Best Trotters Poems
(Innuendo -- Pigs)
All around are sticks and stone
Feel God's loving arms around you
-----At last, I am redeemed-----
A feast of my soul, you shall receive
A cake for dinner, I made out of stones
Ratchet pigs fill their dirty mouths,
Consuming my soul, sipping on champagne
At peace with myself, brushing off the walls
Nevertheless, tonight they speak in tongues
-I strain my ears to listen;
While pettitoes approach my page
I hear the squeals, I hear the chit chat
from he/she that wears no shame.
Am I she, the evil one?
The one you penned -
Under the influence of manipulation
Trying to stifle my voice of beauty
No matter, I am crazy, a dreamer
Never claim to be THE INNOCENT,
The Poet Destroyer!!!
I ignore the walls when they speak
Nevertheless, tonight they have eyes
They watch my every move
A trotters dance, of togetherness
Forgetting the reason we are here
I will win and conquer my privacy
You can't destroy what you can't see
I am the glory of my day
I am God's pet!!!
A Lamb, wearing white
To others a wolf in disguise
Spitting slithers, swear
I am the Devil's Advocate
I marvel how they snort at night
Today I will crash the sore whispering party
You! My friend, no longer exist
You are naught more than cobwebs
You will dream about me, write about me
I will give you ammo, then read it from you.
I will show you what a demon is!
Like the light and envy of every moon
I shall ask my reflection and remove
the residue from hogging lips.
I will watch you urbane the truth
The heat and lust I conquer from you
A font with no reflection, dating apples
Heading away from its own advice
A hard task from its quill, enjoying leftovers
Pinpointing fingers among shallow dreams
It's sickening to see pigs pat each others back
Feeding on my demonic words
Convoying innuendos in my bearing
Now it's my turn, to turn the roaster on
With no interest in removing muddy sheets
I shall smile and walk away
In - joy - my heart beats and smiles
Knowing, I made you look --- AGAIN!!!
By: PD
I have a fat and furry friend
All pink and spotty black.
I grew him from some Camembert-
The smelly little Rat!
He is my very Mouse-Pig
For that’s his very name,
Sometimes I call him Roger
Just like his steptwin Shane.
I like to give him all I can
Though humble poor are we.
I gave him a good character-
2 slices for his tea.
I love my little Mouse-Pig
I love him like a pet.
Sometimes I take him out for walks
And sometimes to the vet.
I dare not let him venture far
For fear he won’t come back.
Last week he almost wandered off
Without his packymac.
‘You’ll catch your death- or even worse!’
I warned in worried tone.
‘There’s things out there what likes to eat
A Mouse-Pig far from home.
‘Don’t worry Dad,’ he answered back
In usual piggy chatter.
‘If anyone should have a go
I’ll cover them in batter!’
Then all at once, without a sound
He sang with all his might.
I’ve never heard a Mouse-Pig
I said in wondrous sight.
‘That’s nothing Pa,’ he mouthed in tune,
And leaping to his trotters
Declared as he flew flying off-
I’ll show those dirty rotters!’
‘Farewell my fat and furry friend,’
I bellied to the sky,
And turning one last time he squeaked,
‘I’m off to find my sty.’
And then he flew right out of sight,
As far as I could see,
And with a little shedding tear
I went in for my tea.
Harlem Globetrotters
most famous trotters
clowns of the court
and best of sport
watching the game
never the same
performers they are
they really gone far
It happened without any action on my part.
All I had to do was just say, "Yes, I will go".
Moreover, it was not my dream, but my friend's.
However, from a child, I have been an avid sports fan.
My games of choice, and my childhood fantasies
were baseball, basketball, and later on, football.
From a child, I had pictured myself on the field of dreams playing baseball. When reality set in, I was content to see myself in the stands.
In 1974, I attended my first MLB game in Chicago. In 1984, I attended a Harlem Globe Trotters game in Oakland, Ca.
In or about 1990, I attended my first NBA game in Sacramento, Ca.
That left one major American sport to go, and it was a long-shot.
In fact, such a feat was buried deep in the bottom of my bucket list.
There were certainly other things placed in a higher priority, but life
happens, and so often we have very little to do with the happenings.
So in 2019, I was invited by a friend to attend an NFL game in K.C., Mo.,
and after a Greyhound Bus, an Amtrak Train, a rented car, and nearly a
4000 mile round trip, that game became the most recent item kicked off
my bucket list. In a very real sense, there were two buckets in one, shared by friends. My life's venture came as a gift. Who knew?
111220PSCtest, What Have You Kicked Off On Your Bucket List,
Chantelle Anne Cooke. 2P
Del Boy Trotter
Money making plotter
Sells dodgy bent gear and smokes a cigar
Drives a yellow three wheeler T.I.T company car.
Rodney Trotter
Del's little brother, sidekick and cop spotter
A dipstick, a wally, a plonker or Dave
With two GCEs he feels like an under-paid slave.
