Best Undertook Poems
For those who don't read blogs or know of Jan's successful first book, I've written a limerick for her and included it in my comment on her blog. She's included her interview in a podcast. I was asked to post my limerick here as well. If anyone would like to write a limerick in honor of her first publication, please join in and send me a limerick, or even a note to congratulate her. Thank you.
Jan, our Queen of Poop has a sexy voice
Crowned as Limerick Queen, she is our choice
But oh my lordy
Some are quite bawdy
Book sales are good ~ she's getting a Rolls Royce
by Lin Lane
Jan's poems are clever and funny too
Full of bawdy lines and some about poo
Comedy at its best
Her poems will attest
Read" A giggle a day" to not feel blue
by Tania Kitchin
No rolls Royce or Winnebago camper van
A sedia gestatoria, for Jan
One with a floating loo
For outdoor number two
Carried shoulder high around the Isle of Man
by David Kavanagh
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
Jan Allison has written her first book
It was a mammoth task she undertook
Preview it on amazon
I'll guarantee you'll want one
I've read a bit and my whole body shook.
by Tom Cunningham
Jan nixed the idea of getting a Rolls
She opted to put wheels on toilet bowls
Her farts serve as a horn
She ignores those who scorn
And she never gets stopped to pay bridge tolls
by Mark Koplin
In a bathroom where tales tend to unfold
And humerous secrets are often told
There’s a plop and a cheer
Laughter rings loud and clear
In porcelain chambers poems are sold
by Arthur Vaso
Poetry Soup’s Queen of Poop
has made herself a news scoop!
She published her book
and that’s all it took.
A second book is now in the loop.
by Linda Alice Fowler
Congratulations Limerick queen Jan
A poetess who’s from the Isle of Man
Pleased your book is a hit
A giggle a day gift
From an hilarious comedian.
by Beryl Edmonds
At school I abhorred poetry
A poet I NEVER would be
But life dealt us a cruel blow
Hubby’s tests soon were to show
CANCER
Cancer is such a cruel disease
Since then life’s not been a breeze
When he faced the surgeon’s knife
It dramatically changed my whole life
WRITING
T’was the first time I picked up my pen
Over three thousand poems since then
Covid lockdown came so I undertook
My dreams to work on my first book
CREATING
366 poems, one for each day of the year
Only a fool like me would have the idea
The idea is finally coming to fruition
My editor’s superb, a creative magician
PUBLISHING
Dreams to publish at last will come true
Once editing and artwork are through
Then I’ll self publish my very first book
Silly poems, I hope you’ll take a look!
Dreaming Poetry Contest
06/10/23
How do I begin to describe you
Such an incredible person
Yet even now you doubt your abilities
You lost your own mum when you were eight - you never ever got over it
You worked all your life, started off by working in a bank for almost 20 years
Then when you had children you ran a village shop from home
But also helped run the smallholding where we lived
You even had an evening job to bring in extra income
Then you began working in a care home and that had a big impact on you
At 50 you changed direction in life and studied and trained to be a nurse
No mean fete with two children to bring up
When you retired you continued to work in a care home
Then you undertook charity work every week still continuing well into your eighties
In fact you were on your way to work at the charity shop when you fell
You were found lying in the street …
Two bleeds on your brain and over three months in hospital
How you pulled through I will never know
Yet you battled on and are still with us still
Now you have short-term memory issues and are going blind
Fate struck a cruel blow when dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer
He passed away in February
Your lifelong partner for nearly sixty years
Your world turned upside down and now you live in a care home
We are selling the family home - gosh I find it tough emotionally
I know we have lost dad but I feel like I am losing you too
You are helping me clear out things from the house
Items you have known and loved for many years
Sadly we can’t keep everything
It must be so so difficult for you, yet you never complain
I just want you to know how much I love you
How much you inspire me
We only have one mum and I am so lucky I have you still
Written for a previous contest but too late to be submitted
Placed in Judy Konos' Contest - tell us about your mom
18th September 2015
Truth be told
truth behold,
This I see
is how all unfolds
In plain sight
not in darkness
like here tonight
I see the sky
ask myself why
there’s no reply,
No mothership
to take a trip
And… oh my god
I’m overwhelmed!
by majesty …
constellations
partnerships
A crescent moon
beckoning me
imploring me
to look harder,
The answer’s here
before my eyes
not in disguise
(Moon)
I’m here for you
at this moment
let’s synchronise,
Be here for me too
we are the same
you have a mind
I reflect the flame
The big guy
is below horizons
elsewhere rising,
draped in plasma
I follow his lead
unerringly accede
We made you
and you make us
by being here
conscious aware,
we overlook
you undertook
to question why
But there is no lie
The truth’s blinding
the truth’s binding
so let it be
Not always pretty
Not always loving
Not always giving
Not always taking
never faking
open and bare
Raw and gaping
Man gives us reason
we bring him seasons
his path seems tough
and never enough
So thank you
for looking up
come what may
we shared a reflection
Go now brother
we’ve seen the light,
Others did too tonight
just not as bright
Written: April 29, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What a riddle our love was!
we embarked on an ariose trip
with balmy stride, we undertook
Elysian and Empyreal it was
a blissful encounter
an idyllic peace is meant to be,
a serendipitous path
crystal levels of azure size,
our spirits entwined
before we ever knew
we're infatuated now,
It rings with truth.
