Best Stool Poems
I have to admit I’ve got a confession
About my unhealthy obsession
Other kids love pop stars with all their heart
For me it’s the Bristol Stool chart
There’s seven different types of poo
With pictures that give me a clue
to how long the poo’s been in my bowel
Poos that’s both fresh and some that’s foul
Each morning once I get out of bed
For breakfast I’ll have brown bread
The chart is a handy tool
To identify your type of stool
Now I’ve decided to tell
You about the different poos that smell
Cos it’s clear that the Bristol stool chart
Can also indicate your type of fart
Type 1 is as hard as a nut
And stays longest in the gut
Type 2 is a sausagy lump
That’s hard to squeeze out your rump
Then there’s types 3 and type 4
These are the poos I adore
These are the poos I prefer to make
A cracked sausage or smooth like a snake
Types 5 and 6 are easier to pass
Blobby or fluffy ones from your ass
Type 7 is the worst of all
It gushes like a waterfall
So now you’ve got all the scoop
On all the different types of poop
I love identifying my poo and type of fart
The Bristol Stool chart fills my heart
Categories:
stool, childhood, feelings, fun, giggle,
Form:
Rhyme
the old brick is dead
tuck the morkin, shoot the dog
bootless memories
Categories:
stool, allah, allegory, allusion, angst,
Form:
Haiku
The Golden Stool
Offer me the sacrosanct golden stool
To rest my bottom,
Cursed! And of course abominable it is
The Asantihene possesses it,
I will rather then be banish from being;
And become a bottomless bottoms
A riddle riddled with contour,
It is uncomfortable anyway,
I will rather seat on an armchair
Listening to the howling wind from Elmina;
Telling stormy tales of the beginning,
Of million sunk soul ancestors departed;
In ocean-farer Columbus minute sail,
Neither I examine buttocks of Homo- erectus
With magnifying glasses,
Nor listen to naked maidens cuddling calabash;
Filled with soft breadfruits
Strolling on marble tarmac roads,
But to virgins with unripe chest mangoes;
Dancing and queuing at my hut stepping,
Listen to mothers mingling backed urchins
Hoping in hope load of sacks;
In uncountable mileage
To dispose and bring back joy of cowries;
Labouring farmer hue mounds in hectares,
Rose in a grunt
Nostalgically, looked hazily back and future;
I must do a little bit more, more and more,
Mounds, until I reach tip end of the earth;
The hunegred yawns must be fill.
Categories:
stool, history
Form:
Free verse
I see we are open again.
It’s time to welcome old friends.
The homely, the lonely,
they who want only
to have somewhere to place their rear ends.
The people I bear are so glad.
The stories I hear are not bad.
Where I smell the beers
and I taste the tears
of the sad, and they who are driven mad.
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Here comes a raving beauty, this is gunna be fun.
An hour glass figure; tight blue jeans - where do those legs run?
But why has she stopped walking?
Can’t she just stop talking!
Oh no, wait - this bloke’s fat and ugly and he weighs two tonne.
Barroom stools have feelings too.
They just don’t see a pretty face,
although they love to touch the cheeks
that are in some other place -
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Now here comes the girl that I’m looking for.
An hour glass figure and parts to explore.
Her blonde hair’s amazing;
I feel like hell raising,
for bar stools like you also like to score.
The life of a bar-stool is a life worth living.
Supporting the souls who need forgiving.
I’m hoping each minute the perfect one comes,
‘cause I’m sick of tired of supporting old bums.
Categories:
stool, fun, humor,
Form:
Lyric
There was a foolish lad, who had a one legged stool
A stool which he threw away
For within his mind for a stool to be
The legs on the floor must total at least three
A milk maid came by, that stool caught her eye, she cried out “oh me oh my”
What a fine one legged stool some fool threw away
She picked it up and to the barn she went for to milk the cow
Moved up close, spread her feet apart; set herself right down
Upon that one legged stool there she sat
She counted it out; the number of legs on the floor
She added it up and to her delight
Found that one and two do indeed make three
Categories:
stool, funny, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
The Groom of the Stool
(Two meditations on an ancient post: see below)
I.
The Groom of the Stool needs some time
To commit his experience to rhyme.
This commodious peer
Detests diarrhoea
But thinks constipation sublime
II.
See where the philosophic King
Sits Rodinesque upon his “throne”.
The patient Groom stands wondering
And draws conclusions of his own.
As often at such times as these,
He thinks of Plato, Locke and Kant
And their epistemologies —
And of his own ingenious slant:
“His Majesty – though no-one’s fool,
A veritable Marc Aurel –
Rises still wiser from his stool.
From which it’s possible to tell
That wisdom comes not only a priori,
But also, sometimes, a posteriori.”
Note: These two tasteless pieces were prompted by a colleague’s discovery of the post of “Groom of the Stool”.
This was a highly-placed courtier in 16th Century England, whose prestigious task it was – I regret to say, gentle reader – to wipe the Royal Bottom, at least according to some sources:
* https://www.tudorsociety.com/groom-stool-sarah-bryson/;
* http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/king-toilet-attendant-england?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=atlas-page
We fell – as one would – to speculating about the philosophical and poetic potential of this post....
Categories:
stool, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
Trump Sitting On A Bar Stool
There was Trump sitting on a bar stool
With each hemorrhoid fighting a duel
And when he looked at their logistics
His body and mind both went ballistics
On one coming out first we took s pool.
