Best Timbuktu Poems
There was a horny man from Timbuktu.
Fell in love with a girl from Kathmandu.
Bursting with desire and lust.
Felt she's the one he can trust.
Asked for a game of sexy peekaboo.
Finally switched on their video chat,
but he realised he had been a prat.
Slowly lifting her pink frock,
revealed a ginormous cock.
The shock almost gave him a heart attack!
‘Twas the night before Christmas
Mrs. Claus demanded a divorce.
Santa was being promiscuous
with older naughty girls, of course.
All those ho ho ho’s liked his package,
for he always enjoyed being on top.
He used his stamina to his advantage,
and his jingle bells just wouldn’t stop!
Mrs. Claus was fed up with his lust
for other women he was desiring.
No more could Santa ever trust
those tattle tale elves he was hiring!
*
It was time to leave on his sleigh, /\
Rudolph’s nose was red with glee- / o \
For Christmas was really on its way, / O \
though Mrs. Claus didn’t agree. / O o \
/o O o \
She wanted him to pay for his sins, / o O \
maybe get stuck in a chimney flue- / O o O \
Making fun of his belly she grins, /_o___o__O\
hoping he lands in Timbuktu! |||
|||
The night ended and Santa was tired, |||
it was rough being in Atlanta.
That was the year that he retired…
three ho's were enough for Santa!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Date - 12.5.19
'Twas the Night Before Christmas Contest
Sponsor - Joseph May
2nd Place
Her great-grandfather was an Irish lad
with bright red hair. He went to Timbuktu
and met a Muslim, black and beautiful.
Their oldest daughter wed a fair-skinned Jew!
They had a son who wed an Asian girl
with French and Tongan blood, but nobody
can believe the beauty of THEIR daughter -
a stunning product of diversity!
Written 4/23/2016 For the Beauty and Diversity Poetry Contest of PD
A hexagon, a hexagon, you have to be a hexagon.
You say you are a pentagon?
What use have I for pentagon?
You’re too close to the White House lawn!
So you’re a base to stand upon?
This isn’t baseball, Pentagon.
You silly polygon, be gone!
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
You say you are a nonagon.
A nonagon? What good are YOU?
A coin perhaps, from Timbuktu??
You’re nothing, nonagon. Come on!
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
You say you are a decagon.
I guess you think you are a star.
I don’t need someone quite so far
up in the heavens where you are.
I need, instead, a hexagon.
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
You say you are an octagon.
You’ve got some versatility!
A mirror, tiles, candles too.
They all can be the shape of you.
But on the streets I always see
your sign. It makes me have to stop.
I do not think you are for me!
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
A triangle you’ve now become?
A simple flag? Three-sided crumb?
I know that as an instrument
you are not much! I find you dumb.
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
A rectangle you try to be
and now a square. You don’t fool me!
I find you oh so ordinary.
Crackers or Monopoly,
or crossword puzzles I don’t need
and Sponge Bob – yep – that’s “square” indeed!
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon!
And so you are a circle now?
you’ve got no point, you “walking round in circles” cow.
A hexagon, a hexagon. You have to be a hexagon.
I want those feathered flakes of snow
with crystals of six sides to show.
I need the shape of many eyes
that see more colors than we know -
the eyes of flitting dragonflies!
I need the carbon chain of DNA
and pretty patterns on the shell
of tortoises. Okay, okay!
You are a hexagon, you say?
Come let me have a taste. Don’t tease!
You are the honeycomb of bees!
So sweet you are; you are my *salve.
I now have got a hexagon;
you're now the thing I had to have!
*In American English: salve uses silent l and rhymes with have.
Sept 15, 2019 For Nina Parmenter's "Welcome to My Random World" Contest
I'll do anything
for My Girl Samara, anything,
because she means everything
to me, it's true.
I'd risk anything,
for my Ms Everything.
Yes I'll do anything,
anything for you.
Anything?
Would I care for you?
Anything.
Do all your chores too?
Anything.
Would I lace your shoe?
Anything.
Go to Timbuktu?
Anything and back again.
Yes I'll do anything
for My Girl Samara, anything,
because for me you are everything,
and I'll do anything,
anything for you.
Wedding wines - rather champagne shines
and bubbly breakout of blushing bride.
Groom with giant heart, gracious, grateful - grips
her hand with his handsome wholeness. Helps
his lovely lady into limousine, longing for her lips.
Laps leaping, longing, leaving the crowd’s “so long!”
Cans chiming cheers. Crowd chuckles at car’s rear.
“Honeymoon here we come!” Coreen casts a shameless
glance at Glen. His green anticipation, Gable-debonair.
Goosebumps and gorgeous view - grand peaks
of her bosom buddies, brimming with lace and brouhaha.
His eyes - riveting, reveling, robust, ruddy and willing.
~
Throbbing thirst, thistles ‘neath terrycloth, while he waits.
Anticipation hurts - artfully, agonizingly. Her appearance
in nascent negligée, nearly naughty, nearly a no-no,
but not, for they’ve tied the knot and into a knot they go.