(Trotters Independent Traders) (T.I.T)
Only Fools and Horses
Clerihew 2 Poetry Contest
Sponser Joseph May
Written 21.10.21
Trotters: A Very Dangerous Delicacy!
Trotters and knuckle bones
Is a rare meal, real treat.
Cordon Bleau of repute
Will moan of cooking time-
Simmering that last eternity,
And the massive power bill
That hits below the belt!
But popular myth attached
To the slimy delicacy
With soup thick and slippery
And salty: Aphrodisiac.
But, one thing for sure;
Once you kiss your girlfriend
Prepare for the sweet woe
Of sleeping away from home,
With slimy soup on your lips
To her, you’ll stick forever!
JM
19th Nov’ 2013
I am the prize catch
I live in an artificial lake
fed by a nappe phréatique
I was put there to keep
lesser fish: carp
from taking up too much space
I live to be caught
and caught again
and be let loose as rain
I protest only to attract attention
Twenty minutes to make things look good
for the fresh-water sportsman
I know now well how to play the game
My almost fanless tail
A slithering mermaid mass from my puffed-up head
where overcoat-button eyes
sunk on either side
of my gaping gasping mouth
shell-fish fins for hands
Seven beige whiskers under my gawking chin
make me the butt
of dare-devil diving click-clucking coots
Even the slender-necked darting grebe ignores me
I stay low when the wild geese gather
with their young :
duckling swan barnacle
I make no sound to call my own
Only the crunch of carp
between two rows of filed-down molars
It is not my duty to swagger around
even under my metallic raincoat camouflage
I hide where the yarrow stalks grow thick and deep
or where the weeping willows dip their loaded plaits
Every Sunday I await the sporting hameçon
The tear makes the wear more ludique
Only the side of my underlip looks like a harelip
It doesn’t much matter
for the fun-loving trotters and rovers
like to marvel with pride at my side
in the fishing-club picture of the week
Meantime I gorge myself with carp
That’s why I hardly ever wish to carp
© T. Wignesan – Paris - 2012
Note : The Siluroid , one of the largest fresh-water fishes, sometimes a metre and a half in length.
Hop Scotch,
Whoola Hoops,
Metal Skates,
Skinned knee fates.
Tricycles,
Bicycles.
Motorcycles,
Dripping popsicles.
Hot wheels,
Pin wheels,
Bob Barker's big deals
Spinning on all wheels
Paper dolls,
Sillly phone calls,
Cartoon bits,
Howdy Doody skits.
Mickey Mouse,
Mighty Mouse,
Minny's Micky's spouse,
Vist Little Rascalls club house.
Poodle skirts,
Ben Casey shirts,
Castles made, digg'n dirt,
Boy next door, fun to flirt.
Linda Terrell
March 24, 2010
OH THOSE MEMORIES OF LONG AGO
Superman loved Lois,
Gospel our parent told us,
Ricky loves Lucille Ball,
Globe trotters, oh so tall.
The first Alvin, Simon, and Theadore,
Sweeper salesmen at our door,
In bobby socks, all girls dressed
Angora wrapped rings, We felt so blessed
Ymmm! Moms prize dessert,
Oh my the fun, of a growing spirt
Ahhh! Those memories, I am so glad,
And all the licks on my face, of the dog I had.
Nothing can now compares
No double dog dares
Saturday night isn't the same
But oh those memories, in my mind I frame.
Linda Terrell
March 24, 2010
Well twenty whales met ten goldfish at rush hour on the A9 but the heavily congested B85 was chewing on some straw that had fallen off a bridge. Hay deepens a drag from a nomadic tractor-trailer. And a speedboat carries cows on pleasure cruises around and around the fields. Ah look arriving is a smiling trough. Good. Trotting trotters tantrically tasting talismanic thoughts. And a bud rises. And a rose dances with a thistle. Pistols are prevalent in tall trees in blossoming canopies. And a fisherman rushes to catch a very large pike in a biscuit tin. Hahahaha figs waving in wild water in a dingy. Hahahaha watertight way. Hahahaha sundown eclipse button. Chanting caterpillar xxxx agnostic ant. Xxxx territoriality *** z.
"50 Words for Poe: Circadian"
He pushed the envelope under her door
when she opened it, in her Ghost hands,
it read,
“Circadian nymph,
put on your dance shoes,
collect you at 3.33am.
Downtown Trotters Ghost Ball.
No pesky green Fairies riding Unicorns.
Affectionately yours,
Your Doctor -
Lucifer”
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/iyRbigv8iho
“I have a flamethrower. (Zarek)
You have a what? (Astrid)
It pays to be prepared. (Zarek)"
Dance with the Devil
There's nothing quite so graceful as a flying pig. Swooping over lands and seas. Saying hello to birds on the way. No pecking though. Just oinking. Occasionally octagonal birds can speak the dialect of oink. As avocados sleep quite peacefully below with the buffalo on the plains. From high up above it can be ascertained that the tents can be seen. Magnified by an inner eye. And located by snout smelling capabilities. Little furry bundles of mice and shrews wave pink flags as the trotters pass. Oh how marvellously enchanting it all is. Say hi to big bird for me you squirrel there in that tree. Languages linguistically leaning learning. And landing not prohibited in a cart or an abattoir. So apples must rise to be consumed. Hahahaha oink multiplication table hahahaha divisions of a quagmire of troublesome clouds. Xxxx sus scrofula domestica suide z
It was a cold and muddy day
as Gertrude lay smiling.
