Best Washboard Poems
Tide out ...
Swells break far and creep slow,
sweeping tender 'cross washboard flats
where they used to dance -
where they lauded the ebullience of life
in purpose ... and pairs.
Beach ballerinas, flaunting perfect line ...
toothpick legs busy as Baryshnikov 'midst the billows,
leopard mantle still as stars
while they streaked and pattered forth-and-back,
never touching the hem of the combers.
Nature has no humor, they say ...
yet 'twas a game they played with the ocean's edge,
the sand they pranced was just as cold -
just as wet and wobbly and wild ...
it served no critical purpose to shun the wash in such diligence.
Yet they were masters of the art, and graceful,
as tho' it had been thus for eons ... and of course, it had.
That very game and dance is what I miss so dearly now,
tears disguised in the salt spray on my face,
as I pull another clump of plastic ...
From last year's nests.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Last Year's Nests" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
A is for Accordion, squeezing air with bellows
B is for Banjo, five strings plucked by bluegrass fellows
C is for Clavichord, keyboard with a metal sound
D is for the Drums which percussionists will pro-pound
E is for the English horn, using a double-reed
F is for a brass French horn, three valves is all you need
G is for Glockenspiel, metal bars arranged in rows
H is for Harmonica, both in and out she blows
I is for Ingoma, on which skins or hides are drummed
J is for Jinghu, just two strings that are bowed not strummed
K is for the Keytar, keyboard guitar held upright
L is for the Laser harp which plays on beams of light
M is for Maracas, their rhythm shaken by pros
N is for Nguru, Maori flute blown through the nose
O is for the Oboe with a mouth-piece that looks bewitched
P is for the Piccolo, a half-sized flute, high pitched
Q is for the Quena, a notched flute from the Andes
R is for the Rattle, maracas for the babies
S is for the Shofar, a Jewish horn hard to blow
T is for the Tuba, largest horn and tough to tow.
U is Ukulele, four-string Hawaiian gee-tar
V is Viola, a fiddle tuned a bit deeper
W is the Washboard, just for rhythm, understood?
X is a Xylophone, a glockenspiel made of wood
Y is Yotar, a guitar with four strings grouped in threes
Z is Zither, played on the table or cross your knees
This alphabet of instruments just breaks through the top
The're hundreds more to know, but Z's a good place to stop.
March 11, 2013
Allright Poet's ABC Poetry Contest
THE GOOD OLD DAYS – JOURNAL XVI
Looking back from this point
I’d have to make a division
Between adults and children
For adults the many tasks were more
The thirties were the ultra-sparse of times –
Men out seeking work, women with back
breaking chores
The washboard, carpet beater, scrubbing (on
hands and knees) floors –
For most no modern conveniences
The kids – at least this kid – were relatively
happy
They might help out, certainly,
But had not the worry,
The responsibility
Things wearing out was not a big factor
Like, rubber resoles, needle and thread,
sewing machine,
The Model T with removable parts
The everyday things pristine
But people wore out
Everything moved so much slower
Those worn out moved slower –
the worry, emotional fatigue -
One’s age, life expectancy much lower
In these last few, as I reluctantly rise each day,
I want to remember the happy kid
And thank the martyrs, the miserable
For making him that way
Now pick apart
My S E X U A L I T Y
and tell me these traits
That must define me.
From my heads to my tippy toes
Am I more man or Mo?
Dont hesitate
While you emasculate
They must call you Webster
Because you act like now.
Is it because-
I dye my hair to ignite these eyes
Or I skip to the beat
And step in time?
I dont wear clothes that pop
My pants sag NOT snap
I dont death at the drop
But Ill always clapback.
I pee standing up
But cry standing down,
More wit in this sass
To asassinate a clown.
I flick my wrist-
sideways
But have hair on my chest,
I dont pluck my brows -
For days
I choose ladies over men
To spill the tea
But I can outrun a sportsman
If someone is chasing me.
I got Fem tropes.
I pull man ropes.
I dont vape, I smoke
Im riddled with jokes.
Got a snaggle tooth
That bite will your truth,
Im not GQ clean
But I on the cover if you know what I mean.
Liza, Judy, Gaga, Babs
Parade my phone
with disney pics and washboard abs.
