Best Stiffs Poems
Abominable holiday season greeting to the have-nots me and you
Bombshell tabloid sleigh bells got those ear holes ringing
Cut the tax gift wrap ribbon, only good cheers for the wealthy few
Ducky Little Donald beaky wacky-quacky curse caroling
Ebony epithets, Latino canina lobs, Palestinian and Muslim sobs
Freeze the Access Holly Would frame, hear the locker room talk
Get smart, dummies ... Populist Idol adored by Wall Street snobs
Hate not the playa, love the con: Eraserheads don’t need no chalk
Incense of Uranium burning, napalm is pissy incendiary to touch
Jingling cash registers be jiggling twin money-makers below and above
Kiss the ring of the Don, you poor stiffs ... just don’t ask for much
Let not the blue chips, white gems and red jewels make you a begging fool
Make the payments on time, or he break your legs with loan sharky love
No Festivus is complete without the test of strength Labor Party feats
O, deary me, Hercules Putin is cancelling from the main event
Proof is compromising truth, we don’t eat no tainted Trump red meat
Questionable straight partners sexually, fake news getting bent
Risque business dealings, tiptoe thru the financial tulip inquiries
Stake your illegit claim, skim a little off the top ... fattening grifter butt
Take a little less scrutiny, a lot more thievery ... no legal worries
Ultimate year end declaration: Shed that slothful image of a Jabba Hutt
Vacant morality, rampant gluttony ... gotta do what the lust belly says
Wiggle weight-loss room is minimal, doing the right thing is optional
*** expose, another failed marriage on the way ... oh, happy dog days
Young bacon tenders is ripe for old Porky Pig, innocence is so sellable
Zinc adulating is the best White holiday blues lip service Rudy brown-nosers do
*Image of Best Collapse by Giphy.
Pilfered Soulless House
Pilfered dawn occasions a soulless house, bruised
appeals innocence whilst porch screen once tended,
concedes whispers of dust calm quest of quarters,
~~views endured through time.
Some non-existent floorboards chanced ferns sprouting
rights, roots by an unnerved staircase, challenging
few, yon a blurred window, --rooms without a view
~~volumed sights, ventures.
Wilt garden fruitless seasons, its gardener
enshrined nigh, atop sits scentless plastics, stiffs
amidst squeezed breaths constants against a rosette,
~~hugging touched headstone.
Tempest strived roof musing o'er wealth perceived themes
of swayed hyperboles, midst shared rooms, aroused town's
tattlers year-long spread, wanes, delays one closed door,
~~course perused ruins
***porch, ferns, roof, rosette, staircase, window, garden, house, door, whispers
2020 July 13
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND your pick
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 08
*1st Place*
Decaying House
~~Constance La France: Judged 2020 July 19
Ossenburger, the business genius,
when he graduated from college,
he started a budget mortuary service.
Five dollars a corpse!
He was the Wal-Mart of death.
Burry ‘em, burn ‘em, float ‘em down the river,
get ‘em by the gross like a bag-o-chicken wings.
Bodies stacked like cord wood rotting beneath an eve,
he had a secret process for sorting, storing, and disposal.
He hoarded the cadavers like a squirrel hoards its nuts,
buried and forgotten,
never wondering where they’ll pop up.
Dough rolling in from all the strapped families,
Ossenburger was the drug lord of putrefied flesh.
While puddles of fat caramelized within the soil,
he donated excess funds to his fondly held private school.
He wrote off all his charity,
he hoarded up the dough,
with more babies born daily,
he kept profits up with our death toll.
Pencey held him in architectural esteem.
For all his generosity
they used his name
for their new wing.
Tell us Ossenburger about your fancy car,
how you dream of stiffs between each shift
and Jesus ignores our prayers to say how lucky you are.
Our only bit of justice, some smidge,
some smear of slight relief,
is hearing Marsalla’s flatulence
during your puffed up prep school speech.
From Monday through Friday
We come to work - and work and work…
No fun allowed
No smiles, no jokes
It’s a serious job
Our work that we work…
No horsing around
It’s not allowed…
We are corporate robots
And we are proud!!!
I’d like to discuss the manners of crow,
That dine on the roads where cars come and go.
They peck at road kill without forks or knives,
But ‘caw, caw’ to their friends, saving their lives.
They don’t use napkins, to wipe off their beaks,
Yet they always appear dapper, and sleek.
Do they get embarrassed eating that yuck?
If so, or no, I can improve their luck.
Next time I pass by I won’t hesitate
To place their fresh meat on a dinner plate.
