech the gab
And no one, man could love than the creator’s flab.
Love fought until he shouted ‘it is finished!’
Man since then could never be tarnished
Eden’s emancipation had been regenerated
And humanity had been totally consecrated.
And yet there stood the flesh and the spirit
The impact of man’s fall could not tell it
For since then the ancient mutiny of the twine still persist
And I, am left with the spirit to steadfastly resist.
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
It is around the third or fourth pint
From reality you disconnect
And after about the fifth or sixth
Those beer goggles do take effect
While looking through beer goggles
The glass is always half full
Every chick looks a stunner
And easy for the pull
When wearing those beer goggles
You’ve got all the talk
Even the fattest and ugliest lasses
Can pull off a models catwalk
Beer goggles give you confidence
Every bird is there for the take
Every chest is inviting a grope
Whether they be real or fake
Beer goggles make you look cool
The center of attention and laughter
Yes you are the soul of the party
The problem comes the morning after
The effect of the goggles wears off
And your real vision can finally see
And you realise that you spent the night
With an old hag aged around sixty-three
Then the memories coming flooding back
Of the night before
Soiling yourself in public
Vomiting all over the floor
Being thrown out of the pub for molesting
Urinating against a brick wall
It is no small miracle then
That you managed to pull at all
...In my country children die...
not of war...for soiling, their pants
...here, they're beaten, until
they stop breathing...
...spiritual distance...
...the forgotten on a file...
the authorities in denial...
...under the rug, is full...
no one can save the tiny
mites...
...not a shiny knight...
not a parent, a friend...
a neighbour no one here to defend,
domestic war zone, family violence
the authorities document report,
file it under abuse statistic...
...too hard basket, cycle of abuse
runs wildly rampant...
...with little recognition of their
trauma entrapment...
...the screams, the cries, no more
mum! ...please no more dad!
...the welts, go away, the feeling,
the damage always stays...
...cries fallen on deaf ears,
...many don't care.
Teletext Page 128 03 August 06
...the UN reports, NZ child abuse
slammed, our child agency under
resourced, ad hoc small scale...
...our childs lives, reveal an ugly
tale...
UNICEF report claim domestic
violence is common in NZ...
...most people know a child who
is witnessing violence in thier
own home...
the dark secret, of a family...with
violent undertones...
be aware, some one out there...
take charge, if you suspect report
don't neglect...
don't turn your back, you could
save a childs' life that's a fact...
The grass is trying to squeeze back through cement cracks.
Dying to breath.
Though we're dying for it.
Black sheets on top of dirt comforters.
Soiling the soil.
Beneath water boils.
We need the weeds oxygin.
But slay said weeds like sin.
A little river of green flows through a darkened hardened lake.
Walking a fake land made by mans hand.
One by one a tree on every block.
Standing with its dead brothers and sisters.
Watching them chained together like slaves under us.
Nature is fighting back.
From underground it plots in its mixing pot with everyone and everythings reconnecting soul. Understanding now of what we are taking for granted.
The trees know.
The bushes know.
The flowers, fruits and vegitables...
They all know.
The grass, or pawns as I may, resuface on our lawns during the time of Spring to remind us of mother natures message.
But when it reaches a peak, we rain gasoline fueld machines apon the weak and defenseless.
The letter is hidden.
Buried underground.
We've become too illiterate to open the the book our fathers have carved from small portions of the trees.
Unbalanced is the radiance of Earths beauty.
It is our duty to not forget our roots.
Where we come from and continue to be birthed from.
Our mother Earth.
Our home.
A heart dyed deep in blackness, whistled
As the kettle boiling,
So shrill beyond the bedroom door
Like turbines pumping, toiling;
Screaming like a rusty hinge, caked
In need of oiling,
For in it’s gangrene seepage
Stained the sheets with angst and soiling.
A heart dyed deep in blackness, hungered
Feral jaws in essence,
Alive with worms and ravaged cells,
Of darkest incandescence;
Yawning vaults of hatred, gaped
Through vacant omnipresence,
And in a final testament
No love save acquiescence.
Hope I'm not putting a big hex on myself
But till now I've had no serious medical problems
Don't know how many can say that at seventy-eight
But you can place me in the “fortunate” column
Haven't done anything out of the ordinary
Thinking maybe I inherited some very good genes
My whole family before me all lived to a ripe old age
So what's this guy... a can of baked beans!
Seven sisters all lived longer than eighty
A pattern seems to have been established here
Don't want to break the spell or cause any problems
I'll just motor along and have another beer
Don't think I'd like to be around at one hundred
Soiling my jockey and mumbling away
Just wheel me out to the back veranda in the sun
And forget me for a couple of days
© Jack Ellison 2014
While stars are in hiding and only the moon shines brightly
The lone wolf howls in the distance
Beckoning his lover back to him
The rains weep for the Wolf, him not able to weep for himself, is gratified by cold plunging through the mud and thickets soiling his precious coat
he bays out once more
Without any avail the lone wolf finds shelter in a cave, yet another dark, gloomy dwelling for him to suffer
With his physical hunger gone he forgets to hunt, however the emotional craving for her warm blood drives him on for the moment
By the break of day the wolf sleepless and starving finds himself unable to carry on however the abundance of mates there may be he longs for none but his late
As the golden rays of morning reach his grayed, tired muzzle he reaches his finale peace a deep sleep from which he will not wake, but will forever dream of his love
Fionn Mac Cumhaill I was a fool
to let go of you it sounds.
All because your hairy hounds
kept soiling my house and grounds.
For certain I'm sure I'll never find a
Godlike man such as you again.
I miss kissing, your muscles rippling,
red hair glistening, what a mane.
I was insane, I admit it now.
Please take me back, to you I bow.
Suck you salmon thumb and see
you will always belong to me.
Fionn my warrior, my lover, my man.
I'll get you back, I must, I can.
Our bed is cold, don't be so bold.
Return, I promise not to scold.