Best Tarty Poems
I'm flattered by Nina but need to take her to the cleaners,
and splat her inbetweeners with fluid from wieners.
Don't mock or beat down Bath when you're Bristolian,
you were all conceived in a seat in the Odeon,
and you should defuzzle that muzzle after a dozen shots
or your muzzle will rot,
it puzzles this Bard from Bath when you say I act hard, that's daft,
I craft the first draft with regards to retards,
but I don't spar like "gangsta", more prankstar, thank ya.
Hip hop Choco-latte,
ow the Arty Farty Party is to tarty for a starty,
this is too easy I laugh at thee, not smarty,
Bath's beautiful with history it stores,
Bristol looks like it fell out of a horse,
we've got James Dyson and Jane Austin,
you've got Baldrick and webbed off spring.
Of course you went off course with the Bath beige bit, nit witt,
but if we are beige, Bristol... sage and onion,
If I'm rhyme goo you're rhyme ga ga,
rotating between that and blah blah,
Nina Parmenter my off par mentor turned mental,
I'm a stray away from putting this to an instrumental,
cus I think you're menstrual, coincidental
you say my mouth before my mind,
this is written down, no noise,
talking out your behind.
I see you wearing glasses Bristolian,
but I'm from Bath we're different classes, I'm nearly done,
if people in Bath are strange then Bristolian DNA aint got range.
And I sense your bitter remain poke, "Bath Farage",
I'm Mr. Bath At Large,
so LEAVE WON of your remoan votes in the garbage, that's GAR-BAAGE.
I know your only joking and fun poking
through rhyme freedom and I sometimes free dumb,
the outcome of a lout on one, shouting out me bum,
but you saved it in the end with a bit of innuendo,
good poke, I'm off to play Nintendo,
you're tender when you bend so I wont stick it in your endo,
I'm a good bloke.
I don’t have a favourite;
I love each and every one
Whether happy or sad
Cheerful or glum
I love tarty Marti
And svelter Delta
Sloppy Poppy
And vulgar Olga
I love baddy Maddie
And angrier Andrea
Clean Jean
And fairer Farah
I love scorer Pandora
And messy Bessie
Gaudy Maudie
And sassie Cassie
I love a damp vamp
To tell the truth
Or Horny Dawny
And uncouth Ruth
My Aunty, Patricia, she travels the land,
her bag of in-cases gripped firmly in hand.
The contents of which are largely unknown;
although just a few I've sometimes been shown:
One small first aid kit
in case of a cut, sting, or zit.
Two bottles of gin
in case her horses come in.
A black hat and tie,
in case someone should die,
and a packet of tissue,
in case crying's an issue.
A trap for a mouse,
in case one appears in the house.
One large plastic Mac,
in case of paintball attack.
A can of spray mace,
well, just in case!
A sparkly silk shawl,
in case there's a ball,
with a packet - of fine Earl Grey tea;
in case the Queen should pop in at three.
Also, some undies, the ones that are tarty,
in case it becomes that sort of party!
At the bottom of the bag, she keeps just one pound,
in case there's an in-case that cannot be found.
Setting sun
Splash of burgundy paan-spit
and the paterfamilias nodding off
pink filial freeness
silhouetted against a crimson feel- flare
(or was it orange flair or even purple fair)
symbiotic exchanges
slapstick sequences
elfin hemlines and tarty décolletages
catching agoraphobic impulses
homing…
04 aug 13
For Charlotte's contest
What you sayin?
We own it
For the morning of the lord
To the night
Greatness
Don’ start
Tarty mart
I don’t have a favourite,
I love each and every one
Whether happy or sad
Cheerful or glum
I love Grim Kim
And Moanie Toni
Henpecky Becky
And Naggy Maggie
I love Bella Stella
And Indie Lindy
Funny Honey
And Windy Cindy
I love Tarty Marti
And Burley Shirley
The Felon Helen
And that twirly girlie
I love Flabby Gabby
And Escapee Lee
Chardonnay Kay
And Meat free Fi
I love Prudy Judy
And Racy Macy
Pristine Christine
And Straight Lacy Tracy
paper typewriters books and dictionaries
pens pencils desk
coffee cups
come on down
we're the coolest sale in town
we've got books
and nooks
pick out a pen
spend less then ten
i'm having a party
so don't be tarty
i've got type writers
and a desk to make things tightier
so come and spend
it's less i have to lend!
Lost Soul
We’ve gathered here to say goodbye
to yet another boring guy,
kept on yelling for attention
till it gave him hypertension.
Now in the box beneath the shroud
he’s got the eye of all the crowd,
best leading role he ever had,
but no applause and no one’s sad.
Old mourners sprinkle ancient pews,
ill fitting suits and pee-stained trews,
some glasses, dentures, aching backs
with makeup plastered in the cracks.
They kneel for prayers on creaking limbs
then silent lips mouth unknown hymns.
The dead man’s peers in church are few.
Who pays respects where none seem due?
His painted widow in her weeds
now wonders who will sate her needs
with hubby just about to burn
and end up ashes in an urn.
She never grudged the man his health,
content enough to share the wealth,
but pleased this sudden turn of fate
serves up his helping on a plate.