Get’m tiger! Tongues tangoed, trip to Timbuktu, tipsy
and top-see and no toodaloo - a forever frou-frou.
Silk surrender, sliding, suspend her, satisfaction in space.
Stirring, sipping, inhabiting each other, sensational and sweet.
9/2/2022
Anniversary Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Decade of Bullets
Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou
See a procession of young mothers chattering their way
From water fountains in grenade torn sandals
And blood laced bras
Somalia, Somalia, Somalia
See the moon disappearing in a mass of gun smoke
Guns splitting the stars from the skin of night
Rwanda, Rwanda, Rwanda
This is a wound from which the pus of grief flows freely
Meandering through rock masses into the valley that lost its freedom
Timbuktu, Timbuktu, Timbuktu
I hear a rush of footsteps of sorrow
Rugged peasants carrying their compounds to far away valleys of flowers
With a shade of colourless eyes
Have I looked upon a world of discrimination
My nature is a rare form of uniqueness
And I defile every race by description
Golden hair on pale silver skin
An African white woman of Timbuktu kin
I have danced to the tune of my mockery
With teary eyes have I smiled at victory
Sharp edged stares may pierce me daily
Yet I walk head high and step most steady
Though the sun remains a foe that tortures
Still I conquer it with protective amours
I scowled at the honey tongues of lying lovers
Professing love only to taste my rare fairness
I read through their lines but read in between better
For this fragile,ignorant creature was fully harnessed
I have been belittled, scoffed and shaken
And redefined by several ethnic culture
I have been judged,ignored and broken
I have been worshipped,feared and obscured
But I created the burning hero in Me
And won my inner battle the greatest battle to be
For i embraced my deepest weakness
And savoured every drop of success
I am that nature's mysterious creation
A shortsighted being with farther vision
I betrayed my timidity and trampled its shell
I am a story and this story I tell
By: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond World Of Poetry
I’ve been so many places; traveled down some roads --
Mixed with a thousand faces where the Ganges overflowed.
I've crossed majestic mountains; walked some valleys too --
Tossed coins into fountains, but I never saw them -- till you.
I've traveled endless highways; left countless roads behind --
Walked along some byways that still linger on my mind.
I've come back home from St. Tropaz; walked the beach at Malibu.
I lived awhile in Monterrey, but I never saw them -- till you.
Till you I never saw the sunset on Biscayne.
Till you I never heard a gentle summer rain.
I've stood beneath the tower when Big Ben chimed at noon.
I've whiled away some hours under a great big Texas moon.
I spent some time at Waikiki; roamed the wilds of Timbuktu.
I've sailed on all the seven seas, but I never saw them -- till you.
Writer's Note:
I added 2 lines to the 2 line bridge and set it to music.. It's Posted later under Till You (Lyric)
10 little kids are messing with twine
one got strangled and then there were nine.
9 little kids are hooking up bait
one took a bite and then there were eight.
8 little kids are playing with kevin,
one got tripped and then there were seven.
7 little kids were throwing bricks,
one got hit and then there were six.
6 little kids are eating chives,
one got sick and then there were five.
5 little kids are now at war,
one went down and now there are four.
4 little kids saw reality,
one enjoyed and now there are three.
3 little kids went to Timbuktu,
one got lost and now there are two.
2 little kids have spun and spun,
one fell down and now there is one.
1 little kid is all but done,
he runs home and now there are none.
-ShadowFlame431
Hullo, folks!
Do you hear me?
You didn’t hear me when I was dying.
At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried.
I am, as you know, Jinesh,
Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura,
Buried on Sunday—
Like Solomon Grundy!
I did hear you when you were crying—
During the recent floods,
Rushed to your help,
Saved more than a hundred of you.
You all praised me, called me a hero,
Lined the street I lived in
With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot.
Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider,
Was hit by a passing truck,
Which further ran over my helping hands,
Crushing them—
Thus, adding grievous injury to injury!
I lay there on the roadside,
Crying aloud for help,
Which fell on your deaf years:
You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry—
Off to Timbuktu!
I wept and cried for help, by turns.
But I was left there to die unwept and unsung,
Though I had been honoured.
Now you all may say: RIP
But, you see, I remain restless!
***
They call me Elly Mae 'round here,
For my critters are so many.
I love 'em each and every one,
And couldn't part with any.
You see, Tommy, he's the eldest,
Grumpy through and through.
Course, eighteen years as a cat,
Would make me grumpy, too.
Our dog, Grover, he comes next,
Protective you might say.
No matter how bad his arthuritis,
He's beside you all the way.
King, he's our hunter,
A faithful black and tan.
He'll stay hours on that tree,
And wait for fellow man.
Tacoma rounds the cattle,
Too smart for his own good.
He gives high-five, goes to time-out,
Probably talk if he could.
Kali, the calico kitten,
She sleeps with me each night.
She's my little shadow,
And insists she's always right.
