Best Spit Out Poems
God gave a promise to us,
that our children would be more than the stars in the sky
He would give us life abundantly;
multiplying and expanding without end,
vast and innumerable will God's family be
Children of eternity
Be we have not all been faithful
to believe this holy vow of promise
Selfish desires possesses the wayward souls,
careless pleasures are all some seek ...
bodies addicted to sexual stimulations
Unwanted seeds conceived in beds of lust
are taken to the high priestess Noitroba,
and placed on the sterile altar in her temple of death
Drink the chemical poison,
wither the life within
Twice dead ...
make the dying womb barren again
Life was given unto them,
but they, selfishly, refuse to give life to someone else
Pleasure seekers, sex slaves
Chained to carnal desires
They love to indulge in acts of procreation,
but they hate to taste of the fruit it produce
They spit out the seeds
Where are their children,
where are their children's children?
They possess no Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
a dry tree is their DNA spiritual makeup
So many empty vessels containing no seeds of life
The children of eternity will still sprout into existence,
though some have tried to turn God's fertile truth into a barren lie
God gave a promise to us,
that our children will outnumber all of the stars in the sky
*
/ \
/ \
sliced
and whole
a cleaved life
in flux cast dice
state of non being
potential in between
eternity's randomness
flip a coin up into the air
unpredictability flies there
alternate reality hints upon
•>•
parallel universes going on
realistically just one path
life’s inevitable no math
untangled observation
spit out my creation
god particle sown
new baby grown
chop the cord
use sword
spliced
\ /
\ /
*
Poets, do not give up
Whatever you write
Whatever you spit out
A genius will be up
To it somewhere. Someone
Will understand the tone
Of your voice, the hieroglyph
Of your thoughts, the myth
Of your vision and the dactyl of your wit
Someone will be up to it. The perennial spirit
Of your global view is astounding
Although few comprehend your writing
And the mechanical process of your brain
No need to call a surrealist surgeon
Everything is absolutely normal
Only the Poets fully comprehend
The intricacies of the supernatural
Being, who is not afraid to make a stand
Poets, do not give up
You see things from top
To bottom and from the wrong-side-up
There’s no need to bring a novel map
An updated or an archaic GPS
Many Poets fully comprehend the methodized mess.
P.S. In the memory of all Poets...
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
There once swam a catfish named Ben
hadn't eaten since who knows when
my worm looked just right,
Ben took a big bite.
No one's seen Ben swim'n since then.
Ben put up a heck of a fight
was thrashing with all of his might
when reeling him in,
that fish seemed to grin,
and spit out my worm just for spite.
Old Ben made one heck of a meal
couldn't help but think how he'd feel
if he'd been the one,
who had battled and won,
from the opposite side of the reel.
Dragon fell asleep at his nappy time, and his dreams were so sublime.
He’d just heard the song, ‘Snoopy Vs The Red Baron’, one more time.
That Plus ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’, both were… very old… favorites of mine!
And, I swear to you… this is how his dreams… Really… did align…
Snoopy’s Dog House was in for repair. His little mechanic bird friends…
Were working feverishly making repairs for Snoopys’ next battle to begin.
But as the time drew near… Snoopy couldn’t wait… He couldn’t be late.
A Duel of honor had been struck, and it was time for the Red Baron’s fate.
He’d AGAIN appear! Snoopy had to be there at dawn, to fight for our team.
To save our beloved Life, Liberty, Freedom, and the great American Dream.
The Red Baron was never late, or missed, this duel! He yearly repeated…
It was the anniversary of his greatest loss. This, he wanted! No! He needed!
This was, once again, his chance to Win! So Snoopy did the amazing thing!
He called on Dragon to see him thru! Yes, Dragon would supply the wings.
He’d be in a dog fight with Snoopy, against the Red Baron, to the bitter end.
What the Red Baron didn’t know was… he didn’t stand a chance, my friend.
Not with these two Super heroes, together, and they did start out, so true!