One's pulse quickens
In every kismet,
I never expected to feel this way
I have proof of that now,
In your grip, my soul resides,
and I will hold on forever
my love is growing stronger,
you are aware of the flow of time.
Our love is euphoric,
every day, I express my felicity,
for love unforeseen,
I was bestowed with a gift,
you unexpectedly invaded my life,
It spun my world around,
wreaking pandemonium
While we were together.
In awe, my heart soars, spellbound.
love is unexpected and divine.
everything came to fruition
you delight me and warm my heart,
our hearts beat in sync.
Gold Dredging
Early morning first light
Camped on the rugged, mountainous terrain
Out of our warm sleeping bags and tent we crawl
To the smells of pine and clean fresh air of the mountain
Wood starts a sizzling, spitting, crackling campfire
For early morning hot coffee and a warm breakfast
I Dress in tee shirt and swim suit,
Hubby is in his wet suit
We walked down to the creek
Pull the dredge into the creek and get it started
When he hits bedrock where gold might be hiding
I stand beside the sleuth watching the
Gravel run over the riffles
I make sure the riffles stay clean
So the heavy gold
Will deposit behind them and on the mat
I see the flash of color and utter excitement
I yell, “We've hit gold,” impatient
With my tweezers and small jar
For safekeeping and
I keep on cleaning
When the day is done, tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat
We clean the miners mat into a bucket
By the campfire we sit and pan our gold from the black sand
After the hard day’s work we undertook, it is wonderful
To see all the sparkling gold dust in my pan
The same warm excited feeling
I felt when my husband placed
My gold wedding band on my finger
12/27/2014
What were the odds they did not know?
So many, many years ago, according to the records
they had left in there, it seems the answer was, quite low.
How strange the paradox of nature, how unpredictable
the outcome of its selections, how some variations
with the best chance to survive
became the human species,
became nature reflecting
on itself,
yet could not understand
that to stop adapting to its environment,
instead to change it, exploit it, a tipping point
would be reached, a no going back extinction event
would be unleashed, and adaptation would no longer be
an option.
Oh the stories we have found! The art fantastic as the sounds
of sea on shore, birds awakening with the golden dawn and
the scent, still present in its capsule, of an ancient rose.
How primitive their science, yet how predictable
the future was for them in small steps undertook with effort:
they knew slide rule soon and to the second
when Apollo would return from the dark side of the moon;
they knew nano chip soon and to the second
when and where an eclipse of the sun would pass at noon;
they knew too soon and to what degree
rising temperatures and rising seas foretold their doom.
What were the odds they did not know
how precious was this Eden, how rare an oasis in a vast unfriendly space,
when they sealed this vault five million years ago?
(Should this poem go in the vault? If so,
we have ten years left and then we'll know
and they'll know, too . . . we knew.)
- original poem written on the 5th of December in the year 2019 CE
Predictable poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter
Just one copy left. I'd soon picked, 'My village',
A renowned book of charming verses for the young;
Much loved for illustrations and lucid language,
And Rhythm such - every line could be easily sung...
Though I should be the owner of, 'My village',
When Lucy, my elder, just established her right;
Dad gave her the book and as though great privilege,
Gave me chocolates. I meekly forgot our fight...
When father went to towns, cities on his business,
My mother, our little home, lovingly managed;
Lucy established her rights, but, now with calmness,
Yet, often to tease me, new rhymes she recited.
It's then when a little tall and fat we'd now grown,
And had more thoughts to think than mere, 'My Village';
The innocence of our childhood like dew-drops gone,
Life got monotonous like a normal voyage...
----
That day Lucy recited rhymes in a full chain,
Like, longing to tell us all her philosophy;
And collapsed. They had found, 'hemorrhage in her brain'.
Lucy, soon, undertook her Eternal Journey.
----
Rituals, done; pains, undone; seated on our yard,
Father brought out, Lucy's Sachet - just small baggage;
With her tiny vanities - paint, brush, and note-pad...
Wrapped well in a satin cloth was, 'My village'.
On its first recto page, her own scribbling written:
'Brother! Not of malice! I did it for fun! Love you!'
I did hide, yet my tears flew like a dam broken,
Lucy, 'My village’, each moment, I'm missing you...
14th May 2021
He Gave Her A Book Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
I ploughed myself into a hazy dream
The depths of which I dared not leave
I did not then but now I see
The truths that stand before me
A cathartic cause that they undertook
That echos through the ages
Stories told by mystic men
Of queens and kings and sages
It’s time too pay the devils due
The pain inside me rages
I wrote my death into a book
It’s found within these pages
Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white pillow
I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, fingering my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs
With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”
I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”
Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How erect will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as erect as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”
Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”
I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what HE-SHE desires me to be
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”
Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.
__________________
*[new form: L&N : Letters and Numbers]
Ma and Pa dwelled in their brick rancher for many years.
