"rotund" poems
He was large as frogs go
Fist-sized happy rotund dweller
of backyard pond
Garter snake large, too large
with his ominous yellow stripes
and jaws to take
a larger than average mouthful
Choked by abdomen's girth
Legs drooling from his glut
Before the victim's even hit his gut's
digestive juices
Kid with hockey stick makes him puck
for his sin
Frog makes desperate
slim swim for rocks
Where he lies in recovery
from shock and
teeth marks on his belly
Underdog gets defense from phone call-- Eve
150 miles away
intercedes
Frog gets mercy of a transport
to another backwoods pond--
to find his life
forgetting trauma
Suns himself and swims
Eats the bugs
and ***** the froglettes
of another day
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
This woman speaks in tongues
Foreign languages roll from her mouth
Like summer fog ladled over the rim
Of Candlestick Park
In the not-so-distant
Far far away of long long ago
This woman speaks in rotund sentences
Effulgent with vocabulary
That shimmers with the electrified joy
Of lights over Ghirardelli Square
In the not-so-darkness
Of the clammy and cabalistic night
This woman speaks with her hands
Impresciable, implacable, and inconsolable
As she tries to mold untranslatable words
From air that is as thin
As the promises she’d preferred
And purchased with the shards of her heart
This woman speaks in lyrics
Arpeggios of adjectives and alliteration
That tumble acrobatically with the intricacy
And grace
Of a hummingbird in spring
On the kiss of a blossom
Rich and fragrant and giving as
This woman speaking in tongues
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
And here am I
Saturday's brain
Saturated and static
Beautifully buzzing with anticipation
Glowing, large, gorgeous
I am rotund and proud
Filled with the blissful tension leading
Up to letting go
My heart, like roaring drizzle
Breathes up through my collarbones
out my shoulders and ears
A steady humming in my veins
My earlobes murmuring
In agreement
I think
I'll break the surface now
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
Insanity Is the comfort of a pillow, used for suffocation.
Insanity Is the warmth of a gun, used for a death shot.
Insanity Is the enabler,
The barrier breaker,
The undertaker.
Insanity Is a safety zone.
Insanity Is a shield.
Insanity Is a guard for all to take part in it,
All who brush with it,
All who dwell in it.
Insanity Is the abstract thoughts, the rotund ways.
Insanity Is the thought that you can do anything.
Insanity Is the fact that people can question, can insult, can pry,
And they never seem to affect you,
And they never will.
Insanity Is a soft room, padded with cushy walls.
Insanity Is a group of people, who try to figure out what's wrong.
Insanity Is not quite knowing what's going on,
Having that privilege,
Having that power.
Insanity Is engulfing, a single being in itself.
Insanity Is the process of losing yourself.
Insanity Is the way you go when you just seem to snap,
Lucky enough to see nothing,
Lucky that everything goes black.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
Blind to imperfections
Eyes feign concentration
Thoughts wander
But only to ponder
Possibilities that arise,
The love in disguise
Blatantly obvious,
To the envious
Embraces tighten,
Emotions heighten
White light shines
In perfect lines
Shuttered streams
Cross in beams
Latticed like lace
Across his face
A sleepy smile
A lazy mile
On crumpled sheets
Our gazes meet
Your eyes like diamonds
Sparkling and rotund
I’d die for you,
But that’s nothing new
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Published by Erosha, The Eclectic Muse, Muse Apprentice Guild, Nisqually Delta Review, Erbacce, Poetry Life & Times and Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: warming, pearls, necklace, ******* belly, rotund, Rubens, Rubenesque, **** painting, art, bath, bathing, seductive, sensuous, baroque, full-figured
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 3:37 AM UTC
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.
this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.
we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.
the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.
it's all levitation and transcendence.
the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the thud
of the senseless head of metal
on the body
the clackety-clack
of hours thereafter!
ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
appendage. the solstice is lost
in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of
thunder — the steady phoenix of
that night! this is learning
to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
this river flowing into our throats,
jamming our souls to compelling music.
remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.
Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.
Night is an ace temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.
Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be kinky,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Down behind the communal garages,
Our knees were scabbed and scarred,
Badges of honour, to ten-year old savages,
Earnt in chasis' of burnt out cars.
