"ump" poems
A female tennis player might give
An umpire a piece of her mind
When she disagrees with him.
Consequently, she is fined
Or penalized in other ways.
However, if the player's a male,
He can spit, destroy his racket,
Yell, and viciously assail
The umpire at a tournament.
He could even resort to calling
The ump an "abortion," and little or nothing
Happens to him. Now THAT'S appalling!
A candid man might be considered
"Direct" or "outspoken." Isn't that rich?
But if you are an assertive women,
You are basically called a *****
A man who loudly demonstrates
At a Senate hearing in an angry fashion
Could be considered "aggressive" or even
Be called a man of "impetuous passion."
A woman, however, who interrupts
A Senate hearing with passion hears
Herself being called "hysterical" when
She's led away to Senators' sneers.
Sexism? Discrimination?
Inequality? Status quo?
It certainly appears that way.
The double standard has got to go!
-by Bob B (9-11-18)
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
For your convenience
and mine, I am
kind and sensitive at times, just
enough to make you believe that
friends like me are
rare. That's why you can't make out when
I begin to
exploit you and it is when you begin to
notice, that I defend myself, say you exploited me,
dump you like I planned and
soon become a fake friend of someone
hapless and rare like you were, while
in the meantime you become like me;
perhaps that's why fake friends are not uncommon.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
sports fan, sports fan
have you heard
Brett is ******
for gettin the bird
he hit a shot
clear outta da Bronx
the Yankee's lost
and raised a point
about pine tar
pine tar on the bat
too much sap
ain't where its at
George broke a rule
by an inch or so
so the ump took back
Brett's big blow
a royal frenzy
soon broke out
they took Brett's stick
the fan did shout
Pine Tar, Pine Tar
on the bat
you wipe too much
you can't do that
Youtube Video:
Pine Tar Game
jbm
Oakland
9/15/88
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed
Trumpeting, he ******* and triumphed…
Did he, has he?
Thumping his way forward,
Jumping through the hoops of word and phrase,
Razing those that blocked his ways,
He dazed the lot.
Crazed, ablaze – or not. But hot,
He took a stand,
But didn’t seem to understand (and may not still)
That energy attracts a gangland:
Thinking not that crowds could form,
Become a throbbing, clobbering or bombing mob:
A swarming army.
Young we heard,
You can’t take back the caustic word
Once in the air it’s there!
So rather than lie down
Crowds gather,
Drawing to themselves an anger,
War uncivil,
Civil war
once more,
And monies that he’s vowed to earn
Will burn in costs for crowd control, police patrol.
The day that Trump was voted in
May not, in fact become a win -
For reasons manifold and sundry.
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed 11.11.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II: Special People, Special Occasions,
Arlene Corwin
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
Anybody literate can read and write.
But do they understand?
Can they see and feel the deeper meaning?
Do they hear the poets words?
Emote along with the writer?
Find a chord striking them within?
Gasp at the beauty in the imagery?
Hold their breath as the poet weaves magic?
Inhale the scent of sweat the poet gave?
Jump at the twists and turns?
Keen to learn the ending?
Laugh and cry along with the poet's words?
Mope at the end?
Not wanting to let the words go?
Opining their views, not the poet's.
Positing assumptions not the poet's.
Querying imagery, syntax, metaphors and similes.
Robbing the joy from the poet by making grand assumptions.
Seeking to emulate the greats, and join the canon.
Taking what they need from the words written down.
Utilising the poem as a learning tool.
Venerating the poet and their work.
Words speaking to them from afar.
Xanthic coloured complexions, as they read into the night.
Yanking at the pages of the book.
Zealously impassioned by the poet's conclusion.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
*A profound moment lost forever
In the wake of worry
Awe’s reverent beauty
Overlooked for life’s illusions
No wonder lights the soul
As worry’s froth and foam
Clouds one’s perspective*
Lost in thought and never saying never
Everything is blurry like walking in a flurry
Beauty surrounds me even when I feel pity
Chances squandered, like when an ump cried "foul!"
I dance with death with awe
Each move so seductive
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
Baseball, the national pastime,
one of the slowest games in the world;
hot dogs, beer and half-crazed fans,
once the sphere is rudely hurled.
The rain, the wind, the humid days,
we sit for hours and cheer;
what is it about this loony game,
that to us the fans, endear?
We hate the ref, will taunt the ump,
we hoot and call out loudly;
they play the national anthem,
and most of us stand proudly.
The Red Sox and the Yankees,
the losers and the best;
it gives us fits and starts,
so much, we cannot rest.