Jim Horn
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
Categories:
stool, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
Cucking-stools
A ballad, dating from about 1615, called "The Cucking of a Scold", illustrates the punishment inflicted to women whose behavior made them be identified as "a Scold"
Then was the Scold herself,
In a wheelbarrow brought,
Stripped naked to the smock,
As in that case she ought:
Neats tongues about her neck
Were hung in open show;
And thus unto the cucking stool
This famous scold did go
Dunking or Cucking Stools were used for women who “gossiped”
last used in 1809
Stool of Repentance has a long HISTORY!
Will it make a comeback? Bite your tongues
Categories:
stool, history,
Form:
Ballad
?
we cut to know we're alive.
we strive to survive.
there's no way out of this hell.
you're always kept in a cell.
no matter how hard it was,
you always smiled just because.
teachers would always ask,
why you were never on task.
but the truth was,
your mind was full of fuzz.
you kept wondering
why things were always hard,
but all you could think of
was to grab a shard.
of glass was all you needed,
you were hardly ever feeded.
you contemplated death every night,
hoping one day to be out of sight.
this is all you ever thought,
ever since you took your first shot.
the man that took advantage of you,
didn't care what you would go through.
so you hid in the dark,
you thought it was smart.
your feelings soon began to fade,
and came the time you needed a band-aid.
the cuts got bigger and bigger,
as the voices got louder and louder.
the thoughts in your head,
were sure to leave when dead.
so you went for the rope.
the only way to cope,
was through death.
and before you took your final breath,
you had left a note,
stating you would soon float.
you wrote the word goodbye in your blood,
the thoughts in your head began to flood.
all that was left to do,
was kick the stool out from under you.
and within a few seconds,
you became a memory.
?
Categories:
stool, abuse, anxiety, bullying, deep,
Form:
Free verse
who's that ole fool
sitting on this bar stool
stareing back at me
from the mirror on the wall behind the bar
just whom do I see
where has all my living taken me
on this long journey
what will I have left behind
to mark my life and human stfife
wrinkles are so many
hair he doesn't have any
a tooth or two is missing
he's probably not going to get a lot of kissing
with a sad down turned smile upon his face
wondering if he is still apart of the human race
bartender another double shot of Jack
with water back
Jack you see he's been an ole friend of mine
for a very long time
the only friend I know
who understands my sorrow
sitting on this bar stool as one
isn't any fun no more
like so many times before
just hoping that a lady may sit down by me
a little conversation would make me happy
but to my dismay
its the end of another day
closing time just past two
I'll except my reality
and go home alone again
and restart this life tomorrow
about a quarter past ten
this is just a poem about humanity
not any reflection of me or who I am
Dennis Davis
winter of 1998
Categories:
stool, angst, friend, life, me,
Form:
Epic
At the doctor’s to check out my knee,
While I waited until he was free,
I glanced up and took note
At a sign someone wrote,
Which was more a command than a plea.
It said, “Please do not roll on the stool.”
That’s where doctors would sit, as a rule.
Now did some misbehave,
Roll and rant in a rave,
Thinking doing just that would be cool?
I admit that on seeing the sign,
That desire somehow became mine,
But I’d sure be abashed
If I rolled and I crashed,
So temptation I had to decline.
Categories:
stool, today,
Form:
Limerick
Bar Stool Bed Sore Ode to the Record Machine
Smoking Winstons
At the Seaway Lounge
At 2:00 a.m.
The juke-box sighs out
Buck Stovell, Roy Crestline and an occasional Darla Parsell,
Whoever she is
Buxom barmaids who are 53 years old
Wear nineteen year-old gold stretch pants
Bleached blond earlobes
Wrinkled double chins
Kissing
Genuine Cherokee Indian jewelry
An old gray side-burned man asleep
In the corner
Beside the cigarette machine
Middle aged women looking very divorced
At the bar, two stools away
From the pretzel can
I sip on warm Blue Ribbon
That looses it color in the dirty glass
“Oh … lonesome me”
Juke-box oozing out tunes
As my jaw oozes out of socket and
Into my callus factory hands
Dirty finger-nailed
Sex-starved wrists
Palms ready to …
Put another quarter in the box
Nashville’s monument to love
In a shaggy bar, in Lawrence, Indiana
Categories:
stool, depression, drink,
Form:
Free verse
On A White Stool
You know there is no turning around,
no pausing in any way, because the path to the woods,
where the sky demons make their homes,
has been flooded by the blue rivers there,
which flow by like glaciers on fire,
with life clinging to the whims of God almighty,
we first saw the downcast stares of fear,
made while sitting straight-backed on a white stool,
your troth of insanity, your refusal to bend or talk,
but it keeps going forward, this life, that never ceases to teach,
never decides to open the windows
when the blustery news reaches forth
from the darkest place downstairs beneath the dry rot.
Categories:
stool, life,
Form:
Free verse
Alone he sits in darkened corner
Brief flashes of strobe expose his tears
Eyes staring blankly at bottom of glass
His sorrow he drowns in endless beers
Ghosts drift by as the music plays on
Unnoticed, he holds expressionless gaze
Toward bat-winged portal across the room
Hoping for appearance though smoky haze
Of Siren Temptress he still adores
She the one who created his hell
And she alone could mend crippled mind
To restore to glory and release from cell
Nightly ritual of heart-broken fool
Forever confined to that old bar stool
Categories:
stool, depression, heartbreak, lonely, lost,
Form:
Rhyme
Do Nothing Stool
Miracle Man
10/22/2024
The “do nothing stool” is where too many rest,
and this inactivity usually quashes their best.
The “do nothing stool” has one established fact,
being, if you rest there long, you seldom will act.
Doing meaningful things begins with the heart,
and you can’t finish something that you never start.
The back burner gets things and we later ask why?
Things remain there until thoughts of them die.
Categories:
stool, character, how i feel,
Form:
Lyric