Denzel, Deniro, Statham
Are the dudes I roll
I dont spit whiskey
But ill drink vodka from the bowl.
I believe in truth and the American way
I pray to God,
YES I was born this way.
So paint my sterotype
With your sheltered PC hype,
I am just a ruggedly handsome prototype-
Now continue to archetype me
As I drop this Mic.
37 Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’[a] 38 This is the first and greatest commandment. 39 And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b] 40 All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” NIV.
Two Great Commandments
We must praise God with our total being;
With newfound faith in Him are believing;
Yourself forget;
In neighbors let;
Help those in need who will be grieving.
Jim Horn
St. James Episcopal Church
Shallotte, NC
lord 127 End Rhymes
One-syllable rhymes
board
bored
chord
cord
cored
cured
fiord
fjord
floored
ford
gored
gourd
gourde
hoard
hord
horde
lord
moored
oared
pored
poured
roared
scored
shored
snored
soared
stored
sword
toured
ward
warred
whored
Two-syllable rhymes
abhorred
aboard
accord
adored
afford
award
backboard
baseboard
billboard
blackboard
breadboard
broadsword
buckboard
cardboard
chalkboard
chessboard
chipboard
clipboard
concord
contoured
corkboard
dashboard
deplored
discord
duckboard
explored
floorboard
footboard
freeboard
hardboard
headboard
highboard
ignored
implored
inboard
keyboard
landlord
lapboard
moldboard
outboard
outscored
pasteboard
pegboard
prescored
rancored
record
restored
reward
scoreboard
seaboard
shipboard
sideboard
signboard
skateboard
slumlord
soundboard
springboard
surfboard
switchboard
tagboard
toward
uncured
wallboard
warlord
washboard
whipcord
Three-syllable rhymes
aboveboard
centerboard
checkerboard
clavichord
coinsured
fiberboard
fingerboard
harpsichord
mortarboard
notochord
overboard
overlord
paperboard
pinafored
plasterboard
pompadoured
prerecord
reassured
shuffleboard
smorgasbord
stevedored
underscored
unexplored
unrestored
untoward
weatherboard
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
I Cannot Weight To Hmm...
Be Pressed By A Dumbbell
Two fifteen pound
steely danse sing
wrought iron dumbbells
ill-tempered, impatiently,
and intensely a weight
their turn to hmm... press me,
and forthwith dense trait
heavy handed prestidigitation
to yours truly, this primate
currently attempting
to craft sad excuse
for a poem, sans far fetched
notion, aye trite re: late
engendering, foisting, and goading
bizarre lifelike qualities
to inanimate solid helpmate
to build (and/or oven
just tone) muscles bitterly, painfully,
resignedly wince, where washboard
abdomen long a goner
impossible to recoup,
whar hide didst narrate
ting hours sculpting great
former Adonis build
on these, now nada so lovely
bones, and experience
spiritual strife to oscillate,
perhaps witness sing
angst to esse skill late
heady feeling healthy vim within
myself, how just
with verily at least dedicate
half hour exercise can be great
for body, mind, and
soul triage, otherwise...
basic gravitational laws
of physics gladly
hand me unwanted fate,
how gradually physique
will eventually demonstrate
flabby, droopy, and
unwanted addy post tissue create
ting another reason to berate,
castigate, emasculate, where
self repudiation will germinate
(albeit, thence in extremis), yours truly
doth relinquish fitness regime
resulting sparking, and taste
testing casus belli dictate
tête-à-tête, viz hasty
unconditional surrender to
a void mortal kombat,
which latter, would exterminate,
the forces of yin and yang,
re: lee (I rub hurts) loch cur,
thence finding me fraught,
(yule hiss see - uselessly)
grant ting soul
option to disintegrate,
in the event emotional civil war,
rents asunder every fiber
of mine being, which
wrath wracked wraith self destruction
twill woefully satiate.
Years of washing,
yet the stains won't fade;
Washboard worn,
My fingers,
Bleed.
A cleansing of my soul,
is maybe what I need.
Bits of metal,
chips of wood;
years of washing,
yet still,
misunderstood...
Years of washing,
Yet the Stains won't fade;
Alone, unclean;
Feeling betrayed...