Poor vicar wonders what to say.
about this stiff that’s come his way.
He’s no great speeches in reserve
just... bless a saint and damn a perv.
He settles for the standard rite
then tells the crowd they’ll be all right,
“beyond the stars lie happy lands,
so love your neighbour all shake hands.”
Corpse’ brother sitting cap in hand,
chief mourner in this dismal band,
now ponders on the decent wait
before a widow has a date.
Just wants to get her into bed
but cash and sex means getting wed,
been dodging that since leaving school
concludes that life is Goddamn cruel.
Sister of the spurned cadaver
cannot stand all this palaver.
She didn't like the man in life,
all flashy cars and tarty wife.
Deep down she’s feeling rather chuffed
for all his din he quietly snuffed.
Same cap fits the other brother,
clone of father, not his mother.
This woman weeping by the door
floats back in time to years of yore,
dreams of a lovely friend at school,
so kind and gentle fun and cool,
who shared a secret both held tight
that seemed to change him overnight.
He truly was a super lad
until abused by evil dad.
Answerable to none
He waltzed across the party floor
A rosy cheek, a kiss
Dainty lady or tarty whore
Not one would he miss
Divorce had come and gone
As messy as it could be
With no dictator to look upon
He could not hide his glee
Of most domestic battery
Men on women we’ve heard
His freedom became the lottery
He’d won by the Judge’s word
Now footloose and fancy-free;
Answerable to none
If again he'll committed be
It must be for love and fun
May 02, 2017
For Fancy-Free Poetry Contest
The sixth of July, the postman passed by
The stork brought little old me
Come rain or come shine I’d want to know ‘why?’
And wrote my name when I was three
I’d read and I’d write whatever the weather
But now I can’t string words together
And as such...
I don’t want a massive party
I don’t want a Maserati
Or birthday cards crammed in a sack
Nor a gizmo that makes coffee
Or a box of Devon toffee
I only wanna get my muse back
Don’t want no Hi Karate
Or a date with someone tarty
(Although she might invigorate my rhyme)
Don’t want no garage racking
Or a gift in birthday wrapping
Or special treats in some exotic clime
I need to scribble something
But I’m sat here like a dumb thing
This birthday boy’s brain is aslumber
Why not, someone says
Recount your birthdays
But I can’t remember the number
So...
Happy birthday to me
Now THAT’S irony
If it’s laughter that you’re after
Today, that’s not me
Unless...
This birthday cake that I have made
Turned out to be a bit flambéed
It just couldn't handle
This year’s extra candle
So here comes the fire brigade
A firkin of gherkins in brine
Were found floating along the Rhine
They, tossed from some party
For being too tarty
And spoiling the taste of the wine
It's A Pickle Party Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Date wrote: 13th August 2022
Growing Up
When I was eighteen or nineteen, I discovered beer
Dance-restaurants and women generous with their wares
I didn`t eat sweets anymore which was good for my teeth.
Alas, beer made me talk and women laugh I was fun
but not in the morning a Jekyll and Hide character,
that woman in my bed had to go I needed peace, she had
a tarty face and dirt under fingernails, sex, was easy to
find in the sixty but life was hollow without love the kind
that is restful for the mind.
The money it is always about the money, soon I had to go
back to sea again the ocean can be beautiful at sunrise
But all that water gets a bit boring.
And so it went on tedium and fun a carousel of nothingness
Till I sat down educated me and liking it.
But as I progressed the knowledge I accrued made a distance
between my drinking friends and I loneliness was there
like a ghost of the past, but for me, the life as a seaman was over.
Pink, wet, ripe lips
Crystal blue eyes
Provocative timely swinging hips
Sensuous chunky thighs
Black, long, silky hair
Perky firm milky breasts
See through pink underwear
In a low cut skin tight dress
High heels, to pump up the calf
Long pink nails, not too tarty
A thin tight neck scarf
Sid you’ll be a stunner at the fancy dress party
We groomed him to perfection
lured him with our lights
cooed him with our sizzles
blurred his dreams and sights
We slotted him in awkward
hampered his imput
laced his drink with moonshine
on his fingers shut
We cautiously immersed him.....while his mind involved
then cut him in slow motion.....as our pills dissolved
Goons staggered in his footsteps
cracked behind his back
baulked him in the darkness
saddled him with black
We gathered to ignore him
clashed in crude mischief
receptive in our duty
deceptive in our sleep
The schoolyard's sang his story
the children gagged and quipped
in church his face was gory
in time his name be ripped
So a section dress to party
forfeited his invite
we'll designate the barmy to blind his way tonight
Attire obtuse and tarty
a slice above the knee
let's prey on his exclusion from pagan history
"I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it is my gift to you . . ."
A Rambling Poet
Drops of light drizzle,
from the murky firmament,
the smell of fresh earth,
a feeling of settlement.
with tarty scent of cashew fruits stirs,
this aperture enigmatic,
laughter and play of yesteryears,
jasmine blooming nights romantic.
Devoid of form,
these feelings wildly rush,
that can’t be told,
with the strokes of a brush.
When the glum time comes,
to discard the body now lifeless,
stench of burning flesh,
Life dissolves in air of nothingness.
Name: Sharon Well
Contest name: Writing in the sublime