Best Bellied Poems
Dad had threatened for some time, to reclaim the land behind the shed,
where rubbish over many years, had stockpiled but now instead
of being easy to be shifted, blackberries, docks and thistles grow,
entwining history of ours… and you know we didn’t know.
Mum cracked the whip one Sunday, handing out the different tools
for us to shovel, fork, pick and slash; of course she made the rules.
We weren’t to stop until the rubbish, had been cleared and left to show
a barren space to be landscaped… and you know we didn’t know.
Johnny parked the truck close to where we’d easily load the tray.
First we had to slash blackberries, to open up a pathway.
Old fencing wire and bent droppers, we pulled and tugged. The work was slow.
Plus bits of motors, old oil filters… and still we didn’t know.
The ‘Old Man’ knocked a stump out I can’t remember being a tree,
it disintegrated into pieces; white ant workings I could see.
Plastic pots and old fuel drums, onto the tray we heave and throw.
Just on half the plots been cleaned up now… and still we didn’t know.
A concrete trough and a mattress spring, mesh from an old birdcage.
A kitchen sink broken in two and a pushbike at some stage.
Sardine tins, a barrow bowl, and a seized up mower that won’t mow,
now there’s just one corner left to clean… and still we didn’t know.
A stack of roofing iron near the fence; the last that had to go.
One by one we dragged the rusting sheets… and still we didn’t know.
Dad picked up the final sheet, and then he quickly threw it down again.
His face was white and ‘cripes’ he shook… we ‘bloody-well’ knew then.
**
It was a lovely spring day.
The sun greeted me with a smile.
I heard the sound of rat-a-tat-tat.
Sounds coming from the roof.
I gazed out the large window.
There sat a red-bellied woodpecker.
Dressed for destruction in his red hard hat.
Sporting a checkered black and white overcoat.
This crazed little bird,
sat on a metal vent pipe.
He looked at me and winked.
He proceeds to drill.
He stopped, rather dumfounded.
He shook his head, looking confused and dazed.
He danced to the right side.
Like a mad man, he continued his craze.
I watched this bird for hours.
determined not to give up on his quest.
Finally, the woodpecker flew off, comely retreating.
He lands on an oak tree in final defeat.
4/2/2022
A Brain Strand Standard Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ 1st ~
A Shadorma
Pot-bellied,
wizened old oak sage;
resting in
silent woods.
Each swollen arthritic joint
tells a magic tale.
Within dark
knotholes of blackness,
lie secrets;
songs only
sung when the woods are silent;
echoes of the past.
You don’t think
that I hear your voice,
when I walk
through the woods.
Wild ferns tickle your fancy;
make you talk in sleep.
I heard a
squirrel mocking you
on Sunday;
while searching
for a nut, beneath your root;
a fairy slapped him.
I laughed and
frightened both of them;
away they ran,
too frightened
by my revealed presence and
I saw you smiling.
I sat to
rest in your shadow;
you told me
that fairy,
was your very own diva
I apologized.
I would not
want to offend a
sweet fairy;
since she cares
for my favorite old oak tree;
who imparts wisdom.
This is a poem I wrote for the Crazy Christmas Carol member contest.
It is in reference to Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. Hope you have some laughs!
Santa The Fat-Bellied Stranger
You know Batman and Robin
and Shakespeare and Poe
Oprah and Elvis
And Monet and Van Gogh
But do you recall
The most famous person of all?
Santa the fat-bellied stranger
(stranger)
Had a tummy full of ho's
(like Pavarotti)
And if he ever tried to
(tried to)
Couldn't even see his toes
(like a horse)
Now that he's getting older
(older)
With impotence and bum knees
(like McCain)
They never let poor Santa
(santa)
Savour all his common glees
(like Mrs. Claus)
Then one lonely Christmas Eve
Blue pill down the hatch
(please oh please)
Oh meds to my wife's delight
Won't you guide my libido tonight
Mrs. Claus from that day forward
(forward)
Always shouted out with glee
(have mercy)
"Santa you fat-bellied stranger
(stranger)
You'll go down in history!"
(like Casanova)
Author-SJS '08
Fat bellied man
It seems we have a
Miss
Under
Standing
What you huntin?
Nothin in here for you
The safe is bare
How dare
You
Not
Be aware
that
I was inclined
To go out and dine
Dressed to the nines
The corner fish fry was nice
just a bit of advic
I don’t do tartar
Only tar-tare
I thought you understood
The rules of this game
Those steam-sealed pockets
I don’t choose
to purposely inflame
But
Everything is a process
A test
Now was that really your best
Aside from clutching your leather so tight
If you had looked up from the pennies
You stowed away with that key
You would have recognized my grace
And would have known
There was no need to angst
The night was on me
plink, plink, water in the sink
sinks slowly into budding suds
torturing the pans and fork tines
who want cascade - show on the road
plink, plop, hands over ears, now stop
but slowly the spatter of drops
like the slow go of a rain storm
keep habitating, repeating
their ear-splitting, liver-bellied
bullying of the spoons and cups
the apron-covered giant turned
off the faucet, threw in the rag,
then the sponge, ew…her hands with gloves
now each piece, that is us, is scrubbed
and ah, true running water-rush
each of us towel dried, put ‘way
from nightmarish brutality
we rest…we rest..until lipstick
lands on the side of grinds in cup
and pan slams onto surface heat
in other words, we get beaten
then comes water in sink, awaken
the bully who sleeps eight hours
look forward to vacation, hers!
Imagine ... our continental divide,
seen by nose lengthers who are not sharp-eyed.
The Yellow-Bellied Marmots, host the most,
from the northernmost down off the west coast.
There are six varieties of marmots
that live in the area, and what parts
them from the other five marmot species
are that they are polygamous? Unease
males, penance ... more than one mother-in-law.
They're gamey, thought by some that use a claw,
and squirrely; their defining term. There's
a cousin whose shadow's in the crosshairs.
Late winter, early spring, Yellow Bellies,
seasons bring ... the nights, Machiavelli's.