Best Squats Poems
“Every year is a chess game. New Year is a new chess game! You make the right moves, you win the game!”
Mehmet Murat ildan
Questions of resolutions for new years day.
It's a comedic quest that's all I can I say.
No more gym promises, let 'love handles' slide,
I'll do squats with laughter - it's smiles certified!
I'll attempt to embrace my inner chef cuisine,
but I'll probably get too lazy to cut green beans!
Microwaves, dear Constance, shall take the lead,
cooking gourmet food in minutes, that's all I need!
I don't care for mumbo jumbo mindfulness.
I'll try to be calm and stay away from stress.
I'm quite content with my life being a mess.
through poetry I will continue to express.
Maybe I'll spend less time online or on my phone,
but then my 'Boo' will be grumpy and start to moan;
asking "Why no poetry or posting on soup,
have I joined another community group?"
Soupers must be tired from my melancholic words,
so I'll try to make them laugh like royal lords.
I'll post limericks humorous and brash,
maybe I'll get published and make lots of cash!
I'm poor and no money brings so much woe,
but I pledge to spend on a cheap comedy show.
Laughter, they say is the best form of currency,
it's free and will save you from needing therapy.
Fitness goals? Come on let's keep it real,
my resolution's laughter, a daily ordeal.
Belly laughs and chuckles, my abs will be toned,
who needs a treadmill when jokes are treasures, owned.
Oh Constance La France my dear poetic friend,
on new year resolutions one cannot depend.
We all know they end up in disaster,
so I'm gonna stick to the strength of laughter!
For in the land of goals, funny and bright,
may your New Year beliefs bring you delight!
I used to like barbells, enjoyed pumping iron,
my Nautilus* gym was one happy environ.
Those posters of 6-packs and marbled biceps
inspired me to start counting carbs, pounds, and reps.
My trainer would coax, "hold as long as you can!"
Doing deadlifts I felt like a WAS a dead man
The kettlebell, medicine ball - hated those,
since dropping 'em both on my poor little toes.
My dad-bod and willpower soon parted ways,
after only 1 set, I was shell-shocked for days
My back hurt, my knees ached, I'd injured my hips,
after grimacing nonstop, I'd sprained both my lips.
Oy! The sharp pain that shoots
through my quads, delts and glutes...
Now my game plan is shifting
no more power lifting.
To planks, it's "no thanks",
I'm expunging all lunging.
I feel stabs in my abs,
there's a hex on my pecs
and my lats shriek like bats.
When I tweak my oblique
I am sore to the core...
and I want it no more.
The rowing machine is no longer my scene
I loathe those squats lots and I hate crunches bunches.
Do sit-ups or push-ups? Do jump-ups or chin-ups?
I'm more inclined now to do lots of "I-give-ups".
My doc tried convincing me I'd be less tired?
I'm questioning how that poor man's brain is wired!
I felt half exhausted just WATCHING staff clean
the ellipticals, treadmills, and stair-climb machine.
Then... I found when I stood on the locker room scale
That my plan to lose weight was a sad epic fail!
I'm done! I have finished my very last burpee -
I just want a hot dog and super-size Slurpee.
What happened to wanting to feel fit and well?
When it came to workouts, I was just a dumbbell.
I've resolved now to walk more, or swim a few laps
maybe jog, ride my bike, play some tennis, take naps.
That's right, getting plenty of rest seems so plain,
it appears the most challenging muscle to train ...
is the brain.
* Nautilus is a brand of gym equipment
written 2 Oct 2022
Odd bird stands out among the seaside flocks
Taller, leaner with red stripes round one eye
Squats in the sand, oblivious to mocks
Opens his beak, emitting a strange cry
Gulls spread their wings, rise high and relocate
Odd bird remains, doesn’t take to the sky
Acceptance by others is not his fate
Solitude is all he has ever known
Feathers unruffled, he lives without hate
One of a kind, this bird has no clone
Staying true to himself, his strength is shown
My baking skills I have to change
Vast quantity is needed now
Cos I invited Bigfoot to lunch
Do I serve deer or a tasty cow
He doesn't want meat and two veg
His menu would want meat and nuts
For a whole deer he will surely beg
Must have protein and carbohydrates
A nut roast to accompany his steer
Meat like a hog roast is cooking fine
Hmm nasty smell I think he is near
I hope he realises some of its mine
He squats his frame against a tree
Looks over to where I am
Geez I think he fancies eating me
Licking his lips causes me alarm.
But all is well he has spied
Lurking in a tree above
A grey squirrel looking boss-eyed
At big foot with a look of love
Down it comes and sit's quite near
Espying of the fruit and nuts
It doesn't eat cow or deer
I will high 5 this squirrel cos it has guts.
So all is well Bigfoot eats with glee
Most of the deer and nuts as well
Managed to leave a bit for me
Then up he leaves, left this story to tell.
