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Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Hearts another beat a second
A+ made the grade rare meat
Why is everything told to
us in a heartbeat
This is getting way too sweet
"Lips took Beeswax" bittersweet

Someone got stung B-
Strong sound muffler
Joyride Owl Hoot clever
Sweet and sourpuss
honey babe

Her mustard lips of custard
Hot temperature rising
The spicy lady opening
up new horizon gate

Too many sad rides
empty plates last joyride
Gas empty blame the county
Why did we call this joyride
without knowing
your fate

The others are more noticed
Fashionably they came late
Dine and the Wine joyride
romanced money upfront
advanced

Lips like jewels left their stale
You were the chosen one taken
for a ride from
a crooked male

Like bushel big loot basket
Rock the Kasbah rocket
Golden joyride ticket the
pickpocket
Getting away with ******
****** lips in the gasket

The joyride so beat looked
disheveled new love
unraveled
So messy but **** neat
looking, Lexus,
She looks mighty fine like
Venus, I beg you to zoom

And the love after all the treats
Sherlocked in his room
The devil made me do it
All flushed and deep red
Hearing his joyride of beats
What was really going
through her head
Hard rock ambient
painter deviant

The holiday like racing hot rod
Harvest Halloween of a joyride
Two peas in dark maze pod
Igniting a hot fire
Her lips need to decide
Who was underneath the
fumes of his fire

The coffee taste accelerating
Do we feel the pulsing beat
What a high anxiety peak
High intense flavor
You waiting for his joyride
Christmas and Hannukah
Tree to decide that's easier
But wait for true love above all
the gifts to deliver
Like bedrock meeting
Monster ride plant-eating Bug
More slugs my chinch
Inchworm of books at Joyride
College Dorm horn alarm
Manifestation enjoying
her joyride
What a conniver
Greece with my niece
vacation
Basil New rival tea
Pomegranate Cherry-bomb
Blonde Bombshell
Culture novelty joyride
Ring my servant bell
Met their sanity tomb

Her hand's dainty they shine
and sparkle
Her lips know how to jingle
Arace for hearts of stories
and memories
Always the death hand takes
a ride to the winding road of
the cemeteries
Just stay for the moment
think about the
Joyride forth of July
Our firecrackers went off at
the same time
Brie cheese favorite time
English tea and crackers
Like two lips sublime read
her diaries in his designer dockers

Going to the end of the earth lips
light up New York City galleries

Needing the fresh corner
Sunset taking lowrider Boulevard
Hollywood Oh! No world
Wildly satanic or the carefree type
Her joy smile he's sold on skype
Benevolent triad remembering
The mad magazine
MLM Maserati longevity Master
Of the joyride gun blaster
"Lips build like a Pyramid"
Becoming irresistible
Not to humble

Lips race Joyride to gamble
Nothing weakens to crumble
Baking a crumb cake its
doable stays together but
things unnamed not like
a marriage

We get blamed joyride
got damaged
We become gullible
What becomes of the broken heart
someone isn't reliable
Lips are not responsible
Leadership has you cornered  
To stumble upon her lips
Rendered steamboat surrender
How he tumbles
Mr. Grey Poupon Mustard seed
He plants her like his
only joyride
In need
We are all Jupiter the moon
joy to the world
All the boys and girls being
taken for joyrides

The Beach boy's video games
Spy lips whose to blame
Phillip screwdriver
But they take a ride
All you could pick a hot buffet
feasting she is still wearing
hot lipstick
Men have their choice of
they're next
Joyride Bride about the money
Wall-Street cars of hobbies
investing
Yeah right?
Lips take a joyride can we all please take a moment lets decide what we will do.
Is it really up to you for the road always him light that fire trim lips glow joyride fires out you tell the world what it is all about?
Cunning Linguist Mar 2015
Tongue in cheek I detest you
Hand over foot
Make a peep *****
And I promise I'll ****** you

Bad tact I'm a cesspool
Festering in the nestle of your daughter's
well developing *******
Everyday I follow her home from school

This unnerving pervert unearthing fervor
making ya catatonic &
giving your heart murmurs
Nurture the thought
It's just the tip
(Of the iceberg)

Gotta stir the paint before you make a mural
Ma'am, I'll purloin your ham purse until my burial
Don't be a sourpuss

It's final
I'm vile
And I swear I'm not a *******.

Want some candy?
Dorothy A Mar 2017
It’s a horrible feeling when you belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to you. When you don’t matter to a single soul—there is no worse feeling in the world. That feeling nagged Clem throughout much of his life. He used to walk around, wounded and broken inside. Though what he felt inside may never have shown on his tough armor that he wore in public, Clem often felt his life pretty much meant nothing. So how did he ever get to where he was today? How did he get to be so blessed? It amazed him.

