Best Spitball Poems
Acrostic Memory
Acrostics introduced in fifth grade on a rainy winter afternoon
Careful crafted choice of words written in lyric cadence hues
Rhythmic flow like music class - songs of skaters waltzes spin
Out of tumbling imagination’s chaos form corrals intention’s whims
Shaping thoughts that rumble ramble like errant spitball pests
Teacher’s encouragement gentle walks through rows of wooden desks
Imaginations set on fire with a powerful surge
Crafts of poems like spelling bees in alphabetic order emerge
My favorite teacher – Miss Daly - guided my awakening muse
Emerging in wide young eyes - life’s enigma puzzles to deduce -
Many her gifts wrapped in surprises of creative lines, the prize
Often I remember her stern but loving eyes
Reminders to remember her guiding hand for wordsmith potential
Yet I always wonder of her life’s acrostic in questions reverential
12-8-20
Contest: Nostalgia
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
The alarm clock brushed my teeth and then forced me to drink orange juice.
As I looked out the window, a cement sky was pulling down the corners of my mouth.
The newspaper on my front steps was wetter than a spitball. Trying to read it was like trying to page through baklava, just not as tasty.
The coffee grinder handed me a bouquet and asked if I would like some help with the corners of my mouth. I cradled the steaming mug so I could feel the rays of sunshine in my hands.
As I headed out, the wind surprised me by throwing the door open and kissing me. Her lips were cold, but her breath was very fresh. I was mad at first, but must admit, it did feel good.
When I got to work, the building was talking trash to me, and I talked trash right back,
reminding him that I was close to retirement. That shut him up! I paused and then tightly grinned, knowing full well that someday I will miss them all.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
It made me mad; I wished she was dead.
Took my anger to my Uncle Ned.
He started laughing, happy instead.
Most serious now, sick in my head,
Ran to my cousin, Goofball named Zed.
He chased me off, his face spitball of red.
With laughter shaking his feather bed.
I decided to sit in my little she-shed.
Devoured Ritz crackers ‘til I was fed.
Refused to talk to my Uncle Ted.
Who was spitting a story about Brother Ed.
I rode off on my purple and pink Moped.
Had an accident, needed bandage and a med.
The nurse who helped me was named Mrs. Ked.
Beautiful, she was a recent newlywed.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
I was shocked for a second, but then I read
A book, settled down, no longer in my head.
Seeing the humor of Ed, Zed, Ned and Ted.
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
The split level blinks
at Chestnut End under
twilight's tremble, ripping me,
the oily menhaden bait,
from the under boot
The Chestnut dwellers bold
interrogative flushes him down
then plunges-up the flotsam
village scrawler
the way you talk
to a blooming night blooming
to a blow-fish blown unsuspecting
of the scuttle, skating the wake away
The insomniacs billow from
their raged ranches, wisely,
and after supper, tumbling
the trickster tumbledowning
the scrawler, the baitster
dip-fished in his own inkwell.
Ripped and chipped
in my underbrush
I hunker down loading
the mossy mossbunkers
inside my spitball.
Kicking, winding up
tumbling down madly aiming
for the ramshackle fence,
escaping once again
in my handsome
lederhosen.
Watching "Law and Order"
and feeling a little bummed out
I pick up the Times
and see that my team - the NY Metropollitans have
have lost
Perhaps I should
re - read the
baseball stories of my youth
the Chosen and Bonus Pitcher
but instead
I lay down to dream
try to forget
the world situation
Pick up a pen
and write about BASEBALL
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of poop pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide jerk
wishing Moby Dick could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart ass wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.