There, on the side of a wall,
Nineteen-Sixteen, had been daubed in emulsion,
Just another target for our ball,
To find its meaning ? we had no compulsion.
It was a circular Nine, like a giant comma,
And the Six was rotund, as well,
Against all the rules Sister Mary of the Immaculate Madonna
taught, in those hand-writing classes from hell.
It was similar to a giant 1690,
I'd seen in another part of town,
On the gable-end of a property emptied,
Before an our street versus your street showdown.
Then one day, the Old Fella' explained,
In 1916 we stood up for ourselves,
A pride in our nation regained,
As the G.P.O. was shook to its shelves.
"Son, we tired of crawling on our belly,
Being beaten, battered and conned,
Surely you've heard me talk of Connolly ?"
I said, Yeh he's me favourite James Bond.
But this was Liverpool, Nineteen Seventy-Two,
And me Da' had been over here years,
What he was on about, I never had a clue,
Though it was the first time I ever saw him shed tears.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
Abandon's clay roiled, doubled what pulse
of life...in tune and out of.
Pathological music derived from music...
ecstasy--whose recompense is a sound
loss of selves.
Multiform unto archetypal gods--Dionysus
first among, Apollo last among...eviscerated,
trophied, slathered upon these rotund
Grecian ladies and gentleman.
Hallowed names depart the incontinent
circle, forgone the synoptical scarlet lettering
of name...transcendence.
Torrent upon torrent of ambrosia down the
throat...skyward runoff of chins...scribbled
down the primordial bloom of ******
O sylvan gathering, crowns of laurel graduate
thee from materiality...a shuddering
beauteousness--broke shafts of light clash
lovingly from luminous head to head.
Here...the extenuating circumstance of
consciousness appropriated quoad sacra.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Feeling blue today
The truest blue and slew of good wishes
And feelings
And moods.
All is clear in my field of view.
Better than borrowed
I feel new.
It’s true
I’m blue.
She’s livid
A shiver of silver
Livings and fear of what mother will say
When she see slivers of shining silver
Shattered on solid floor.
She’s shaking
Scraping silver slivers
Into shaking, sweaty
Palms.
A rotund belly
Yellow sash orbiting
A loud yellow suit standing outside
A back door bordello.
A cello’s titillating echo
Feeling mellow
Look at that swinging yellow Othello
What a fellow
Those midnight secrets he’ll never tell, no.
He is orange
And no one much cares to rhyme about him
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
Claus, Santa, the
Is a huge enigma to me
And probably many others
My enigmatized sisters and brothers.
Enigmatized, possibly stigmatized,
It beggars logical thought
All the confusion and pain
This concept has brought.
For over two centuries
Surrounded with mysteries
An alternately jovial and evil guy
Brought bounteous gifts, could fly!
Gave coal to the misbehaving,
Or nothing much at all, saving
All the good stuff for good kids
Who were careful with what they did.
We have read of Saint Nick
And Sinterklaas; take your pick
Of which legend blended with what
To become the guy we were taught
Sneaked down chimneys at night
It you kids didn’t sleep tight.
While this is all very typical
It seems rather biblical.
Claus’s eye is on the sparrow
So we must walk the straight and narrow
Or go down into his big naughty book
And he will ultimately decide to look
Askance at any chance of gifts for you
No matter how much begging you do
Write to his eternal rotund self.
He’s an unforgiving old elf.
And there’s that flying reindeer thing
And the way he’s rumored to go zipping
Around the entire blessed world in one night.
That, to me just never seemed quite right.
It’s bizarre and incredible is exactly what.
Do the reindeer have jet engines in their ****
And how can one tiny sleight and eight beasts
Tote those thousands of truckloads at least?
No, the whole thing sounds bogus, in its base.
And that whole North Pole/tiny people place
Where they slave on making toys all the year
And thrive on hot chocolate instead of beer?
Elves must be a rather dim gang of workers.
No union leaders? No malingerers? No lurkers?
I have tried for decades, but it doesn’t add up.
There’s too much questionable in this holiday cup.
I’m going back to the idea I thought as a child.
It’s easier to believe and not nearly as wild:
It’s Mom and Dad behind it all, it’s a big lie.
