Mashing Poems | Examples

Different Whips

Lil mama in a Q50 infinity 
Known to handle drama
Pulls up any vicinity
know a broad in a Amg
we hit the drive through theater 
And we blow on trees
I know a hottie in a Beamer 
She fiends for the d
Trying to have my baby 
in a swooped up m3 
Another shorty in a Tesla 
Always smoking gas
Pulls up just to charge up
We loving in the back 
Now I’m in a jag 
This chick loves to brag 
Ratchet ass hell 
She ain’t got no class 
Mama in a v dub 
Fly mamasita 
Use to be my dealer 
Now she on flea
Cruising in a cooper 
I’m with a fine cougar 
Taught me a couple lessons
I call her my tutor
Freaky ass shorty in a 
Honda accord 
Open 24 she use to take me to store 
If you see me in a corvette 
You know she a war vet 
Every time she pulls up 
She meets me at my door step
I’m in a nine eleven 
Clutching on her thighs
Mashing like the dash board 
She texting with her man 
Big body hellcat 
But shorty was petite
Lets me take the steering wheel
While she gets in fleek
Lifted I’m in a tundra 
A dike mutha lover 
She pulls on all the females 
I’m with her in the summer

Leaning Against a Cow

She is sitting,
front legs under her reddish-brown mass.
When I think of her shape
it is always her belly I see most.
The bulging warmth,
the mastication, her on-going digestion.

I'm a boy,
the large cow is my meaty lean-to.
One hot summer afternoon can last for years,
on one such a year
I was resting my back
on her bovine flank's, she did not seem to care.
I really think she wanted to feel me listening
to her giant belly.

A drowsy time took its rest also.
Bees buzzed, but far away.
High flying gees made the sky speak.

Listening to her massive body, I think
I melded into her life. Her ongoing
industrial mashing
of moist clods of vegetable materiel.
The rhythmic digestive process
seemed to me to be almost musical.

When she farted, it was as though
she had turned roughage to water,
and water into wine.

I could smell the spirit of the grass,
and strangely,
I could within my own small form,
feel the mutable mystery of the land
as it churned grain into bread,
our meat to spirit.

Poets Vs Posters

Poets vs. Posters

                                      Poets
                          Observant sensitive 
                Describing bringing out uttering
             Writers authors mooches delusions
                 Jumbling mixing up mashing
                             Shallow foolish
                                    Posters

Summer Tunes

One of a kind
ocean music
pounding Goombay rhythms
against the rocks
and rake and scrape rhythms
in the prevailing winds
and the waves mashing the roach
with their feet on the dance floor
of sun and sand
giving awesome summer vibes
from daybreak to sunset

Not George Washington

Santos fooled the folks as he spoke
George thinks mashing facts is a joke
This N.Y. House dope
Needs his mouth rinsed with soap
His diaper-rash words make me choke


Author's note: Why did voters in NY district #3 elect a bold-faced liar to Congress? Mr. Santos may have some kind of illness. Be that as it may, if a candidate freely lies, fools the voters, and receives no condemnation from his party's cohorts, it suggests the following: 

It's not about where the ship of state sails, but rather who resides on the top deck. If the hull leaks, we can all go down, so even top-deck denizens ought to be careful about who does what.

Anti-Poem - Respirations In Blue

Anti-Poem – “Respirations In Blue”

the mother cooks food on the old gas range
wearing a blue dress she boils five potatoes
husband fred wears a red sweater smoking
pall mall non-filters that spew and respirate 
he stands with beaded ashtray and blue tie
listening to LA radio the tune-dex the top 50
he wonders if she needs help with the mashing
a white radio atop the fridge respirates softly 
sweeping them into the pillow rooms of blue time
the mother alive again though buried in a grave
cooks food for fred again watching jack latham 
wondering if kennedy will speak soon on the tv 
secretly wishing for ten minutes alone with him
her white pillbox hat sitting sullen on a dresser
husband fred draws in another hit and exhales

Because I Am Orange

I take myself and sashay all around the town
clicking my canastas, flashing my scarves
Because I am orange
And it is what orange must do

But do you have to be so much yourself?
My mother red and my father yellow ask me.
Heck yes, I reply. 
Peeling a banana and mashing it up with a strawberry.
To show them who is boss.

I love mixing up yellow and red.
Because I am orange.

Flight

Feathers on flippers are not just for strippers
Gaggles of geese are more willing to bite
Seagulls are soaring at four in the morning
Sweeping the sky for the bread of the night

Flight is a fashion of fabulous fortune
Forming a frothing of fitting respite
Feeding a frenzy of phony redemption 
Forcing a future of feeling uptight

Fillies are frisky in fields of clover
Mares are the mothers of millions of young
Stallions are stomping the mice in the meadows
Morbidly mashing the minions of dung

Flight is the first and the last of our purpose
Singing the spiritual sprouting of wings
Finding the factual, minding the actual 
Proving the practical pleasure of things

Many are mapping a flight to the future
Mincing the meaning of making a trip
Joyfully joining the jolly-good fellow
Flouting the fancy of letting it rip.

In Time With Autumn

In Time with Autumn
—————————————-
Autumn rushed ahead  
without me,
Leaving me to chase 
After its perfect 
   violet skylight.
My running feet crack
The silence of 
   the earlier dusk, with
My mashing of
    the dry death
Of the discarded 
Brown and golden leaves
Covering the ground
I course,
Trying to catch up.