At least, until Snoopy’s machine gun jammed! Oh! What would they do??!!
Freedom Simply Couldn’t Be Lost, when it didn’t go, as they had planned!
But never fear, with Dragon here, at Snoopy’s inventive, brilliant command!
Snoopy called on Dragon’s most wonderous, Top Secret Strength, acquired!
Yep, you guessed! He had Dragon spit out, Really, Great, Big Balls of Fire!
Naturally that couldn’t be beat! Better yet, as The Red Baron leaned in…
Diving from above! Dragon did the greatest Loop de Loop EVER SEEN!
Yep, He ended up, right behind the Red Baron’s illustrious, flying machine!
Then Snoopy let his Dragon of War loose, to do his special thing, so keen!
And as you guessed, the tail of the Red Barons’ plane, caught fire, so sweet!
Sending him home… in a massive, humbling, complete and utter DEFEAT!
The moral of this story is: Never Mess with our… American Super Heroes!
Dedicated to the True Heroes of 9/11, the First Responders, and our Amazing
Soldiers… They’re the best the World will ever see!
Written 9-11-2015
That was the summer...
Of watermelon fields, and hot, humid days
Of suntanned traces, and mosquito-bit faces
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned
Of running down a country road
Bare feet on hot asphalt
Criss-crossing across an open field
Helping ourselves
To thick pink crimson chunks
That melted cool on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins
Leaving the best part
The black bullet seeds
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wind
Against the dusty ground
Against each other
And when the ammunition was spent
A pillowed head, among the vines
To dream on clouds that whispered by
In the blue afternoon sky
That watermelon summer
___________________________________________________________
For Skat's Contest: Summer
Cancer, you are an artist
A prolific one at that,
For several dear ones
Have encountered your work.
Your wretched fingers as sculptors
Design imprints of faces unknown.
You smudge white, pain-ridden clay
A little here, a little there,
Till your subject becomes amorphous.
But oh you are not finished!
A red cross encrusted kiln
Invariably cements your doings.
A surgery of crackling and burning,
Until the shape is spit out,
A hard shell lost of all dignity.
Satisfied with your creation,
You give it one last look
Before it rests on an earthly shelf
And another project is begun.
I am sad to say,
You are quite skilled at your craft.
I’m tapping my feet to the music escaping an old man’s saxophone
On main street
I can feel the raindrops hit my hand
I roll them in my palms like marbles
From my childhood
They apologize to me
And I ask for what?
They say, for making you feel smaller than you are
I look up at the sky, water like whites from an egg
Sizzling on my skin
The sun breaking like the yolk
Like me
The old man’s sax is drowning
Filling up with storm
I decide the rain is too much and disappear
Into a coffee shop
I’m at the counter waiting when
The man in front says
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone?”
It ends in a question but not the one he said
Out loud.
Blink 182 cuts like static through the silence
I try to force my mind to the song but
I can only hear the lyrics
“Friday night and” “Nobody likes you”
My smile is already frozen from the cold
But he makes it shatter like a mirror and
Gather itself on the floor.
The server asks my order, slowly
My face rewinds like a VCR and
My smile puts itself back together
“Caramel Macchiato, please.”
I trudge to my home smelling of cardiac arrest
Brush my teeth
Spit out the coffee and distaste on my breath
At night I dream of bowing in front of red gold curtains
Costume only on my lips
A playbill
With my name an elipseys from the heaviest role
Happiness
People throw roses for fake smiles.
Today I write for the women, of the Poetry Soup.
Tuesday’s poem of the day was more like bigotry goop.
More hate was spit out by an imbecile’s rant.
I would love to shut your mouth, you’re just lucky I can’t.
Your words aren’t appreciated nor will they ever be.
You don’t speak like a real man a coward is what I see.
Why would you attack women? That’s just pathetic and weak.
Would your mother approve of the words that you speak?
You’re entitled to your opinion as I am to mine.
But bring your hate to this platform and I’ll speak up every time.
A woman gave you life and wiped your worthless rear.