And my final bit of skepticism? I can tell you why.
The kids in my little neighborhood get given
Gifts with no relationship to how they are living.
If all this hogwash were actually true
Bunches of them would get coal too.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
Porcelain goddess gaining momentum
Wishing she was anywhere but here
Popularity on hermit hiatus
Bile creeps up her throat
Bloated and dizzy
Binge. Binge. Binge.
Food a constant companion
Over indulge with sloth
Gluttony floods the senses
Smiles wreathed in decayed ruin
Mirror image rotund, unclean
Distorted into a thin, glowing unreality
I cannot make it through to your blistered self
Protected and coddled by strangling disease
You clean your toilet everyday
Hiding KFC wrappers under your bed until the smell permeates
Filth and Rot have become your calling cards
Twisted around the pinky finger of an esophageal acid burn deity
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:38 PM UTC
My favorite mistress
is red
round
and rotund.
She fell in love
with the tomato
on the windowsill
yet could not feel his touch.
Supposing she could change it,
she decided to
blush
for all eternity.
Now,
she coaxes in a Mr.
Earl Grey.
He slips into my bedroom
He infuses my space.
My mistress invites him
in with her song.
High and coarse,
yet
of it I will never tire.
Sing!
Sing!
Sing!
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
When she saw brown dots upon the rug,
and more upon a chair.
The poor housewife was certain
several mice resided there.
“I’ll need a cat. Or perhaps two,
quite possibly I’ll need four.”
“This quantity of **** demands
a feline killing corps.”
Just then her rotund husband
opportunely wandered in.
with a bag of Nestlé’s morsels
and brown stains upon his chin.
She watched him munch a handful,
several dropping to the floor
Hard to believe someone that fat
had ever missed his maw.
No killer cats were needed
if spouse droppings was the source.
What the housewife really needed
was a lucrative divorce.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
His mother bought the wool in skeins
with four children to clothe
knitting was so much less expensive
than buying woolens in the store
and who counted the hours spent
with the needles click clacking
plain and pearl in fancy patterns.
Every few months he would stand there
in front of his mother, hands outstretched
shoulder width apart
spindly arms and legs
holding the loop of wool
seemingly endless as he, in rhythm
with his mother, unwound the wool
onto the ball growing bigger
each length left his outstretched fingers
swaying in sync with the reeling in
at the finish, when he could go off and play
read a book, follow his early adolescent urges
running and jumping
he would imagine the ***** of wool
one for an arm, the sweater, a gift for Christmas
another for the old man’s winter woolie
his ganzy as he called it
keeping his rotund figure warm
despite the bracing wind
reaching into the bones
pulling out the last remnants of summer warmth
The son is older now
and all those jumpers are gone
cast into the past, a memory
sitting and standing
in rhythm together
creation and warmth
love and the click clack of needles.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
His life, he’d been frequently told,
Was a stepping stone to
Something better. His growing religious convictions
Taught him about the different levels
Of god.
The innocent child, sacrificial man, distant father,
Steadfast sister and mother.
It taught him not to lust after his pretty neighbours,
Man or woman, nor to daydream
Of unlikely trysts with all the inherent dangers
Involved but to expend his energies
In religious ecstasy instead
Agonising inwardly over the beatitude
And the internal landscape of the soul.
By the time he was forty, he reckoned
He’d got a raw deal. No money, no career,
No friends, just a lot of ****** prayers.
They put her coffin gently in
And he cried, watching it disappear
Unable to think of heaven.
He was not consoled now
By thoughts of
Infinite life.
The slow sounding of a repetitious tune
Amongst cloudy vistas of
Over egged benevolence.
He’d missed the boat, through
Worshipping too much. A rotund
Middle-aged man
With a sagging mind, brown teeth
And old fashioned clothes.
All he had now were his church
And his mother’s dying friends.
He threw dust over his mother’s grave
And walked softly away.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Bauble brothers, they hang red,
one rotund, one spouted,
both made a magenta
melancholy by the fog.
It whispers white nightly,
slipping ****** seeds
down with paper-funnel tales
of supple branches stripped,
and the skin-cracking eyes,
coming too soon to cull.