It seems
Time has become 
A fleeing antelope, so
Much faster than my sprinting…
And my aging has left me
With neither the wisdom 
Nor any proverbs
To reconcile my long decades 
With these quickening years, 
This skirting of seasons
And their shortened breath…
I remain a turn and a length behind
In this — my present calendar’s —
Unreasonable race
In sight of autumn’s 
beautiful sunset.
The rush, beyond me,
Calls for a delighting stroll,
As my soul whispers, 
“This human measure 
Of time forgets:
Every second may be ever-lasting.”

————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger  art & poem 10/31/21
Thanks be to God

Crayola Crayon Canyon

I'm tired of absorbing your depression
like you're the only one on earth who has issues
you think nobody understands your situation..
I don't believe you want anybody to understand
because that's what you believe makes you unique-
In a strange way it has given you purpose in life
makes you special-one of a kind...
the Crayola crayon with the funny name
perched in the corner of the box-forgotten
the canyon that swallows its own echo-

I'm tired of inhaling your depression
I wasn't put on this earth to be a canvas
for your self mashing and blue period slashings..
that's not "my" purpose in life
my purpose is to be accepting of the happiness
that's swirls all around me-

Your depression depresses me to no end
(here comes another of your self inflicted slash floods)
I'm climbing out of your Crayola box canyon..
for good and good luck-

Ode To a Mammogram

Ode To A Mammogram

Checking the calendar for appointments to be made
I come across a giant circle that I placed there yearly
take another day off work and dress for the parade

I’ve lost a list of many friends who I loved so dearly
a simple test they could have had to keep them all well
a large machine, a simple shot, the picture reads so clearly

The murmur of the lowering platform with silent ringing bells
a gentle tug, a shiftless stance, a long, long, holding breath
I wait while pictures are reviewed, some to dense to tell.

Another form, another mashing, another brush with death
why worry about what we don’t know, it just leads to strife
Shocking news, another mass, but we can get that depth

Somewhere someone has lost a mother, a sister, a wife
All women should take the time to save their own life.


Not in Ode format, so I put it in as free verse.

Almost

Thanksgiving is almost here,
annoying school bells have stopped ringing.
Turkeys are huddling, out of sight,
and the garbage men are singing.

We’re beginning to prep side dishes,
slicing, dicing, mashing, peeling,
and I’m smiling ‘cause I feel myself
swept up in holiday feelings.

I hope that Macys is ready
for their seasonal parade.
We’ll be watching as we start to cook
the banquet that we’ve made.

I’m wishing everyone plenty,
as we shelter in our homes.
On this tame 2020 holiday,
that we’re spending home alone.

Thanksgiving Eats

Thanksgiving Eats
By Franklin Price
11/11/2019

Thanksgiving time is coming
Just a couple weeks away
I will review the food for you
On that diet ending day

There's dressing for the turkey
That we're carving from the top
Mashing up some fresh potatoes
Now is not the time to stop

Add some giblet gravy
Just a spoonful, maybe two
Could have some mushrooms in it 
If they're just the thing for you

Maybe have a  pre-cooked ham 
With a fancy spiral cut 
Or purchase one to bake yourself
A shoulder or a butt

Marshmallow sweet potatoes
Cranberry sauce, if so inclined
A glass or two of Chardonnay
And you'll know that you have dined

It's okay to take a break
When main courses are done
And gossip 'bout the family
Always Thanksgiving fun

Won't take long to catch up
Just when the tales are getting good
The desserts are on the table
Looking better than they should

Looks like there's nanner puddin'
Some cake, and many pies
You may find your stretched out stomach
Was not as big as were your eyes

I know I haven't covered all 
That might be on your table
I'm so full with what I've written
That I'm just no longer able

Love Is a Roller Coaster

It takes time to climb to the very top 
Then it falls straight down and you gasp for air 
Your eyes roll back and you pray it won't stop
It turns hard left mashing you in the chair

Your heart skips a beat as it turns back right
Then it starts a climb, your air's gone again
Your heart won't settle and your bladder's tight
As it turns back left and faces the wind

One minute you want to stop and just quit
Then the next minute you want more and more
You cannot tell if you are sick or  fit
The one thing for sure it's never a bore

You know when it's over and when it's not
And most of the time you hope it won't end
You learn what it's missing and what it's got
Then buy a ticket and  ride it again


11-8-19
Contest: Metaphor of Love
Sponsor: Bobby May

Amuse Your Muse

Proud pirate flag, peacock, pumpernickel pie,
Perfumed prairie pinwheels, paper two-ply.
Happy hanging homebody having healthy hi.
Heaving hitting heartfelt Harry hopping high.

Ballooning blissful blossoms beaconing blue Babe,
Luxurious lumberjack licking lemonade.
Merry mashing marshmallows mysteriously made.
Fine frolicking French frankfurters fearful and afraid.

It is fun to throw some alliteration into a poem like this.
My brain is laughing at the silliness, it’s like a gentle kiss.
So when you think I have no more ideas, I am simply out.
Make a list of P words, or K words, and give a little shout.

Your ready muse will be happy that you are writing anything down.
It might not make any sense at first, but it will stop a little frown.
The thing is to keep the pen moving or the fingers across the keys.
Your muse so excited, when you make cute little poems like these.

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