she was tattooed, yet still beautiful
her green eyes were the eyes of a queen
she was not arrogant; she was regal
wearing bracelets bangles and spangles
others avoided her table at the psychic fair
I sauntered directly to her
when I got closer, I noted that she was classy
and more gorgeous than I had originally thought
If men attended psychic fairs, there would have been a line
these old, dumpy corpulent middle-aged women went other places
this was a queen with flowers in her hair
wearing pearls and gemstones
I felt I was in the presence of greatness
there was nothing arrogant or inflated about her
she had a soft voice and kind ways
I was enthralled, captured, and enchanted
yes, she certainly could do a reading for me
it was a fabulous thirty minutes
she is a woman I have never forgotten
grumpy humpy dumpy lumpy fish
was too grouchy to be a willing dish
you could be décor, his daddy said
a fish on the wall, scratching your head
you just have to change your attitude
be more joyful and you’ll make good food
he changed his attitude, and none too late
making fine dining on a dinner plate
The Headstone of C.W.
At Halloween dusk, The Headstone cool
dressed in red stems with cool
starlike shoot tips
stole a garbage bag with hips
full of candy left by the pool of chips,
left by a dumpy man with big hips
diagnosed with diabetes
(he never ate enough Wheaties)
She said, ‘He’s such a fool!’
She thought she was doing him a favour.
She hated the word “favour”.
Little did she know...
The candy had tiny hand grenades inside them.
Yeah. One in each of them.
Just before the
Halloween Costume Competition at the
Elmwood Mall,
she ate the entire bag,
and she exploded onto the wall.
A killer cleaner put all her pieces in a bag.
The Deplorables
Because there was hilly billy running around all willy nilly. flipping and flopping his fishy filet, now he's sloppin the mopin today. Out walikin' n chillin', n stalkin road killin', for black pot fillin', the kettle's the villain. Can't quite get it right, fight though he might, his light not bight by a right sight. Yet never has he ever, on any endeavor, goten it together to weather the whatever. Whether he's hootin' n hollerin' or rockin' n rollin', he's stumbling n bumbling, "dem cookie be crumblin." A pathetic excuse this obtuse red recluse, this mighty white wighty n righty up tighty should never reproduce. These cringey, whingey, power stingy, fumblin', grumblin', crumblin', mumbling, creatures' main feature's are backwards preachers, thruth bleachers, no teachers, and NASCAR skreechers. Hee-haw, southern draw, drug withdrawal, slack jaw, Maw n Uncle Papaw. Trumpy dumpy little stumpy, frumpy clumpy always grumpy, no last straw. Vile and bile, world reviled, can't reconcile such a defiled lifestyles, and all the while, siege heil siege heil.
dumpy trumpeter
spat the dummy
when his taco toppled
off his pastiche wall
Democrats like Damocles Sword's imminent jeopardized positions of power hail her rise,
Decades of teamsters support, NO, Harris-Demos few endorsed her in the public's eyes,
Democrats today are like the Dixiecrats of Dewey's days are playing old-school, sex-race cards,
Repubs set in their ways, and Demos are bendable like what's his face got her on second base, charades.
He needed to win, expendable, same cards played, sex-(win over for the women voters) it is a given for the race.
D for Demos who are Distancing from Drunkards--her hidden card takes centerstage--loses face.
First line expounded of my original Pie-in-the-sky, and
the rest was a shot in the dark, played with dance cards.
*She can seek help if she don't slur her words on camera that she is,
being tailed., f0x learned from Di' lawsuit--pass the buck.
Repubs are no angels in this with Trumy-Dumpy on a ticket and not a wall, the third possible gallops in time with withdrawals TBA.
