Short Squats Poems
Short Squats Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Squats by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Squats by length and keyword.
A man swallowed Jello shots
Then fell on some cooking pots
He was burnt and scolded
He fell against the wall
Looked like he was doing some squats
Circle Time
we got a puppy – “super dooper”
now the puppy’s a – “super pooper”
he circles thricely
squats so nicely
I’m a “super dooper pooper scooper”
John G. Lawless
12/4/2016
ENGAGES THEROGENICS
50 SITUPS
100 PUSHUPS
35 SQUATS
50 DUMDBELL CURLS
50 BENCH PRESS
WORK THE NECK
SHOULDER WORK
WALK AND RUN THE TRACK
GASTRONOMTRY
2 CABBAGE DEIT
AND THE
PROTEIN MEAL DEIT
3 DAYS OF FRUITS
AND VEGATABLES
Sit-ups, planks, and crunches
My push-ups done in bunches
Deep heavy squats from the rack
Deadlifts are good for my back
Just pumping up my biceps
And cutting up my triceps
I'm sweating harder each day
So I look sharp when I play
folks can't help but laugh
funny neck of that giraffe
bent down for a quaff
yonder, turtle squats
on its shadow, scared and yet
gawks at zooming jet !
She squats, a noiseless brilliant sphinx
And thinks with drowses, yawns and purr
She turns upward, gives her full think
I put down my book and see her
Grinning into her soft furry
O' as she brushes it pretty
With her delicate tongue firstly
Tail held high -it's Serenity
Widower
In the miner’s shack
the vase on the dresser
squats beneath
a giant cactus
planted by hands
flinty and callused.
“When Mona was here,
this vase got roses,
and lots of water.
After she left
I gave it this cactus.
It never needs water.”
Donal Mahoney
Flinty and Callused
In this miner’s shack
the vase on the dresser
squats beneath
a giant cactus
planted by hands
flinty and callused.
“When Mona was here,
this vase got roses,
nothing else.
After she left
I gave it this cactus.
It never needs water.”
Donal Mahoney
She squats beside the water's edge, playing,
tadpoles and crawdads fleeing
from fat probing fingers.
Sunlight sparkles on the river ripples,
caressing a sun burnt face
and freckled pixie nose.
Contentment - a child at peace with nature,
living on the brink of joy
with sand between her toes.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, May 30, 2014
he leans on the palm
at waters edge
sated
smoking
he watches her walk walk away
his lips taste like her scent
his hands want to hold her again now
naked cherished
against him
another hour another hour
he squats and looks away to the waves
a deep lost longing takes his breath
his eyes sting with hot tears
he cries for the first time with joy.
Form:
People and mice
live together
forever. Mice don't
care. They just know
what they like.
.
Caveman-like
tenant warm squats
food hubs,
babies' buvettes.
They navigate
with poor eyes,
by noses,
the dark
mazes.
.
I have my own
trouble with sympathy.
Oh Disney how you have
led me astray.
I hear them
unkillable with their
pitter patter feet.
My neighbour’s addicted to Twitter
He’ll tweet when he’s doing a ‘sitter’
When he squats for a dump
He tweets more than Don Trump
No wonder his wife feels so bitter
The whole world knows what Fred is doing
He’s tweeting whilst weeing and poohing
Is nothing sacred
For tweet obsessed Fred
I wonder if divorce is now brewing!
1/16/20
You hear? Creativity and mental illness!
Then you know what? I must be seriously sick!
Nothing is empowered to fight my willingless
To rhyme, write and create but to sketching I stick.
Doctor, please, tell me how severe is this? And what
Should I do in my case if that's who I am?
I do it all alone, no studios or squats -
Only canvas, brushes, ideas, oil and jam.
“You are most elegantly composed, so cleverly penned””
The poem breaks wind.
“Will others notice the wisdom I have poured into you?”
The poem begins to rummage in a kitchen drawer.
“You are the perfect child of my creative powers!”
It finds a knife, begins to vigorously saw
at priceless words.
“I think I love you."
It squats on the tiled floor and defecates.
Holding my nose
I carry it out of the house at arm’s length.
I have no ass
My back goes right into my legs
If I didnt have a belt my pants would fall
Its genetic
My dad also has no ass
I would have never known
if someone didnt point it out
I thought I had one before
who looks at their own butt?
I tried to do squats daily
but it didnt help
Implants arent my thing
I am not gangster
my pants just lay like that
There is no cushion to support my pants
No bump
No rump
Just flat backside.
Here squats a Black Widow spider,
who sups a swig of sweet cider.
He spies her there,
scoots close to share
and sips the hot brew beside 'er.
She darts with aim to devour,
her size gives her lethal power.
She fakes a hug,
then snags him snug;
true bliss defines his last hour.
For some who deceive are gifted
to mask when power is shifted.
The prey's surprise—
he's soon incised—
his parts all broken and sifted.
THE PERFORMANCE
She’s a dancer ready to chronograph her next move.
The chair is her boogie down stool.
Her hand synthesis the groove.
She looks as if her depths are being used.
Her arm is amalgamated to the symphony sounds in the room.
She squats in a hunker down pose to expose her sensual core.
Yes, she desires to be an instrumental part of the performance.
_______________________________________________________|
Written February 27, 2016!
Who owns
These faces
I see in this
Crowded bus?
Our Lagos
Squires or slums?
Hopeful eyes
Squint as smews!
Scarfed
Capped
Bald
Bared
Heads flow
On mobile necks.
Yes!
Dry joy squats
Lifeless
On these faces
As elephant husks.
Arrayed in apparels
Shabby as pigs
Tho’ some gorgeous
Neat as eagles
These beings
Headed towards
Mile Two
O, Mile Two
Of all places!
But where exactly
Are we coming from?
And where exactly
Are we going to?
Odd bird stands out among the seaside flocks
Taller, leaner with red stripes round one eye
Squats in the sand, oblivious to mocks
Opens his beak, emitting a strange cry
Gulls spread their wings, rise high and relocate
Odd bird remains, doesn’t take to the sky
Acceptance by others is not his fate
Solitude is all he has ever known
Feathers unruffled, he lives without hate
One of a kind, this bird has no clone
Staying true to himself, his strength is shown
Bag Lady
Chicago’s North Side
This senior citizen
whose face is Rushmore still
squats with pigeons on the steps
of the Rogers Park Masonic Temple.
She wears a shawl this snowy day
and is beneath the visor of a hunting cap
a woman who has paused along the way.
Her shopping bags, stuffed, frayed,
and each square feature of her face, confess
she speaks at best a little English.
Rested, she will rise,
a penguin on a floe,
and navigate her day.
Donal Mahoney