But when that ball goes in the stands,
it's a lovely thing to see;
who can live without the game?
certainly, not me.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
This is for the old brotha...
the seasoned brotha... who made it
(you made it baby)
to have pretty much gone everywhere he had to go and
did every thing he had to do
for every body he had to do it for and
now rises each day and shaves and dresses and
dons his hat to gather down to the
barbershop or general store or shade tree or park to
play checkers or chess or bones or spades...
tell tall tales and short lies...
about how and when and with whom it was back then...
but stops
as i walk by and
breathes deeply as if to
enjoy a whiff of womanly me... and tips his hat and
holds the door and smiles a smile that even now
under the ravages of
time and being black in america
is still **** and kinda sweet..
while the others softly co-sign...
"ump, ump UMP!" or
"my, my, my.." or
"Miss Butterworth!"
and makes a well-rounded old girl like me
smile her own kinda sweet smile....
and thats enuf
this age old ritual
is enuf somehow
for now…
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Not many understand or get how I feel
our minds are being washed by this corporate treadmill
we run and run but to avail we only work to provide them wealth
we ain't getting no richer but we fail to develop the picture
well three strikes there out I'm an ump or a pitcher so Im calling the shots and striking them out
step of the treadmill and look from a far our lives are being controlled and we think
well
that's jus the way things are
we are life and I'm tired of running every time you look up someone's tryna sell you something
yo check this out its new best thing man **** all that were the only best thing
me and you john sally and billy to I've made this a joke kuz I'm laughing at it to!
What is our world coming to or should I say where is going back to kuz history's on replay and its happening on the media right in front of you
I'm not alone with these thoughts and thank god I'm not
unless u dnt have brain and then well its not my fault
Keep running on the treadmill like a captured hamster
then you will see that you are really captured !
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
I offer no useful explanation
No news flash story on the madness of my life
Cause there's sorrow and sadness, yes
and loss and
"yes and no" answers
25 years of grieving bereavement
Me at my hastily finalised funeral
Songs and soundtracks
A casket carried out
To far approaching forever
Awkward; pausing moments
The pall bearer moves, nervously
Slips
Someone
Plants an assuring hand-
Mateship stays but Death-
Death
goes on and on and on
Rattle ump thump
And the end is never near,
And always.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
mother was a saint
father her punching bag
sisters were all called *****
when they came home
and failed the ***** check my mother
gave them, mother did nothing wrong
she ruled with brick hard pork chops
and circles of us kids
screaming , a belt in her hand,
who stole my chocolate bar?
No wonder dad had other things to do,
referee in basketball and hockey
an ump in baseball,
a head linesman in football
a devoted Boy Scout mentor,
he mentored so many young men,
but was not there for me.
I grew up not knowing how to tie a knot or survive,
I was lucky mom favored me.
I guess because in that circle of five kids,
me being the youngest , before school age,
to stop the terror I said I had stolen that candy bar.
She was a smart saint, asked me what kind was it?
I failed and was dismissed from the circle of terror.
I went to my room the rest of my days at home
trying to balance the sanity from the insane and withdrew.
I bounced ***** off the wall. Made up fantasy baseball players.
Had all their statistics scribbled in notebooks
year after year, always my name was there and I was better than Babe Ruth. Somehow , I was smart enough to get the hell out of there.
I got out earlier with mescaline mushrooms *** lsd Quaaludes
alcohol young girls. But, I got out fully when I left to join the Air Force.
I look back and state all this for the purpose of saying it was
all my fault, not mom's or dad's, mine. I was weak.
It took me years and years to figure it out get strong find my voice
consider my mom as a saint again
and my dad as a martyr!
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
Th-thump th-thump th-uuuuuump-ump-ump
Strange skyline
Under a paper moon
Broken parties in the dark
With still steel yelps as well
My knight without stars,
Wherefore art thou?
Not inside this concrete palace,
Nor my own bone sarcophagus.
You came.
You saw.
You left.
(Me, with this awful internal techno-music, no offense.)
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
P a c i n g,
POUNDing,
high
and
low,
ump ump
th ing, b ing,
beat
of
my
h e
a r
t.
You
STOP.
and lOOk
my w
a
y
I…wonder…what will
you
DO?
But you
leave
(me.)
You smell nice.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
And so on and especially so forth, as it shall in time provide your journey's story and future clues to the scavengers of whom may choose to pursue, and even if they might peruse and cruise, they shall never ***** or shout, or begin to muck about but instead all cohesively be care free and gumption fillled to the Ump's teenth degree. Progress for the Better, Don't read the blinding letter... but if you do, Why pray our souls to keep, in a pickled formaldehyde case, so ******* cheap, that it eventually begins to seep and creep into the membranes of societies creek, who proceed to reap... and sOw, everything you thought you know, and renipulate and regurgitate their own versions of twisted and ManUScripted fate. They say don't hate, just **********
But the Globe is warm, despite all their charm
So I say we try and pray collectively all at once some day and unite the nobles of our HUMAN race.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-Rump
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?
The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.
A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)
T-Rump is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.
Alas when sizing up T-Rump
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-Rump!
