Long Bunions Poems
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The wages of sin are just never paid.
Try as you might you can't make the grade.
Came home from work all tired and forlorn,
My back hurts, my feet hurt, I've bunions and corns.
I've pills for my back, my neck and my shoulders,
No sense in complaining, I'm just getting older.
I rarely sleep now, I just pass out,
Then I wake with a start 'cause my dogs must go out.
The cat's waiting patiently by the back door,
As the dogs race excitedly across the floor.
Then I go to the bathroom to swallow my pills,
Half an hour before breakfast, it's my daily drill.
I bend over double to brush out my locks,
Took a coughing fit and peed in my sock.
I'm just getting old I tell myself again,
It's my punishment now for a youth filled with sin.
Ladies and Gentlemen, good folks gather round!
What I have here to show you is worth every pound.
It will soothe your dry bunions, seal your canoe,
Moisten your leather, and stretch your shampoo.
At my own huge expense, from India to thee,
The famous, spectacular, Big Jumbo’s Ghee!
I’ve used it as wheel lube from here to Mumbai.
It can quiet your babies at night when they cry.
It can mollify itching from poisonous plants.
It will ease the infirm of their ravings and rants.
No sir, not a swindle, this is no evil boast.
You can even put Ghee on your pancakes and toast!
Just so, Sambo travelled from hamlet to town,
Selling his Ghee; a half-cup for a pound.
Word spread like wildfire, for this was no hoax.
Just a golden-brown product that’s good for all folks.
He lived very simply, for Sambo was blessed.
And sent home his millions so Mumbo could rest!
5/30/17
For the contest “Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman”.
Sponsored by Debbie Guzzi
wayfarers do not have picnics with people.
travelers, journeyers, vagabonds, are wanderers.
they prefer nature to humans, and they keep moving.
do not try to enslave, entrap, slow down or capture one.
wayfarers come in a variety of shapes, boot sizes and heights.
they are usually taller than the norm, but not giants.
their leg muscles are well-developed, and they have bunions.
not all of them, but the two that I have met.
wayfarers are story tellers, but they keep their stories silent.
sharing them in their heads, but not with other humans.
they believe they will write a novel "someday"
weirdly enough on someday they are still moving, walking.
my aunt accidentally fell in love with a notorious wayfarer.
she followed him to Switzerland, France, Germany and Russia.
he kept asking her to be quiet, and it bothered her, for a year.
she thought she could change him, but she was incorrect.
wayfarers may not remember you even if they see you yearly.
but they will remember an oak tree branch or a twig on the lawn.
they will remember where they ate their peanut butter crackers.
they keep moving, so do not fall in love with one if you can help it.
Is it fair that youth is beauty
That the best we can ever be
Is before we are twenty three
Why can't a wrinkle be sexy
Who says grey hairs are icky
Contact lenses are too tricky
Comfort and ease of eyeglasses
Tri focal eyeglasses
But why, but how, when
Did youth escape and old fogey begin
The burden of life's responsibilities
The worry of offspring indeed
The need for success
The desire to impress
That weather our smooth silky skin
Into worn leather feel rough and thin
Tooth loss and baldness
Nose hairs and body aches
Disease and numbness
Hot flashes and body shakes
Dimming of senses
Enlargement of ears
Shrinking by inches
New things are fears
Tired blood and blue veins
Forgetting whats her name
Corns and bunions
Yelling at them youngins
Jello instead of steak
Maalox replaces milkshakes
Eat dinner at four asleep by nine
Can't believe the speed of time
Is it fair that youth is beauty
Why can't being old be better
Then aches from change of weather
To using a cain instead of raising it
Gumming a steak until you can't spit
Just think how sexy you will be
If you finally reach forty three
Lets change our perspective
Not be so narrowly selective
Enough of the smooth shapely firm
Cute bouncing buns we had and yearn
Let's hear it for the pale faded
Wrinkled saggy way nature made it
Posteriors of the more mature crowd
On second thought without my glasses
Youth is beauty
Enjoy while its yours
OLD AGE
My hair has turned gray,
My hips lost their sway,
And my knees have started to creak.
I`ve got corns and bunions,
My arches have fallen,
And my bladder has started to leak.
I`ve got glasses too,
Keep around pairs, a few,
`Cause I can`t always find them, you see.