Born in 1917, Clem Manning never thought he’d ever make it to one hundred years old, yet here he was. Today was his special day, though he didn’t want any fuss over it all. But he was living with his daughter, Violet, for the past few years, and she wouldn’t have it any other way but to put together a celebration to remember. With a houseful of people, some inside, some in the backyard, and some on the front porch, Clem could say that he no longer felt that he belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to him. It was a beautiful Arizona day, and the distant mountains were ablaze in a fiery purple.  It was a day made for birthdays.  

Seeing one make it to one hundred was rare and amazing sight to witness. To make it this long meant you beat the odds.  Most of all, it was amazing to good, old Clem, himself. His parents died young, long before he could remember them. If others in his family lived longer, he never would have known. The only kin he knew of was his aunt and her husband. They may have taken him in, but he certainly never felt wanted. Both of them slapped him around, punished him by locking him in closets, and prevented him from eating meals when he was bad. They also neglected his needs of decent clothing and a good bed. He had a beat up mattress on the floor or nothing but the hard floor, itself, when he was being punished.  Thankfully, somehow someone intervened, and he ended up in a boy’s home. That place wasn’t a whole lot better when it came to dodging a hard hand, but he was kept clean and with a full belly.

Clem ran away when he was fifteen from that place, and that was in the throes of the Depression. From there on, he fended for himself. His days of experiencing hunger from living at his aunt’s house helped him to be street smart. The petty thievery he learned to master—just to manage to stay alive—continued on beyond childhood.  Like many men, down on their luck and traveling the country, he rode the rails illegally. Just how did Clem survive to be so old, anyway? In his hobo days, he’s been shot at, chased by police, and bitten by dogs. He also almost drowned once in a rapid river, and had a bout with double pneumonia that made him downright delusional and on Death’s door.  

But when the second world war came about, life became easier for Clem. He found his sweetheart, Bess, married her and settled down out west. He wanted to fight in the war, but a hernia disqualified him from joining. His life was surely spared then, for many of his friends were drafted in the army, went overseas, but never made it back alive.    

It sure has been one heck of a life. Resting in his easy chair, he was thankful he still had his wits about him—had a sound noggin—and that he could see and hear still alright—with the help of coke bottle glasses and a hearing aid. Everything that surrounded him was a grand sight to look at, knowing that he helped to create all this hustle and bustle of people in his presence, those here simply to honor him.

He and Bess had three of their own children, Hank, Violet and Daisy, and they also adopted two more, Ted and Sam. It was during those days in the home for boys that Clem saw some of the luckier ones go to good families, selected by potential parents that could give them the secure homes they desperately wanted.  Clem was never picked but picked over. Because he never got that chance, he swore he’d help out those just like him, ones who felt unwanted or ignored, ones that belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to them. He did just that very thing and strove to become the best dad he could possibly be. This was a learning experience for him, and his mistakes were his teachers. Nobody showed him how to be a father, but Bess was his rock and his ally. How he longed to be with her, again.

Clem outlived all of his friends. He lost his sweet Bess fourteen years ago, and buried one of his children—his beloved firstborn child, and it wasn't easy to bury Hank. It should have been the other way around.. There were now thirteen grandchildren, and he never did remember how many great grandchildren that there were, but they were all here now. It was a miracle to have everyone under one roof, as there was family scattered all across the country. He smiled to himself as he thought about how everyone took the time out of their busy lives just for one, old geezer.  

“You better matter to someone right now”, Clem once told a good friend, “Cuz one day you’ll be long gone, and you’ll be lucky if anyone knows your name. It doesn’t matter if you are loved by one hundred people—or one person. That’s how I see it, anyways”.  

With his wife’s relations, and his children and their families, Clem knew the family tree had plenty of branches on it. His life did matter in this world. One of his grandchildren, Amber, mapped a tree out, and she made it all seem so spectacular, and put together like a royal family’s would be. Sketched around the details was a tree done in colored pencil—vivid greens and browns that were eye catching to even a old man with weak eyes—and today it was on display for everyone to inspect and talk about.  

Clem knew very well that his days were waning, that soon he’d just be a memory in the minds of his children and his grandchildren—probably not his great grandchildren who would barely remember him, if at all. Someday, he’d just be a name in the family records of that famous family tree. Like he said to his friend, his name would barely matter to anyone some day. He was simply Clem Manning, a guy who got a break in life and dodged disaster. Maybe only the good did die young, or perhaps he was just too stubborn to die.

But this wasn’t a day for having a sourpuss or for dwelling on the hard things. This was a day to remember for everyone, more than just a birthday for a lucky, old guy that beat the odds. Clem couldn’t eat much of the food made for his birthday feast—too rich or not appealing to his declining appetite—but he promised to have a nice sized slice of cake. It was red velvet with cream cheese frosting, his favorite.

