"grannies" poems
Christmas is traditions
some last and others die
some leave you feeling fuzzy
others leave you asking "Why?"
There's rules that must be followed
And most of them we know
About gifts and cards and Christmas trees
and then there's mistletoe....
We all know the tradition
We all know what it is
You meet under the berries
And then you both must kiss
But, there's etiquette surrounding
The dreaded mistletoe
And there are things you aren't aware of
And I thought you all should know....
Always kiss your Aunties
Do it quick and on the cheek
Their lips are full of slobber
and sometimes they just reek
Grandmas, get a quick kiss
And ignore the sounds they make
Don't hug Grannies too tightly
They are brittle and might break
Avoid the pervert Uncles
With hands and eyes that roam
They act one way at Christmas
And another way at home
The little kids, won't kiss you
So, it's fun to give them chase
Make sure there's lots of slobber
So, they can wipe it off their face
Make sure kissing Grandad
That he has got his teeth
That they're not somewhere in a glass
or worse, smiling from a wreath
Always kiss your Mum though
Beware, Mums will always cry
and they will get you going too
No matter how hard you try
Kiss the one you came with
Let them know just how you feel
That your love for them's eternal
And your love for them is real
Kissing is tradition
and at Christmas can be great
But, don't kiss all the women
And forget about your date
The most important rule of all
If you don't want your bell rung
When kissing 'neath the mistletoe
DO NOT USE THE TONGUE
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
*break
astonishment at perception
of
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
even
beyond the half-way mark*
1.
a standing man
in silent message
and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal
coughing
sore
2.
grannies recount lively griot-tales
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it
manifold
when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury
while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect
3.
there lies hope
unlost
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger
*no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging*
she...
the empowered mother of boys
will
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour
who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be
luminary
*each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards
and when final rung is reached
heralds
untainted take-offffffff*......
S T, 27 aug
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
The flowers are exceptionally cold this season
The rain leaves much to be desired
Mr. & Mrs Sunflower are expecting seedlings.
Good old sounds of pitter-patter on the mud;
"Delve deep little ones - for the earth is rich and good".
Standing two meters tall
Where did I leave me shovel?
Grannies dead and buried,
Grandad he went to war.
Yes, in our house, like a bees -nest
There's honeydew; it feeds us
Gosh, I am so very tired
I need to take a rest
Lying here - just catch my breath
Let Mother Nature do the rest
R.I.P as they will say
One day upon my grave
Lest we pray; behold, my children laugh
And rise again shall I,
Through the wonders of an age old myth
Of time and evolution - life!
Now praise the Lord my soul to give
And keep me warm inside
A glow of peace in troubled times
My memories, a myth
God Bless You!
© all rights are reserved B M Coldwell
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 8:34 AM UTC
We loved your ample bosoms,
Dear Grandmothers,
So soft and pillow-like;
The perfect place to lay sleepy heads.
We loved your voluminous laps,
Dear Grannies,
Wrapped in yards of cotton;
The perfect place to rest teary faces.
We loved your full long dresses,
Dear mothers of our parents,
In lengths well past your knees;
The perfect place to hide a shy child.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
I remember helping bake
With my Granny....Elisie Boone
She always said
Whoever makes the mess
Gets to lick the spoon
I always liked to help her
I'd go see her every week
I liked that saying more than
Turn the other cheek
Granny always turned a phrase
And whistled a sweet tune
And whenever I helped make a mess
I got to lick the spoon
Time passed and my Grannies gone
But one thing still has clicked
whoever makes the mess still has
To make sure the spoon gets licked
Whether in the kitchen
making cookies or a cake
or ******** up with something else
I don't care what it may take
If you're the one who made the mess
you get what you deserve
It's your **** job to lick the spoon
No matter what gets served
Good advice, it don't come cheap
But good advice ....it stays
And lick the spoon is good advice
From back in grannies days
It doesn't matter what happened
I don't care how it tastes
You made the mess, now lick the spoon
Good advice don't go to waste
I still think of my granny
When I whistle that sweet tune
Remember, boy...you made the mess
Now...you've got to lick the spoon!
