Best Waistband Poems
That day by the lake,
tattered jeans and old t-shirts,
my hand in your back pocket as we walked,
your thumb
hooked over the top of my waistband.
It was hot,
...damned hot.
You tilted your hat at a silly angle and laughed,
I looked over and thought
'Hot,
...damned hot'
Smiles exchanged and then a kiss,
I think I melted inside.
We took turns walking backwards
holding both hands
drinking in the sight of each other.
Of course we fell,
you to the floor
and me...
completely in love.
Making a frame with my hands,
a captured moment,
'smile for the camera'
and what a smile it was.
Sitting together in the long grass,
both our hats at silly angles,
you made a frame in front of us,
as I kissed your cheek,
and captured a memory.
Images stored safely in my jeans pocket,
not the one with the hole,
that day by the lake...
it was perfect.
Only now I realise
one camera never worked.
The image of you, still vibrant
as that day,
but the one of us
you made with your hands
faded to barely a whisper.
That day by the lake
we both fell...
but only one fell in love.
Reality check... I’ve noticed the
Elastic waistband has
Started to get even tighter on my wife's pants ....
Only I daren't suggest she gives up candy -
Lets just say if she doesn't get her daily ‘ fix’ she turns
Uglier than the incredible hulk!
Take it from me when she gets PMT
It’s like walking on eggshells, so yet again my
Only option is to say
Nothing...
So my resolution is to survive her mood swings for another year!
Resolutions contest Judged 02/16/20
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
02/06/20
My cousin’s just earned his degree
He majored in fartology
Now he can impart
What foods make me fart
He’s obsessed by scatology
I confessed that beans give me wind
(It matters not if fresh or tinned)
And onions and sprouts
In any amounts
cause farting that I can’t rescind
The wind I produce is quite drastic
as medics say my colon’s spastic
my poor tummy swells
I release foul smells
I’m thankful my waistband ‘s elastic
FICTIONAL POEM FOR FART-TASTIC CONTEST
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
09/15/21
05/09/2018
a sea of salt sand
populates swimsuit waistband
the oceans wet itch
There are times when the body
is as numinous as words – Robert Hass
Others, however, when it declares forcefully
its sheer bodiness;
your stomach tightens the waistband
of jeans you bought just last month
in the style of a ‘boyfriend’ you don’t have,
and no jumper’s baggy enough.
Physicality forces outwards, running.
Hills are the quickest route to redemption.
You recall Gethsemane as muscles flame,
fuelled by guilty glycogen from last night’s binge.
The world contracts corporeally.
Each stride increases the laxative effect
of emotions you don’t pretend to understand.
And yet there’s no catharsis
and escape from the self is absurd.
It’s the process of translation,
ritual purging through corporeal philosophy,
pounding the Will with rhythmic strides.
Forget those cloud-dwelling thinkers,
living in dualist minds of ascetic detachment.
Ask any runner: there is no destination.
It’s the shift, the constant becoming.
We’re all just atoms and stardust.
One particularly memorable critic referred to me as a neckbeard in a conversation with a friend this morning. Both of the twats were skinny, pencil-head net-dweebs, the types who frequent cesspools such as reddit.com or 4chan.org. I observed that both geeks were clad in t-shirts emblazoned with figures from Asian cartoons. I laughed to myself, and remarked that fans of Anime should not mock bearded men simply because their own kinds are maligned for their pointlessly lazy grooming. The offending dorks cohort cackled and muttered 'total neckbeard, man.' More cackling. I reached into my pocket and gripped my mini-kunai, which was sheathed into the waistband of my sweatpants, but released the grip and smiled at my antagonists. They needed no punishment. Their only crime was being stupid and hive-minded. I proceeded to the next table, this entire incident having taken place in a McDonald's dining room, and overheard their conversation, a robotic exchange of very old memes and esoteric World of Warcraft lingo. Their odious laughter filled the store, triggered by loudly shouted acronyms pronounced phonetically, such as LOL and ROFL. The couple sitting at the booth across from me was giggling in embarrassment at the idiocy, and the employees looked capable of homicide. I however, lounged lazily in the corner, feasting, the
Neckbeard Warrior at rest.
Brenda is pretty, Brenda is sweet
She’s not very big, in fact she’s petite.
