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There is no use in wiping your butt before you defecate.
I've lived places these guys can't defecate in.
quote by Mike Tyson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An elephant has enormous dung -- don't try to defecate like an elephant. Don't try to wipe someone else's ass if yours is unwiped.
To love all is to love none.
To love is to eat,
To hate is to defecate.
Defecation is as much a need.
Not to hate is peril
Choose someone to hate.
All love for all is a myth.
28.09.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Self-discovery
life is only in the doing
those very unimportant matters
(shall i enumerate them?
they are not of your liking
you who love
highlights
fireworks
and what is on top
of the building
beside the
starry skies)
i do now the most simple
things: sleep, sit, stand
sit back, sleep again
walk, talk to you,
cook and eat
and defecate,
there is no more ambition
nothing of those
fame getting stuff
i just discovered it.
Less is more
Simplicity is beauty
Life is just a moment.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Each Day Keep the Doctors Away...
just imagine
what happens when you have not
eaten even for once
in a day? or a week?
just once
or if you have not urinated
or defecated?
is that the reason why you
are writing
poems in a day?
or just once?
to eat you live
you die if you do not defecate
as simple
as a rock to lay your heavy head
a warm grass for bed
a moon for inspiration
sunshine for that
beautiful blush
as simple as
i am full and must vomit
or vacate
what lies inside
that wants to always
go out
fly away and then
be free
disowning that once
those wings were mine
those shackles
that once fettered
the bones of my mind
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Errors
there will be always errors
my errors
not yours, even your errors
shall be mine
for there will always be errors
that is too normal
for our lifetime
too short to be erroneous
but always real
too real to be touched
too exciting
to be always noticed
and too numb to be affected
by their
hypocrisies
you too? oh my, why?
don't you like to be the most normal
bird with only two wings
to fly?
how can you use a third wing?
to see with the third eye
aren't you funny to see
on this third
excess?
come, let us feast on these errors
drink these glasses of errors
be filled and vomit with errors
defecate these errors
and be empty again
after having learned so much
to become the
newest genius in this town
of errors.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Abraham Lincoln Poem
Sometimes it's hard to protect what is right
Sometimes we're scorned as for others we fight.
Some of us are willing regardless of loss
To commit our soul to save the cross.
Evil prospers on greed and human hate
Always eager to destroy and defecate.
God's grace descends on the souls of man
Cleansing the impure wherever He can.
As long as man has struggled on Earth
Life has had its troubles from birth.
God's seed of goodness has delayed man's demise
Thank Heaven for His heroes the strong and the wise.
The Lord adores His heroes of yesterday
Just how numerous, only He could say.
God loves His soldiers who line up to serve
By standing against evil His grace they deserve.
Tom's 480 Poems Are Free To Share!
If You Are Still In Love, Please Do Not Read This
i guess i am tired to talk about it
love
love, yes what is love to a person
who has loved many
and much?