too young for Woodstock
too old for Barbie dolls
I wore blue denim bell-bottoms
sometimes flowers in my hair
she arrived with summer wind
my friend Squeek
wild one exuding sensuality
as easy as breathing
making testosterone go crazy
she ran with bad boys
let me tag-a-long
one brief friendship then
she was gone
vanished like summer sun
what did she see in me
the dumpy ugly fat girl
maybe she was dream
maybe she was lesson
maybe it doesn't matter
fifty years later I'm still groovy
damned near perfect
I think about her and wonder
I used to be able to run full steam all day with little sleep
Now I can barely walk unless I have a little cat nap
because I still am a fitful sleeper at night, up and down
I once ran around my yard with my dogs
Now arthritis in my ankles has me ambling, slowly
I dream of walking fast, which I also did once upon a time
My vision used to be better than twenty-twenty
Now I cannot read books or magazines unless they are big print
or I keep a magnifying glass close by my easy chair
Sitting around watching TV was the last thing I would do
until ten years ago when I tore my meniscus
Now I spend a lot of time eating potato chips in front of the boob tube
I used to be clever and funny and fun
I do not feel that way anymore
I feel dumpy and frumpy
Do what you can while you are young
Fifty five is a lot younger than seventy-three.
You might as well know it now.
I wanna be a wallaby
And not just a wanna-be,
Not a kangaroo or
Silly platypus
But, if I can’t be a wallaby
I think that I would wanna be
A plump and dumpy
Hippopotamus!
"I go to Burning Man every year," Timidia told us.
My husband and I nearly spit out our coffee.
She was an accountant, unassuming, dumpy.
She wore shirts with plastic pen protectors.
Timidia attended Burning Man!
What?
In those clothes? I asked her.
She shook her head, no. "In no clothes at all"
I now picture her in a whole new way.
Wishing that she weighed a teensy bit less.
I go too, her Bohemian husband said.
He has hair down to his hoo-hah. No surprise here.
"I go to Burning Man every year," Timidia told us.
My husband and I nearly spit out our coffee.
She was an accountant, unassuming, dumpy.
She wore shirts with plastic pen protectors.
Timidia attended Burning Man!
What?
In those clothes? I asked her.
She shook her head, no. "In no clothes at all"
I now picture her in a whole new way.
Wishing that she weighed a teensy bit less.
I go too, her Bohemian husband said.
He has hair down to his hoo-hah. No surprise here.
I will win this race I think forgetting that my body does not run.
I will dance my jeans off I believe forgetting I have a torn meniscus.
I will do a double triple quadruple skate move at the Olympics I brag.
My ankles groan, they are filled with arthritis now.
I will climb that mountain so high!
My lungs laugh, reminding me of our asthma
I will win all the marathons in the continental USA
Unless this frumpy dumpy flesh body holds me back.
"I am feeling it." He said.
He meant his age. As I watched
I saw a vision…
Out from the cuttlefish bones of his breast
grime coughed up and dribbled.
I saw his heart stutter, the vapid flutter,
watched his lungs belch and utter
like a broken bladder.
A horseman on a creaking steed
raised its hoary head
and pointed an ancient ladle
speaking thus -
"Stir me belly lad," it said,
"spoon me sticky sump,
dole globs of lymph from here to there.
Me grease is dumpy and lumpy.
Me hip-bones crunch
while me dingle wilts and dangles.
Me ears is gummy lad,
I've gone to the bad.”
The specter faded.
The old guy smiles, rubs his thin hair.
"I also see it sometimes," he says,
"that liver-spotted ghost
that chains me to an even older vision
of you."
The girls were middle school mean.
They invited a dowdy dumpy frumpy girl named Jean.
They told her she would have to wear a weird hat.
The weirdest you can find, one that makes you phat.
Jean was thrilled to be invited to their table.
She incorporated her grandmother, name of Mable.
Mable made her a mushroom hat – she looked like a buffoon.
It was a fancy restaurant, she looked silly in the room.
The waitress figured it out and led her to her own table.
She sat with her and spoke with her calmly, like Mable.
Letting her know that mean girls will always be mean.
But she does not have to see them again, just be her best Jean.
Ricky Ricardo,
handsome talent of the Tropicana show.
serious, he cracks the whip, practices -
his bongos distract us.
Lucy,
his fiery red-headed wife - we
follow her madcap schemes,
her showbiz dreams.
Fred,
dumpy, grumpy, nearly dead
except he comes alive with dance -
far-fetched romance.
Ethel,
the love of his life? Well…
a partner in dance. Lucy’s sometimes friend.
They always make up in the end.
Little Ricky,
bongo player — itty bitty
show stealer. Not a natural son,
Keith’s not credited but the golden ticket, he won!
I Love Lucy
gets along famously,
handles the trite matters
of life. Laughter on a silver platter.
9/5/2021
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.