Brenda’s creative, now that’s a surprise
She has a good wit and has opened my eyes.
She’s cruel to a point,, my blunder she extols,
The trouble I have with some toilet rolls.
They roll from my waistband and not from the holder
Tyrone only noticed when he looked over my shoulder.
The last time I saw her she was just a scrubber
Now what example is that, and her a grandmother.
her husband walked into the room, her bottom he could see
Sticking up in the air, but where was she?
He rushed to the oven, the door open wide
And there was Brenda kneeling inside.
Brenda my love he cried ... I’m sorry whatever
Take your head out the oven and I’ll make it better.
What are talking about she cried and removed her head,
The scrubbing brush in hand she looked at him and said.
This is the cupboard I’m giving a scrub
The ovens electric and it would do no good.
Thanks goodness for that he said in relief,
The meters being read and I don’t want the grief.
The cupboard is clean for when the grandson arrives
We need somewhere to put him, so we can survive.
GG 2012
She is Two Saints:
Your feet make you happy
when they bring you to the garden
where you are merry.
You walk among red roses,
and take their scent in.
Your storied days and busy nights,
we'll have one together -
turn off the lights.
I know how to use my hand,
under your waistband.
We are in that rose garden
and together it is right.
I kiss you deeply,
you sigh from your nose.
I with my hand under your clothes.
You are more than one; you are two saints.
You come so hard you nearly faint.
There's lots of play to underwear.
I'll try to be discreet.
It stretches to contain my boys
Who hang down t'wards my feet.
Elastic waistband hugs my hips,
Prohibiting their fall,
Much better than the outerwear
Worn by Neanderthal.
The Romans got the bright idea
From need to urinate.
They caught themselves so many times
In skirts of metal plates.
They learned that they could run a mile
As fast as they could go,
For loincloths kept their schlongs in place,
No flopping to and fro.
The greatest change from Caesar's day
To present day's sublime
Was the addition of a slit
For smoother exit time.
Of course some men like to be loose
And go with boxer shorts.
And if the fruit escapes the loom,
The girls will scream retort.
We can't forget those winter johns,
With trap door buttoned tight.
They're great for freezing temp'ratures.
Men wear them day and night.
But ladies have their negligees
Of silk and flimsy lace.
They do not wrinkle or bunch up
And beckon men to chase.
And now the reason for this post.
It's not a waste of ink.
One of my duties here at home
is at the kitchen sink.
My wife cooks all my fav'rite meals.
I clean up when we're done.
The other night someone snuck up.
The culprit was my son.
He and his wife were at the house
For supper, ham and beans.
He grabbed the wasteband of my shorts
And pulled them from my jeans.
He lifted them up t'wards my neck.
He wedged them in my crack.
He yanked and tugged, and tugged and yanked
And laughed behind my back.
He called out to my family
To show them what he'd done.
The tears were running down their cheeks.
It was a load of fun.
But from now on, I've made a change
And at the sink I sing.
I started wearing my wife's thongs.
He can't wedge those old things!
How could someone choose to live in such a wasteland
A polluted mess of burgers and fries in your hand,
Populated with emotional distress as tighter becomes the waistband,
Personal vendetta achieved bit by bit without love or a man
You have yourself to blame and have no pity to demand
Now you have lost all potential with nobody to care,
One choice made and now a fertile life is bare,
When you make a child to be an adult, this could be you.
Argh, I Ne'er Got Got Bran Did With...
A Muffin Top Before - Why Now!?
Impossible firm he (reed myth self)
to compete with Adonis, no way no chance
asthma gut busts over
waistband of sweatpants,
the choice couture,
asper this poet, who kant's
cease spewing regularly
(quotidian) raves and rants
years ago (another lifetime),
I partook of contra dance
sing, (and most casual suitable
place to find romance)
plus burn calories matter of fact,
a milieu to buff and enhance
physique, while simultaneously
kibitizing with great expanse
of pleasant gals and guys
one must not be afraid to prance
(albeit in accordance
with a caller on stage,
and maintain endurance)
synonymous with aerobic exercise,
and also act flirtatiously amorously glance
sing and/or stealing a French fried
kiss, yup dashing all
the way out to France,
yet returning just in time and proper,
or improper instance
all the while sustaining
the energetic activity over expanse
of a few hours (traditionally
held on Thursday evenings)
and for that block of time held in a trance,
asper...analogous to
spellbinding arrow or lance
suspended part way thru flight,
cuz all troubles troubles
temporarily melt away
which venue mentioned,
which small number of bucks one did pay
to participate among mine weekly highpoint,
where life liberty, and pursuit of happiness
which place this then akin to a cray
zee lee whirling dervish, did pine
to spruced himself up, and ready to hay
for four, thus sped without delay
this bag of lovely bones hapt tubby
more more trim, unlike
less physically fit body of today,
and scant finances find me find
foregoing joyfully
listening to musicians play
and healthily exhausted
with closing waltz,
thence out tummy car
yours truly did sashay!
