https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Thu, 15 Oct 2026 23:15:59 +0000 MyBB https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27667.html Thu, 15 Oct 2026 14:01:47 +0000 CRNDLSM]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27667.html Coffee didnt help at all
Oh no! Exploding out like water
Caught me sitting on the bowl
Theres no paper on the wall
Oh no! Time to take a shower

I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
Watch it all wash away

Good thing im already gross
Squish it in between my toes
Oh well! Plenty soap for all that grime
Some would say it smells like shit
I dont know im cleaning it
Oh well! Had to put it somewhere

I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain 
Watch it all wash away]]> Coffee didnt help at all
Oh no! Exploding out like water
Caught me sitting on the bowl
Theres no paper on the wall
Oh no! Time to take a shower

I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
Watch it all wash away

Good thing im already gross
Squish it in between my toes
Oh well! Plenty soap for all that grime
Some would say it smells like shit
I dont know im cleaning it
Oh well! Had to put it somewhere

I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain
I had to go! So I waffle stomped the drain 
Watch it all wash away]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27666.html Thu, 15 Oct 2026 10:23:04 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27666.html and the Holocaust merely a tall
Jewish tale. Only Stalin killed a million billion,
though less than Mao or his boy Pol
Pot. If only the Germans had won
Europe would still be white. Recall Patton
on Russia. Ok, maybe a different sort of white. 
What, do you really have to run?
It’s all right, Martha my dear. Next time 
we’ll come over to yours. Good night, friends, good
night.]]> and the Holocaust merely a tall
Jewish tale. Only Stalin killed a million billion,
though less than Mao or his boy Pol
Pot. If only the Germans had won
Europe would still be white. Recall Patton
on Russia. Ok, maybe a different sort of white. 
What, do you really have to run?
It’s all right, Martha my dear. Next time 
we’ll come over to yours. Good night, friends, good
night.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27639.html Tue, 06 Oct 2026 17:05:57 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27639.html Tombstone

I still come here to this graveyard,
and scribble on the tombstones for you,
till they’re rune stones for you.
In this corner, flowers never bloom
and maggots feast upon death cap mushrooms
while I read my deathless poems of doom and gloom.

The dead who once had happy memories
now cry at my poems of tender regret
and wish to die again, become fireflies,
or do anything to help them quite forget
my three score and more poems, not one or two,
about your picture, English Rose, boo hoo.

And though the stars enraged may glimmer,
I’ll read more heartfelt poetry for you
from a chophouse where the choicest verses simmer 
about a love that said “you’ll never do”.

And I shall be a grave digger afterwards,
searching the spot where I can bury you
to be captive audience for my heap of words
that friends say read better than Nancy Drew,
more heartfelt than Heathcliff, Kate Bush’s sadness,
so that I don’t jump a cliff for you.

I'll never truly understand this madness
about roses and the flower industry 
but I’ll wander back here with gladness
at being able to read more poetry 
and leave a rose for you, who thinks
she’s free to come and go. It stinks.]]> Tombstone

I still come here to this graveyard,
and scribble on the tombstones for you,
till they’re rune stones for you.
In this corner, flowers never bloom
and maggots feast upon death cap mushrooms
while I read my deathless poems of doom and gloom.

The dead who once had happy memories
now cry at my poems of tender regret
and wish to die again, become fireflies,
or do anything to help them quite forget
my three score and more poems, not one or two,
about your picture, English Rose, boo hoo.

And though the stars enraged may glimmer,
I’ll read more heartfelt poetry for you
from a chophouse where the choicest verses simmer 
about a love that said “you’ll never do”.

And I shall be a grave digger afterwards,
searching the spot where I can bury you
to be captive audience for my heap of words
that friends say read better than Nancy Drew,
more heartfelt than Heathcliff, Kate Bush’s sadness,
so that I don’t jump a cliff for you.

I'll never truly understand this madness
about roses and the flower industry 
but I’ll wander back here with gladness
at being able to read more poetry 
and leave a rose for you, who thinks
she’s free to come and go. It stinks.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27612.html Wed, 23 Sep 2026 19:41:09 +0000 dukealien]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27612.html

Your scythe’s grown dull, old Harvester–
it cuts the bloom of grasses raggedly
and some heads not at all, they merely bend
as if a moaning breeze had passed
not lord of all Earth’s ends,
their pride and beauty’s grim dispatcher.

Instead of cleanly clipped they waver on
upheld as if by vigor but in truth
alive in overtime by clever tricks
of life-support which stay your fated arc
too long: they blink, forget, and fade
but not to dust.

How they must mock you at the Horsemen’s Club,
those fabled slayers Pestilence and War
and Famine, though they too have shrunk away
to sulk on thrones too massive, overgrown
with poppies and their terrors overthrown
by Public Health, Deterrence, UNICEF!]]>

Your scythe’s grown dull, old Harvester–
it cuts the bloom of grasses raggedly
and some heads not at all, they merely bend
as if a moaning breeze had passed
not lord of all Earth’s ends,
their pride and beauty’s grim dispatcher.

Instead of cleanly clipped they waver on
upheld as if by vigor but in truth
alive in overtime by clever tricks
of life-support which stay your fated arc
too long: they blink, forget, and fade
but not to dust.

How they must mock you at the Horsemen’s Club,
those fabled slayers Pestilence and War
and Famine, though they too have shrunk away
to sulk on thrones too massive, overgrown
with poppies and their terrors overthrown
by Public Health, Deterrence, UNICEF!]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27606.html Mon, 21 Sep 2026 16:17:29 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27606.html Prophet Watches Instagram Man
in Robocop Suit Dance with Strangers

Since my wife got cancer
we treat every day like this.

We don’t give a fuck
if you think we are crazy.

We are celebrating life
day by day by day.]]> Prophet Watches Instagram Man
in Robocop Suit Dance with Strangers

Since my wife got cancer
we treat every day like this.

We don’t give a fuck
if you think we are crazy.

We are celebrating life
day by day by day.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27600.html Sat, 19 Sep 2026 23:08:15 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27600.html Interview

Where did you come from?
A hole in my mother.

Where are you going?
A hole in the ground.]]> Interview

Where did you come from?
A hole in my mother.

Where are you going?
A hole in the ground.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27599.html Sat, 19 Sep 2026 22:35:21 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27599.html Gracious maiestie, I hope you will forgiue these lines, dashed offe in excitement at the prospect of what I thinke will be our weddinge. I have been hid fourteene days in a village that owes its allegiance to your cosin Marie, and it is sweete to see that they loue your family soe. 
No one knows my (x,y) so toe speake, a code that the Frenche use for location ha!ha! Except Sirre Francis W. who assurede me that you would like to wed and calle yourself Mrs Walter Raleighe. That you woulde want mee to be head on high stakes matters. It bringes me ioy, for my actions in Irelande and the New Worlde in teachinge the minions respect are bearing fruit.
Until we meete, a fyne poem from the world’s fynest and handsomest poete:

~ Johne Doe (my nom de plume)


O highness, will you fancie me?
I will not call you an ugliee 
florid bummed fat baboone 
like they do in all the pubbes
naminge lard and tallow tubbes
after you, dear maiestie.
Onlie whisper sweete nothinges
into your time worn ear,
slip large dia weddinge ringes,
proven to fitte a bear,
and call you wife rest of your life
seatede on a comfy chaire.
Kit’s been run through with a knife,
and that dastardly Shakepaire 
is claiming all my verse for hisse,
addressed to ye, ladie faire
(for a white lie is not called a lie
by Saracen or Hindoo,
pagan Catholik bound to die,
e’en the scheming Jewe).
O highnesse,  voices heard outside 
call for mee by name,
and a goodly bitte of contryside 
has lighted uppe in flames - 
a bonfire to celebrate our loue 
queene and king new made,
am I to be re-knighted? I see
one draws near with his blade!]]> Gracious maiestie, I hope you will forgiue these lines, dashed offe in excitement at the prospect of what I thinke will be our weddinge. I have been hid fourteene days in a village that owes its allegiance to your cosin Marie, and it is sweete to see that they loue your family soe. 
No one knows my (x,y) so toe speake, a code that the Frenche use for location ha!ha! Except Sirre Francis W. who assurede me that you would like to wed and calle yourself Mrs Walter Raleighe. That you woulde want mee to be head on high stakes matters. It bringes me ioy, for my actions in Irelande and the New Worlde in teachinge the minions respect are bearing fruit.
Until we meete, a fyne poem from the world’s fynest and handsomest poete:

~ Johne Doe (my nom de plume)


O highness, will you fancie me?
I will not call you an ugliee 
florid bummed fat baboone 
like they do in all the pubbes
naminge lard and tallow tubbes
after you, dear maiestie.
Onlie whisper sweete nothinges
into your time worn ear,
slip large dia weddinge ringes,
proven to fitte a bear,
and call you wife rest of your life
seatede on a comfy chaire.
Kit’s been run through with a knife,
and that dastardly Shakepaire 
is claiming all my verse for hisse,
addressed to ye, ladie faire
(for a white lie is not called a lie
by Saracen or Hindoo,
pagan Catholik bound to die,
e’en the scheming Jewe).
O highnesse,  voices heard outside 
call for mee by name,
and a goodly bitte of contryside 
has lighted uppe in flames - 
a bonfire to celebrate our loue 
queene and king new made,
am I to be re-knighted? I see
one draws near with his blade!]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27594.html Thu, 17 Sep 2026 12:52:36 +0000 dukealien]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27594.html
“Male, female, other?”
HR asked me. “Idiot!”
I answered; she typed.]]>
“Male, female, other?”
HR asked me. “Idiot!”
I answered; she typed.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27567.html Mon, 07 Sep 2026 04:29:02 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27567.html White people, don’t 

White people, don’t try to be profound 
unless you’re Slavic, or eastern enough
to have identifiable problems, like ceded ground
and ink frozen in inkwells. Or Latin, doing it tough 
through dictatorial cycles. Or British, because the pound
has fallen so much that your ex-colonies are chuffed,
and Shakespeare gives you the right. Or continental, because you’re stuffed
with a welfare state and terminal decline,
so all you can do is jealously guard the names of your wines
like nuclear codes.

Basically, if you’re American, don’t write.
No one wants one more poem about growing up poor in Tennessee
or blacks being lynched. Sing someone else’s plight,
not the tragedy of suburban Dave
taking up up all the airwaves.]]> White people, don’t 

White people, don’t try to be profound 
unless you’re Slavic, or eastern enough
to have identifiable problems, like ceded ground
and ink frozen in inkwells. Or Latin, doing it tough 
through dictatorial cycles. Or British, because the pound
has fallen so much that your ex-colonies are chuffed,
and Shakespeare gives you the right. Or continental, because you’re stuffed
with a welfare state and terminal decline,
so all you can do is jealously guard the names of your wines
like nuclear codes.

Basically, if you’re American, don’t write.
No one wants one more poem about growing up poor in Tennessee
or blacks being lynched. Sing someone else’s plight,
not the tragedy of suburban Dave
taking up up all the airwaves.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27547.html Wed, 26 Aug 2026 19:43:24 +0000 rowens]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27547.html Fourteen

A Mad Max thru mystery;
if I know what and why,
like in Martyrs, I'd die.

Retrofit, honky-rig,
I pull a fractal out of a hat,
words, words, science, sciences:

I walk home alone like when I was in school.]]> Fourteen

A Mad Max thru mystery;
if I know what and why,
like in Martyrs, I'd die.

Retrofit, honky-rig,
I pull a fractal out of a hat,
words, words, science, sciences:

I walk home alone like when I was in school.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27539.html Tue, 25 Aug 2026 16:36:10 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27539.html Most Wonderful

In 1994 I met the perfect man
at Nordstrom: he was dressed in battle colors, ruddy
palms the size of shovels, handlebars as white as snow
around his laughing mouth. Dancing in his glasses
I saw every kind of chocolate. When I fell
into his lap, he told me I was good.]]> Most Wonderful

In 1994 I met the perfect man
at Nordstrom: he was dressed in battle colors, ruddy
palms the size of shovels, handlebars as white as snow
around his laughing mouth. Dancing in his glasses
I saw every kind of chocolate. When I fell
into his lap, he told me I was good.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27494.html Thu, 23 Jul 2026 19:30:36 +0000 driftwood]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27494.html There's nothing for me here,
wailed the sapling,
far too big a tree 
next to me,
taking all the sun,
there's nothing for me here

it is only the morning,
Sung the bird,
And you are young,
The sun will come,
It is only the morning