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops
I said to them, be my poem.
Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked
I said to them, be my poem
To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller
I said to them, be my poem
To a new born and then flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes of fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose
I said to them, be my poem
I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace
I said to them, stay and be my poem
Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and in my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow
So that one day, I too may become a poem
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
dark musty I am attracted, opposite poles,
a moth to the absence of light,
my mushroom blooms
the deepest shade of azure
awakening here, molding at the spore,
the leafs and paper and rat droppings
echo down the causeway,
the red rusted gutter escape flows into
nothingness behind me, I hate you; so obese,
rotund like a dimorphism of rubenesquery and retardation,
bent beyond shape,
borrowed against ****
I’ll collect the interest someday, maybe today,
or perhaps we’ll continue on smiling as we have
knowing that I pulled the last vestiges of your humanity,
shorn and weeping,
from your carcass years ago.
You are mine.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am a coffee mug,
Earthy, clayey, rotund and pouty.
I feel loved, embraced and wanted by you most times, other times I wonder.
I would rather be in your hands, kissing your lips and at least by your side in the outdoors or by the soft yellow light by your bedside where you linger with me and the brew lost in your thoughts or a beautiful book.
I live in harmony with your favourite blue wooden tray- my carriage, the small silver spoon- to stir up a storm and create music in me, and that cane worn out coaster that fits my round ample bottoms so well.
I dream of holding magical coffee brews from lands close and far, dark.
Robust, wholesome that would make you moan in delight.
I sometimes dread that you read too much in wellness and what if you get influenced to drink less of coffee and fill me up with some detox potion, oh I worry about that so!
I am so majestic, grand and covetable and you love me so, so many options you have,
but to me is always where you go.
I stay awake humming while you sleep, in the morning I pour love into my crevices to welcome the brew just right for you.
The best thing I have done is to never give up on you but I just reciprocate what you do too💕
I sometimes carried brews so yucky for you,
Despite your love, I feel guilty of needing constant validation from you.
My favourite time is bringing in the dawn together with you or watching the rain while you lovingly caress me watching the pitter patter of raindrops on your windowsill.
The point of my life is to spread joy and give lovingly and empty myself for you.
I would like to be remembered as your forever favourite, giving, loving, being held till my last crack and then you make me into art to lie by your bedside as your favourite coaster to welcome the new one
but I will be your forever one☕️
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Published by Erosha, The Eclectic Muse, Muse Apprentice Guild, Nisqually Delta Review, Erbacce, Poetry Life & Times and Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: warming, pearls, bath, ******* constellations, belly, rotund, Rubens, mrbsex, body, art, painting, ****** erotica, **** ****** naked, flesh
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 3:52 AM UTC
Naked Politicians
Once someone sent me a photo of a famous German politician
The photo was from a nudist beach and natural she was a sixteen-year-old girl
smiles shyly –with some reason- she never was a beauty but
All sixteen years old are gorgeous
For me, it made her more human and I have never seen the photo since
Wouldn't be great if we saw all politicians in the **** say, Trump or India's
Morsi. The Israeli prime minister would cast a rotund figure without his corset
Erdogan and his wife holding hand only shielded by a newspaper
he has banned, Putin naked in his swimming pool perhaps he has a small ****
naked around a conference table somehow the impressive would became
less so and more human to bow to a woman who has forest of a ****** or
shake hand with a man with a dangling ***** my dear they would look so
vulnerable that a war would be impossible and we would giggle and they
would go home stat judo classes or take up jogging or spend time in the gym
they would never have time for war.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
I am watching you as you unknowingly watch me for hours. the only exercise you experience is the blinking of your eyelids over your continuous staring. I watch. My eyes on the your heartbeat thumping in your chest. your mouth dangled half open with the beginnings of saliva drooling into a pool on the corners of your mouth before swelling full enough to seep over and fall onto your rotund stomach clothed in a worn-too-thin black tshirt complete with cheese puff dust and gravy and mustard stains.
I watch.
I see.
I do my job.
I herd the cattle in front of me. I control the directions that they go to eat, to sleep, to think and feel; I excite them or I depress them.
I control the cattle.
I control you.
I am your television.
And There is no turning me off.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC