Best Spastic Poems
they lurk in corners, safe and dark
until they decide to growl and bark
then point an ugly old crooked finger
spittle drooling on the chin, they linger
arguing any point for arguments sake
no sense do they ever seem to make
they pretend to be a master know-it-all
a braying donkey left too long in its stall
always insisting to have the last word
looking like fools, they are quite absurd
these egotistic imbeciles act quite spastic
the pretenders who are all made of plastic
When no one else is around
I AMUSE MYSELF while sitting down
And bring myself tons of joy when I pretend to be
A stand-up comedian amusing all my friends.
I amuse myself then.
Nothing else to do while sitting in the pews.
I might as well count my blessings, and
AMUSE myself while confessing.
When I'm sleeping I amuse
Myself with my nightmares as I'M screaming
Frighteningly amusing me.
I amuse myself with fun and jokes GALES of
Laughter thereafter. FUNNY patrols the halls
Of speckled jest. HA! I amuse myself at my
Own request.
When muscles are weak from laughters cause
I amuse myself with my APPLAUSE.
I create a funny story recite it to myself
And listen to my own glee.
I amuse myself with peals of SPASTIC
HILARITY. With tricks and folly it's all the
Same. I amuse myself with silly games
At the end of the day I'm amused by the moon
As it sits beneath its HALO laughing quietly
At me
HILARIOUSLY amusing me.
To the tune of.. “These are a Few of my Favorite Things“.
Bass boomers spreading their mis’ry in traffic
Craving attention and driving me spastic,
Not caring an oodle for anyone else,
This **** will drive one to poor mental health!
Cops who ignore them and keep right on driving,
Passing we drivers who are suff’ring and sighing,
Speeding, ignoring all laws of the road ,
Why do they think they’re exempt from the code?!
That lady texting who’s climbing your bumper,
Foll’wing for miles, you’d sure like to dump her,
Getting so peeved I just ran a red light!…
But she’s hanging in there with all of her might!
Here comes a pick up and he’s really flying,
can’t push me over but he’s really trying,
sans blinkers he cut me in one single swoop,
You scraped my bumper you dang nincompoop!
Sweating and trying, for my place I’m vying,
Choking on gas fumes, ‘n some kid is crying
That lady just stopped for a friggin green light,
I screeched on my brakes and near died of fright!
That bass nut’s still booming, my blood pressure’s zooming,
That green light stopper’s picked this time for grooming
That texter’s horn behind me is starting to blow,
The light turned red and she thinks I should go!
These are a few of my least favorite things,
That I could avoid if I only had wings…
I commute 3 hours a day and this is just
a sample. : )
,
Mr Bombastic
So sycophantic
Spins discs of plastic
He’s so sarcastic -
Thinks he’s fantastic!
He’s on a health kick
Eat prunes in aspic....
His guts turn spastic
Diarrhoea quite drastic!
02/10/20
Simple silly scribbles after eating prunes for breakfast whilst listening to an 'in your face dj' on internet radio!
A poet was making such clatter.
His friend ran to see what's the matter.
“I must clean all,” said he
“or my poems can't be
in Antiseptic Pentameter.”
His friend laughed at all of the chatter.
The other didn't grasp the matter.
“Eat Italian,” said he
“so your poems will be
in Antipasto Pentameter.”
“My problem with gluten's the matter
and why I must make so much clatter.
I'm allergic you see.
I'd get shakes and would be
writing in Spastic Pentameter!”
A plant in a pot so fantastic
I watered for months like a spastic
'till the day that I found
to its pot it was bound -
that plant had been molded from plastic!
Optimizing freedom zest
Challenging mother’s tidiness best
My son whirls himself around
Oblivious that he’s wheel-chair bound.
Loosening mobility gear
His spastic hands hurl things everywhere
Zooming beyond glee’s ecstasy
He’s waged war against my mess-flee policy.
Entangled around disarray’s coil
My mind screams, devoid of nagging turmoil
Special child now wins over distress bouts
Ending my heart chaos by his delightful shouts.
*Resolved to blend patience and might
I'm glad to see kid's milestone-height
To God I give my thanks** and praise
For His enabling grace midst orderliness-race.*
November 19, 2019
3rd place, "Disarray" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Nina Parmenter; judged on 11/23/2019.
*Last stanza added on November 25, 2019.
**1Corinthians 15:57 But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Mind paints canvas of life as amateur
Some hues taken from palette of events
Some contributed by human nature
oozing from emotive urge at moments.
Heart gallery frames happy happenings
Those turn weepy are mercilessly torn
Ugly chapters showing spastic paintings
Some to erase and some get forgotten.
Brush browses on multiple episodes,
Patches of pigments collide in collage
kaleidoscope of memory decodes
Some pictures go hazy, some to enlarge.
Throughout life did ‘Mind’ the painter paint well?
Canvas of life with overlapped hues can't tell.
Should I write again of love?
Surely, by now, the moon
has had her full; and those
luxury cruses best put off,
taxes long overdue; besides,
those who love well
love well in a canoe--
which is precisely my point--
love is never through:
For the wind loves the bird---
that’s why he flies; as much
for the wind as his own
bird’s eyes; and why such
manic caw? Much like
our spastic cries—in the
climax of it all, he knows
even if he falls,
love never grows old…
and love
never dies….