Just the kind of weather
that she adored.
She could splash around
for hours in the glop
and guzzle up
all her shlopp
when it was time.
Oh how she loved
the sound
of the hog-call.
It would signal
that special time
of day for her
when she could literally
pig-out!
Her delicate pink skin
did not tan too well,
always needing
a good coating of oils,
hence the perfection
in the weather described.
Her trotters,
she thought,
were possibly
her best feature –
could they
be called dainty?
Unlike her large snout
that she sometimes wished
could have been
more discreet-looking.
She valued her large ears
because they were
indeed an asset,
especially close
to supper time
and her eyes,
well, they were
the eyes of
an intelligent creature,
somewhat underestimated
by Man,
simply because
of the sweet tasting
tantalising suppleness
of the flesh
of the animal.
What to do
thought Gertrude,
but eat,
eat, eat,
eat, eat,
while you still
could eat,
at least.
Because one day –
every pig knew
as all pigs know –
we would all see
the blade descend
on us
and
then
splat!
pig >This poem was written on 4 July 2016 in a new notebook. I purchased from a charity shop. It’s bright pink in colour. Not exactly my shade. lol. This title might be a little misleading.
It’s American Independence Day
It’s American Independence Day.
Meanwhile, here across the pond.
In Ipswich in the UK.
We have other things to ponder.
It’s not the referendum.
Although the government is in a mess.
No, Ipswich has more important things.
In the UK. I must confess.
Pigs
Yes that’s right, pigs is right.
All over town. They came in one night.
Today’s schoolchildren screamed with delight.
As I saw them writing down alright.
About two pigs that were in sight.
I was on my way to the Co-op bank.
There was no smell, pigs did not rank.
As they were made of fibreglass.
So that made hygene swell.
As no flies were spotted on them.
Gaily painted, they were as well.
One advertised Trotters Independent traders!
Have they come to Ipswich town as well?
Drew wife’s money out of the bank.
Refreshed myself as well.
Paid as I ordered, as memory, is not to swell.
Took wife’s money to the garage.
To pay for her car as well.
Now she has got another one.
I mean a car you see.
She can now go, where she wants.
Without involving me.
And according to her.
Will make her very happy.
And as this page draws to the end.
There is no more space for me to say.
I hope she can tell herself what to do.
As she does to me every day.
Only when I’m driving. I really meant to say.
The proceeds form the pig event, and there are some 80 odd scattered about town to find. (There is a map) are going towards the local Hospice. <
Mystic marrow tells the time but an ashtray rarely ponders. Hard to receive constant delivery of smoked ash and waste. Wish not a coat filled to the brim with gym shoes then? Well that simply will not do. One must be attired appropriately for all weathers and all seasons and a car seat is mot a gymnasium nor a sports hall so never ever think that it is for something like a sponge could find out who would then inform the tea cloth who would then inform the rising moon and tides and so on and on and on and on and on. Like a gigantism of rotating square cooking devices with little beady eyes. Sealed sealant searching sails. And an archetypical archaic ant arriving with a broom and buttoned tunic plus a feathered hat sparkling. Wow. Walk a waltz then. Good. On bridges. Rope bridges only. Z Nebuchadnezzar Z at ten baboons cooking on camping stones to nineteen pig trotters typing on a screen. Z xxxxx and always wipe bottoms of pans with a dirty sock from the washing machine.
Listening to folk records in my room all day,
as a kid, to another world I'd withdraw
to the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay.
Later, in music I heard, in pictures I saw,
the Irish roots that our happy and sad songs betray,
like the bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
So I raise a toast, to the wonder they bring -
the melodies of Ireland that make us all sing.
Like Johnny, I'd come marching proudly home again.
Then, once I heard Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye play,
it seemed then, that in bloodshed no one can win,
and from that gentle, green country, so far away,
I acquired a notion, that all war is a sin,
a message in the wind, still blowing today.
So, here's to peace, and the end of war's sting,
and the sad songs of Ireland, that make us sing.
It's a joy to laugh and it's fun to dance and drink.
I say, "welt the floor your trotters shake".
One for all and all for one, our glasses clink -
another noggin of whiskey for heaven's sake.
So raise your voices and give us a wink,
belting funny ditties like Finnegin's Wake,
and here's to fun, and that sort of thing,
and glad songs of Ireland that make us sing.
A voice sings softly in the still afternoon,
and, under the trees, my mind starts to dream,
"who is it singing this beautiful love tune?",
I wonder as through the leaves sunlight streams.
It's Liam Clancy singing Eileen Aroon,
sending me somewhere like heaven it seems.
So, here's to love, and songbirds on the wing,
and the tender songs of Ireland we sing.