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
the older generation
thinks we're all meth-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
and
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
[[ ****
blood pooling around her
there she lay sprawled
eyes glazed,motionless with no stir
she is another victim to succumb
to this heinous inhuman act
the mission is accomplished
the criminal thinks
freely he walks
head and shoulder held high
among mortals he laugh
life goes on ,another life gone
my sister,mum and aunt
the daughters of eve are endangered
my brother,dad and i
the all sons of adam
are the perpetrators
fear exists among our female species
they fear to be stripped off their
coverings
they live in a nightmare of being
stripped off their dignity
unwillingly be disrobed and be
robbed
they fear being deflowered and
defiled
out of her will she was forced
naked and spreadeagled
vitruvian man style she lay
her case was a repetition of a biblical
story
dinah and the sons of shechem
blood freely trickled between her
open pelvic
life seeped out of her misused shell
did she really deserve this???
who will end this atrocity?
who will fight for the girl child?
toddlers and grannies
shamelessly chauvinist male defiles
them
its against the word
its against the unwritten codes
it's unafrican
it's evil
my anger is frothing
like a volcano the lava is heating up
my pen is crying for the female child
i will shout this from rooftops
on the skyline i will write it
this battle is ours and we have to
fight
protection we've to offer
[[the chronicles of the dumb speaker]]
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY
The wolf sat on the ground.
Little Red Riding Hood
sat at his feet.
"Well, well, well, so
here we are again!"
said Mr. Woolf in a faux
English accent
he had picked up from watching
Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia.
"Some apple juice my dear
have some apple crumble do!"
enquired Mr. Woolf of his
fairy story cohort.
"I baked it myself you know
molasses instead of sugar
gives it that dark flavour
oh and a little touch of ginger!"
Little Red Riding Hood
wolfed down the apple crumble.
Sipped...slurped
noisily through a bendy straw
annoying the silence that
gathered itself around her.
There was a piece of apple
crumble on her nose.
For a little girl she
had a big appetite.
The wolf ate nothing.
"We can't go on like this
any minute now a child
somewhere in another
somewhere
will start our story
by opening a book.
I will be called upon
to eat you and Granny up.
I don't even like
grannies for gawd's sake!"
Mr. Woolf had tears that
refused to fall.
It's got...it's...got
to somehow stop!"
Little Red Riding Hood burped.
"Pardon!"
So, when the child I used to be
opened the story once
upon a time it was
simply not there.
There was nothing there.
Nothing but a great big ****** blank.
Somewhere in another somewhere
Little Red Riding Hood
swung on a swing
Mr. Woolf pushing her
higher and
higher into
a summer blue
sky.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
my wonderful nanny
is not actually a nanny.
she likes to be called Annie
and doesn't carry a *****
she writes poems about us and day drinks.
she likes to cuss and never makes a fuss.
she even gets her hair done regularly, unlike other grannies.
her makeup is always perfect, her red lipstick signature.
her sunglasses are just divine and delicious.
she is a glam-ma
Nanny Annie is the best.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 8:02 PM UTC
We doh cur fer fancy werters
Bring us bangers in mashed terters
Gie us pork-pie caressed wi mustard
Rhubarb crumble topped wi custard
If yo’ve got a full day werkin
Black-pudding, eggs, beans and bercon
Un doh keep saying, ‘it’ll do ya no gud!’
We wont loads o’ graerty pud
If yo’me hungry jus the job
A great big hondfull of suetey gob
Grannies rice-puddin wi a gob o’ jam
Branston pickle on hunied-ham
Fish-un-chips wrapped in old newsperper
Ma’s bread puddin, nah that’s the cerper
Un if yo’ve got a babby-sitta
Wash it daen wi Bonks’s bitta
Black-Country fowk doh wont fancy starters
We wont bercon wie grey farters!
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
The green handbag,
Clutched close,
Constant companion,
Matching clothes?
Not always.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Loose change,
And pension book.
Made up?
Take a look!
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Memory sac of
Nooks and crannies,
Papa, Grandkids,
Aunts and Grannies.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Held to heart,
Perched on knees,
A medicine chest,
With pain to ease.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Where did you go today?
Pointless question, Usual answer.
As ever ‘Up the Toon!’
Too soon,
Not today.
The green handbag,
Not clutched,
Nor held,
But at the foot of your bed,
A reminder of hope,
Where did you go?
Today,
The Green Handbag,
Sits at my Dad’s feet.
A monument to love,
In fading verdigris.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
*Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who's the fairest of them all?*
Is it me or is it you?
But you are me and I am you.
"Magic mirror in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?"
It's not you, you're too bland, like the bear's porridge,
lumpy, thick and grey. I think you were unplanned.
"Mirror mirror please understand, I need to know who's fairest in the land"
Oh, please take your pleas and understand this, if I were flesh and bone I'd give you a miss.
"Mirror mirror tell me true, do I look good to you?"
I'll tell you this you needy miss, I have no potion to cure your ails,
and wails and needy questions,
your face and body cannot be endured,
(not even by the big bad wolf, and he likes wrinkly grannies)
If I were you I wouldn't hesitate to put my head into the oven
I'll get Gretel to shove you in.
"You ungodly witch to be burned to ashes"
Mirror mirror on the wall why are you cracked?
