Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder Poetry Contest
Crystol Woods
Her man friend, grey, over the hill, and older
He's cheesy, conning, plain, and a freeloader
She's in her twenties and smart
Her friends ask why this old fart
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Her friends are so puzzled and think something smells
They even ask what happened to her brain cells
Break wind and smell the roses
Please don't take his proposes
She followed her own heart and the wedding bells
For someone else's trash is another’s treasure
Who are we to point and object, and measure
Maybe her man has a good side
And she's in it for a short ride
She's free to do what strikes her whim and leisure
His smelled of semi-soft cheese
with a low moldy blue undertone
I had no tolerance for his smell
for compared to gym socks,
ammonia,
or barnyards,
it was pure Eau de Toilet !
After a game of indoor soccer
he'd break wind
while holding up one leg.
He smelled of rotten egg
formaldehyde,
and sour pickles,
from New Orleans....
While they chased after him
with bottles of perfume
He'd do the armpit fart
then run away.
Leaving behind,
a skunky smell of Cannabis.
Joseph Pujol, Flatulist
1/6/1857 - 8/8/1945
He started working as a baker
And ended up being the same
But for nearly thirty years he
Enjoyed international fame.
Using his natural talent
For quite a long while
He entertained the elite
In his own unique style.
He could break wind at will
With superb sound control
Wore a special pair of breeches
With an appropriately placed hole
And, with a series of tubes
Could play tunes on a flute
Blow out a distant candle
Imitate a duck or coot.
He gave delight to millions
With his travelling show
Cheered and feted wherever
He was invited to go
He couldn’t compete with
The noise of the first Great War
So he retired back to his shop
To become a baker once more.
So, All hail le Petomane
The man who made of it an art,
And added respectability to,
The discreetly dropped fart.
Before crowned heads of Europe
At the height of his glory
Sadly the modern world has
Almost forgotten his story.
I knew a young man from Crewe
Who's favorite meal was a stew
Though he became chagrined
As he'd often break wind
And sometimes would follow through.
His wife cried you are obscene
And the noise is causing a scene
For after eating prunes
He could fart in tune
To the anthem God save the Queen.
His bowels were causing a riot
It was time to change his diet
He was afraid to cough
Fear of letting one off
Wasn't easy keeping things quiet.
So as for the young man from Crewe
It's a goodbye to beans and stew
Hoping vegetable soup
Wont make him poop
For relief is long overdue.
Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
If I break wind, you run to me,
body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating
a smudged paragraph into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention
with a fixed gaze,
you are staring at my next question,
willing to
jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes.
Silent odiferous idioms crest
upon her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
A chocolate brownie pop tart
Is the fastest weigh to her heart
But as her best friend
You know she'll break wind
That will rocket right off the chart!
‘Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
What I wear and you gather into you,
become a language neither of us know,
but comprehend in mouse-tracks of deduction.
You read grease and engine oil, as if grease and engine oil
were two parts of a book left out in the wet,
a chemical patois revealed by an inborn knowledge
of petroleum pipes, and the long-distance howls
of Alaskan wolves.
If I break wind, you run to me, body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating a smudged paragraph or two into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention with a fixed gaze,
(No, Timmy has not fallen down an abandoned mine shaft),
you are just staring at my next question,
willing to jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
Tales of muddy boots, the flash-fiction of urine trails,
(hers and her canine buddies, not mine),
the breezy gossip of each rabbit hole.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes,
idioms cresting now on her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
Inspired by my Friend Jan Allison
(A one ring circus)
The Flying Flatulences
Watch if you dare
They like to break wind
While they fly through the air
No effort at all
As they flutter with ease
Letting lose, then clinging
As if on trapeze
I might say you lie
If you've not seen them yet
And their brilliant finale
Above the porcelain net
They must be the greatest
I'm sure you must think
But to tell you the truth
Their act really stinks
He has talent first seen as delinquency
That has given him fame, perhaps infamy
When he’s mad or chagrined
He’s inclined to break wind
With a sound like a Beethoven symphony
Now the razamataz is over
Looks like Trump is next in line.
If he does what he is proclaiming
Everything will be just fine
If like his name*
He is full of hot air like a deflating balloon
Then “God Bless America” comes to mind
Not just America we’re sure to find.
Must give the man a chance
He is a millionaire by right
Must have had some brain to acquire this
Just that cell doesn’t glow so bright
Please Mister President stop putting your foot in it
Think before opening wide
I will raise my glass to you Donald Trump
At the end of office, you can then say
“I Tried”
Penned 9 November 201
*To trump is to break wind
(1) The Catch
Her little face fell:
Gentle hands caught it
And restored it
To its proper place
With a kiss upon
Each chubby cheek
(2) An Observation On Good Manners
It is not considered acceptable
To break wind
In polite society
Therefore
I don't mix
With polite society
And fart to my heart's content
In my own company
(3) The World’s Last Great Poem
Undoubtedly, this has got to be
The greatest poem ever writ:
It’s clear, concise and to the point
And there ain’t that much of it!
(4) Spider
I sat and watched a spider
Crawling up the wall
Wondering, quite idly,
Why it didn’t fall.
It crawled across the ceiling
Then onto the door
And when it came back down to earth
I squashed it on the floor!
There once was a poet named Charlie,
Who loved to break wind with his Harley;
His fans almost choked,
On the words that he wrote,
Cause the smell of his prose, it was gnarly.
What in H*ll is that smell
Is it coming from your tail
It is worst than a skunk
cought in a trunk
It's not cool to break wind in school
If you do don't claim it
It is not a prize that you will find
When everbody gives you a peice of their mine
Then they will want to kick your behind
Pardon me sir, but did you not just break wind?
Pardon me sir, but don't you feel a bit chagrined?
Pardon me sir, but I deem your faux pas mighty gross!
Pardon me sir, but you've left me feeling a bit morose!
Pardon me sir, but on this bus we don't enjoy your sop!
Pardon me sir, may I suggest you de-bus at the next stop!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Poetess Darkly's "Pardon Me, Did You Just..." Contest
There once lived a woman called Lady-de Leisure, who turned not to men, but food for
pleasure.
She ate everything spicy and sticky and sweet, the poor lady could not even see her poor
feet. From dusk until dawn, all she would do was eat, drink, break wind, burp belch and poo.
But one day whilst eating her thirty fifth pie, the lady burped loudly, keeled over and died.
The funeral had to be held outside, but people they came to say goodbye.
The coffin itself, you’ve never seen bigger. The bearers were three forklift trucks and a
digger.
The hole in the ground was fourteen feet wide, and even then the coffin scraped at the sides.
So if you are thinking about being a lady of leisure, look elsewhere than food solely for
pleasure.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.