love is no longer play
it is work too
so let me do it
like an ordinary business of the day
i love you i kiss you i hug you i make love to you
i sleep i wake up i eat i defecate i report to work
i relate to others
i go to church i go to the market and i stroll on the beach
i talk to you i argue with you i walk with you
i pay the bills i spend vacations with you
these are all works of love
in time
sometimes you do not like even
confessing it
you just want to be silent
about it
and just do it
like a kind of chore
time teaches you
and this is hard to accept
love sometimes
becomes an indigestable matter that you chew and swallow
on a rush
and there
yes, it is sad to say it
you feel like you want to vomit
as i once
vomitted it
and my father was so angry
he said he will disinherit me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To The Basics
it is not funny
it is true
that the more you hate the more you love the person that you love
try to eject
the person that you love from your system
eject, junk, spit, defecate
whatever you do
something in you is already missing
because loving is loving and it is
not:
ejecting but embracing
junking but keeping
spitting but swallowing
defecating but the eating of the pudding and the nourishing
try hating love and it always comes back to you
not to shame you
but always to love you again
to make you meek and gentle
to make you cry and smile
to make you all too human, vulnerable, weak and so forgiving
and something too hard on you as hate
becomes too soft
as gelatin
with lots of sugar and honey and milk and grapes and peach and
red red cheries on top of everything
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
The bird of paradise to the vulture has said
I wonder what you do to find yourself a mate
You're the symbol of filth, rotting flesh you cherish
Your bare head, crooked beak embodies ugliness
You do not feed your young with 'freshly processed milk'
But do with foul substance that you regurgitate
Rotten, so obnoxious for a baby not fit
On your legs you defecate, so ill-mannered you are
Hurling your foul vomit is so abhorable
And the Cuckoo agreed, yes it is true my friend
You're but the epitome of ugliness and filth
Nobody wants to care for you, nobody really does
I will not marry you if I'm your kind and size
Well you have said it all, everything for my kind
But before you speak, you should first understand
That for anything I do there is logic behind
On our legs we defecate to kill the bacteria
That cling to our feet from our dining area
The juice just cools our feet when the weather is hot
Not only that, my friend, it's anticeptic wash
And the vomit I hurl, it serves a purpose well
A projectile we use, enemies to repel
You spoke so fast my friend, you did not ask before
who between you and me has the misdeeds the more
between the two of us, it's you I'm very sure
You listen well, my friend, to you I'll say them all
You are a lazy brat, own nest you do not make
Nor hatch your eggs, just find a mother surrogate
In the nest of others there you just dropp your egg
And then leave everything to your demonic ways
The surrogate mother doesn't seem to realize
That one egg in her clutch is a stranger and fake
The egg you laid on the usurped, coveted nest
Of the other eggs therein, hatches way much ahead
Your chick having been born to harm and to destroy
Shoves up the rightful eggs, off the nest jettisons
A sure untimely death when it touches the floor
And if the lawful eggs are the first ones to pip
The chicks will surely die when your evil chick emerges
Very fast it will grow, the right ones overtake
without pity mauls them all with a hooked beak
Bleeding bodies fall to earth, sure and gory death
After the crime the hook fall from the nasty beak
Beak of a bird so young but knows the art of death
In this community, of sanitation we're in charge
Disposal of the dead is our daily job
What happens if carrions are to rot everywhere
Disease and death spreads, you won't be spared my friend
More than I, you're the one guilty of felony
If I were you, scram, and lost I better be
And you, Beautiful Bird to Paradise back you go
To the forest where you belong, enjoy your fashion show
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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Law Of The Bungle
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth.
Bowler-hatted; summer briefs
Beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense;
Economy moves non-residence
Approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh
Whenever lesser tigers have
To eat meat thats infected.
Being a tiger means your mate
When overfed will defecate
In places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must
Accept his promise of mutual trust
And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take
Second place to the cake you bake
And with undying servile obedience
Keep the stiffly starched collar
Of his conference shirt spotless
And remove daily the daubed bloody
Evidence of his dastardly misdeeds
From the otherwise immaculate elegance
Of his pinstripe tiger coat.
Period.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Refrained Persistence
The refrained persistence of the jackalope as he sneaks up on his prey
is quite obviously an allusive illusion set up by the colony of aristocratic
roaches who travel northbound at all times, no matter their geographical
location, and affects the dirt on which they all defecate quietly in an overly
neutral manner. The sadness of the situation is directed toward the masturbating
amoeba, who thinks entirely with her hands (and not her feet) , about whether
or not the weather will resist the flock of jumping beans placed strategically
to scatter the humanoids. The moral majority of pachyderms give their physical
consent to travel in numbers of herds unheard of, which creates anxiety among
bobcats and mountain goats alike, as they may wish to generate dismay within
the community of local elders. The spider eating emu then becomes ostracized
for his political beliefs and is forced to take shelter in shallowing magma.
poem by Zac Wittstruck
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To be extradited
Here I have to jump like a clown
through the hoop
when my aunt and mother
clap their hands.
