The brainwashed masses
from upper classes
can’t help but be asses,
drinking from glasses
made of fine crystal ashes
buying waterfront houses
with money from spouses
made rich in clubhouses
who won’t share outhouses
but frequent whorehouses
how far must you fall
how far will you crawl
how much will you bawl
who will you call
to avoid death’s pale caul?
She used the incerating toilet to dispose of the horse dung.
it inspired someone to create an incinerater
for cattle , horse and pet waste.
the ashes could be used in mulch.
He titled it.
"Materails to Colonize Space'
the secrets of establish a colony in space.
they often dumped that dung into the old
hand-dug outhouses.
covering the dung with sawdust
so the oder wouldn't
ofend the next user.
But this idea ould be patented and alot of money could be made
by helping a lot of people do this thing.
It seemed a novel and humane way of thinking.
Written by: the Inventor and Salesperson
Language Of Patents
rights and processes
disclaimers and terms
maintenance fee'
priority and pending
variations like patent terms
esperson Sterculius or Stercutus
Patent Pending
+++++ResoLute+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++==++++++++++++++++++++++++++++The guy who creates the elastic snap-on strap for pants to make pants waist expand and contract to your size
will be one wealthy suiter!+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The six o’clock news
is on automatic
spouting static
while democracy
collides with
aristocratic
Gutter meets white house,
smells like an outhouses,
behind the Kremlin
on the Fourth of July
brings tears
to my eyes
I want to scream
but can’t wake up
from this dream
keep asking myself
why
why’d we do it
we had the chance
to change it
but then said screw it
and blew it
now were flying
headlong
head strong
into the end
gonna pay for that sin
again and again
with each stroke
of the marker
another freedom
sliced away
like a surgeon
before a holiday
no pain
no gain
just another step
backwards
until one day
we wake up
and find ourselves
with our tattooed
arms
straight out
Where is Ketchna?
It is in orbit around some mother
Pass the ketchup please
In Ketchna
In Ketchna they hang their socks in chimneys
Waiting for them to turn white
A satanic hex will cost you more in Winter
The local gypsy witch has itchy fingers
She steals socks and little children
Frost grows on her pointed nose
The letter B is interchangeable with W
But a witch is still a witch in Ketchna
A noose swings her by the neck
For hanging around doing nothing
Girls in the village ride ponies into church
Some pronounce their vows without sound
They are not there to say prayers
You can count on that before the rosaries
Sheep are not allowed to form crowds
Leave that to the undertaker
Animals must wipe their feet before leaving
According to the mat on the floor ordinance
Ketchna has outhouses with corn
Horns come as a warning of boredom
Use rubber gloves as you enter
You will never be bored before you are born
It makes perfect sense to bring paper
A funny thing happened one day
A hurricane came by our way
Our kittens said snee
We ran out to pee
Outhouses had floated away
Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink,
rolls and sings to the touch
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats
on hard covers all in the name of
modern convenience which sure is a change
from old catalog sheets housed in quarter-moon
outhouses on homesteads.
Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home,
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white single-ply which sits
on the bottom shelf looking forlorn
because of its unscented homeliness.
Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep and dark sewers waiting
to be processed in the jaws of the sewage
treatment plants which do not discriminate
against the bland, anorexic and hard-to-the-touch
Clyde Pucelli was known as The Rembrandt of The Great Midwest!
He was an itinerant painter, esteemed as one of the best!
With his brushes and well-blended oils he'd render a masterpiece;
His fame spread since he specialized in hues of white and cerise.
He traveled in an old shay with his faithful horse Dan at the helm,
Brightening the households of Hoosier Land, Clyde's singular realm.
It took a couple of days to complete a painting then he'd move on,
Leaving folks to marvel at his handiwork long after he was gone!
You'd be surprised to learn he didn't do oils to display on a wall;
No, he painted ramshackle barns, outhouses and sheds, that's all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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
Kids nowadays don't know the fine art of staging Halloween tricks,
(Though they are very adept at fleecing me for candy to get their kicks!)
Tricks we did as kids would no doubt today land us in the slammer,
Causing outrage and rancor by folks for our hides with great clamor!
