Long On the nose Poems
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I'm a firm believer
In limerick fever
(This isn't news)
"It'll cure the blues!"
Says Jan (who is no deceiver)
Written by Jan Allison:
Writing limericks is a fine art
Yes I write about poop or a fart
But show me someone
Whose not dropped a ‘bomb’
then from poetry soup I’d depart!
Written by Lim'rik Flats:
Does art mimic life or life mimic art?
Don't ask me, I'm not too smart.
It seems the soup
Has the same poop
As watching the news (or a fart).
Drama and trauma, factions and foes,
Smiting and fighting, (hard on the nose),
Saves me the trouble
Of viewing double
Saves time, and less grief I suppose.
Written by Ray Gridley:
Raise a toast to this collaboration
Whatever your race or your nation
Just write on a whim
Lim'rick Flat's bound to grin
They are all going to be a sensation!
Written by Daniel Turner:
I know a guy called Lim'rick Flats
Writes limericks at the drop of a hat
Jan is his pal
She's quite a gal
They met in a laundry mat
Jan makes jokes about poop
he puts them in alphabet soop
drinks from the bowl
with no self control
which makes him a nincompoop
Also written by Daniel Turner:
Write all the limericks you want
but don't fart in a restaurant
people will laugh
call you riffraff
even if you're a debutante
Written by John Lawless:
oh the limerick it ain’t quite a sonnet
and the learned, they look down upon it
for they cannot grasp
its head or its ass
nor the cleansing effect of its tonic
Written by Terry Reeves:
Late for work she flew out the door
Took an express elevator to the 29th floor
Let some discreet killer farts
Nearly stopped all their hearts
Left them gagging; she'd evened the score
Written by Tim Smith:
Nonsense is here found out in the alley
Five funny lines we'll add to the tally
a smile or two
we laught till we're blue
so put out your best and join in our rally
Written by Alexis Y:
Hey what's going on in the soup?
Lim'rik Flats I want the scoop
What do you have to say?
You got poem of the day
Congrats, I shouldn't have flown the coop
Written by Jean Murray:
John is always fun.
His poems and their puns.
If you need a lift.
He has the gift.
Lim'rik Flats is number one.
psst. How could I not add this to the string? ~ john
Can you listen up to my heart beat
Or is it the beats from that beat?
It's the radio,
Then it goes on gently
Yes, like a long thin snake
Where uuh, where huu!
Could be... couldn' t be
Could be my heart is beating like the radio,
Snake! Beat into bits,
Where huu o, where huuo,
I can float easily or deep in underwater
Like gold fish of the pacific,
Just like Titanic
It surges and lush gently,
Can i go and speed in a car
And feel the beat carry me higher?
Not me if i were you, not me
Should i...should n't i ?
Whether i am sleeping or playing
Work and awake,
Not me if i were you, not me
If i fall down i will stand up myself,
Just as if i am drunk with the beat
And dance like the Go go hit,
Go steady and slow so gently,
I have seen the bride dance perfidiously,
Take care buddy, take care
Have i...have n't i ?
No one is called we have come
Herself! Mixed and missed,
Take care buddy, take care
It dwindle...it dwindle and it dwindle,
Something or some one is sounding so blissfully,
It is sonic groovy,
And is off the wall hit
And it bade encore
All through the evening,
O! Michael, Michael's legendary is like Michaelangelo,
Singing and dancing all through like a yoyo,
It's that beat of bit of a change of face
Could made you lose your grace,
You have painted the face with colourful-colours,
Exposed to the brush and erase that smear on the nose,
You adjusted the thrilling lips off the *****,
And the eyes have they tune up to lustful glare,
The cheek o! so Da Vinci's Mona Lisa, that! cheeks
You were infamously infuriating,
So provocatively humanly bad
You were endearing to the last,
In toto, you were a king of the whirlwind,
In tete, you were the prince of applause,
And tata, you were the sire of controversy,
You were... the messiah of all possibility,
You were... the song personify,
The melody in the throat of a trumpeter,
And the soulful largo largesse of a crooner,
It dwindle...it dwindle...it dwindle...
Then sefini
Tata.