Or wouldn’t they think I’m the grand pooh-bah
By offering them a side of coleslaw?
Lastly, I’ll grill up their newly struck treat,
And locate the whole shebang off the street.
It’s not like I’m going out of my way,
Since I drive by their feast ten times a day.
Also, I think that they’re awfully kind
Staying with us for the long winter grind.
Or is it a guise, since their next supper
Could be us frozen in the road’s gutter?
So that’s why they wear such a nice black coat;
They’re dressed to stuff us dead stiffs down their throat.
I must admit, I thought initially,
That they might have needed our sympathy.
But crow manners, hmm, can there be a thing?
Well, like I first said, it had a nice ring.
Though I may be wrong, it’s happened before,
Like when I thought storks ran the baby floor!
World without words will wear worse' worth
People provoke power points
By being born before bondage
- Bond by beliefs, base, bone...
Brotherhood-base borders bonafide-bliss
Be beuty-bench backing by brow.
An handsome ant and handful count
- Summer stiffs and Winter winds.
It's my body, and I'll cry if I want to!
Lie if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you.
No vaccine pricks my skin.
Absolute is my right
to randomly infect another,
yes, randomly kill if necessary to preserve
my freedom! My entitlement!
Like your neighborly sprinkler system
I shower you each time you come near.
Few people know the truth.
Bill Gates hired space aliens
now infiltrating scientists
and creating these vaccines
to poison us.
It’s my body and I’ll cry if I want to!
Deny if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
These shots made by Bill Gates and Democrats,
The list of deep state conspirators so long.
I know how to connect all the dots.
The vaccines pump you with magnetic goo.
And you will quickly become autistic too.
The vaccines are full of biotoxins
And millions will find their coffins.
It’s my body, and I’ll cry if I want to!
Defy if I want to!
Die if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
COVID is cured like the flu.
Cow de-wormer will do.
Or simply reach
For the Clorox bleach
And drink a cup or two.
Nobody knows where my family has gone.
They left along with my friends.
No hospital beds for hundreds of miles.
While the stiffs pile up in air-cooled trucks.
It’s my body and I’ll cry if I want to!
Standby if I want to!
Justify if I want to!
You might die too if I come near you!
In global pandemic,
It’s everybody.
You can cry if you want to.
No boundaries parse flesh and blood.
Together, it’s the whole human broth.
Inspired by 1963 pop-rock hit: It’s My Party performed by Leslie Gore and produced by Quincy Jones.
people power will take the day,
from the rich and petty way,
will it, fairness for all,
give the master taste of gall,
the poor to own the day...
we do not need the misletoe, predator rich,
sucking the life blood from us stiffs,,
remove greed is what i say,
people power the just eclipse...
then it be bloody ok...
I could write to you about what it feels like to be
unhinged, untethered, to float on a breeze of malintent
But what would it matter to you?
Thinking random thoughts anchorless,
adrift in a typhoon of emotional baggage
for which you have lost the claim tag.
In this flash bulb, pop snap, presto-chango world
where the only sane thing to do, or be, is to be insane,
I could talk to you of that……
Of the parenting child, wiping up the vomit
of a blighted gene pool.
Of the wound-up, pent-up,
morally straightjacketed, youth who has no example
of the rightness of creation or the necessity of destruction.
All this masticating, ruminating, procrastinating
does not stop the clock,
the pendulum continues its swing….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes within an all too ego driven self,
I assume you don’t know this!
The masses of opiated, upward looking
stiffs, passing through, and over their
pap driven lives don’t know this?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, but after realizing I realize nothing
I conclude… you have been there haven’t you?
Perhaps, your realizations did not arrive
from the same lessons as mine.
But after searching through an exorcism of soul
I would think You know,
in your heart of hearts you know.
In one form, or another, at one time, or another,
you have all been there blessed with insanity,
in a world which leaves few other outlets
between life and death.
For the sensitive’s in life are surrounded
with knifes, and guns, and drugs..lures
to cut the tethers, burst our bubbles
and rock our boats.
now the big hoilday
comes our way
tho love we win
and tho who brought us
from dust
we remember with our
gifts theyer not just stiffs
no need you fess
its that time to have all in mind
FRIENDS
FAMILY AND CHRISTMAS
In the Arctic, there are some strange critters
called lemmings, which legend says jump off cliffs.
Their fate's enough to give one the jitters,
imagine finding all those frozen stiffs.
When overcrowding becomes an issue,
it's rumored they all stampede to the sea.
And throw themselves in, but hold the tissue,
for that enduring myth isn't true, you see.
