Quotes about plop, page 5
Stupid Mistakes We Men Make
The time is growing near- and we are about to part.
I did something stupid and it really broke your heart.
A sexual chance had arose, and the wrong
Decision I had chose.
How could I accept something that was given for free
And let my sexual desire over power me.?
Man sometimes uses the wrong head
And we plop right into bed.
In this position I would not be
If I was to have stopped and thought it out
Of this I have no doubt.
How could I have done such a stupid thing
Knowing in my life, the grief it would bring.
I had vowed that I would always be true
And I broke that promise to you.
I see the hurt in your eyes, as you gaze
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poem by Louis Rams
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In Tents
In Waltham, on a Soccer field
A city of pink tents was pitched.
A neighborhood with real thin walls
Some chat, some snore, some mainly itched.
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Streaks of lightening split the sky
Soon, I knew, the rain would come here.
We must find shelter, you and I.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Silly Poem
They flew on a moonbeam
and danced on the stars
the giraffe looked at the kangaroo
and said how do you do.
Old Mother Hubbard got into the act
when she went to the cupboard and found it bare.
“Sorry guys there is no food in there.”
Tom Thumb jumped up, said I’ll play mum,
and with that pulled out a plum.
They sat round the table
the giraffe, the kangaroo,
and the giraffe asked what you eating roo?
Caterpillar stew because wise guy
I hate to see butter fly.
Pinocchio stuck is nose in
like he likes to do
when suddenly it grew and grew.
A passing elephant looked in,
“Hey Pinocchio can you play a tune on that like I can do? ” Therefore, the nonsense band was born.
They played all night causing a bit of a storm,
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poem by David Harris
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Sorely Neglected
As obvious as a three dollar bill.
And yet its counterfeit use,
Has not brought about any attention!
Could it be...
Those of this persuasion on a spending spree,
Are in a self praise mode?
As values continue to plop,
Without flushing down an ignored commode!
They enjoy taking a self righteous stance.
As a reality that is touched and felt...
Loses an appeal of a tasty sharp cheese melt,
Once delighting with a zest and zeal.
And sandwiched in between,
Are those of religious doctrines screaming.
They would like to believe their values are wholesome...
But contradicted values displayed on the streets,
Have found them much dismissed and benigned...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Put a Sock In It
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!
Many getting sick of the pickiness started.
And when it gets sticky they can not stop.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Search For Silence
I'll sit here in my bedroom
where the silence is sometimes deafening
(when I have thoughts on my mind
that need to be discussed) .
As I clear my mind to listen
to the silence
I realize there is no silence here.
The ticking of the old wind-up alarm clock
becomes so loud...
I feel compelled to move
my ''experiment'' to another room.
I find a comfortable spot
in the bathroom.
Sitting on the bench that normally holds
the all-important reading material
I begin to listen for the silence.
It takes very little time
for me to realize this is not the room
for silence.
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poem by Mary Nagy
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A Mother's Lullaby
Oh, my child, fret no more
Close your eyes and go to sleep.
Here I am by your side
Singing lullabies, sweet and cherished.
All sounds are stilled for you to sleep in quiet
All lights out that no beam hurt your eyes
All storms calmed that to a blissful rest you glide
No horrifying dreams to rob you of your snooze.
Sleep, sleep rocking in the sea of joy
Sleep, sleep close to your mother's throbbing heart
Sleep, sleep listening to this gentle lay I tune
Sleep, sleep to wake, to the miracle of life.
Fear not, around you much love abounds
And legions of angels, to guard your sleep.
Thy eyes shall hither new beauties behold
And many a marvel, for you to rejoice.
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poem by Valsa George
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I Want To Be The One Who Yah Yahs
I don't want to be that singer,
Of a long song gone.
Or be the one defeated,
By two unmoving feet.
I don't want to feel them stuck as if cemented,
With a sitting to waste time away.
I don't want to be that singer,
Of a long song gone.
Not any time of any day.
I don't want to be that singer,
Of a long song gone.
I...
Want my happy yah yahs.
I want that in my voice and strong.
I want my yah yahs there and a part...
Of my happiness all day long.
I don't want to be that singer,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When I landed in Coney Island
I was in luck because Candy sat alone
in Kansas Fried Chicken.
She possessed the soul of a poet
and the body of a sex goddess,
but things had not gone well for her,
I was sure of it,
even though she never spoke
about the details of her life.
“How do you feel? ” I asked.
“Snowing, ” she said,
“just your kind of weather.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you get this liking for the cold? ”
“I told you I was born in Siberia.”
“Last time you said Outer Mongolia.”
“They’re close.”
Just then Irving trudged in.
I nodded to him
and he sat at our table.
“I got to have an operation on my leg, ” he said.
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poem by Charles Chaim Wax
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Brooding Sunset Before The Storm
Brooding sunset before the storm. Over ripe apricot
left out in the sun too long. Heat brain
boiling its thoughts in their own womb.
The clouds lumber like thundering Diplodoci
Slowly and in herds. Continental rifts in Pangaea.
Black outs and the lightning roots
of unknown blossoms sticking out their tongues
like petals to taste the first drops of rain.
The air menacing, thick, humid as lipstick
foreshadowing climactic things to come.
Sky bound i.e.d.s, and the pigeons scattering
for cover under the eves from overhead drones
that have been circling all afternoon
with the turkey vultures looking for road kill.
The windows set up like easels for the show.
Action paintings of still life with blitzkrieg.
The crackling of glass that layered black over white.
Oleaceous vapours of asphalt on roofs and roads.
I can smell the late Jurassic in rut from here
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poem by Patrick White
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