One day while wan’dring far afield
I heard a tortoise shriek
“Oh, curse this shell, infernal cell…
I haven’t got all week!”
I dropped down low, I snuck up slow
then spied him through the brush
and though he scarcely moved an inch
he wailed, “I’m in a rush!”
The world a-turning; daylight burning
the angry tortoise crept.
I asked him what the matter was
and at my voice he leapt.
He ducked his head and pulled his legs
and huddled in his shell.
I laid down in the prairie grass
and waited out the spell.
“I’ve naught but time.” Said I to he,
“There’s no need for your worry.
Besides, I know I heard you say
that you were in a hurry.”
Slowly…just as turtles do
He showed one of his eyes.
Then slower yet, his head appeared
but he refused to rise.
“What do you want?” He asked of me,
“You’ll make me later still!
I need to get across this field
and over yonder hill.”
“The hare’s asleep o’er in the sage
he thinks he’s got me beat.
So, there he naps, but joke’s on him…
I’m lightning on my feet!”
“Except my shell keeps getting caught
it’s snagged in all these flowers.
Unholy pack, upon my back
I’m wasting precious hours!”
With that he threw his tortoise fists
and did a little spin.
He almost got me on the nose
then gave a tortoise grin.
The flowers had all lost their grip,
his twirl set him free.
But the thing that happened next
was magical to see.
He gave me a slow tortoise wink
then went off like a gun.
I’ve never seen a beast of field
that he could not outrun.
I sat up in the meadow grass
and gave my head a shake.
A few feet off, I saw some ears,
the hare was now awake.
Although, that came as no surprise
I only can assume…
that he’d awoken at the launch
which made a sonic boom.
I dropped down low, I snuck up slow
then spied him through the brush.
And as he rubbed his sleepy eyes
the tears began to gush.
The world a-turning; daylight burning
the rabbit had just slept.
I asked him what the matter was
and at my voice he wept.
05/10/15
Entry for Burning Daylight
Sponsored by John lawless
In a place where the fog pillows
a dreamscape of the hidden en trance wallows its hallows.
To swallow re view of, the mind
and the billows, a wind of a kind.
Of surfkiss bubble ups touch'es salvos.
Seemingly baubles in promotion
of needful windows-unseen
premissions-ejaculaisse, right on the nose.
A shared magic in dialect connects
meaning with a memory calls collect, direct,
has soul purpose among other things, ironicly,
counter-intunively-in circumvitrospect er.
Has remembrance, shared affinity,
emotional director y,
family-i-organ-ic-bionicgl-ee.
This is the place awareness calls home
in it's liquid notions of tomes written spiritus sanctis-
chemically-inSalted
acids of substantive accruary.
If you have a wish, now would be a good time,
for those consol-i-data-consideration-heart-queries.
The neuron Elementals tend to pixielate their
own designs if not given constant super vision-
that sells them on your ideals and turn them
into action or reaction.
.
They are an elusive bunch, randomly-
arbitrary seeming,
but that is non obligatory without meaning.
If you just read your contract, that is,
if you could remember any?
We have total deniability and no liability,
only clauses and causes and theoretical plausibility.
"Got spirituality?"
Close your eyes, they are waiting on you.
One particularly naughty neuropixie too,
Pestgeminii, is easily bored,
and may cast deja vu if scorned.
She may just choose to
have her more conducive ideas
skip the line in lieu, of attachment stow away
postaged return waved in out of the blue.
She is a romantic at heart.
The one that keeps asking,
"remember when, we", bright eyed,
and she always gets her what she came for,
on lover's lane,
in the front seat overlooking life's hills and valleys.
She always gets a rise out of the youth in you
at memory lane, remembering the senses
freshed cell o phaned,
like a teenager with spirit at rally of homecoming,
A game.
On the outer Paroo where most septics are few
And the outhouse has still pride of place;
Poor old Toby McPhee worked a small property
With his son and his darling wife Grace.
When the milking was due and the harvesting too,
His son Fred seemed to just disappear.
Though they looked everywhere this bewildered old pair
Found no trace of their poor little dear.
I've the paddock to plough and I need the boy now
As the horses are harnessed and ready.