Happy Birthday to you…happy birthday to you…happy birthday, dear Cle-em

Da-ad

Grand-pa

Happy Birthday to you!

There was lots of applause, cell phones out and cameras snapping for picture taking, as Clem tried to blow out the three candles—1-0-0. Thankfully, he had a bit of help from the little ones up close, for Clem wanted to still show nothing was going to beat him, especially three, little, measly candles. But those weren’t just measly candles. They represented so much of who he was.

He still couldn’t believe he made it to see this day. How on earth did he pull it off, anyway?
Vidya Oct 2012
good equestrians you know like
young things who giggle all pretty
major embellishments of lipstickglaze and
sourpuss pouts skin smooth as
vanilla in summertime:
nymphs if you only
champ at the bit to have your
hair brushed to be
carrotfed and bootkicked into
stockholm races (sing this song

wear your
habit on your sleeve or
break it fast
come now sister let’s
put on some tea and
watch the jasmine bloom I hear it’s
particularly fragrant this
time of year.
Terry Collett May 2014
Fay was on the bus
I was on
we both got off
at the cinema

in New Kent Road
how was school today?
I asked
as we walked along

to the Zebra crossing
passing the fish shop
the hairdressers
O you know

how school is
she said
some days
you don't mind it

some days
you hate it
today I hated it
why was that?

I asked
we stood
on the edge
of the pavement

at the crossing
Sister Agnes poked me
in the back
with her

steel hard finger
because I had forgotten
the capital of Peru
Fay said

as if it mattered
as if the Peruvian people
would lose
any sleep over that

we crossed the road
to Meadow Row
it's all part
of the brain-washing process

I said
I try to empty
my brain of it
as soon as I can

after school
she laughed
and put her fingers
to her mouth

I shouldn't laugh
my daddy says
laughter is how
the Devil gets in

and those
who make people laugh
are the Devil's helpers
we walked down

Meadow Row
pass
the bombed out houses
on the left

the empty windows
the boarded up
doorways
I guess your old man

is a bit of a sourpuss
I said
sourpuss?
she said frowning

I liked it
when she frowned
her blonde eyebrows
seemed to meet

in the middle
and the lines appeared
on her forehead
a grouch

I said
she laughed again
stop it
I shouldn't laugh

at least not
at my daddy's expense
it won’t cost him
nothing

I said
I joke for free
we passed
the public house

there was a piano playing
and some woman
was singing
Fay looked at me seriously

I mustn't be seen
beyond here
with you
Daddy says

you are a bad influence
Fay said
am I?
Daddy says you are

she said
do you think I am?
I asked
no I don't

she said
that's ok then
I said
we paused

by the fresh fish shop
and looked
at each other
don't forget

to find out
the capital of Peru
I said
I know now

she said
Sister Agnes poked
Lima into my back
that's one way

to impress knowledge
on a kid
I said
she rubbed

her shoulder
yes
I shall call this
my Lima shoulder

she said smiling
see you around
I said
(although

she only lived
in the flat upstairs)
and she leaned in
and kissed my cheek

and went off ahead
over Rockingham Street
up towards the flat
I touched

my 12 year old cheek
maybe
I said
I’ll not wash

that bit
for a whole week.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S
Dr Strange Oct 2014
Depression ain't no joke ya know
one minute you're fine, the next you're six feet underground
Bet you didn't see that coming
Depression ain't no joke ya know

Then it only gets worse when someone who doesn't even know your pain has the audacity to say,"Get over it"
"Get over it," only if it was the simple
Do you think I enjoy always being sad and confused
Looking at the grounds as if it was the skies above

DEPRESSION AIN'T NO JOKE YA KNOW
Then society never lets you grow from it
No, it must continuously pound you through the ground until your force to submit
Depression ain't no joke ya know

Now you're an angel hanging from a ceiling fan
Only instead of glowing with a smile upon your face and wings on you're back,
You have a look of despair, and tears dripping down your face
Depression ain't no joke ya know

Then you realize it was only dream and you're still alive
Causing you to cry yourself back to sleep
Only to be woken up once more by another bad dream
Depression ain't no joke ya know

No one seems to understand you
Then you become the weird quiet kid in the back of the classroom
One who envy the smiles upon everyone's face
So you put up a fake one just for precautions

Just to seem like you're not the sourpuss in the room
You know the one killing everyone's vibe
Then you try and mingle a little to back it up
But that's always where you go wrong

You just began to stare off into space
By space I mean the worms in the ground
Then you close yours eyes attempting to hide the crimson tears
Your goodbyes have been said mentally