Back when he was seven, our son won a contest
In his class, his turkey recipe adjudged the best
He was so happy, floating so high on cloud nine
but first prize was something less than 'quite fine'
He had to follow his recipe, cook our Thanksgiving meal
a prize which to his parents had no real appeal
As our son had never used the oven before
we planned on having problems galore
Sure enough, the new chef got off on the wrong foot
as into a pan, a frozen turkey in its package he put
Yet since the poor lad was so new to this game
we simply chuckled a bit, refused to lay blame
at the feet of our son, and explained so politely
that a turkey frozen solid won't cook quite rightly
He listened to us wide-eyed and dutifully
then gave that bird time to thaw proper-beautifully
Only --- so excited to start, he forgot the next instruction
which caused more than just some minor destruction
to the thawed bird, which was still in its package
as it entered the hot oven, awaiting the wreckage...
Well, you can imagine the looks on our faces
hearing the turkey begin to 'pop, crackle, snap'
For a moment, horrified, we were frozen in our places
before opening the oven, to a thunderous clap...
Our son was despondent; we had to cheer him right up
So we smiled our best smiles and said, "Just add a cup
or four of water to the pan--- after we scrape off the plastic"
~ I thought that my wife's laugh sounded a bit spastic
But our little budding chef put his heart into the task
and he basted that bird, doing all we had asked
So. when we finally sat down, and clasped our hands to say grace
~ You should have seen the big smile on our happy son's face
October 27, 2019
Thanksgiving Memory Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
The way
words fit together
is kind of a ritualistic measure,
where word
and verse
flow rythmicly
to the cerebral cortex
stimulating
endorphins,
and hormones
to cause a response of choice.
You can't think about
how they go,
it's all in
the way that they roll
out if the mind
and on to paper.
You see
it's kind of like
a mathematical equation,
this blissful creation,
but they're not all about
beautiful things,
I write with destructive potency.
I can create
a morbid dreamscape
that can flow into the mind
and reek havoc,
when its strong enough
I'll make your brain spastic,
turning in it's own juices,
squirming to end the atrocities
that your not reading,
but feeling.
When it comes to baking a cake
Make sure not to put in a snake
Unless, of course, it's a fake
By that, I mean, the snake
For if the snake's made out of plastic
You dare not feed it to anyone spastic
Unless, of course, it's elastic
By that, I mean, the plastic
While if it's made out of rubber
It's a delicacy for a landlubber
Unless, of course, it's flubber
By that, I mean, the rubber
Oh, and if it's made out of tin
It can only be eaten by Gunga Din
Unless, of course, it reeks of gin
By that, I mean, the tin
These instructions are not meant to confuse you
I just wrote them in order to amuse you
Unless, of course, I a-mused you
In which case, I hereby excuse you...
G'bye! So long! (Gong!)
December 22, 2018
Entry in "Bunny Jump Honey Lump Funny Chump" contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Pickleball – Part One
It’s eight o’clock, about any day
And it’s pickleball that I’ve come to play
I brought my paddle and I brought my drink
I’ll work on my drops and perfect my dinks
But sometimes my body just doesn’t obey
I tell my feet move but they tell me “stay”
When I need to bend over and I tell my back
It seems that bend over is a talent I lack
I’ll play any game, against any foe
And there one thing my partner should know
A ‘power’ game is just fine by me
So wish me good luck and sweet victory
Part Two
It’s yellow and plastic, and really acts spastic
Whenever the wind starts to gust
I line up a shot, it looks in then it’s not
In pickleball winds you can’t trust
So I serve and I volley, drop dinks and by golly
The points really start to add up
If I play the game so, then the wind it can blow
Those low shots it just can’t disrupt
I call out the score when I serve or before
First my point, then their points, one or two
No cussing, no in’, stay out of the kitchen
There’s really not much else to do
If they hit, hit it back, in defense or attack
Keeping the ball still in play
Do this time and again and you’ll earn a fine win
On any old kind of a day
But when the winds not in play on a hot summer day
I dink and I lob, wear them out
Hope they make a mistake so the point I can take
That’s what pickleball is all about
My cousin’s just earned his degree
He majored in fartology
Now he can impart
What foods make me fart
He’s obsessed by scatology
I confessed that beans give me wind
(It matters not if fresh or tinned)
And onions and sprouts
In any amounts
cause farting that I can’t rescind
The wind I produce is quite drastic
as medics say my colon’s spastic
my poor tummy swells
I release foul smells
I’m thankful my waistband ‘s elastic
FICTIONAL POEM FOR FART-TASTIC CONTEST
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
09/15/21
I
change my name
like
underwear...
fairly often, I suppose
I
change my clothes
like
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see
I
keep it fresh ta' death
nada
speck of blood
or
ketchup on my attire
I
got more rhymes
than I got grey hairs
and
that's an effing lot
because i got my share
I
digg a
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are
indeed
rare to find
YET...
if only poets would
unleash the fury
instead of
holding back
what's really
on their mind...
I must say...
the library,
the internet,
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with
underwear's elastic,
and just go
APE-Spit Spastic!~