Mothers do a lion’s share of the work, not you my dear.
You need to reboot and think before you boast.
You show your intelligence by the words that you post.
I’m sorry dear ladies you don’t deserve any more pain.
You have my love and respect, no matter what this fool claims.
Your thought-balloons are filled with wild and magical freedom ~
until madness seizes your think tank
trapping your ceaselessly chirping ideas
within the teeth of its snapped steel-jaws
refusing to relinquish you; lest you chew up and spit out your mind-racing brain
ire over this cognitive quagmire is quite understandable ~
like the murmuration of startled starlings
amassing in angst and taking wing
your thoughts, your second thoughts and afterthoughts
gather in pulsating dark masses
swirling into flight and shifting directions
turbulently twisting into tornadic spins
unable or unwilling to unravel and unwind
as they hurl themselves
in a pessimistic panic
through the maze of gray matter minefields
not wanting to explode their legs-to-stand-on should they alight...
...and despite butterfly nets vying to capture them
they are whirling dervishes twirling out of control --
holding your damnation in a state of suspended animation
Susan Ashley
March 24, 2018
Saddle old Brownie
A saddle on me old brown horse,
To ride away into the sunset,
Light swag on me old pack of course,
Nother horse called my Regret.
Carry flour for damper or tasty fried scones,
Sugar n tea, few spuds n onions,
Carry a stockwhip to flog off the dogs,
Or galahs with the loony some ones.
Camp every night by blazing fire light,
Out where the Coolabahs sway,
Dip water from the river and boil,
Gumleaf smelling tea today.
Seach for mussels at the waters edge,
Put him on the hook today,
Catch em a cod, good tucker by God,
Spit out the bones I may,
Protein n calcium hey….
Don Johnson 20-july-11
Someone once told me that
If I can feel the words on the page
In my heart, then I am
A true writer.
But if I am so great a writer,
What is the cause
For the writer's block
I sometimes get?
Or the poems that I write
That are extremely long,
But don't amount to anything?
Why do I sit down sometimes
To write, scribble out random words,
And crumple my paper up in frustration?
What makes my pencil
Refuse to spit out bright ideas
And brilliant words?
And why--how-- do poems bring me
Such pleasure,
When all they are
Are words on a page?
And if they are just words on a page,
Why are they so greatly appreciated?
Answer me that, and you will be
A true genius.
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
Asphyxiated and found dead
Raped and found dead
Unsure what happened, and found dead
Nepali women found dead
Snake bitten and found dead
Eaten by tigers and found dead
Left in a small dark menstrual hut
And found dead
Nepali women found dead
Shunned and labelled unclean
Ostracized for the wonderful way
God has insured they can have babies
Asphyxiated, raped, snaked, and frozen
And found dead. Someone is not right in the head.
These huts should be torn up and spit out.
Please, people, permanently get these women out!
Blade of Hate
Rip out my bruised and battered heart
fire that shot, you must start.
The cuts have soaked the floor so red
hell no, not yet am I, the fool dead!
Slide back into this bloody little room
give some more pain and slashing gloom.
You laugh so gleefully at my great pain
as if your heart isn't a stinking stain.
Spit out that blackened heart you chew
this world weeps at the evil you do.
Shove in more deep, slicing razor blades
stab into more late midnight raids.
Now you can walk on the blood that has dried
spin your lies and pretend this soul has died.
Stand in false pride at the gory little scene
eat out my heart , liver and my busted spleen!
Stab me with a blade of hate burned in so deep.
Finish me as now weak and dying, I go to sleep!
10-21-1973. robertjlindley
This is from long, long ago. Back when anger and passion
flowed like a river from me! My first wife tore my soul out
and stomped on it. Even in pure anger I loved her still.
I sent a copy of this to her her . She sent back a note ,
saying F.U.
This is from my journal that I have to date never shared
a single poem from.
Why not I asked myself. Life holds no truly great memories
if they are about such great pain...Pain that destroyed
a true love and glorified her use of drugs and torture..