You are now dead but alive
Hoping to be one day resurrected from your own ashes
The game is finally over
And the cause is death by depression
Looking so sour
She hides that she is really
Sweeter than sweet
kirk Feb 2016
Earlier time's my younger days when I was about sixteen
Awareness of the fairer *** when I was sexually keen
**** time's that I did crave why were the girls so mean
When it came to getting ****** my **** was never seen
I thought about their naked ***** whether fat or lean
Activities in **** arts who cares where thier **** had been

If you get your ******* off making sure your **** is bare
Bending over the bed with your cheeks up in the air
Or knelt upon the sofa with my fingers through your hair
I will stuff my hotdog up inside your Derryair

Too many benders coming out and lots of ugly lags
Never enough willing girls and I could never find no slags
There wasn't any nice girls just ******* ***** bags
All I could attract we're bendy boys and horrible *** hags

Getting blow jobs really ****** my **** was never blown
Lots of *****'s I would poke but none of them were shown
I didn't get no ***** and my seeds were never sown
Just left pulling on my plonker and wanking on my own

I could have had a ******* from all of those Gay boys
Or offered ******* ******* from dried up hobbledy hoys
But I didn't want a crap **** or play with those boys toys
So I never got to **** to much or make that **** noise

Now I am mid forties and I want the same thing now
I still want to stick my **** in some nice meow.
There's only skanky sourpuss or some old stupid cow
I am still in the same boat I have nothing to plough

I still want some nice ***** I'm still in that same phase
Lots of naked ladies ****** in lots of different ways
I'll have to keep on searching until to my dying days
The line is drawn at hobbledy hoys and most definitely gays
Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier

May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss

And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****

Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?

Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair

I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On the subject of politics and Westminster in 2018 - Brexit etc, and the inadequacy of our politicians on all sides of the divide.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2016
<>

with raggedy old words, this is how I write,
in a raggedy old navy t-shirt,
upon a ragged edged old chair,
whose splinters will soon enough,
seed themselves in poet's unreceptive,
but just asking-to-be-barbed
flesh bared

splinters asking with the phony politeness ,
in the manner of a steady, but  minor irritating
would-be-a-friend, annoyingly, but cloyingly

"am I not a poem, yet Father?"

Poet has no answer,
mixed words
deemed satisfying suitable but unusable,
unconvicted upon the hard hearted
mixed wood

poet waits for the ragged clotted cumulus
of old grey ladies shaped clouds
to dissipate

clouds shaped like the
puffed up shopping bags
that the old ladies clutch
while crossing mid-street
making the traffic play
"dodge'r the codgers"

bags fill with the odd things
that old ladies treasure,
objet d'art of empty
Oil of Olay Ole! and mindless dribble,
mementoes of completed containers
of emptied out hopes

expired coupons,
that they refuse to surrender
even under threat
by sour faced bossy
supermarket manager dictators,
who hate their lives and  
in the deepening creases
of the elderly clientele,
foresee their own fate inevitable

poet's waits for them,
these images,
these clotted bursts of sourpuss,
to depart his skin, sky's.
yes, his sky's

wits and wilts while he waits,
for he always has much to say,
of what lies above,
the unseen,
hid behind the bland uniform of  the overhanging
one-no-color sky
of blanched meh and feh crinolines

thinking to no one now,

this is how I write, this is who I am,

waiting for insight inspiration foam to form,
from the multi-variable model that predicts
with a high degree of confidence,
failure with tainted certainty,
even as clouds are shuffled along,
a new poem will pass
that haha, no one will read

but nonetheless, arguing among his several selves,
better to be more fulfilled by the emptying of himself
upon padded cell of paper, of his staining,
the piece of him now
un-chambered & un-containered
thru magma fissures, steaming & cleaning,
providing a penny's penance
for his disparate gloomy idiocies

the gray ladies always smile at him,
always so nice and gentlemanly like, that poet,
underneath his cowardly disdain,
against his pretense's  grain,
contempt for old grey ladies
with old lady odors emanating

is this who you are, is this how you write?

*with raggedy old words, that splinter our delight?
dear poets and poetess,

to whom it may concern:

when your poems of
indiscretion
are admired
most
by your fellow
correspondents,
you will be
well known for
mediocrity in
literature

don’t put forth
the effort and
you will gain
the recognition

I am the dancing bear

the flying trapeze artist

here to entertain you with
resonating thoughts,
raw emotions and
sophistication
of self worth


sweet dreams

                       with lots of love,
                  your sniveling sourpuss

                             Rick
Janet Aitch  Jul 2017
Sourpuss
Janet Aitch Jul 2017
Neighboring cat
Is making me sour
I don't like either

— The End —