Then he saw the smoke rise and to Toby's surprise;
'Twas the outhouse that hid his young Freddy.
"So the silly young bloke seems to fancy a smoke.
Well I've just the right cure then for him."
As he led the horse team Toby's eyes gave a gleam
And the lazy lad’s future looked dim.
He then hooked the team to the log skids on the loo,
While the slack was worked out of the chain.
With the reins in his hand he then gave the command
And both horses then took up the strain.
Poor young Fred he was perched on the seat when it lurched,
Though soon ended up down on the floor.
With Fred's pants 'round his knees Toby heard his wild pleas,
But he goaded his horses some more.
The lad's *** hit the pan and a fire soon began
With the paper and sawdust alight.
Then the skids hit a hollow and what was to follow
Was one hell of a horrible sight. That pan flew in the air and though Fred crouched in
prayer
All the angels they must have been out.
For the team in a trot had sent airborne the lot
And the contents were scattered about.
Toby's lungs out of air he then reined in the pair
And the curing had come to a close.
Fred emerged from the door looking terribly sore,
While the pong was quite strong on the nose.
When there's work now to do on the outer Paroo
Our young Fred McPhee's work is hectic.
For he saves all his dough, but it's not for smokes though,
As their place is now going septic.
My son and his family drove down from the big city,
out to the countryside with open fields and steams.
They brought their standard golden poodle along,
a curly-haired fellow, name of Timmy.
Timmy had never seen a cat;
not even a mole or a furry rat.
Visiting country kin, he was checking things out.
Everything went fine that very first day.
Cats went about paying him no mind.
He walked about just passing time.
On that second day there was a big mistake.
Being a city dog with more worldy ways,
to add pleasure to his hum-drum days,
he thought it time to befriend these country kin.
The cats had never seen a dog this small,
only those on stilts, big, long and tall,
like Pyrenees, big wide mouths and teeth to match.
With barking big dogs on the scene,
up a tree they squirreled, never to be seen.
But this golden-haired fellow, with city clout--
they’d give him benefit of instinctive doubt.
Mama cat was even so bold
to sniff this city slicker right on the nose.
Sizing him up all the while, a friendly rat, she surmised,
a might bigger than some she had seen,
playing cat and mouse, yet acting so coy;
that is, until that overgrown golden-haired rat
walked up to Mama’s black baby boy.
Mama’s two other sons, another black and a blue,
began to gather nearer this city dweller, too.
Timmy politely extended his nose.
black son cat extended his razor-sharp claws,
with a bristled tail and fierce hissing jaws.
Timmy let out with a painful yelp,
as Mama cat called all boys in for help.
Cats surrounded and gave chase to the dog,
life-fearing circles around the cedar tree he’d log;
four hissing cats hot on his tail,
poor Timmy yelping in a desperate wail.
The master of Timmy gave rescue,
but Mama cat and her three grown sons,
strutting in pride, putting a dog on the run.
Written by: Carolyn Henderson
For Constance LaFrance's Cat Poem Contest
Won 9th Place
Jump out of bed for breakfast, the time is 3 am
Knock on Uncles window, have a quick cold feed with him
Gather up the rods and gear, sinkers floats and line
Looking up into the sky, cloudless and looks fine
A day like any other day, a boy goes out to fish
Uncle votes Corangamite, against the young blokes wish
Get there and the South wind blows, the long walk is for nought
Turn around and head back home, there will be no fish caught
Many times it went that way, six miles of soft sand track
If almost there the winds spring up, can only head on back
Can't count the times it happened, we liked to persevere
There is not much that you can do, pack up, get out of there
Then there are those other times, when all is good to go
Long hard walk was worth the while, when just a breath does blow
Stand out on the rocky shelf, the bait cast to the south
Then you must be patient, 'til it's taken in the mouth
Then set the hook and hang on tight, while you play the fish
They all fight in different ways, to keep out of the dish
Snapper are the prize we seek, big bump on the nose
But ocean Bream are valued too, that is the way it goes
The rocky ledge points to the South, big currents come from there
Bring in big fish that don't belong, because they live elsewhere
Even catch a Kingy, when the bait fish come in range
Or using cabbage for a bait, big Drummer for a change
Now I get the map out, check where we used to fish
Think of all the fun we had, and if I could make a wish
I'd take a visit to those younger days, naturally quite sprite
When a highlight of excitement, was to fish Corangamite
Where is this spot of many fish, you have the right to ask
In sight of many beaches, where the families may bask
A place in Southern New South Wales, where even surfers play
It is at St Georges Head, eastern point of old Wreck Bay
First of all, it’s a big responsibility,
especially in a city like Jacksonville, or Philadelphia, or wherever really.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you’re walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain’t no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is
unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?