Misconceptions about this small furball
are based on their runs when they get too dense.
They stay home when there's enough food for all,
then run off, as their numbers grow intense.
Madness is not a part of Nature's plan,
that's one contingency; She leaves for Man.
Ah! For the good old days when you could fill the tank for a dollar.
If folks paid more'n a quarter a gallon, my, how they'd holler!
Nowadays, it necessitates a usurious loan from the bank,
Or a second mortgage on the house, just to fill the tank!
Politicians piously claim they can feel our pain at the pump.
Well, I don't know about that, but it sure makes me grump!
I can only shake my fist and vent my rage at Conoco and Shell,
Sinclair, Diamond, EXXON, Phillips and the entire oil cartel!
Oil companies make huge profits and give their CEOs a bonus,
But on the backs of us working stiffs is placed a taxing onus!
"Elect Me!" promise the politicians, "and I'll guarantee relief!"
We've heard that old saw before - it usually means more grief!
I doubt that the moose, caribou or elk really give a hoot,
Should drilling be allowed in Alaska in our oil pursuit!
Nor would sharks, barracudas or moray eels be at all offended,
If we set up rigs and drilled offshore as some have recommended!
Alas, the price of a barrel of oil continues to rise each day,
And us fellers at the end of the pipeline are the ones who pay.
In suspending gas taxes for a spell, I see very little merit.
The only solution for our plight I guess, is just to grin and bear it!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The virgin under the pristine sheet,
patrols the creaking, cut, timber of time,
through the blooming roses and the sleet.
The grandiose grandfather chimes.
She used to shine her eyes near the shallows.
The young lass can only shriek her woes.
Her eyes, bright as the moon, on the gallows.
For now she bids welcome under bedding clothes.
Her arms writhe like the wind on the cliffs.
Her feet, hidden beneath the grave cold sheet.
No eye holes needed. It creeps out the stiffs.
She performs a trick when they beg for treats.
The light-as-a-cloud lass, floats just above the grass.
When the ghosts, goblins and vampires notice
they tremble, they turn pale under their first class
masks. The naysayers are given notice!
If they think, or call her a spook, or a guy, she tears
the snow white sheet off, and makes a spectacle
of her hollow cheeks, tangled hair, truant jaw. Fears,
beyond terror, make the living bully sensible.
The pale virgin roams, as long as there's day and night,
as long as seasons come and go, though she longs for sleep.
She moves by her own will - no wrong or right.
The lass longs for quiet, under soil, six feet deep.
the rich, the poor and the middle class
an invisible subliminal system of caste
we are suppose to be a nation of freedom and opportunity
a democratic society based upon equality
but in all actuality
it's about the economy
to be wealthy and have anything you can afford
to be the CEO or the chairman of the board
to be rich and have enough money to pass
just a few steps above the upper middle class
those who have to go to work most everyday
yet they still receive a substantial pay
and the poor, what they call the working stiffs
barely getting by, hoping their finances will shift
it's about the economy
and how much you are worth
it's about the amount of money you have
in your wallet or your purse
don't be naive and think money does not matter
it's about the economy and the rich whose pockets get fatter
if you're wealthy your name is on the building
if you're rich it's on the door
the middle class' names are on their desk
but if your name's on your shirt then you're poor
*Image of Contrary To Popular Belief by Medium.
The End Times
A locomotive train chugs remote wails,
The tempest brews a calamitous stunt,
Falls of exiting steam, moist teary tails,
A structure of ills desires cured a want.
Veil vibration replaced by hissing wake,
Cataract succession cues lined motion,
Some distracted or misguided, opaque,
Soulless of no else deluged rain ocean.
Sullied countenance, mockery furthers,
Epochs and places are just meaningless,
Thoroughly isolated faced earthworms,
Constantly moving, redemption is thus.
Ejected wetness lift drips of sweat mix,
The stench of septic mortal feces foils,
Contour be less as the haunted will fix,
Worker's fast recovery spreads uncoils.
Rally cry register whispers pitch, softs,
Periodic responders aides the crushed,
Posture updated processing kickstarts,
Rancid remains, putrid folks, relief guts.
Orders of ruinous wayward verve shifts,
As shots of waterworks claim offensive,
Soapy lathered bodies recast the stiffs,
Challenging chambers took a directive.
Where'er 'twas is whate'er 'tis to be-be,
My sweatshop is done I will be obeyed,
For I am the Lord master 'tis realms me,
I give to you all of that you hath prayed.
'Tis all you lived, died for it is paradigms,
Earn that you buried a tip for end times.
2022 February 11