It`s a must needs to keep them,
`Cause if I can`t find them,
I can`t see to put in my teeth.
My knees are both achin`,
And that has been makin`,
My back hurt clear up to my head.
My youth is gone too, Dear,
But old age I don`t fear,
I`d rather be old than be dead.
So keep on a-smilin`,
And keep on defyin`,
The Grim Reaper long as you can.
I`m goin`full tilt,
Until I get kilt,
Or die from old age, that`s my plan.
Judy Ball
This 'Heroic' Crown of Sonnets, I am posting as seven separate Sonnets, for ease of reading. This is written with thanks to a fellow poet, who is most likely too modest to be mentioned, but whose great mastery is evident in everything he writes.
ONE
I come home, and she’s cooking in pajamas,
She’s overjoyed, she’s out of bed, at all!
She handled it with no qvetching, no dramas,
She wasn’t ill, but she was never well…
I smell rice, olive oil, garlic and onions,
She makes food simple, clean, wholesome to eat,
She weekly went to doctors – not for bunions!
She had long, skinny, happy, healthy feet!
I kiss her like I ne’er before have kissed her,
She hugs and lets me hold her by the door…
She dealt with life so wisely – how I’ve missed her!
She had to keep both feet firm on the floor.
I come home, and she’s in her fuzzy jammies,
SO beautiful, and cutting up salamis!
Each day begins with pain refined to grace,
her body bent but never breaking—not yet.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
A leap, a turn—each muscle must erase
the doubt that lingers like a hidden debt.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The music calls, a disciplined and silent chase,
no step misplaced, no ragged breath to fret.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
Bunions and blisters bloom where satin ribbons lace,
for pirouettes she doth obsess, refusing to pause or let~
each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The stage demands what training can’t replace:
a will that burns but never leaves a sweat.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
And when the final curtain begins to close,
the aches remain, ghosts the ballerina does not forget.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The mirror holds no room for soft embrace.
They want you stoned, emotionally stiff and complacent,
They heavily promote distraction and division
to manipulate the drones into a low-frequency madness.
They desire mules pulling overloaded barges
up and down a dead-end canal
christened a sixty-hour work week.
Within the illusion of hope and free will
they want goldfish people popping placebo pills,
Swimming round and round in a plutonium fishbowl.
Pooping out unicorns and rainbows and cheap thrills.
Unfeeling to the tuna nets closing fast
deaf to the locking of the chains.
They pray for drones with mash meal brains, thinking it honorable
to be sucking bunions off their kings and queens.
As we approach a certain age
Before the end draws nigh
Afore my knees give up the ghost
Or bunions stop me climbing high
When all I eat is jam on toast
Now is it time to make the most
To maybe write a bucket list
Of all the things I might have missed
Like jumping from an airplane
Too risky, that’s insane
Or swimming with a shark or two
Is something I would never do
To teeter on a tightrope above a high abyss
Would be crazy I have vertigo
So think I’ll give this one a miss
To bungee jump from way up high
Please have the medics standing by
My bucket list abundant
Making sharks or two redundant
With adventures unfulfilled
That I do not want to miss
Like a day trip to the Moon
Wishing this could happen soon
Set sail upon a Galleon
In search of Paradise
To discover Shangri-La
Or a place they call Utopia
Oh dear, I think I’ve lost the plot
I‘m sounding even dopier
I can’t believe I’m dreaming of a place they call Utopia
Returning to reality
I make myself a pot of tea
For I don’t need a bucket list
As there is nothing I have missed
Contest Strand no 710
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st Place
I am adamant hi cringe at the thought of dirty feet
I am biased and subconscious of crimson vegetable beets
No longer nowhere do you find coconut treats
Chocolate covered crimson beige grasshopper leaves
While ants are scrimmaging laterally liking playing football
And bees are buzzing around making a buzzzzz sound
Fluttering butterflies fluttering flattering floating
around above the ground the lower the sky has
Yet the parlay fleet of grasshoppers marching crickets rubbing their legs
Sounding off while they here are they there seemingly they're everywhere
Skreet Skreet Skreet the screeching sounds that come from their feet
Chirping chirping chirping where are they and do they ever sleep
I too have feet and I'm a floor runner
Twix and tween my corns and bunions
I'm coming running on my feet for you
9/14/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020