Long Bottoms up Poems
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Report card read okay, not so good,
But he was not a kind who would brood.
Whacking when the cane came,
He watched a video game,
You must love this young lot’s attitude!
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Happenings | 13.01.2020 |
Topic: children, attitude, humour
Poet’s Note: A cartoon inspired this limerick. A young school lad’s report card seemed okay, but far from good enough. But his father was not amused. He took a cane, put the lad on his lap, bottoms’ up and started whacking. The lad was unmoved, nonchalant, and quietly watched a video game all thru the punishment. This is today’s generation next.
At eighty, I recall my school days. Same situation, my father would not focus on the 90 marks marked against mathematics, but would rather ask: and what happened to these 10 marks? And you dare not utter a word. But then to be fair, this lad also never uttered a word!
[Written for my four year old great granddaughter
who has developed an interest in the moon. Only after
writing it did I discover already existing ’stuff’ called
‘A baboon on the moon’. Never mind... Who wants a
Booker prize anyway?] [In UK bum is bottom]
There’s a baboon on the moon
And he’s got a shiny bum
And if he wasn’t up there
Bed time would be glum
He isn’t on his own
He’s got his sisters and his mum
And when it’s getting dark
They turn their backs toward the sun
The the moon is made of rock
Yet it glows up in the sky
Which should be quite a shock
Have you never wondered why
When baboons stick their bottoms up
Toward the setting sun
The moon so brightly glows
Because the sun shines off their bum
"It's our time to enjoy
After a year of toil
So spread on the joy
Celebrate without recoil"
Pop a beer or two and enjoy the festivities
And as you do be mindful not to over do it
Cause we still need everyone of you after festivities
Don't drink like this is the end of it
It's just the beginning of a great week
A week full of cheer and full hearts
The week where we'd drink to memories
And make new memories we'd talk off in the new year
So drinks up in the air lemmi make the first toast
Saying I'm glad that we got here
It's been a hard year, with the continuous rising cost
Of life but we still managed to get here
So bottoms up let's enjoy what's left of the year
Then wait on for the new year
Where we'd also drink to the new year
Hoping that the coming year will be better than this year
The PO£T
She lowers her legs down -
the woman.
I try to recall a name, three come to mind, they don’t fit
with the blue flowers on her inked ankles,
Alpine Gentians I think,
they ring around slim ceramic hued bones.
I like the equine arch, and roseate blush of her dainty feet.
The woman lowers herself gently into my dream well.
I kiss the soft dells behind each knee.
“There, that’s better.”
she says. “Got anything to drink?”
“Just some imported beer,
some cheap vodka.”
“Got tonic water?”
“Sure.”
“Make mine a Vodka and tonic then.” She says brightly.
There’s not much space in my dream well.
I ease around her, fixing the drink
stealing looks trying to place her face,
her nerve tingling nakedness confuses my thoughts.
“Ice?”
“Go on ducky,” she says in a cockney accent,
“cozy in ere innit?”
I look down at my body, yesterday’s underpants,
I remember I have not cut my toenails.
“Bottoms up!” She exclaims.
I gulp my cold beer trying to think of something to say.
“Staying long?” I ask.
“Can’t luv, naked girl dreams don’t last long.
it’s the eyebrows you see, can’t control em
after a while we blink out.”
“I love you”
“Oh you are sweet,
ever thought of remodeling this well,
not much room for fiction down ere?”
“Well, I was thinking of putting in a sex dungeon
but I am not very practical.” I answer.
She rises slowly upwards smiling knowingly.
“I’m not her you know, nor the uver two.”
Watching her ascend,
I say “I know, who you are,
you’re the woman who lowers her legs.”
I welcome
the grogginess.
That dulling of my senses.
Until the walls turn to hazy grey.
My hand coming in and out of focus.
Another two fingers of whiskey
swirling in my glass.
“Bottoms up”
making short work of a Fifth.
“99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer!”
No one around to stop the madness.
Booze and beer bottles litter this dingy motel room.
Mr. Peanut, staring at me
from the side of a Planters peanut can.
It’s worth the extra buck fifty for a classy snack.
A bag of pretzels on the dresser as back up.
How many trips to the liquor mart on Fourth?
Shuffling, shuffling, no need to drive.
I chose my motel well,
one block south, lean to the left and voila!
Fifteen minutes later back to the room.
No need to fumble with the lock
it’s easier to leave the door open.
The ”Do not disturb” hanger is still on the door knob.
Three days 5 hours, one less room for the maid to clean.
She probably got to go home a half hour early.
No bargain though, it might take 3 days to catch up.
“Three bottles of beer on the wall, if one of those bottles should happen to fall” Oh crap, I piss myself again.
Too numb, to shuffle to the can. The smell of piss and vomit doesn’t even register. I fall forward like a tree that has been chopped down. There is a cracking sound as my nose breaks but no pain. I’m now in a dreamless land.
Thirteen hours later the Motel Manager is shaking me hard.
“Hey man, wake up. If you don’t get out of here I’m calling the police.” Meanwhile I hear the clink of glass bottles as the maid fills a garbage bag with my empties.
The smell of vomit, piss and blood permeates my broken nose. Thoughts flood my mind, I want that numbness again. I don’t care if it doesn’t solve my problems.
It makes them bearable.