Broken glass bottles.
On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.
Love doesn’t like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.
Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.
Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Somethimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know “Don’t you ever do that again!”
Sometimes love just wants to go out for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise. It will run you around the block
and leave you panting, breathless. Pull you in different directions
at once, or wind itself around and around you
until you’re all wound up and you cannot move.
But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.
Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.
Six feet below
That is where I go
To spend forever,
Some souls come and some souls go
But I will rather home it here,
Far away from humans inhumanity
Far from chicanery
Of a world gone mockery,
I thought it would be long
But after the bang
It was just so simple,
From the gun, a bullet just single
Splattered the juice grisly,
And the gape red and livid
Made a clean breast.
The place of burial
The sweetest place to be
No sweetest place like this,
With a practiced ease
The priest glasses on the nose
Read the requiem,
A little prayer, and a little hymn
And the body lay in sweet repose,
Truth, the day of death
Better than the day of birth,
And my wife Elizabeth
Her eyes fixed on my casket,
Thinking maybe be if she was responsible,
I presumed she would get married
As soon as possible,
And my son; sweet and sad
But never so sweet to stop his dad.
I thought it would be long
But after the bang
It was just so simple,
From the gun; a bullet just single
Splattered the juice grisly,
And the gape red and livid
Made a clean breast.
The place of burial
All of the wealth and money,
Couldn’t buy a peace like this
And all the drugs, and all the fame;
Could not make same
Like a rolling mass of water,
Life comes to naught;
I will rather not go higher
But sun down; it is just cozier,
As the body goes on the descent
I remembered the gun that lay implicated;
Besides the bloodied head that lay nascent,
And the eyes that opened supplicated,
As everyone threw the dust to dust;
And departed,
Never a backward glance,
I waved and looked around askance,
Masses of tombstones spread like malignant cancer,
And a gang of royal busts;
Nestling among flourishing roses and sure cedars,
And here is welcome to forever!
Chorused some new friends that smile,
For this is your place of burial.
Migrant workers and street children
Tarek Hasan
I do not sleep on eyes
Early action is away on leave
I have the luxury of back pain.
I did not question my race today
Abroad my identity?
Most of the walls are stained the conscience of the question
Minded as unwanted, what is the worst?
There is still the heart of the depression fall down.
Logo people tarite torn sail the way,
Common goal pursued by the will-o'-the-wisp
Children in memory of the way up the wall of the picture .
Children born faceless way, why?
Why is he silent, still did not answer
Human cruelty, not their distant
They are hated, god luck on the way out
There's still retired, their running play.
Sometimes the station the station never seen Mohakhali, Jatrabari, Gabtoli intersection,
Look out the rotten dumps to drain the water heater,
Sometimes the traveler exile
Sometimes money Sadarghat two porters.
The way they address their shelterless
There is no guidance on the identity of their birth,
They are sitting next to dumps
The smell of rotten rice spread on the nose,
When fatigue, happiness nest don't find
Do not fall asleep on the way to the park,
I space where foreigners with them.
Hard job labor malicious belly
I went down the road where there Pedestrian
Is next to the trash cans at them,
Nonra afternoon sat down with hand-goody
it does not smell like an owl.
There is no identity of their birth but spent the day
And so what I have received,
What is the way I walked Logo
Lived my life the ultimate curse.
When fatigue overheating on the labor body
Not finding the shadow of the vacation home
Fall asleep by the side of the road, with the head of bricks
And they do not mind, I
And do not be sad whisper, not torn,
I am a migrant worker, my identity
Today, the street children.