Penned 17 April 2015 by Seren Roberts
A farmer met a wizard who was wearing odd regalia
The wizard gave him seed of magic carrots from Australia
You sow them just like normal but they all grow upside down
The leaves will grow like roots, the carrots stick out of the ground
The farmer dug and rotavated, levelled off the soil
He was super motivated, those seeds mustn’t spoil
He worked so hard, that shovel he was pushing and a shoving
When he was done his back was bad and now he’s good for nothing
Those magic carrots, upside down, all turned out to be beauties
But poor old farmer’s stuck indoors on lightweight household duties
He’s standing in the kitchen where he’s washing pans and pots
His wife is in the carrot field and smiling as she squats
She squats and points,
her little face is all aglow.
Her smile is wide
She’s grinning ear to ear, you know.
She’s very pleased
at the discovery she’s made.
The little frog
is sitting frozen in the shade.
He knows that she
is his protector and his queen,
but he’s not sure
now that I’m also on the scene.
When did you know, I ask of her,
that frogs could talk and you could hear?
She seems so sure
I find it easy to concur.
I’ve always known,
she says, and most convincingly.
They sit outside
my room at night and sing to me.
I call him Fred;
He has a loud and squeaky croak.
He’s very sad;
his girl was gone when he awoke.
He calls her name
And sings a song about the moon.
I love him so;
I told him she will be home soon.
Why do you think, I ask of her,
That I can’t hear them when they talk.
The frogs told me
That grownup heads are filled with chalk.
When do you think, I ask of her,
That you won’t hear them anymore?
She looks real sad,
When I get big, like maybe four.
You are my frog, I say to her,
for me there never was a choice.
I love you so,
in my best squeaky, croaky voice.
She hugs me hard
And says Big Daddy, never leave.
Where would I go, I say to her,
My little frog, my Genevieve
"Possums on the Run - Part 1"
Well she ran away
danced the F.U.
Revolutionary Dance
Jokers are trumps
Euchre, 500,
Queens Slippers
no Deuce, no Romance
Holey holy
blue jeans torn and buried
underneath the house
with uneaten sandwiches
going mouldy in plastic lunch bags,
old unwanted items, school books
torn pages, hessian bags, burnt pots,
newspaper wrappings fading
tales of the city with
dreams of necromancy.
She’s upstairs deliberating
sitting at the kitchen table
writing her stories
Over with doing the dishes
done with Rainbow Princesses,
homework squats and
buried small town garbage runs
over strawberry jam and creamed up
Sunday Cream Buns.
A good day out
some holiday
collecting cut grass
she stands watching
red skinned motor mower man
barking orders
while the other daughters
stand en garde cross-armed
no hat, sun burnt,
barefeet, blistering in the
boiling Sun.
En Garde, patiently waiting
watching Frilly Lizard Black Boy
Kangaroo Paw Hibiscus
“There’s a tortoise under the
outside dunny!”
there’s a flaming tortoise
on the run
slow mode
totally bizarre,
wonders where
it came from…she thinks,
“run tortoise run”.
She knows better, she’s 17,
she’s the Dancing Queen,
she’s Top Gun.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. .... x
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZUX3j6WLiQ
A lifetime of waiting, stacks of National
Geographic half as tall as me, piled on
every step. A girl with nothing to do but dream.
The yellow-black jackets buzzed, I flowered
as I turned the pages. The relics of Tutankhamun
fascinated: gold, turquoise, lapis and the slaves
in mud-brick houses they live in still.
I longed to be the Pharaoh’s daughter;
I kohled my eyes.
Egypt called to me. Pyramids, deserts baking,
heat mirages, and oases of palms with still blue water.
The twenty-first century’s reality is far different.
Cairo teems with discontent, Mubarak’s campaign
posters hung from each lamppost.
Two weeks before the Arab Spring, I was there.
The only safety found behind the gun-guarded,
razor-wired gates of the upper class, and even then—
A country espousing religious freedom was killing
Coptic Christians in the streets, and bombing churches.
Cairo’s one poster child synagogue stood empty,
except for tourists—dark, decorative, haunting,
full of tales of Christ’s sojourn in Egypt?
The pyramids rose hen-pecked by pollution
through a surreal orange sky. Masked women
walk the male dominated streets. Women
live in fear in or out of the hijab.
The majesty of yesteryear, the pyramid of Giza
squats like a discard in the ashtray of desert.
Vendors and tourist litter the site.
Baksheesh is the only God in Egypt,
baksheesh and the horded water of the Nile.
First Published in here & there magazine
in the UK
All he is rackety-raggedy walking the streets.
Talking about things that are conflicting.
His mind has been captured by the wrongful deeds of people.
He has been cheated and depleted of his meaning.
No more power brings no stronger will to live…
That is the will for bigger and better things.
The arms of a vagabond are covered well even on a hot summer day in the
Mississippi Delta.
His educated presence states that of oppression.
His historical era is that of social injustice.
He laughs to himself.
He must be thinking on once better days.
He swigs his wine and squats to drop his bag.
He looks up to speak to the woman sitting on her porch.
He asked her could she share some coffee.
She responded and says sure Bill here you a cup.
She knows his family very well.
The arms of a vagabond are revealed.