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
*******
There once was a man named Trump
Whose hair looked like a clump
A little bit plump
Never caught looking like a frump
He lived in a home that was no dump
It didn’t even need a sump pump
For some he was a pain in the ****
Yet you would never call him a schlump
Some thought he was a grump
Others said he was no chump
He did like to make people jump
Causing people’s throat to have a lump
Rules didn’t apply to him, no need for an ump
Even when his business was in a slump
Like most he did have the odd bump
For everyone runs into a slump
While there were those that did want him to flump
So along the way he could see a thump
Still others did relay you were a mump
I say so long old friend, Mr. T. Trump
Trump (Ted) 1925-2005
Andreas Simic©
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of
the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I thought about killing myself today...
again
for the ump-teenth time this month.
I was wearing that yellow polo
and thumbing through the pages of a book
of poems
by Bukowski
if I could only write like him,
I thought --
then I’d be somebody.
I don’t even like that shirt
but I wear it anyway
because
it’s comfortable.
maybe that’s exactly
how I feel
about my
on-again-off-again
relationship
with my
suicidal thoughts –-
I’d never actually do it,
I tell myself
*I just like to think about it
because
it’s
comfortable*.
oh --
we’re such silly creatures of habit
aren’t we?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Soap Box "B"
A Poem by Corset
Be
an
American.
Be brave or stupid
Be hetrosexual, or not
Be Married.
Be a woman, Be a Man
Be what you want.
Be any beautiful shade you are
Be of sound temperament
Be loved by the same faces
that loved you yesterday
Be together.
Be brave, Be young and
Be passionate about politics
Be your country
Be democracy
Be on T.V.
Be a selfie
Be destructive
Be rebellious
Be arrested.
Be on the pill or iud
Be responsible or
Be pregnant
Be proud of your choices.
Be Haiti reconstructed
Be the billions with
nothing to show for it.
Be the tin house you live in.
Be the private bank
Be the education it builds
Be the proof of education.
Be corrupt, Be rich
Be a woman bent for president
Be his wife
Be hacked
Be downloaded
Be incredulous
Be hopeful
Be ridiculous
Be Crass
Be honest
Be charismatic
Be belligerent sober
Be incumbent.
Be remembered
Be relieved
Be backed up with Pence
Be pleasantly suprised
Be concilitory
Be loyal
Be humbled by enormity
Be a drama queen
Be insulted
Be a star
Be a model
Be a first lady
Be the love that tr(i)ump(hs)
over hate
Be a good loser
Be all the American
you can be...
be politically correct
Be legalized
Be ******
Be familiar with the first admendment
Be a reporter
Be citizen Kane
Be an American
Be diverse
Be accepting
Be welcome
Be of any ethniticity,
race, creed, religion or
of ****** orient
But first you have to be
a citizen,
so,
Be
One.
Indivisable.
© 2016 Corset
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
It hit me almost like a car would
But a lot more softly.
I was walking down the street
To the ump-teenth job interview
As I noticed where I was standing.
I was on the other side of the street
Of where you intercepted me
About 6 years ago.
Vaguely I remembered
Having played around with you
We worked hard, we gamed hard.
"Where do I put this pallet?"
"Just there, in front of the computer"
I raised my eyebrows
and pushed the pallet
Right up against the computer.
"Here?"
"Yeah"
I smirked at you and released the switch
As to leave the pallet right up against the computer
"No! I meant with a gap so I can still work"
"I know what you meant!"
I turned on my tracks and ran off laughing.
It was high season
You could not have gotten your hands
On a transpallet with the best will of the world.
"Woman, I'm going to get you for this!"
Put your game face on sweetpants
You started driving me home
I was nervous and you could tell.
I waited for you that night
But you never came out
So I took the bus home.
okay maybe he's done playing
I thought to myself
As I crossed the road.
A blue Volkswagen Golf
Stopped on the crossway
It was green for me
What's your problem dude?
The lights turned on inside
It was you
"You need a ride?"
"I thought you went home"
"No but I chased the bus until here so I could drive you home from here on"
Thanks for getting my point
Thanks for all the years after
Thanks for your current commitment
Even though we broke up.
And thank you for always getting the message,
Even though you never listened.
Thank you for all the years you gave me
As a result of a game we used to play at work.
I love you, like good friends love each other.
With the same loyalty and commitment.
You haven't lost anything
It just changed.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
At the play waiting for the right pitch
The pitcher chucks the first ball
The ump calls strike, I'm thinking. About swinging
Set up for pitch two the ball comes my way
Take a cut of the ball it a foul ball
Need to time it out make contact
Nothing fancy just get on the base
Sports always took the madness away
Wasn't always the first pick or a starter
Most hate the training but I loved every minute of it
Game days always made everything worth it
Always something to learn gain from
The experience made life seem less **** ***
Part of a team everyone made an effort
Being part of a team now a days means they want the job but don't want to work
Anything was better than being home
Always wanted to make everyone proud
No one cared or gave a **** it wasn't about them
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC