Long Bellyache Poems
Long Bellyache Poems. Below are the most popular long Bellyache by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bellyache poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Seasons Of The Year by Pixabay.
Seasonals
~~0~~
Time of heaven's anointing fertile grounds,
fertile nature, and beast surrounds,
Hail, 'tis springtime here a blossoming,
buds are blooming everywhere,
Hark the juveniles from the towns,
frolicking yonder the fairgrounds,
Awakening comes into being,
comes into being the heralds of spring,
Playing happily here rounds and elsewhere,
cheerily sounds, frowns drowns,
~~adults abound at hare and hounds.
~~0~~
Heightening sunlight burning daylight truly,
nigh in the noon hour stand high,
Flowers' mood-matching shades of golden brown
from bluish green trades,
The exclusive facade reaches bone dry,
bone dry as warm air is blown dry,
They sweltered till all screamed for ice cream
as their dessert melted away an "s",
Gods and goddesses tans apply, amplify fans,
swim summer ray goodbye,
~~by and by, May, June, and July.
~~0~~
Here, hear it came, rustling leaves a-tumbling,
a-tumbling down the country lane,
Reddish ocher spread out all a-flustered,
all a-flustered every which way,
Autumn rain drenched down leaves that drain
neath the woods where they have lain,
Ebbing its crimson crust chilly ashen dust
blankets shyly amidst the gust,
Rustic western host John Wayne,
all else subtleties pens Mark Twain,
~~larks in vain, come, Abel and Cain.
~~0~~
Fall mist snaps wide-awake, anew sorta undertake,
an outstretched lea windbreak,
Holiday treats, festive retreats,
time for family and friends to gather,
Turkey and ham, and bellyache, chats, and drinks,
and aspirins for that aged headache,
Winter's here once again, bringing joyous cheer,
looking back to this good old year,
The afterglow of the fireworks show, slake coffee,
and cheesecake, new year break,
~~strive worth to make, thrive earth God's sake.
~~0~~
2022 July 22
Well it doesn't really matter, if you have riches or you’re poor,
When you get that bellyache, you know you’ll be heading for,
That little house way down the back, where the comforts made for you,
So you can sit and read the paper, when there’s a job to do.
It doesn't really matter, if you eat ‘cray’ or caviar,
Or if you’ve downed a pie with chips; they travel just as far.
After your belly has been filled, then you must get rid of it,
And that's when the likes of me and 'Rusty', do our little bit.
You see we are night workers on a truck that pulls a tray,
The job we’re being paid to do, is to take your waste away.
So while you're sleeping soundly, to your 'little house' we go,
Come every week on Friday, to prevent an overflow.
Most roads in our little town are channelled, tarred and curbed,
So the drive is smooth and even and no spillage's occurred.
There was one road though unsealed, it is pot holed, windy, rough,
With two houses at the dead end, where two pans were quite enough.
One rainy morning we decided on, the easy first that day,
That left us two spots yet to fill, that would complete our tray,
And the rain had stopped so ‘Rusty’, before finishing our load,
Hung his coat outside the cabin, prior to the unsealed road.
Leaning here and lurching there, 'Rusty', turned ‘round and looked behind,
Letting out a gasp of horror, so I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“My coat” he said “It’s in a can, pull up the truck, quick stop it!”
Rusty didn’t care about his coat, but his lunch is in the pocket.