He is slim and handsome to the life he lives.
His educated presence postures a friend.
She admires him for his intelligence.
A further walk down the streets of life brings forth new insight.
He shows his self-worth as he sits under a tree to eat.
It was a nice place to relax and think.
He knows that his life has been negated.
However, he fared just the same.
How his story defines his path now.
How his mind coexists with his conflict.
Can he undo what has caused this perplexity?
The arms of a vagabond strength are shown.
Through manual labor, he overcomes the challenges he knows.
Once he felt he would not make ends meet.
Today as he proceeds, his thoughts manifest the skeletons seen.
To all, he is rackety-raggedy walking the streets.
Talking about things that are conflicting.
His mind has been captured by the wrongful deeds of his people.
He has been cheated and depleted to his self-meaning.
No more power brings no stronger will to live…
That is the will for bigger and better things.
_________________________________________________________________|
Imprisoned by clammy apron strings
She squats amidst domestic disorder
Dirty dishes, smelly household linens
Blackened pots and foamy dishwater.
Hastily, she conjures breakfast on the table
While vigilantly eyeing the baby's cradle
A highly- strung neurotic woman
Nursing ghosts of high dreams and aspiration.
A docile victim whose world revolves around
The see-saw whims of her bossy husband
An egoistic peacock with a deficient IQ
Whose brutal hands are his magic wand.
...Pegged on the wall stained by grease
Hangs her college degrees.
A Porsche squats by the side of the road,
keys tucked in the ignition.
We stare at the coupe with our salivating glands…
this devilish hint revving our hidden pleasure.
Slowly, slowly we cross the street
on impulse, Roy and I open the door,
gliding our bodies unto the pompous seats
as wheels start the trip, reeling like a breeze.
Not a soul in sight; this is a twosome joy ride!
With nary a conscience, we ram this big-time treat;
sliding a playlist right down metal -rock road.
Then, boomed a noise louder than the soundtrack
popping flamed lights, sirens in the distance…
oh, we just wanted some naughty fun;
but, men with badges are after us now.
The timing and urge for adventure, too brief
Our luck written on crisscrossed stars…
beneath flashy neon, we got whacked,
Roy and I hauled a thief’s runaway car!
Carol Eastman's Humor Contest
by nette onclaud... * from the perspective
of two young men, partly fictional*
1/18/2015
THE PERFORMANCE
She’s a dancer ready to chronograph her next move.
The chair is her boogie down stool.
Her hand synthesis the groove.
She looks as if her depths are being used.
Her arm is amalgamated to the symphony sounds in the room.
She squats in a hunker down pose to expose her sensual core.
Yes, she desires to be an instrumental part of the performance.
_______________________________________________________|
Written February 27, 2016!
Sitting in the outhouse,
Gettin' high on turds;
Thinking about my crappy life,
Can't sum it up in words
The kids ain't worth a quarter,
They're meaner than the mob;
All they do is eat and fart,
They won't go find a job!
I have a cat named Bonzo,
He hates his litterbox;
Squats wherever he chooses,
Right on my favorite socks
My stupid dog Binky,
Dumber than an English pea;
He never barks at strangers,
Instead, he barks at me!
My bills are in collections,
I'm about to lose my job;
The car's in repossession,
I feel like a rotten slob
Maybe I'll grab my gun,
And try to end it all;
Enough with all the drama,
I'm tired of takin' the fall!
When I think I've had enough,
Others have it worse;
Suicide's the cheap way out,
It's time to put God first!
Who knows if I'll be homeless,
Standing in a kitchen's line;
Today the skies are dreary,
Tomorrow's sun will shine
Here squats a Black Widow spider,
who sups a swig of sweet cider.
He spies her there,
scoots close to share
and sips the hot brew beside 'er.
She darts with aim to devour,
her size gives her lethal power.
She fakes a hug,
then snags him snug;
true bliss defines his last hour.
For some who deceive are gifted
to mask when power is shifted.
The prey's surprise—
he's soon incised—
his parts all broken and sifted.
Contemporary Ode To A Mother Crying Out
To Her Children…2015
Sprawled out on life’s stage,
her world turns and runs
river red with the blood of her children:
flowing like a wandering stream.
Bloated ballooned bellies
mock aborted pregnancies;
once luscious breasts
sag in parallel union
with sinking faces
of lost hope.
Lost hope—whirling
like solitary ghost smoke
of abandoned fires:
abandoned fires
dying in waning time.
Hollowed red eyes
of fleeing lovers look rearward:
the wholeness of nothingness simmering;
as smiling death sits—
waiting and anticipating the wonted feast.
Heartbeat of hope struggles—
murmuring in the valleys and shadows;
searching the gods’ penurious mercy.
In the midst of the Dante, hazed hell,
a wretched mother clings
to time and history—once again.
Rooted in her audacious faith,
she cries out to her wandering brood in Diaspora:
those liberating souls spewed from her precious womb.
Scattered liberating souls—umbilical bound;
destined to restore her great grand glory:
With sage seasoned good courage,
sagaciously she squats—
awaiting the victory.