There they reared their kids, seeing lots of joys and tears.
Pa was proud of his home and kept it in good condition.
He did lots of repairs but at times caused some demolition!
Pa thought himself handy with hammer, nail and saw,
But Ma wasn't so sure, suffering through many a flaw!
"I can repair anything that needs fixin'", he would crow!
"Why hire so-called experts, besides, they cost a lot of dough!"
A leak occurred under the sink and Pa knew just what to do.
When the job was done, water was hip deep, the plumbing all askew!
Pa swallowed his pride and called the plumber to fix the mess.
Ma smiled that knowing smile, her amusement hard to suppress!
His next project was to paint the kitchen, bath and dining room.
He splattered paint on everything, causing Ma to fume!
Ma wanted him to hang a picture for the bedroom's decoration.
He missed the nail, hitting his thumb, loosing a raging imprecation!
Though Pa tackled each job with intense determination,
Seemed like every job he undertook ended in frustration.
"Honey, maybe you should leave the fixin' for the experts to do,
And take up buildin' bird houses - that's a great hobby to pursue!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Before I tramp the course of my cause,
A family indeed we were, I and Kole
But I short of years from the other.
Only by words we keep memory of
A deceased mother like morning dew
Sought for by the gloaming. We knew
Only a father whose right hand does
The masculine labour and his left hand
Undertook the feminine chore
And grew us up from tendril to maturity.
Nothing moves the heart as do feelings,
The impression creates of a moving mountain.
But with one mind accept I all that be
And live a life devoid of melodrama.
Behind laughter abide the trail of tears
And in my tears was laughter’s bare face.
Work, leisure, sickness, health, joy, sadness
Nothing so transporting or so flummoxing
As to heave my heart off the balance of life.
As an ass, it does not sigh over its burdens
And the camel do not complain of thirst
Through the drought of the desert.
By Fate’s design we lost Kole who had
Found natural escapism from life in death
Whereof the dead cannot forgo to return.
I, left with a father I pampered and cared for
Always after his heels and by his lounge
And all lips hailed the good son of a father.
Time takes precedence to test all values
And fate takes no cognizance of kinship.
Every cord has been broken by birth.
Day by day is the wake of another day
And again it would go back to slumber.
Harmattan made the land to be bard,
It would smile while the sun is out but
Only to become moody with drops.
Playing, gaming, travelling, interacting,
Have excused the drabness of existence.
Below the earth is the hue of brown
And above the sky is the hue of grey.
I have left my father and home into
The city to make a fortune and a name
For they all have queried a son cannot
Always be a honeybunch to a father
But must seek to be a sovereign man.
Now I traverse through the fleeting land
All my goods and affiliates lay aside.
Being an heir, I am no heir to fleeting goods.
Why throw away the bad grains
And then store up the chaff?
I will walk through the sands of time until
I halt in my course to become sand.
A father I commit to the hands of nature
And goodwill of kinsmen and friends.
As early as C.629 a Chinese monk Xuanzang of Jingtu temple
Motivated by the poor quality of translations of Buddhist scripture
Undertook a hazardous journey to bring the original from India
Despite the border being closed at the time due to a war.
He travelled through Gansu, Qinghai and Tian Shan mountains
And crossed what we call Kyrgystan. Uzbekistan and Afghanistan
Reaching India in 630 and touring Indian subcontinent for 13 years
Visiting Buddhist sites and studying at ancient University of Nalanda.
He left India in 643 arriving in China in 646 with the scriptures
Establishing a monastery translating the scriptures he brought.
The spirit or third eye perceptions of Xuanzang to see the world
Was the true spirit, his body being the vehicle or craft merely.
=========================================
* Inspired by Spirit eye or third eye perception contest by Rick parise.
This poem is second one.
We the victim's of incompetence
We the pawns of vain experiments
Imprisoned by oligarchic, social engine.
Our pains, reflected by gluttonous pride.
Fermenting in black boil bubbling greed
Modern slavery in it's prime, glistening
like polished diamond shine.
All pretentious, phoney entrapment,
lurking through time, the ideal system,
for a criminal eye, the perfect crook,
filtered on a system it built, it impressed,
and we undertook, now just mere
puppets,
Upon the ladder of fingers,
The shadow composer casting the melody
of subjugated illusion, laughing at ease,
gazing upon their resolution.
A famine of needs and desires, tortured
by the selected lot, who mock as we rot,
in the mould around the bars of our cot.
The misleading consequence of
innocence, of ignorance, of vulnerability.
The digital web of deception, ripples in
shuddered glee, it's next victim
screaming, and then hushed silently
among those chambers of conformity, an
commodity given a number and then
freed, for some years.
Next it's taught to adhere to the
requirement of 'our' society,
Pushed through any resistance,
Your ADD, labeled and branded for all to
see, your defunct from a higher form, an
acceptable sense of reality, the easier
chores of slavery,
and less material distraction, an extra
penalty.
In the sinister sweating perversion,
The passive exodus that moves in night
and day excursions, fossiled in a lava of
weary confusion.
We are the lost Generation on a path we
cannot see, in a destiny that isn't you and
isn't me.
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.