Old fashioned outhouse
You can clean it
Or repaint the door
But you can never get rid of the stench
People who have never used one
In the middle of the night
In the freezing cold of winter
With chattering teeth
Have no idea
Sammy was terrified of the outhouse.
He had been scared of it since he was four.
Since the day his mother disappeared.
Why can’t we get indoor plumbing? He asked Daddy.
Daddy did not want a bunch of strangers on the property.
He did not want anyone poking into “our business”.
Sammy had horrifying dreams about the outhouse.
It did not make sense, but they lasted forty years.
One day he remembered something that had been
too awful to remember when he was only four.
He remembered looking down the toilet seat
of the dreaded outhouse and seeing his mother’s face.
That’s when he reported it to the sheriff.
At his murder trial, his daddy screamed at him
“Why did you have to tell them about our business?”
For my mother, Sammy said. For my mother.
JANUARY VIRGIN AT THE OUTHOUSE DOOR
Not much of light, the cold had settled in,
and made for her, sweet Laura of the farm,
the quick of flight, down path direct and thin,
and well known, for relief of her alarm.
As farmer's daughters, she could be the tale
of trav'ling salesmen, if one came around,
but all her heat, her passion, old and stale,
gave witness to the ice there on the ground.
So needing love, but needing more to pee,
she pulled upon the door, it opened not,
and so she squatted, as no one could see,
but froze onto the ground, her sudden blot.
They found her in the morn, a chunk of ice,
but didn't take her in, she looked so nice.
© 2003 ron wilson
aka vee bdosa
the doylestown poet
THE DUNNY BRUSH
It has been here since modern sewerage was begun
and each water closet usually has at least one.
But to get a participant to use it, can really be a chore.
Most folk will use the paper but sadly for some, the Dunny brush ignore.
We have warned, scolded and abused them about their stain,
To grab the handle and scrub up and down again and again and again.
Many just don`t get it . They will not own their own poo,
so they leave it in the bowl. It is not their responsibility to clean the flamin loo.
So we have had workshops for the solution,
To brainstorm and solve the concern for this ablution.
Some have installed water jets to clean the soiled parts,
While others have janitors who make regular inspections while pushing their cleaning carts.
Alas, around here these luxuries we haven`t got,
so we ask you the Guest, to give it your best shot.
To learn the art of the toilet brush is easy, so don`t do your thing and run.
Grab it by the handle between forefingers and the thumb.
Now scrub it hard and sure till all traces are unstuck.
If it has caused you to sweat a bit, just remember,
It isn`t ours or theirs, its your smelly muck.
From Eden to the outhouse in just a few thousand years
Blooming weapons of mass extinction
From the seeds of our many gifts.
A volley of nuclear warheads is coming
within a generation or so.
The wealthy and powerful will sashay
to heated bunkers, stocked full of tomorrow.
While above, the serfs break dance
like ants in a boiling plutonium bath.
There'll be no Jesus balm to soothe their nuclear rash.
Eden forever poisoned by the oily ego of man.
coldest day ever
stiff outhouse door barely shuts
rude awakening
A flea market called the outhouse market
is located just outside of York Town.
And an arrow sign nailed to an old tree
points you to the best flea market around.
Cause it's hidden behind some outhouses
folks need to look for it, it's hard to find.
And yet, it has quite a reputation
as the place ... to find those one of a kind.
You'd think that its unsavory locale
would mean business would be non existent.
And to eke out any kind of living
you'd have to be pretty darn persistent.
But the irony is... profits doubled
since the vendors moved their businesses there.
For it seems that people think it’s kinky
and therefore, it’s always a crowded affair.
(Quatrain)
Mar.16, 2018
A Hidden Market - Poetry Contest
Julia Ward
I was raised up in Wichita Kansas
A city slicker I'd guess you would say
Once my Uncle Ben took my brother and I
To visit his cabin for a night and a day
We fished and swam and had great fun
Then went back to the cabin for a bit
I asked Uncle Ben, “Where's the bathroom at”
He said, “Out back and down that path is it”
I thought that's weird as I walked out the door
But ran as my stomach I had to clench
I shoved the door open and pulled down my pants
and sat down on a big hole in a bench
I was feeling triumphant as things started to flow,
The door bumped my knee so I kicked it shut
That's when a wasp nest in the corner came alive
And I had nothing to wipe my butt!
