Best Splutter Poems
A girl called Lucy loved to trumpet lies
And idle gossip laced her lips with ease.
Tall tales tripped off her tongue to tantalise
Those twitching ears which reddened by degrees.
This filled her honest Mother with despair
‘You wash your mouth with soap’ she often cried.
Young Lucy shrugged it off and did not care -
To those who would do likewise, woe betide!
One day, when she’d amassed an eager crowd
Who circled round to hear the latest slur,
She stood there in the limelight, feeling proud,
When suddenly a fly buzzed near her ear.
How everybody gaped to see it dive
Right into Lucy’s mouth poised open wide,
Then heard her splutter, gasp and vainly strive
To cough it up - she choked and promptly died!
The moral of this tale is do not lie;
When tempted move your upper lip down south.
Then Lucy’s fate will surely pass you by,
Nor fly, nor lie invades a fastened mouth.
18.08.19
.
If I had no pen
or slip
if face to face
you did me see
my legs would
tremble
and these lips
would splutter
So while you
my princess sleep
far off
from my own
my address gate
I cheerfully
with the gleam
with promises
and kissing dreams
dressing
and undressing thee
I with this
pen and slip
can be
your forever loving
humble
prince
Cough and splutter in a crowded room.
A juke-box is playing another dreary tune.
Lonely man feeds a bandit spending next week's rent
Woman sits at bar smothered in make-up and scent.
Young men at pool table in torn and holey jeans
Are shouting in unison about favourite football teams.
Soon elephants are pink leprechauns are green,
Unreality is the truth that we have seen.
Cold cold beer brings on the confusion
It's the outside world that is now an illusion.
This is a sort of parody. Based on a Moody Blues section on one of their albums. Think it was just before or after one of the songs. Called Late Lament. Thought I'd better credit it any way just in case anyone points it out.
My garden is an art of splendour,
I behold her with all my gaiety,
A garden of flowers and hope blossoming alike,
With all its beauty.
The buds splutter,
The mystic mystery unfolds with its glory,
Giving way to the symphony,
A harmony of colours and sounds so deep.
The soft petals dances to the melodious hues,
Spellbinding the onlookers,
A riot of colours it is!
Pink, purple, red, yellow, green, orange, scarlet and many more.
The butterflies waver through the unending haze,
The bees buzz adding to the tunes of melody,
The chirping birds twitter incessantly,
It's a confluence of colours and melodies so sweet,
The master conductor is the wind,
It directs every soul in the garden,
To break into the euphoria.
The wind chimes tingle with delight,
As if to thank me for their site,
Along the trails I hung them so dearly from the lamp post and trees.
Amidst all the extravaganza,
A happy me!
Hopping and tapping on the stepping stones,
Twisting and turning through the garden coves,
Here and there a nest erupts
among the shrubs and trees,
To signal a new dawn.
What more can I wish for?
As I wander and ponder
Through the poppies, pansies, poinsettia and phloxes,
Salvias, sweet william, succulents and shrubs,
The over powering Gulmohar and magnolia,
Atop the jasmines and the bougainvilleas.
They are all there in my garden,
There is colour, there is sound, there is life, there is hope,
My piece of haven I call it,
A colourful heaven in all its right,
And a peaceful eternity in all its might.
July 29th, 2020
2nd position
Contest: Petal, Buds, Blossoms, Bees, Birds, Butterflies poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Into the bowels of the earth we descend
Down into the pit of hell
Crawling on hands and knees to mine
This precious fuel they call coal
Now Petey and I we are almost men
He is ten and I'm eleven
Been working here, down this mine
These last two years and month now
Mum is counting on us as men
Since Dad died from consumption
Coughed every night, spat out blood
Now gone to be with Jesus
The work is hard, it's hot down here
To work by flickering candlelight
The dust so thick, you always taste it
It makes you cough and splutter
We've almost reached the coal face
When I can hear some rumbling
I turned my head to speak to Petey
When the world collapsed around me
I don't know how long I lay there
When sense returned to me
By the flickering light I could see
The roof caved in behind me
Now I don't know if Petey was safe
Or if Petey was buried under
But what I knew and the news was bad
This was a miner's worst nightmare
Not a breeze came through, no fresh air
The tunnel tightly sealed
I think I knew deep in my heart
My bones would find rest here
Time passed, don't know how long
The candle burned away
The last light my eyes did see
Then blackness all around
I had seen night and I'd seen black
But never before black like this
The silence too was deafening
A tear squeezed from my eye
I cannot cry, I am a man
But the tears slid down my cheeks
I told myself for Mum I cried
What will become of her
The air so stale, tis hard to breathe
My eyelids heavy, drooping
Slowly I drift off to sleep
Tomorrow I'll awake in heaven
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
About this poem:
Sadly children as young as five were sent down into the mines and should there be a cave in it was more economical to leave them there and keep mining in a different direction. Thousands of children perished working in mines.
.
When my husband was in hospital, he was given an afternoon tea
Scones and cake and sandwiches, simply delicious as you can see
The final treat was to eat the scone served with jam and butter
On opening the butter packet these words made hum splutter
He saw ‘Caution Contains Milk’ was written on the label
Found this so amusing he kept the label on the table
I know people have allergies but this is taking it too far
Soon they’ll be telling me I need petrol to drive my car
Some people think the Brits are dull, I intend to dispel this rumour
Think I may post on my poems ‘ this may contain some humour’
Jan Allison
28th May 2014
Little Susie had peed her new pants
Such an unfortunate circumstance
In front of her mother
She blushed a red colour …
Then invented the ‘Wet knickers’ dance!
Mum's reaction to this was not cool
As Sue pranced around like a fool
To add to her woe
More started to flow
Down her leg and formed into a Pool
Susie knew right away, she was Toast
With her face turning pale as a ghost
When the Cork in her ass
Shot out with the gas
And Mother got blasted the most
Desperately needing a breath of fresh air
We ran out of the house in a state of despair
It is far from a joke
To splutter and choke
On a stench that melts noses and frizzles our hair
In disgrace, she stomped off to the shed
Where a cunning plan entered her head
Her gas mask condition
Needed stiff competition
So she's joined a Bad Ass Commune instead
Sue was accepted as one of the troupe
After she curdled Cow’s milk into soup
And once it was dark
She thought it a lark
To 'Blue Flame' her gas for the group
In a national contest for which she was keen
She entered to take on the best there has been
But to Susie’s surprise
They gave the Top Prize
To a bloke farting 'God Save The Queen'
'Porton Down' is off limits so no one can see
The 'Boffins' who work in white coats, secretly
MI6 sniffed around
And Susie was found
Then Pressed into service as their new WMD
Collaboration with Rob Bettridge
A whinstone varigated thoughtless vegetative scrumptious.
A thanksgiving theology scrupulous splutter simultaneous.
A wistful zephyr as a wizened face vehemently wiseacre,
A filibuster recommends fiddlesticks to extradite fabulous.
An extraordinary amusable, desirable or sustainable flush.
Lady Alice Hamilton from Nambucca,
Was a large lady that enjoyed her tucker,
At any posh soiree
She'd seat herself by the buffet,
Eating so much she would sometimes splutter.
What Could Makes Me Happy
I have tarpaulin over my shame,
And instead of photographing un-wiped yarns
I will continue to climb the ladder of laughter
In case the eczema of fame spread abroad.
What Could Make Me Happy
If feverish joy could always splutter and flourish,
As often as eruption in one's crotch
Wet naughty naked tongue under the ruby flesh,
Then cemetery should be the death of belly dancing,
What Could Make Me Happy
A sex deranged Cliffordian orgy?
Trapped a pussy into his sacred slaughter slab
Dose her and embarrassed her hourly until lunar,
Dropping cold icicle of blooded lips
The severed corpse puke and raised the peace flag,
What Could Make Me Happy
In the cathedral of want,
With hiccoughing economy; dry hacking until comatose
The years of locusts go on like a long pronunciation,
Everyone is weighed down by portmanteau of problems,
And essential needs trickles in form of an anecdote.
Lying here beside you dear, I turn and watch you sleep,
So blessed I am to have you, a love so strong and deep.
You always say you love me, but I really love you more,
That is till’ I’m startled by the most god-awful snore!
The noise is so outrageous, that it vibrates in my head,
I’m shaken like a rag doll, like an earthquake hit our bed.
I know in any relationship, there’re highs and there’re lows,
But what’s that awful whistling sound coming from your nose?
I stare at you in utter shock, your mouse is gaping wide,
A sound like spaceships exploding is coming from inside.
I throw the nearest thing at you, an empty coffee cup,
I throw a plate, a lamp, an egg, but you just won’t wake up!
You told me that you wouldn’t snore, well I guess you told me fibs,
So I sharpen up my elbow and I smash you in the ribs!
You groan in pain and I believe, that silence will return,
I push your shoulder strongly in the hopes that you will turn.
Alas you are still sound asleep, although you fart and cough,
With a noise that’s reminiscent of an Airbus taking off!
Your snores renew with great force and grew louder than before,
So I kicked you off the bed and you crushed onto the floor!
I can’t believe it! What the f***? How can you sleep through that?
I’m really, really angry now, I want to sleep, you ****!
I lean across the bed to where you’re lying on the floor,
Oh, you landed on your back I see, and still I hear you snore!
I yell your name, there’s no reply, it’s like you’re comatose,
So I reach out my hand in the dark and grab you by the nose.
You splutter and you’re drooling, still sound asleep, no cares,
Oh screw this! So much for some sleep, I’m off to sleep downstairs!
A romantic young man from Sherwood
Bought a ring for his girl and felt good
He left it on the bus
Air was blue with his cuss
Chased after it as fast as he could.
A chocolate lover from Bangalore
Couldn't get enough and wanted more
She had a big belly
Wobbled like a jelly
Now she cannot get out the front door.
There was a man who got into a lift
Someone before him had left him a gift
He gagged and he spluttered
Under his breath muttered
Got to his floor and oh boy did he shift.
A Dutchman was wearing new clogs
Got chased by some mean looking dogs
But he could not out run
They chewed his clogs for fun
And now they look like splintered logs.
A pilot was flying in the sky
Heard both his engines splutter and die
He'd ran out of fuel
And he felt a fool
The moral is fill up 'fore you fly.
On her birthday told hubby don't be late
And with him she wanted to celebrate
With good food and some wine
A posh place they would dine
He forgot and went drinking with a mate.
Written 17th January 2019.
There was an old chap from Calcutta,
Who bought a new wood as a putter.
‘A bogey?’ he coughed.
‘This green isn’t soft -’
And swallowed a ball in mid-splutter.
For Craig’s Golf limerick contest, 31st March
Oh gosh, what memories pancakes brings back to me …
As a child I used to make them every week for my dad
He adored them but I never ate them! It’s been many years since I made them
Lets see if I can remember the recipe for the batter
Carefully weigh out 4 oz plain flour, add in ¼ teaspoon salt
Sieve this into a bowl. Make a well in the center
Then carefully add three medium sized eggs
Do make sure they are fresh and you scoop out any bits of shell
You don’t want to find anything crunchy in your pancakes!
Use a hand whisk or electric whisk to incorporate the eggs then
Gradually add ½ pint milk (or milk and water combined)
Whisk until you have a silky smooth batter with no lumpy bits
Now the important thing is to put the batter in the fridge
Leave it to rest as long as possible ideally at least ½ hour
Then you need a medium sized frying pan, drizzle in a little cooking oil
Heat the pan until it is fairly hot but not smoking
You don’t want to have clouds of acrid smoke and have to ring the fire brigade!
Pour in a little of the batter It will start to sizzle and splutter
Tip the pan to spread the batter and make a thin coating
Cook until the underside of the pancake is golden brown
And the top is covered with bubbles
Now comes the fun bit…
You can simply flip the pancake over to cook the other side
BUT if you are daring you can try tossing it in the air …
hoping it doesn’t stick on the ceiling!
Disaster can strike if the pancake misses the pan and ends up on the floor…
I was never brave and always flipped the pancake over
Once the pancake is golden brown on both sides slide it onto a warm plate
My dad always ate them sprinkled with sugar and zesty lemon juice
But you can use any topping you desire even savoury ones
Dad would roll his pancake and eat it in slices
Whilst he was eating the first pancake
I would continue cooking until the batter was used up
I’d make sure I added a little oil before cooking each one
You don’t want them to stick
If you are making a batch of pancakes you can cover them
Put them in a warm oven until you have finished making them all
Enjoy!
Contest:-Didactic Food
Sponsor: Tammy Reams
10~07~15
(This is in remembrance of the days running up to Christmas in an Anglo-Indian home in a small town in
India. Some of the words are distinctly Anglo-Indian. I wonder if there is anyone on Poetry Soup who can
relate?)
It’s a December evening, we’re back from school
The house feels nippy for a breeze, nice and cool
Wafts through the trellis, while Papa gives a rendition
Of carols that herald an annual family tradition
Mummy’s come back with bread, eggs and flour
We little children, get ready for many an interesting hour
Of digging our fingers into a tub full of batter
As the house vibrates with loud, cheerful chatter
It’s that time again, that time of the year
For, cul-culs and cake and Christmas’ cheer
To roll out on forks, an Anglo-Indian delight
And to grease the cake tins with all our might
As Mum-mum calls out for us to ‘take care
Or we might fall into the oil that’s boiling there’
Which is ready, of course, to splutter and crackle
As we dip in forked creations of eggs, flour and butter
The whole family sits at the dining room table
Each one doing what he or she is able
And stories are told of Christmases past
While ros-a-cookies are into the boiling oil, cast
When the whipping and blending has been done
And the cake’s in the oven, it is time for more fun
So we lick our fingers with many a hearty smack
As we enjoy this tasty pre-cooked snack
That comes for us, only once every year
A time that is filled with memories dear
As carols croon in the chill evening air
And family stories, Papa, does joyfully share
It’s been years now, since I have had such fun
And I hope, I can, one day relive it with my son
Those hours spent in a house on a railway colony
Hours that I now recall, with a smile and much glee.
Hours that have since made nostalgia smile
Hours that have made childhood worth the while.