With lifeless eyes he forms the south side
hand sign
represent his neighborhood is all he know
No remorse for his actions banging on the
other side
Dope in his pocket pistol in his waistband
pulling aiming firing shots with his left
hand
Hot steel spiralling out the barrel of the
gun empty shells and bodies hitting the
pavement
Elevating the crime rate he celebrates with
his homies back on the south side
Lines of cocaine being snorted off the
stomachs of sluts with bloodshot eyes
they scream southside
North Siders come through gunning
automatic weapons being fired screams
of whores echo through the night unable
to return fire south siders lay dying with
lifeless eyes they form the south side
hand sign
written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The
Brown Philosopher aka The Green Poet
aka Red Seven
Christy did not know how she was going to fix the problem.
Her sister Carol, had confided in her.
Christy knew she could not let Carol return out of state with her abusive husband.
The abuser was glaring at her when Christy came into the living room.
“Where is Carol?” he demanded. He was impatient to get going.
On automatic pilot, Christy said “DAD!”
Her father was lying on the floor watching TV
DAD!
He looked at her this time.
“Steve has been beating Carol.”
Without a word the sisters’ father got up off the floor.
Walked to Steve, spun him, and walked him out the door.
He had a hold of his neck.
He put his other hand on his waistband and plunked him over the porch railing.
It was about a fourteen foot drop.
Without another word Dad returned to his place on the floor.
Come let's dig deep into Mother's tale.
her border is the immaculate finger of the sky,
Beside this seashore was her flower taken.
under the rippled moon tale of the northern
Sahara, they made her the dummy of silence.
her mother sold her eyes to the tale bearer,
papa, the village artifact of the specified terrain.
she was the north of the aggressive villagers,
then, her father sold her to Papa who took her
Pride under the rimpression seashore.
If in this outskirt of another blood line, we lied,
then she lied of yesterday and today with an eyes of timbers.
if this is the miracle of the custom in our land,
then, women are meant to tolerate men existence,
and men, an organised egoists bottled in ignorance.
She was sold and her freedom lost to the forest,
the dancing of the forest trees made mockery of her,
her waistband was ridicule treasure to papa's hand.
he refused her food and water but see through her
every masking night on cruel bed of sin.
dig deeper you will see her past through his eyes,
curling and calling a fainting torment of a woman lost,
lost in love and ambition, lost in fear and humbleness!
her mouth smitten by a rosy flashy hand,
years have gone with the winds of time,
we only remember sounds of rain in our ears
dabbing before our roof and fate of our destinies.
with our unbeatable smiles, egoism was created.
she ran out into the ocean against her wish,
with our curled happiness in her mind;
stamping her foot on the temple of sober,
grounds of memories, heart hurt memories,
Splashing the waters of infidelity of love,
Her misery with our foot crossed paths in voices
as we were made whole through her tale of agony
dancing under the rain, an African nightful rain
made women scapegoat in an African way.
indeed nothing taste like freedom of feminism,
so nothing sounds better like the yelling of peace.
the songs of rain, rain of colours dangling voices
where mother rest her breastful pride for tomorrow.
©John Chizoba Vincent.
The thing about chiggers:
I’m glad they’re not bigger.
They’ll make you go dancing
Like A. A. Milne’s Tigger.
Avoid ‘em with vigor!
When they pull the trigger,
Get under your waistband,
You may need a jigger.
Of whiskey! Of whiskey!
You’ve gotta ask right,
'Cuz chiggers are red
And jiggers are white.
O, chigger! O, jigger!
They both like to bite.
The former’s a flea;
The latter’s a mite.