Pharaoh Akhenaten liked his potbelly to show
He told the artists to draw him Rubenesque without woe
An Egyptian monarch with confidence back in the day
So, the skilled artesian painted Akhenaten exactly that way.
Sherman the snowman wanted a potbelly stove of gray.
He said I want to warm my hands in an igloo today.
His relatives were negative, they tried to discourage him.
But he stood a bit taller, sucked in his gut and jutted out his chin.
He was determined to warm his hands if he could.
Wish he’d change his mind, his mother said, I wish that he would.
But Sherman wanted what he wanted, and he stood by the heat.
And he slowly disappeared, into a puddle so incredibly sweet.
I wonder whether the well-known poets of yore
Read poems around a potbelly stove in a local store,
Whether they entered contests sponsored by a peer
Or discussed poetry with a friend over a cold beer?
Do you think Poe might have rewritten and revised,
To make his poems acceptable to an editor’s eyes?
Somehow, I think Nash was not oblivious to style
When he was writing light verse evoking a smile,
Before the days of television and visual entertainment
Writing a lengthy epic was a noteworthy attainment
Today’s editors encourage poetry that is quite concise
And poetry websites will print anything, isn’t that nice?
Written January 29, 2022
If you have some points to prove,
You will have to your lips move,
You wish to another save,
Have to be The Brave,
You want your things grand,
Aim at Excellent Brand,
You don’t need your business to weep,
Not a swell time release to sleep,
You like the sound of Tick-Tock,
Try to acquire a speaking clock,
You funnily want electric to spark,
Also you want an onlooker to bark…
If display you can a potbelly,
Claim the tickets of watchable telly.
Too many witnesses, it will be a buster clutch, they’ll get mean.
Chief of police always gets his boxers in a bunch at a crime’s scene
I am a novice, and an intern. It is my first day not on the force.
Just watch; it could turn ugly; a dog and pony show with a large horse.
What was taken? I asked; it must be something valuable and big.
As far as I understand it, it is the farmer’s wife, little girl and his pig.
The wife isn’t worth much. The little girl can be a handful for sure.
But that potbelly pig has great bloodlines, his markings are pure.
You interview the sheep, I’ll take the cows and the rooster over there.
Thought mentor’s idea sounded like a good one, wise, and quite fair.
The sheep were not cooperating; they refused to speak at all.
Rooster was crowing and crooning, with each sound, he’d gotten tall.
How did you do? Larry asked; he had ridiculous notes, three pages.
I had to admit the sheep had clammed up; and he began some rages.
The sheep could not be coaxed to speak, for which I was rather glad.
I did not want to fail in front of Chief of Police, my own sweet Dad.
Your bottle
of Wild Irish
Rose wine
is a potbelly pig
bleeding in the tender
over-turned dirt
gnats linger near it
like kids do a birthday cake
when it’s about to be cut
I am under a blanket
thick as the snow that was on the steps
left from the blizzard of 1993
I keep light on a page of my diary
I sketch my dirty secrets in it
the ones no rose I will ever grasp
will ever know
and don’t ever think
you can make me tell you them
now you sit on a landing
a puppet
when it’s not danced
by magic
and that maybe have been left
to be just another piece
of my home to study
and to one morning
before my blood reminds me
it also has pain
that won’t go away
be chosen
to be another thing
I am obsessed with
revealing in a poem
The flooding face of the sky shed tears,
Regretting the stolen souls with unfilled days.
Dire death deducts peace aside from numbers,
Filching lives, loves and joy from this place.
One has taken today, tomorrow it takes us all.
Will it takes itself, come back when time calls?
"It's contributing fertilizers besides to sow."
Is how I defined life, after meditating deeply.
But living, from it's eyes, I came to know:
Kins with a poultry, lived to gets dine to one's potbelly.
Yet doubting cause every actions has two faces,
Maybe it's other face need to be chase!
Perhap, it's the gateway to the warm and peaceful place,
For taken one's never turn their necks once dash.
End up the grave to taste every seconds of today.
To leave no plans undone oft burned to ash.
And settled there if the promised land exist,
Or lost in the roomy dark if souls vanishes like a mist!.
Xylo, you love to eat the paper,
with your green tongue
lapping up every loose crumb
So xylophilous of you ...
The more paper you have,
the more there is to chew
Such a total loser,
with a jelly potbelly, are you
Xylo, you say you hate losers,
but that’s what you are
If winning makes a person sober,
then you’re stone drunk under the bar
So I guess you must hate yourself a lot,
putting all your poker chips in the wrong pot
Laying all your money on the losing side;
thinking them hate rebels gonna get it right,
this time gonna win the fight
No way ... squashed them bushwhackers in the ground,
gave them another thorough Union pound
To bad you bet heavy
on a double dog Confederate dare,
‘cause the only gray that’s winning is in my hair
Xylo, you’re such a loser ...
loving that counterfeit Confederate paper so —
take another big bite,
served up right ... with some Dixie crow
Outside, Lucifur the cat curls up under the heat lamp and sleeps
until you can feel hot bones through fur and skin. She's a heat-
seeking missle, as much as Jennifer is forever flashing too hot.
But on coldest nights wood is split, fire is lit and we three cozy
up, chatting and purring around the potbellied wood stove. We
daren't replace it with an air-tight, since Gramps bequeathed us
his potbelly just before he died and turned stone cold.
Kindle, enkindle,
Ignite light on winter's night --
Add fuel to flame.
Written Nov. 7,2015 by Doug Long, for scott thirtyseven's Haibun Freestyle - Poetry Contest. Copyright (c) 2015 by 2815699 Canada Inc.
Hate radiates from the old man like a potbelly stove...
And he silently drives down the road...
I'm lost in my own tortures as we ride back to where I sleep...
I regretfully still love you... There are no secrets I can keep...
Your hateful ghost still drifts through my mind...
I am finally free, yet smothered and confined...
The old man glares and almost vomits disdain...
Only a matter of time until I'm thrown out in the rain...
The bus ride is peaceful, yet I dread the ride from there...
One of us is going in the ground soon. Which one? I really don't care...
There is a potbelly in Kelly
To whom it belongs ‘Our Nelly’
She’s banned from the pantry
Works out in the gantry
Her bikini versus the deli.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
This write is for you I hope that the humor comes through...
See
Rocky
As he greets
Pot Belly Pig
Named Porky__short legs
Rocky sport show dog stance
Abnormally long legs proud
Rocky meets Porky question what
Is this animal?__Sniff butt__Hum__Sniff mouth
Sniff butt__what has he been eating__sniff well
(We went to my other daughter's home on Sunday for lunch..She has cows, a donkey, and
now a potbelly pig...Rocky our dog has seen all the others before but his first encounter with
the potbelly pig...He could not figure out what this animal was...Buffy, I hope that it is
funny..)