Years of washing,
the Stains,
won't fade;
Ready for the reaper,
Suit, Tie,
Decay...
The Washer Woman in Canyonlands
An old woman laments
of her daily chores,
the stinging lye soap
and a biting washboard.
With knuckles bleeding
into the day’s dirty water,
she sighs and prays
for a better tomorrow.
PRETTY KITTY
They named her Princess
Coal black with long silken fur
She had this proud air
They had to laugh thought it cute
Not Caesar their bulldog brute
Caesar was not cute
had a face like a washboard
Always kept his place
But Princess had a free reign
And this caused Caesar great pain!
She ate at table
Was let out to freely roam
Welcomed on a lap
Not so Caesar not so cool
He was too big and he drooled
He was patronized
Princess her nose in the air
Scratched the furniture
Had a perfumed litter box
Once peed on the master’s sox
All this Caesar saw
Oh it rankled in his craw
That snip of a cat!
Bring her down to Earth he vowed
Dump her from her fleecy cloud
And then one fine day
As the Princess sleeping lay
Head on velvet paws
Caesar as was his habit
Lifted leg let her have it!
Dave Austin
Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.
Washboard and spoons
Guitar and drums
Accordion
Getting together
With the band
A moment not about skin
But about soul
A party not about race
But about rhythm
Take a stand
(or perhaps a dance)
Against hate
Yell a little
Prance a little
Live, love a lot
Making music
While joining hands
"Piece of *****".
When I was eight, I think you forced yourself into my home, my safe space- a blue truck
pulled up to the front of my mother's, and father's house, a dad with a dark beard was sitting behind the
steering wheel, a dark haired child sat in the passenger seat- I think
I was trying to identify you, I know you had an ugly-eyes too close together-almost stupid, dirty face, and
that you were telling me you did not want to go back to South America. I was as always being nice to you, and
I was so much taller than you, and I was asking what you wanted to play-
I was assuming you
wanted to play-
and then you punched me in my stomach.
I guess you had wanted to abuse, that my hygiene was not being addressed properly by my mother-as intended by her mother- and I
shouldn't have been in the bathroom with you- you are male,
short, my blonde was coveted by my relatives so it was oiled to look
straight and dark-so close to the toilet with you that you could violently push my should- be-blonde head into the toilet, and then I shouldn't
have thought to still talk to you, think to go outside with you while you were only leaving my mother's, and father's house-shouldn't have still
thought that you wanted to play...
but my stomach was washboard flat. And my should be curly blonde hair was going to be very beautiful.
Sister Faith took me in,
teaching me all
different practical things,
everything from canning foods
and churning butter,
milking the cows and
squeezing the udders,
sewing and darning all
of the clans clothes,
washing them all by
using a washboard,
hanging them on the
clothesline outside,
going for a horse
and buggy ride,
plowing the fields
using an old mule,
making all the meals
and clothes from scratch,
which was yet another rule,
Sister Faith and her
husband Brother Caleb
one day took me aside,
said they liked my work so much
they wanted me to join their family clan,
and become amish and assimilate,
becoming one of them,
saying I'd be the new
farmhand and housekeeper
and for their 12 kids the nanny,
well I said I'd think about it
while I thought I still had my sanity,
but after a split second thought otherwise,
because that night I devised a plan,
said to myself have to get away
from this slave driving amish clan,
tied some bedsheets together
and threw them out the window,
climbed down to the ground
and ran away like some fugitive,
walking and running
till I saw the lights of a town,
almost didn't make it
as I kept stumbling down,
used the pay phone and
called a taxi service,
thought I saw some amish
and started feeling nervous,
finally safe and secure
in the backseat of the taxi,
I said to the driver
"just take me back to
my home where there
is no amish but where
theres technology!"
Reaching a fork in the old winding road...
Our difficult choice, is to withhold admiration.
A turn to the left?.... Or a turn to the right?
Decisions! Decisions! Which will earn our attention?
Turning heads to the right, there are potholes abundant!
Reversing our eyes, in the opposite direction,
Is a washboard damnation that seems noncompliant!
Perhaps a rotation, will take us back home !!
__________________________________________________
For the contest sponsored by Kim Merryman "Road Trip" 8/23/13