Fuchsia-flecked, rhinestone-rimmed cowboy hat
Embroidered boots to match
Silver spurs—slick, sharp, shimmering
Brand new, but battered beneath
Travelled far, walking the jagged beat
Where have I been
Where am I now
Have you seen my mind
Floating in sugary bliss
From the Journey’s Inn—
A haven for friends, old and new
Veterans of domestic arms races
Comparing wounds from the endless chase
For elusive, blood-drenched euclace
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Mr. Depression enters
A silver slash of sorrow
Sick with his own lore
“Fancy meeting you,” he croons—cold
“Looks like you need a bitter brew to hold”
Warm whiskey winds down the throat’s hallowed hall
Rattling the rusted lock on memory’s mausoleum wall
Have you seen me before
You might recall—last week, perhaps
Grumpy, frumpy, meek collapse
My garden of grace paved over with grit
Wilted and wasted in drought’s cruel spit
Crawling through viper pits and dens of bad deeds
I felt relief
Quenching parched desire
With earned fire in a glass
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Two stools to sit upon
Lost boy and riot girl
Pink Lady, Velvet Gentleman
Again and again
Bottoms up
Chin chin
They laugh at the tribute band
Silly show on a slanted stage
Crooked teeth bared
Yellowed with age
Chipped by rage
Filed by fate
Two AM—wobbling down the jagged street
Holding up the night’s loose end
Keeping everyone awake
Lonely bones vibrating
With resonating lust
Urban lamps flicker
Like my wine-coloured iris
And what are dreams
When fiction splits at the seams
Weaving tapestry from fragments
Truth in forward motion
Stitching reality together
Like Casper drifting down wishing wells
Pleading, plundered, pitiful
Unseen by those untouched by sorrow
But tonight
With my fuchsia hat
And bombastic laugh
Overshadowing grief
Once poured on tap
I grab it by the gnarled neck
Shake loose threads of regret
Into useful shapes
In bedrooms with velvet duvets
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
We stitch our sorrow
Into velvet fire
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
The boys sat on the bridge, dangled legs above the water,
a tractor crossing that lifts and rattles, loosely laid with sleepers,
rut tracks between the marshy fields as rough wheels slowly pass,
crossed with bankside bullrushed dikes and scattered lonely sheep,
dagged bottoms up, all black heads down,white teeth to wetted grass.
Fifty’s cotton printed frock skirts mother’s seated lap.
Her hair is tightly bunched and tied in cotton farm scarf wrap.
Her arms enfold and hold me there, as I am quietly sat.
The boys are pulling tiddlers, quick flashing in the sun.
Excited shrieks and sudden shouts drift down the weedy dike.
I see their makeshift rods and lines pull fish up one by one.
I hold my cane with cotton thread and watch my bobbing cork,
and wonder why the boys have fish, and why this boy has none.
Uncle made the fishing gear, made safe for one so young.
Uncle made the fishing gear and thought it would be fun,
so hook and bait were missing, for safety, there was none.
Depression and change
moments of grace in cut downs
some could sleep in air and darkness
before the humbleness and conquests
places and faces to duties thirst
jumping and unlocked laughter's
tried and trying raised about luck
praise to dark arts and until sunshine
members of questionable team's clubs
forged in the deepest and quietest spins
some mothers bet it all to compete
fathers could choose the independent
glory and equipment in descent efforts
biggest down low and reaches each
start to feel the movements of shapes
sought afraid to comments jokes worlds
inside and out bottoms up cold styles
living for the liberty of innocents crushed
power hand hustle sharp cleared views
open atmosphere cooled headed vibes
round up growing faiths despite attended
slept the green of envy jumped prices
beyond this settlement and greatest men
just keep the water and heat before news
Justice and calmness glasses half gone
business minded and mattered of sources
ask and receive problems that's better on
insurances proud young these sake ones
passed by on interlocking plans to react
didn't reclaim mighty foes pointed sky
depend down low amped intended chairs
members gold and silver paces fronts
harsh sales and quarter pickings laned
important means to quick pitch ideas....
if my life was upside down
i'd bump my head against the ground
i'd trip over ceiling fans
and i'd shake feet insted of hands
i wouldnt keep any pocket change
but i would keep a blood rushed brain
every smile would be a frown
living life upside down
life upside down would be a mess
confusing your right from my left
people would say bottoms up
but if i did i would spill my cup
it sure would be funny when friends came around
they wouldn't ask whats up?
they would sarcastically ask whats down
for those of you.....who wake up in bed
in the morning when i wake,.... i wake down insted
people always tell me to keep my head up high
i look at them with resentment and walk away and sigh
pictures never seem to stay when i hang them on the wall
being upside down they always seem to fall
i always have a hard time writing what i say
and when i use my pen the ink flows the other way
its funny how people complain about how life keeps them down
but they haven't experienced living life upside down
My dear old mother
God rest her soul
Way up in the heavens
Now surely a holy saint
‘Cause when she was alive
She was kind to a fault
Had the biggest heart
Of anyone you’d seen
She would bake a million
Cakes ‘n pies of every sort
And people from miles around
Would line up at her door
And she was so shrewd
Fed a family of six on a dime
Could stretch a dollar
Like nobody’s business
She learned to play poker
Became the best I’d ever seen
Had only one vice, poor Mom
When she’d dip into the gin
That’s why to this day
I’ll never turn down
A Beefeater or Tangueray
In her honour, chin chin
Mom I love you
And I miss you,
Bottoms up !
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on February 15, 2018 for contest GIN IN THE MORNING sponsored by JULIA WARD - RANKED 5TH