Just as eating too much cake
will give you a bellyache,
genuine con is always real fake
An artful eye can chiseler tell
if Mona Lisa’s smile ain’t original
Forged truth ring alarm bells,
imitation lip-sync is the trip signal
Ducky got a condition,
it’s pathological
He’s gonna perjury himself,
me be afraid so
Ducky talk pathological,
that’s just how he walk
Ducky quack anti-social,
bad erasing mean chalk
Just as breathing comes brain naturally,
webbed feet emphysema truths
are syrup coughed with lung cancer ease
A discerning nose can so tell
if the cut of the cards have a bottom feel
That underbelly gutter smell,
shuffling the air with a foul flatulent deal
Ducky got a condition,
it’s pathological
He’s gonna incriminate himself,
I sure believe so
Ducky quack pathological,
that’s just how he bifurcated talk
Ducky walk nuke irrational,
acting ugly with a tweety squawk
Ducky gon strut,
ducky gon preen
Ducky gon holla,
ducky gon scream
Ducky tell citizens don’t believe anything,
nothing is what it seem —
so don’t be misled
Ducky quack it’s all fake window dressing,
a media deep state dream
Don’t be zomdead,
only believe what Ducky sez
Ducky got a bad wet beak condition,
it’s leaky pathological
Ducky gon go waterproof demolition,
compulsively chaos so
America got an Alzheimer condition,
it’s comatose pathological
America’s gonna injury herself,
following blindly
wheresoever the Ducky go
Former CIA Director
John Brennan scathing headlines
Washington Post op-ed sharply
published critical accusations
muted excoriation slams
Commander in Chief
volcanic blatant pathological lying
spews like lava his American
foreign policy boilerplate brazenly
bastardizes by banditry blueprint,
balefully balkanizing beautiful bracketed
booming brady bunch brand,
bests best-buy buffer braking balanced
bastion, bolstered beloved benighted
bequeathed bicameral bipartisan bliss,
Baptizing bacchanalian buffoonish bombast,
betokening bobble-headed Bumstead,
barmy bartered bride bravado, bizarrely
brash brassiness, blindsiding behavior,
beetlebrowed bonehead, bafflingly baldfaced,
bankrupting, blithely bollixing,
bombastically belittling, badmouthing,
banally blasting, banana-boat baseless,
bearish blandishments, beastly boastful
boosterism, bellicosely boorish, bug-eyed,
bighearted, bigoted blathering breeding
blunderbuss bloopers, bewildering
bloodletting bellyache blight,
brazenly being bandying bellwether,
blitzing bourgeoisie balderdash,
balking but beaming barbaric
berserk ballyhoo backbiting,
backslapping backstabbing
blacklisting bromides,
besetting basic bestowed blooming,
Bobbitizing bedeviling beneficial
bulwark bereft badinage, ballistically ballooning
betrayal birthing bedlam.
Finally, Summer's over and the kids are back in school
I'm not a bad mother, but after driving through carpool,
I'll have seven hours, five days a week, spent in peace
No yelling, "Behave!" In silence I'll find sweet release.
I'll no longer hear voices say, "Mom, what's for lunch?"
Please understand that I love my kiddies a whole bunch,
but they ran around all Summer long like an unruly tribe.
The opening of school is what my doctor would prescribe.
Then it dawned on me... the pitfalls of what that means.
Now I'll hear, "Mom, why didn't you wash my new jeans?"
I'm pretty darn sure that child has a closet full of clothes.
One more affliction added to the motherhood of woes.
Let me not forget that I'll still be driving them all around
to football practice, and drama rehearsals, I'll be bound.
No time for them to snack at home before we must leave,
another burden we mom's bear that kids do not perceive.
I admit that they're growing too fast and soon I'll be alone
Then I will miss them dearly and I will bellyache and moan,
wishing I'd spent more time with my children every day.
I hope I'll not be the only mother who will feel this way.