After that there was screaming and shouting
There was crying as I beat on that old stuck door
I came out alive but man what a mess it made
And I never used that old outhouse anymore
Back in the old days
Which wasn’t long ago.
We had to use the outhouse
When we had to go.
They came in many shapes and forms
And reeked of you know what.
The walk was rather tedious
When you had to go at night.
Some would keep a bed pan
Underneath their bed.
So if it was just #one
They would use it instead.
Some still have to use them.
Which is sad indeed.
It’s much easier to go inside
When you have to poop or pee.
So we thank you Lord for indoor plumbing
And that beloved Porcelain bowl.
It really comes in handy
Even if our face is in the hole.
I know this is disgusting
But if you stop and think.
Some yahoo did a great great job
To get rid of that wretched stink.
Travelling through the outback
with a tour group,
my stomach started rumblin'
I had to go poop.
I ran underneath
a eucalyptus tree,
but a dang dingo
kept following me.
I had to go
really darn bad,
this is the worst feeling
I have ever had.
I kept running around
was feeling rather daft,
I seen a kookaburra
it stood there and laughed.
I was running wildly
around the open bush,
farts were comin' out
of me gassy tush.
Me knickers were being
real nasty buggars,
they kept ridin'
they were extremely tight huggers.
After all the runnin' around
I met up with my tour group,
never did find the dang outhouse
and I still gotta go poop.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Sept.1/2004
This is one of the writes in my poetry book titled, "Who Says Poetry and Humour Don't Mix?"
I passed by the privy one day
and heard this voice that came my way.
I looked all around and way out yonder,
stood there awhile and had to ponder.
Someone was calling my name so free,
but who in the world could it be?
the door to the house was open a mite,
I shut the door and latched it tight.
I turned my back to continue my walk,
then came the voice, "Would you like to talk?"
I couldn't believe it, how could it be?
This Old Outhouse was talking to me.
I opened the door and took a seat,
the catalog on the wall beckoned to me.
What wondrous things my eyes behold,
in the book of treasures it's pages foretold.
I know then the friendship would last,
as we talked of things left in the past.
Moral: Never throw caution to the wind.
you'll never know who you may befriend!
Welcome to my outhouse
My humble little abode
Just four walls with a couple of holes
That help with the ca-mode
Always something to read
Or a word search to be done
May write some words on the wall
To read later for a little fun
So sorry about the smell
But this is where the business gets done
I'll kindly sprinkle some lime down later
If I haven't got the runs
At night with candles lit
The aroma is not so bad
It's really not a bad place to sh%t
But the cold seat always makes me so mad
When your time in here is through
Leave the door hang open wide
For it's easier to release the smell from in here
If it's not always boxed up inside
Danny Boy:2-12-13
Sitting in the outhouse,
Gettin' high on turds;
Thinking about my crappy life,
Can't sum it up in words
The kids ain't worth a quarter,
They're meaner than the mob;
All they do is eat and fart,
They won't go find a job!
I have a cat named Bonzo,
He hates his litterbox;
Squats wherever he chooses,
Right on my favorite socks
My stupid dog Binky,
Dumber than an English pea;
He never barks at strangers,
Instead, he barks at me!
My bills are in collections,
I'm about to lose my job;
The car's in repossession,
I feel like a rotten slob
Maybe I'll grab my gun,
And try to end it all;
Enough with all the drama,
I'm tired of takin' the fall!
When I think I've had enough,
Others have it worse;
Suicide's the cheap way out,
It's time to put God first!
Who knows if I'll be homeless,
Standing in a kitchen's line;
Today the skies are dreary,
Tomorrow's sun will shine
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