Obviously, we didn't hang around to collect a tasty treat,
But did our dastardly deeds and made a very hasty retreat!
A favorite prank was upsetting outhouses and the havoc that created,
Causing the hapless owners angst and leaving them somewhat agitated!
Another silly trick that raised a stink that we did with great dispatch,
Was to place a bag of manure on the porch and light it with a match.
We'd knock on the door, then run like a bat outta you know where,
Watching the guy stomp out the fire and you shoulda heard him swear!
The tamest thing we did was to soap window panes with a bar of soap,
Leaving naughty witticisms for which the occupants had to cope!
In the autumn of my years I reflect on the Halloweens of my youth,
And wonder why my pals and I acted so buffoonish and uncouth!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
a question of definition
camping?
luxuries au wilderness
juxtaposition
air conditioned lassitude
with untouched raw nature
three piece baths
next to outhouses
wheels rolling through trees
electric lights break
the pristine dark
camp-fire-crackle ambiance
food microwaved
hot running water, lakeside
even the chipmunks shun
mere bread
for more sumptuous fare.
We who remember outhouses
consider flushing toilets
the next thing to heaven.
Yet, we know, in heaven—
no need to search—
they do not exist.
The Apostle Paul said,
“We shall not all sleep,
but we shall all be changed.”
No freckles,
no cowlick,
no twisted bones,
no missing members,
no lack of understanding.
Questions will all be answered.
As we enter that pearl-encrusted gate,
as we gaze through those transparent
golden streets, never again
will there be a need to flush.
Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink
rolls and sings to the touch
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats
on hard covers all in the name of
modern convenience which is a change
from old catalog sheets housed in
quarter-moon outhouses
behind homesteads.
Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home,
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white, skinny two-ply which sits on the
bottom shelf looking forlorn because of
Its unscented homeliness.
Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep, dark sewers waiting
to be processed in the jaws of the
sewage treatment plants which do not
discriminate against the bland,
anorexic and hard-to-the-touch.
Rainy Day Sonnet.
It is so quiet here in my village when it is raining
dogs in outhouses are overtaken by melancholia.
It appears so useless to bark and their dream might
be of an otherworldly nature knowledge they are
unable to share the sense that their servitude status
a clown for us to laugh at is not dignified.
Once they were equal to other beings that roamed
the forests and plains the camaraderie of the flock
now their existence is in your hands, and it is a burden
we must carry gently
Yes, light rain makes me moody, my loneliness hurts
yearning for a mythical past, I think like the dogs there must
be something more to life than sitting in a cabin waiting
for the sun to shine and warm old bones.
I wish outhouses were still in fashion
For I would be sat in one right now
Away from the hypocrisy that is you
But still close enough
So when I hollered your name
You’d still answer
By God I don’t know how your mother managed
She must have the patience of a sculpture
For 21 years, to raise the man-child that is you
Cement in her head I tell you!
For if you were my child
I would have asked for another one
But boy does she have some good genes
I can’t for the life of me possibly fathom the thought
That any other girl than me could subject herself
To the hysteria that is you
I don’t know how I do it to be honest
I must have sinned in a previous life
But the biggest mystery of it all, my dear boy
Is if I woke up one late Sunday morning
Not finding you wrapped around the entire duvet
With my teeth chattering
Well, that would be the greatest catastrophe of all
Why should I remain a family house
If I am dilapidated, shattered and tattered
In this summer of old age.
Why should I remain a family house
If the house garden bears a barren look
Tearing away its leaves and flowers.
Why should I remain a family house
If the birds do not build their nests
Migrating to some other places.
Why should I remain a family house
If I don’t have to wait for birds’ return
In the lonely colorless evenings.
Why should I remain a family house
If the inhabitants are in the outhouses
Dangling like a jaundiced curtains.
Why should I remain a family house
If I am not cheered by the chirping
And joyful songs of my little birds
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Date 17-1-14
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Elegiac Form
Third Place Win
Contest: Loneliness by Frank H.
This is an autobiographical poem. I wrote this poem in the year
2000 when the last of my children left for Canada and USA.
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