Scatter papers with paraffin
out on the lawn
to make the dogs defecate
at another place
leave the animals outside
in the rain
while I am cosy inside
but to rake leaves,
to mow the lawn,
to drive to shops,
to take care of the animals
and to pick up their dung
I do not care about
and any reasonable request
and we are busy
driving to my uncle
who has got Alzheimer’s
and I hate
to see him now like this
and we are going to make a visit
to my dad’s grave
and I am scared
that the old blue car will break again
and the grave falls in further.
Twenty times a day
we have to worship,
look at religious DVD’s
and satellite channels
and I have to keep
my opinion for myself
and I wonder if age
makes you to become
hyper religious
still I am thankful
and walk the road
and my mother
is getting old too quickly
and the hour work keeps hitting
without ever stopping.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Life Is Not...
Life is not Facebook that can accommodate 5000 friends
Life is not Google that can search sites to questions you are seeking with
Life is more than your notebook, you PC or the internet
Life is not the phone, the tablet or any modern gadget
And life is not the noise, the song, or the music being played
Life is more than the fast food chain that can give your order instantly
Satiate your hunger, your delight and your cravings.
Life is more than the supermarket or the neighborhood grocery.
Life is more than the physical foods or the clothes or any raiment
There’s more to life than all these things!
Life is not the can of soda that can quench your thirst
Life is not the cigarette which you presume can relieve your stress
Life is not the beer that gives a minute of forgetfulness
Life is not the ashtray or the garbage where you dump your waste
Life is more than merry making, earthly pleasure, or worldly happiness
Life is not the chocolates, cup of coffee or a mug of tea
Life is more than the jewelries or your accessories
Life is not a toilet where you visit to defecate
Life is more than the bar you go to escape life’s regrets
and life is not the pill that frees you for an hour of anxieties.
Life is not the house, the car, the money or the vacation!
Life is not the party, the extravagance, and the frivolities
So don’t be in despair you cannot get all of these or these were taken away
Don’t be contemptuous to your dear ones if they cannot give you these
There’s more to life than all of these
(poem experiment)
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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When Wisdom Is Lost
When wisdom is lost what do we use to find it?
If the head is cut why should the cap become prominent?
Where the wall is broken, who clamours for keys?
When the man is burnt who still looks for beard?
'Tis only a fool that looks for the mark of cut in water
He only can look for the tracks of flight of birds
Or better still want to know what the corpses eat in the grave.
When wisdom is lost, the elders dance naked in the markets
Passing calabashes of palm wine in merriment.
Sleeping while riding their bicycles.
Where wisdom is lost the cobra looks like a rope;
Yes an ill wind that blows no one good
Oh why should the footless die fighting for shoes?
Or the toothless die for bones?
I am confused. Yes logically paralyzed.
On the wheel chair of wisdom, I see
Where the elders defecate in the open
On paths where their offsprings tread,
And in market squares where it must be
That in four days they must be back
When the offenses of odor its peak just reached
That means logic stand on its head
Wisdom lost its path
Then in the town of the blinds,
Where a one eyed man is found,
Who shall be the king?
Let the young flies be warned,
The animal that is slow lives longest in the forest.
But it needs little wisdom to know,
That is the fly that is ill advised
That enters the grave with the corpse.
When you prove me wrong,
My apologies I will tender;
And my ignorance I must admit.
Before warned, I was told, is before armed.
poem by Stephen Olufemi Omolara
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The Unwise Wise
Proudly, fiercely, they guarded wisdom;
wisdom that had outlasted fashion,
the cults, the sects, the mass conversions,
the messaiahs, and the promises;
They had gathered this knowledge
in the days of garnered wisdom
250 years before that guy from Galilee;
and then around twice his lifetime upon earth
as numbers dwindled, they stored this knowledge
in a cave not so far from Jericho,
near the sea that died into a lake.