August 28, 2022
Back to School Contest
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
Little Johnny came home from school with a bellyache
Naturally Mom feared the most recent local outbreak
Johnnie thankfully had no fever, she suspected it might be a fake
But strange and most bizarre Johnnie had no appetite for steak
Or even for his ultimate favourite strawberry shortcake
The next morning Johnnie barely could awake
Didn’t want to go to school because of a backache
Mom thought the cure might just be a nice big pancake
Or maybe the warm chocolate muffins that she’d bake
But Johnnie just wanted to curl up with his pet rattlesnake
In the afternoon, when Little Johnny mentioned a toothache
Mom reached for the thermometer in case the first time was a mistake
She sent Johnnie for a nap and sat pensive as she took her coffee break
Out the window she saw askew the mounds of leaves to rake
She got up and tiptoed up the stairs to see what was at stake
She found Johnny pouting wide-eyed and awake
As she extended to him a warm loving handshake
In her heart she felt a sudden jolt of earthquake
Poor Little Johnny was growing up at double take
And suffering acutely from his very first heartbreak
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 22, 2018
If you don’t speak pig Latin,
that’s all muddy okay
Ignorant bliss slop chatting,
this be the swine way
Quid pro quo
is a pig tell only
when you Latin show
need to know know
This Seller conversation bee busy e-Bay
That Buyer rhetoric reply is a sting yea
Quid pro quo,
it’s the dirty methane manure vow burn
Do do one vig favor for me,
and I’ll do do one for you in sow return
Pig Latin patsy cough drop puffs,
this is nasty, mucky breath stuff
that be so stool pigeon hard to bellyache learn
Get me this,
and I’ll give you that —
Filthy lucre deals only be of wee buck concern
Quid pro quo
is an udder miry, scandal blow-buy oppo info-blow
There’s no no need for anyone to poppy milk know
But[t] smart-alecky Snoop Dogg snouts
have got their pig Latin dictionaries out
This is an odious ixnay pigpen violation —
Secret piggy bank account rap is being legally recorded
That can’t abide any oink consideration,
‘cause squeal messages aren’t Joe B. Taxpayer afforded
There was a time, not long ago,
I’m sure this won’t seem strange,
When I would never leave my house
Without a pile of change.
My wallet would be fit to burst
Or pockets would be jangling
With all the quarters that from every source
I had been wrangling.
The parking meters ate them up.
The bus was just as greedy;
And every pay phone (once a dime)
For quarters seemed quite needy.
The laundry room had its machines
Equipped so they would take
As many quarters as they could
Before we’d bellyache.
I needed quarters in the car
For paying all the tolls;
And in arcades, a two-bit coin
Bestowed you the controls.
But now technology’s advanced
With cards of many types.
Some radar reads your E-Z Pass;
You board the bus with swipes.
I’ve plastic for the wash and dry,
The subway and to park.
A quarter proffered would be met
With shrug as question mark.
I miss my quarter harvest
Though I really must confess
I’m better off today because
My wallet weighs much less!
The Wrecking Company
By Elton Camp
Penny was knitting in the living room
When, against the wall, a terrible boom
A wrecking ball crashed inside
First, poor Penny tried to hide
She rushed out the back door
To see a sight she did abhor
Her house being knocked to the ground
She rushed to the foreman with a frown
“How dare you destroy my house this way!”
Penny gaped at its ruins in utter dismay
Too bad, I am just following orders, ma’am.”
“You can’t be and you had better scram!”
“Demolish 102 North Oak Street it does say.
So that’s the reason I am doing this way.”
Just as the final wall of her house fell,
“Idiot, this is South Oak,” she did tell
“Sorry about that,” was his flip reply
“To be more careful, I’ll have to try.”
As the wrecking crew drove away
A final word the foreman did say
“Everybody makes an occasional mistake.
To my supervisor, please don’t bellyache.
You could even cause me to be fired
It was only last week that I was hired.”
Should it be a poet's duty
To write solely about beauty?
A POET’S DUTY by BETH EVANS
ANSWER ON A BED OF NAILS
let me answer the quixotic brioche —
we all need a delicate pinch;
brachial bruising a warning
all the flowery talk dispels the magnitude
of cancer, the carbuncle of abuse,
the horrific salutations of the nazi regime
we march alone but also as a world
arm in arm, armed with insecticide
words like ants; a bench’s rash
a hose in diffusion’s spray
may try to paint the sky
in shades of love’s foray
turn it off; let flow subside
take a better look —
heart on a bed of nails
war of words; a twisting sword
let truth be the blood
that scores
because a poet can also whitewash
with parrots
mimic...mimic...mimicking
seek your bellyache
examine, test, squander
all its savings
let cavalry of water fall
soaking wet
with poet’s ink
10/9/2020
Beth Evans’ A Poet's Duty Poetry Contest