"biscuits" poems
* *You was like,
need your help...
I was: Yes,*
*Help you Odo-Ban
and ***** jeans
my only soap.*
*Help you Odo-Ban
and ***** jeans
my only soap.*
EAT MY BISCUITS!
u V p
****
*Those my biscuits,
Ban-dana Jean...
my comely soap.*
(k) NIGHTED
*Help you Odo-Ban
and ***** jeans
my only soap.* *
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
High on'a farm,
make a needle biscuits
water-up sits creek
jostle potatoes,
pan-pot boiling
-with carrot cake.
Purple sky,
tractor runnin'
time of day,
sun low.
E'er body say,
"Why dou'a on'a farm?"
entered-dat du da future;
not Ford'ed fields.
Face it dou'a future,
"Dat future know it's place." *
*Sweet devils singin' to me,
sweetened tongue a' beautiful place. . .
*"E'erthing set in place, ***** wit I say,
-dinner on-ma tray."* *
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got,
So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot;
Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain,
Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.
Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief,
And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef,
Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right
And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.
'Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who'd stood his friend,
To adopt a slang expression, "went in off the deepest end",
For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse
He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.
Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate:
'Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate,
And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day,
Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, "On your way."
8.4k
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Venti, I admire,
I wish I was like you who soars through the sky.
Free like the bird you are,
Unburdened by worries,
just like stars dancing at night.
venti sits.
Up in his statue,
He admires the city,
that he built.
Venti, my sweet,
How lovely is it for us to meet,
Your green hair, your glowing locks,
Please comfort my soul, so my heart will be unlocked.
Your voice, your longing stare,
I love that you're always waiting there.
Your dreams, your goals,
I love that you'd rather be free,
like the god of wind! You fly happily.
Venti, my sweet,
stop drinking wine,
you're higher than a grape vine.
Venti, my sweet,
You prevent me from getting enough sleep.
my thoughts wander,
to your fantasy world I wish to discover.
Your calming presence speaks,
volumes of comfort,
You never fail to bring me relief.
May you sleep well.
I'll be back for tomorrow before you say farewell.
I love your antics, I love your voice.
I love that you play with me, I love that you bring me joy.
Venti, my sweet,
Come have a picnic with me!
At Windrise, for an afternoon tea.
There's cake, there's biscuits,
a lovely day, for you and me.
A picnic, with me!
I'm sorry, I didn't get you alcohol,
I worry about your alcohol capacity.
It rains.
You once asked me to come out and play,
over puddles, in patches of green grass, mist and hay,
What a lovely way to spend the day.
venti,
your beauty is like no other,
as pretty as the stars under glistening skies, its no wonder.
I fell for your grace, I fell for your personality,
how your smile brightens up my day entirely.
slander your name, they do,
but I shall savor my time spent with you.
right or wrong, they dictate,
but I shall pay them no mind, as always, my playmate.
you live in my mind,
however you like.
as long as you're happy,
I feel peace, basking in the moonlight.
Dec 15, 2020
Dec 15, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
Once upon a time,
in a land faraway,
lived an Oreo biscuit.
Everyone judged him--
he was black on the outside,
and white on the in.
He thought he would
never ever fit in.
Now in that land of biscuits,
where most were brown,
they all thought Oreo's
the strangest in town.
But little did they know
he was the favorite of the lot.
For in the human world,
his kind was the most bought.
Everyone learned to love him,
even the Fita guy.
But he told Oreo,
"Don't trust humans;
you won't want to know why."
But the Oreo boy,
he was a curious one.
He thought he needed to enjoy,
go out and have fun.
Later that night,
someone grabbed him, behold--
fear glazed over Oreo's eyes
over what he was told.
He was twisted and dunked
in milk till he drowned.
Then broken forever
and his life was summed.
For whatever Fita said,
it became so true.
Whatever happened to Oreo
Hopefully, won't happen to you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.
She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.
With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.
That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.
Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.
For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Hello swans with your brown signets
On the near edges where the weeds blend
And the green meets the trusted stoney bed
You frighten a little with those huge wings
The strength to **** if fear struck an orange eye.
The ducks and drakes trailing fluffy ducklings
So linger daring the hands of bread and biscuits
A continuity of return until fat and bloated, stop.
Their tail feathers sharing a twitching line march
As they swim back to the safety of the reed beds.
Love Mary
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
You used to tease me about my fat-pants.
One button too tight, so I didn’t eat the biscuits.
I don’t eat the biscuits anymore.
Because they remind me of the taste in my mouth,
When I heard about you
And the crash
And the fact that you’re gone.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Big ships, small ships, yachts and dingeys
Floating across the mighty sea
Carving their way, displacing their weight
To keep afloat the Captain and First mate.