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Peace! God’s Peace upon you all! The Bishop blessed
The dyed-young congregation: dyed fathers ‘n mothers,
Grandpas ‘n grannies, great-grandpas and great-grannies.
The demons of decadence--Hair dye, ****** and Spirits –
Chuckled and giggled, crouching well under the pulpit.
Dyed gurus ‘n financiers, dyed lawyers, doctors n’ nurses,
****** entrepreneurs and ****** entertainers, dyed judges
Dyed ‘n spirited evangelists, priests and vergers on ******
Peace be upon thee all! Blessed the Bishop from the pulpit.
Now, the demons in the hiding iterated and reiterated it.
A Sunday spirited chat—all smiles! -- in the church portico:
The Viagra-dyed banker in later life smiled a dyed smile
At the elderly dyed mother of three; and she said: they say,
In spite of my age, you know, I look so young and pretty!
And the thick flanks under her chin jiggled in approbation.
The ****** great-grandpa said to the dyed Justice of spirits:
Milord, they say: “The stuff brings cancer;” Fools! Idiots!
“The gloves—the condom-like device—that’s our safety!”
“Milord! This trinity wizard, they bring a million crores
To the exchequer of this famished democracy, milord!”
“Milord! The nature lovers say, we wash billions of bottles
Of these magic stuffs into their rivers and the seas, milord!”
“They say we all-- dyed ****** men-- are sissies and doofuses!”
“Milord! Our tubby women dye young, lest they’d be labelled
Mammy, Granny, Grandma, Old Granny, the decrepit ‘n that!
Now, the dyed media reported: father mated with his daughter,
Mother with a teenager, grandpa with an infant; and Ministers,
MLAs, MPs—all spirits-Viagra-dyed-- are in a ******* spree!
Now the Dark Trinity cried “Wow! In this world of ******
The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory--all are ours! Amen!
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Here's a story about a gang of grannies
Who knocked over a ***** hose store
They were nothing without their support hose
And they just couldn't take it anymore
Late one night at an old folks home
A few grannies were hatching a plan
Their varicose veins were getting in their way
Of catching themselves a man
So they decided enough was enough
And they'd reclaim their feminine wiles
And there happened to be a ***** hose store
Down the road just a couple of miles
Now if they got caught what would it matter?
'Cause it was a very small price to pay
And even if they gave them life in prison
Well that was probably just one more day
Now the leader of the gang was ninety years old
'Cause she had done this once before
She'd served a little time in granny prison
For robbing a false teeth store
Now their purses were their weapon of choice
Cause that's something they knew how to use
And if you've ever been hit by a granny purse
Then you know it can leave a bruise
Anyway, off they went to claim their prize
For it was much too late to turn back
Dressed in only their housecoats and slippers
Their purses and a burlap sack
To make a long story short they pulled it off
Just in time for the old folks dance
And you better believe those grannies looked sharp
In support hose and pink hot pants
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
It is pleasant and tasty.
It is bright and cheerful,
The children are blameless.
for the reason that they drink it.
Because their world is virtuous,
Ever since it was green and polite,
It is bright and blue.
So, the morning is flawless.
For sure, today's weather is good.
because the children are drinking "Koko."
And they eat so copiously of Kosai,
Their mouths feel the sweetest,
Their ears stood up straight.
Their bodies are boogying,
They dance well, twirling.
Because of the tasty taste of Koko,
And this was boiled so freshly,
In Safana's Poetry Kitchen,
For children, drink it hot.
It is really good.
It is really tasty.
Children, remember spring,
The millet is harvested.
Children, remember summer,
The corn is harvested.
Go to the farm and cut the crop.
It is a good thing in the morning,
for grannies to mix a porridge
A corn and millet porridge
and is an aroma in a pleasant atmosphere.
Children, let's dance and dance,
Because Koko is delicious,
And Kosai is also delicious.
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 9:59 AM UTC
Sara L Russell
A songwriter sat down to write
and tried and tried with all this might
to make the inspiration come
until the bowels of his soul were numb
until he almost screeched in pain
and forced an idea in his brain.
He strained, then like a thunderclap,
out came a song - and it was crap.
Established DJ's tapped their feet,
they thought it sounded rather sweet;
it had nothing unsafe to say
and so they played it night and day
and so they played it day and night
ad nauseam, as if in spite.
It should have been hurled down the nearest drain
but was played again and again and again
And so it got to Number One
and bored the **** off everyone
and so eventually went gold
as down the river the world was sold
as grannies bought it in their droves
(as if grannyhood behoves
the buying of such awful things)
And thus the turkey spread it's wings.
One day, a man with a broken heart
whose business venture fell apart
whose grandmother was very ill
stood high upon a window sill
and wondered, should he jump, or no?