Do not fight the wind,
Said the big tree,
It will help you become
What you need be,
So that you may see the sun,
Do not fight the wind

Set your roots down,
Whispered the worm,
There is much to learn from the ground,
Spread them wide with no fear,
Only teachers will you find here,
Set your roots down

Sow your seed far and near,
Bellowed the bear,
And give life to the air,
For when the end becomes clear,
All that matters is who you hold dear,
Sow your seed far and near

You are a tree,
Your path is clear,
So have faith,
And live right here,
You are a tree]]> There's nothing for me here,
wailed the sapling,
far too big a tree 
next to me,
taking all the sun,
there's nothing for me here

it is only the morning,
Sung the bird,
And you are young,
The sun will come,
It is only the morning

Do not fight the wind,
Said the big tree,
It will help you become
What you need be,
So that you may see the sun,
Do not fight the wind

Set your roots down,
Whispered the worm,
There is much to learn from the ground,
Spread them wide with no fear,
Only teachers will you find here,
Set your roots down

Sow your seed far and near,
Bellowed the bear,
And give life to the air,
For when the end becomes clear,
All that matters is who you hold dear,
Sow your seed far and near

You are a tree,
Your path is clear,
So have faith,
And live right here,
You are a tree]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27472.html Sun, 05 Jul 2026 16:27:06 +0000 Mark A Becker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27472.html Singing Solo

She knows her solo well-
the rise, and fall
of each passage.

A lighter touch here,
more forceful there,
her contralto, legato

as she steadily builds
her crescendo, holding
a sustained vibrato.

Then, the sweet deep
release, to the sound
of one hand clapping.]]> Singing Solo

She knows her solo well-
the rise, and fall
of each passage.

A lighter touch here,
more forceful there,
her contralto, legato

as she steadily builds
her crescendo, holding
a sustained vibrato.

Then, the sweet deep
release, to the sound
of one hand clapping.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27466.html Thu, 02 Jul 2026 05:12:42 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27466.html Animal crackers in Buenos Aires

Middle aged expat Spaulding,
unhappily balding,
hastens to the door of
no doubt a dreary end,
each twilight Lang Syne Aulding.

Perhaps mysterious Spaulding
can no longer pretend,
looking past the balding, not
to miss the Garibalding,
nor from a rostrum scolding
his moonstruck countrymen
in Linz and Rostock, as well as in
proud Baden Baden,
toothbrush moustache twirling,
solar cross unfurling,
no meating and no girling,
with only foe, no friend.]]> Animal crackers in Buenos Aires

Middle aged expat Spaulding,
unhappily balding,
hastens to the door of
no doubt a dreary end,
each twilight Lang Syne Aulding.

Perhaps mysterious Spaulding
can no longer pretend,
looking past the balding, not
to miss the Garibalding,
nor from a rostrum scolding
his moonstruck countrymen
in Linz and Rostock, as well as in
proud Baden Baden,
toothbrush moustache twirling,
solar cross unfurling,
no meating and no girling,
with only foe, no friend.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27451.html Wed, 24 Jun 2026 00:21:50 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27451.html We’re sick of you

The English ruled the seas -
or the British, if you please -
and spread the game of cricket 
and taught their ABCs
and how to buy a bus ticket
in the East and West Indies -
that was when they’d work, not picket,
nor hide behind invented disease.

Now ADHD is grounds for 
leave, the sort you get pounds for,
and no one’s to blame for their fuck ups,
but the smart and wealthy, who are stuck ups,
or Moslems and migrants, not the dole bludging white,
says the Anglo-Australian-American right,
as they perform their Sturmabteilung stunts.

We’re sick of all you c***s.]]> We’re sick of you

The English ruled the seas -
or the British, if you please -
and spread the game of cricket 
and taught their ABCs
and how to buy a bus ticket
in the East and West Indies -
that was when they’d work, not picket,
nor hide behind invented disease.

Now ADHD is grounds for 
leave, the sort you get pounds for,
and no one’s to blame for their fuck ups,
but the smart and wealthy, who are stuck ups,
or Moslems and migrants, not the dole bludging white,
says the Anglo-Australian-American right,
as they perform their Sturmabteilung stunts.

We’re sick of all you c***s.]]>