Discipline, ritual, held them together;
and cleanliness; the communal latrine
was 1,000 cubits or a little more, say half a mile,
from the city where they lived; I guess
some walked, some ran
there from Qumran
– except on Saturdays, when
they were not allowed to leave the town
and therefore did not defecate that day..
then on return from the latrine, their faeces neatly buried,
a ritual, totally immersed bathing was required.
Alas, if these wise men had asked the Arab Bedouins
they would have known that, had they left their faeces
uncovered in the sun, it would have killed
the roundworms, tapeworms, whipworms, pinworms,
which, walked back on their feet and thriving in the ritual bath, slowly
killed this community of wise men from inside,
so that only 6 percent lived beyond forty years;
eventually depositing their wisdom on scrolls
(how few men left to place them there, that solemn day?)
to be uncovered after nearly two millennia
darkly in a cave.
That is the story of Qumran. I guess it's one
for those who say, what you live by, that, you die by;
in this case, ritual.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Christian Soldier's Love Poem & God's Poet Tom Zart
Humans have always had their need for love
Long before they could calculate the year.
Painting on the walls of caves and tombs
Stories of accomplishment, conquest and fear.
Life is a constant contest of struggle
Plagued by greed, love, war, work and debate.
Between all we love; those we tolerate
And some we can't help but hate.
I'd rather be loved and love in return
Than have a rich man's gold piled high.
Id rather be loved by someone worthy
With honor, compassion and no need to lie.
I'd rather be loved than be crowned a king
Of a vast empire of power and domain.
I'd rather be loved and never forgotten
Not alone, overwhelmed, and ashamed.
I'd rather be loved for my unselfish behavior
Eager to protect, provide and preserve.
I'd rather be loved for staying resolute
To my commitment to love and to serve.
I'd rather be loved for my awareness of duty
More than anything life can bestow me.
I'd rather be loved and receive God's grace
As I lay down my life before Thee.
GOD LOVES HIS SOLDIERS
Sometimes it's hard to protect what is right
Sometimes we're scorned as for others we fight.
Some of us are willing regardless of loss
To commit our soul to save the cross.
Evil prospers on greed and human hate
Always eager to destroy and defecate.
God's grace descends on the souls of man
Cleansing the impure wherever He can.
As long as man has struggled on earth
Life has had its troubles from birth.
God's seed of goodness has delayed man's demise
Thank Heaven for His heroes the strong and the wise.
The Lord adores His heroes of yesterday
Just how numerous, only He could say.
God loves His soldiers who line up to serve
By standing against evil His grace they deserve.
AMERICAN SOLDIER
It's not a priest that gives us our freedom of religion
And it's not a reporter that gives us our freedom of voice.
It's not any judge, lawyer, politician, preacher or teacher
But the blood of a soldier that has sacrificed by choice.
GOD'S POET TOM ZART
The Lord can close doors no man can open
And open doors no man can close.
It's up to us to prove our heavenly worth
By our lifetime example of the path we chose.
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By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
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God Loves His Soldiers Not The Mad Dogs Of Man
Sometimes it's hard to protect what is right
Sometimes we're scorned as for others we fight.
Some of us are willing regardless of loss
To commit our soul to save the cross.
Evil prospers on greed and human hate
Always eager to destroy and defecate.
God's grace descends on the souls of man
Cleansing the impure wherever He can.
As long as man has struggled on Earth
Life has had its troubles from birth.
God's seed of goodness has delayed man's demise
Thank Heaven for His heroes the strong and the wise.
The Lord adores His heroes of yesterday
Just how numerous, only He could say.
God loves His soldiers who line up to serve
By standing against evil His grace they deserve.
THE MAD DOGS OF MAN
Wherever dwell the mad dogs of man
There is corruption, plunder and hate.
In every city, town, or village
Those who promote distrust deserve their fate.
All are born as an innocent child
Till mislead by others along the way.
God has always loved His children
Though it breaks His heart when they stray.
The mad dogs of man never repent
For they have no sense of shame or sorrow.
Worshiping dominance and the dark side of life
Abusing victims as if there were no tomorrow.
God gives us the will to sin no more
And to overcome evil unwilling to cease.
The mad dogs of man must be stopped
Who murder, rape and destroy world peace.
Samson, Solomon, and David
Were chosen by God to stand tall.
They faced great odds and the fear of death
Refusing to ignore their call.
The time has come for the good men of Earth
To band together to restrain the horde.
Standing firm against tyranny where it exists
Putting the mad dogs of man to the sword.
SEPTEMBER 11th
After suffering the wrath of a sneak attack
America now mourns to her very core.
Though soon her enemies shall all but flee
From the sound of America waging full war.
Let there be no doubt, no doubt at all
That the devil has decided to give us a call.
We shall defeat hell's soldiers and cast them out
And if we die; that's what freedom is about.
We shall seek them out wherever they may hide
Street by street, house-by-house, cave by cave.
They will be eradicated from the face of the earth
By the righteous, the loyal and the brave.
Strangers in Peoria
I met a proper woman in a proper pub
on a Monday in Peoria. I was taken by how much
she looked like Jackie after Dallas
but without the pillbox hat.
She was from New York and I was from Chicago
and we were in Peoria for interviews
for jobs we thought we'd get.
But living in Peoria, we thought,
might not be a fit.
The lady was a surgeon recruited by a hospital.
It took a little prompting but finally she said:
'I repair pelvic floors in women.'
She paused to see if I'd react
and when I didn't, she continued.
'If a bladder drops, or a rectum tumbles
or if a womb is full of fibroids,
I'm the surgeon that lady needs to see.
These are ailments most men never
hear about unless they've had a wife
who's had them.'
She sipped her Coke,
dabbed the corner of her mouth,
and then assured me:
'When I get done, the lady's free
of all protrusions. She can urinate,
defecate and have sex again, all
without discomfort.'
Now I've met my share of women,
but I had never met a woman,
drunk or sober, quite like her.
I had no idea what to say and so
I sat and listened.
'Actually, my patients have a choice.
They can let me do the surgery or buy
a pessary, a device few women know about
until I pull one from the cabinet
and explain its ins and outs.
The pessary makes surgery seem simple
and so we pick a day for me to tuck
the organs back where they belong.
'Now, if the womb is full of fibroids,
I'll suggest that we remove the uterus as well.
I tell her we'll take out her crib
and leave her playpen intact.
Often that's the best solution.'
She sipped her Coke again and said,
'Somewhere in Peoria, as we speak,
a bladder's dropping, a rectum's quivering
and a fibroid's growing. Believe me,
if the salary is right, I'll take this job
because a fibroid in Peoria's no different
than a fibroid in New York.'
Then she put me on the spot:
'Well, that's my story. What's yours?
What do you do for a living? '
I took a breath and said:
'I repair sentences in documents
written by intelligent people
expert in arcane fields.
Some of them can't spell
or punctuate or if they can,
they dangle participles,
split infinitives or run
their sentences together
like mountain rams
in rutting season.'
For emphasis I added,
'I put muscle in their verbs,
amputate their adjectives,
assassinate their adverbs.
I give my clients final copy
they can claim is theirs.
The reader never knows
a ferret like me has dashed
between the lines,
nibbling at this
and chomping on that.'
Then I added a remark I hoped
would prompt a get-together later
for dinner and drinks,
another chat and a little laughter,
who knows what else,
before we'd have to take
different planes back home:
'I believe our work is similar, ' I said.
'I too put things back where they belong
and cut away anything protruding.'
About an hour later, we paid our tabs,
said long good-byes and headed off
in different directions. By day's end,
we'd both be flying home;
and although we'd still be strangers,
we'd be strangers who had had
an interesting conversation.
Not interesting enough, however,
for either of us to ask
the other for a name or number.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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