And was six floors high enough to go?
As his aching heart began to thump,
He heard the song - and decided to jump.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
i walk out the door and it's a living anti drug ad---- grannies in pink with scars up and down their legs, youth with big black glasses chewin' out their teeth chumpin' for my change to score, leathered out n' shot up tracked all all over ***** men swaying with grins beating their heads against walls calling for MORE MORE MORE... just one more score... skeletal grave home... street sleeping slums of lonliness
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:53 PM UTC
'What happens to bad poets
when they die?'
'Aye, tis a good question,'
says the sotted brute
wavin his hand
whilst spittle flyin
with most syllables
'I yam told bad poets
stew in alphabet soup
and get eaten by
old grannies for
all eternity'
'I eard that one
but seems a waste
of good soup'
'Aye, and why de grannies
get involved it's a
misog misog
a ting against
women I'll bet'
'Well then, what might
you think?'
says the innkeeper
to the quiet sod
at the end of the bar
'Eh..I should think
they'd go with the good ones
cuz I'll be ******
if I can tell the difference'
'Aye' says all 'aye'
©2012 Lyn
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind being called Nana.
But she preferred, Granny.
She accepted that honor.
She isn't afraid of the tag.
And many grand kids cherish her.
Sure, she has her limits of toleration.
But like your parents.
She assist in raising you.
Some granny runs from the name.
They still trying to hold on to their youthful stage.
Accept many grannies accepts their age.
Yes, she go along with the Nana.
But its granny she loves.
And from her children to her grand children.
She totally loved.
More then parents.
In most cases.
They dangerous when it comes to protecting us.
Don't mess with G.R.A.N.N.Y
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
I guess my name is Fentyn
And I'm here to **** you all
Head to toe in xannies I don't give a **** at all
I'm coming for your grannies all your underpaid nannies
But first I'll **** your life up bet on every nook and cranny
made a couple asian friends their eyes are always slanting
But now from where you're standing I can do a some more enchanting
Now your boys suckin **** and your girl is dropping *******
This could have been avoided with a tiny bit of planning
It's almost rock bottom now you're panting when you're ranting
You're just another grain or two from hearing angels chanting
If it's death you're really after I'm then pretty close to granting
Just be prepared for landing
Come and meet my friends
Come and meet my friends
The only ones I know who'll be around until the end
They're all I've ever known and the bond has only grown
Look for my obituary, 23, unknown
I'm a little alcohol
Here for good times
And when you sober up its gone
Then you'll know you're mine
When we hang I'm feeling fine
But when you leave I can't ignore the tingle in my spine
A little longer and it hits my face and fingers but I'm fine
Except now I'm seizing and alone but this isn't how I'm dying
No one to reach if I could reach my phone but man I'm trying
Try to change it all you want man our fates are intertwining
Face it you'll be buried with a fifth of scotch and red wine
Then when you're feeling like the grapes hanging on the vine
Bleed out internally or be a *****
bring a nine to the pines
Come and meet my friends
Come and meet my friends
The only ones I know who'll be around until the end
They're all I've ever known and the bond has only grown
Look for my obituary, 23, unknown
I'm a little doctor, short and stout
Here are your pills, now get the **** out
When I get all steamed up hear me about
Jesus ******* **** me please I really just want out
Swallow the medicine smoke synonyms get the venom in
Bring your inner felon in, it's not a matter of melanin
It's a matter of dosing before you blow your melon in
Wake up with regret take half and try to sell them then
Use the rest on dope and rent and pay them off in 5s and 10s
Visions so blurry think you're paying out in yen
Get some sleep, I'll be here, we can do it all again
Ahem
I can talk about it because it's okay we're all friends here right?
Love you guys til the end
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 7:06 PM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
It's a shame...
That's, immoral
social indiscipline
politically bad ethic
And ethinic differences
Between you and the rulers
A wise person abuse no one
But himself for misconduct
No one respects any Nigerian
for our misconduct and then
corruption, fraud and stealing
How many foreign people are
swallowed, by these Nigerian's
cyber criminals...
North and southern ethnicity
Hausa/Fulani, Ibgo and Yoruba
the major ethnic groups are...
Muslims and Christian
Traditional and pagans
All, are of the same phase
of any crime activities and the
Selected and elected rulers are
from the same species of nature
Like ENDSARS, no one knows the
reason...
But I, slowly understand why
Robbery in the nigeran ancient
days, militia in the nigeran iron
age, religious crisis in the nigeran
social age, Boko Haram in the mid
age and abductions in the presence
age...
Because, you can't harvest the grannies old farm, you ran away
to the white men mansion to steal
in lieu of work to do...
🇳🇬🇳🇬🇳🇬
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 8:36 AM UTC