D.T., she has mood swings,
Double Trouble is her name.
A great big mare with high spirits,
Need I more explain?
Rebel is the stud,
With a heart so pure and sweet.
He has that southern hospitality,
An attitude that can't be beat.
Gabriel is the baby,
He is now three months old.
With D.T.'s ***** and Rebels heart,
His sights are untold.
At last, we have Scooby,
The riot of them all.
Bucks from here to Timbuktu,
And thinks he's twelve feet tall.
She was a cute little girl with orange dancing shoes.
Those dancing shoes had rhinestone eyes that could schmooze.
Her name was Willa May, and she had a bear that was purple.
He begged her to name him King Bear Krabby McMurple.
Of course she did, because she was in charge of her bed.
Which is where he sat watching Willa May paint her doll red.
At night they would cuddle up and go into a deep fun sleep.
Dream adventures took them all over the world in a big yellow jeep.
They drove to Africa, Hawaii, the Atlantic Ocean, and Timbuktu.
They saw parrots in the jungle. One of them a brilliant azure blue.
They tasted Belgium chocolates when in Europe, so delicious too!
They travelled the world over and over in their hazy nightly hue.
Mommy and Daddy sometimes went them if they decided to let them in.
They went swimming with the dolphins, and the sharks loaned them a fin.
They loved their dreamy dreamtime, they took naps each Saturday.
The rest of the time, they hung together, skating, biking, and had bubble play.
There was once a man.
He’d always wanted to write,
But his biggest failing was
That he wasn’t very bright.
Whenever he started
On a story or a plot,
Before he could pen it
He simply forgot
What he had thought earlier
And he wasn’t very wise
So all he wanted was that
The end be a surprise.
And he made up plots and tales
Funny, sad and intense
But in the end he found that
None of them made any sense
For follow as he might all grammar
He could never be concise
And what is more, the ending
Was never a surprise.
Yet he cherished dreams
Of becoming famous and great
Of writing beautiful stories
Of defying his impending fate
But, for all his boldness
He could never roll the dice
And his stories never ended
In a nail-biting surprise.
He told his tales to children
He tried them on every friend
But they never gasped at
The crucial part, the end.
He sent them off to editors
Of magazines of acclaim
But they all sent the stories back
Saying the ending was all the same.
He tried to write a book too
But in the middle he got stuck
And he wasn’t very clever
So he simply cursed his luck
Then finally he gave up
And wallowed in self-despair
He felt life was being hard on him
He felt it wasn’t fair.
Then one of his friends suggested
That if he really had to write
He needn’t just write stories
To prove his wit and might.
He could simply write a cookbook
Or an instruction manual too
Or a traveller’s guide to touring
A place like Timbuktu
Now the man wasn’t very brilliant
But he could recognise good advice
When he saw it, so he took it
Though he wasn’t very wise
And he wrote a self-help book on
Coping with writer’s block
It became a national bestseller
Every bookstore ran out of stock.
And he made pots of money
Because it was reprinted thrice
And he was always very glad
He took his friend’s advice
So now if you ask his opinion
He looks very condescending
And smiles, and says, “to write a book
Who needs a surprise ending?”
Form:
I am....
An Ashanti warrior A Bantu dancer
I am a Yoruba royal clothed in my Asooke
Dancing Adowa and kpalogo to tunes from wulomei and masekela
I am proud Masai
Standing around manyattas,
Jumping to melodies from the olaranyani
Eunoto is here and today I dance in front my peers in transition into a senior warrior
Oh how sweet the African rhythms
Imprudently lifting and soul soothing
Sisala sebrew on Akan drums
Highlife explorations unending on opus 1.
I am an Ewe woman
From the lineage of Nerfetiti
And a great great ....grand daughter of Nandi
My Gèle will never fall off
My Dashiki will never fade out
I am a Fulani herdsman
Wandering the Sahel plains of Africa
Along with a fellow Malinke brother
Who speaks fluent igbo and today we revisit our roots in Nok
I’m from Gao
320 km east-southeast of Timbuktu.
A descendant of Sonni Ali ,
Reciting the epic of Sundiata with intertwining soothing kora melodies from Kandia Kouyate
Oh how dazzling the African landscape
And glorious it's Heritage
Such rekindling and Homeric folklores
And a boundless diverse cultures
I am the African dream
mother's only son my father’s only daughter
I'm the incantations of royal fetish and message behind the talking drum
I am the African noble
Free from identity torment
I know of my glorious past and my colourful future
My city will bleed no more
Never again will i be a wanderer
I know my culture
And my alluring language
Ah how powerful the African names
Araba Termytorphe and Ifedayo chant in unity
Diallo Sissoko and Achiaa bestow serenity
Mbali and Lamisi elegantly wore their kente
Tonight we dance to tunes from the kete
For Yaa Asantewaa never gave up the fight
So we lift our hearts with emancipated minds
To reach new heights ! O’ Nana Nyame,
May you forever guide us with your light .