Old ships, new ships, schooners and cruise liners
Have crossed paths throughout the ages old
Once to explore, make claim, pirate and fight
Now to wine and dine on a luxurious bite
Salted beef, rock hard bread and weevil-friendly biscuits
A 3 course meal fit for Old Salts alike
Weevils & worms and bugs of all kind
Along with sparse portions of meat, you might find
French wine, filet mignon, sushi and pastries
Buffets and fine dining, variety is key
All you can eat, whenever you'd like
No chores, no work, just eating all night'
What a contrast exists between these two worlds
Only 2 to 300 hundred years apart
Once grimy, risky, arduous and fraught
Now fancy, lazy, and much to be bought
What if the Old Salts could teleport to today
And live aboard our floating hotels?
With no masts to climb or sheets to tend
Would they break or would they bend?
I suppose that switch would be easy enough
But send us back to Pirate-ridden waters
You'd be sure never to hear from us again
Swabbing the deck would **** us alone
Not to mention the food and disease of back when.
- BPW
Dec. 11, 2013
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Here I have a chocolate meditation,
Writing an ode for edification,
What is a chocolate meditation?
It is a packet of Tim Tams, in Oz nation,
Let's hear it for Oz Tim Tams,
From an Australian native chocolate plant,
Thence to an endless dish,
Of chocolate biscuits, utter bliss,
No afternoon tea is complete,
For the last Tim Tam we do compete,
Giggling gerties, one and all,
Chicks can hide them in their holdalls,
Without Tim Tams, housework is incomplete,
Must keep our ample figures neat!
I've heard they're unique to Oz nation,
Tim Tams, total chocolate meditation!
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Unexpected defeat
A shock to the nation
Politic Tsunami, they said
Time to mourn? Time to analyze?
Try to decipher this Tsunami
Being fed the same chocolate flavor
High time to switch to another
Which flavors they fancy now?
of sweets, of biscuits of cakes
Do you know?
Creativity, innovate, concern
Listen to their plights
Why do they retaliate?
Blame the Tsunami again?
So unintelligent, put yourself under a microscope
analyze, examine, please understand more.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
****
Frock..
Flock.
Bock!
Bock bock bock!
Mother mother bock,
Mother mother bock bock
Mothercluck mothercluck
eggsh eggsh eggsh
1 2,
1 2 3 Crack!
Eggs eggs cheese,
Baking biscuits
Frying spud
Mix'n roux
Squashing beefs,
Squashing beefs beefs beefs.
Rolling patties,
Flipping bacon.
Who eat the bacon?
We eat the bacon!
Roll'n patties-
-uuuh yeah, let me get a bacon'n'egg
In'a'tick little man.
I'll put that **** in my pan.
If the thank you doesn't show,
You can owe me blow me-
Imperial March ringtone
-Checks cell and ignores call-
"Who was that?"
"What? Oh,
Just another annoying memory."
-OH!
My kitchen love!
Ovee Ovee Ove-n
I think I wanna roast-ya toast-ya!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
'Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!'
4.5k
A needle through my vein,
and it runs, into a bag.
To be donated to someone,
someone who needs it
more than I do.
I happily give, but in return
receive two biscuits and
a bottle of water.
My body will regenerate it.
My soul will never feel it.
My life will never need it.
A bag of myself,
for someone else is given.
Appreciated it is,
as an unknown face,
that smiles on receiving.
A piece of myself is gone,
in the process of giving.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Black is your coffee
Toasted and buttered your bread
Half past seven,
A quick peck on the cheek
off you go to the bank
one solid day you spend at the bank
a loyal servant of the bank of commerce
Your lover number one,
the bank..always the bank...
you'd be at the bank till all workers gone home
you'd be at your desk checking the accounts
making it balance , counting the profits
recovering the loss...
If there is an award for the banker of the year
The outstanding achievement
and the bla... bla... bla...
The winner is you, without a doubt...
While you're making your accounts pretty
Perfecting your financial reports
The dinner is getting too cold
The kids are growing up so fast
Your cat is getting too old
Your wife is sulking too long
Your house is getting too far
Your family is slowly vanishing...
not physically of course...
the souls of love and life
is disappearing little by little...
Dear banker,
If you happen to listen to this
banker's wife blues...today
Hope you'd throw the balance sheets in the basket
and sit with your wife and kids
in a garden,
drinking a cup of English tea
Eating some home made biscuits...
How much bonus is more worthwhile
than watching your kids growing up
before your eyes...
kissing your wife good night
tasting the love doses...
Tell me, after listening to all these?
Will you still worry about your imbalance bank accounts?
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
While sitting at a café once
a boy of sorts went by.
His clothes were bright, he wore a suit
a purple, orange tie.
He looked around him while he walked
and then I caught his eye.
His hair was wild and fairly long,
his shoes were bright and new.
His face was lit up with a smile
and said “how do you do?”
He waved his hand, his giant hand,
the smile quite simply grew.
He walked on over, then he sat
down on the chair across
from me and all my company
a friend, his wife, my boss,
and handed me a brochure of
Learn how to play lacrosse.
“The name is Nathan Douglas Day
of age I am nineteen.
I have thick hair that gets quite gross
which then, I have to clean.
The knots that form, they almost dread.
You do know what I mean?
But hair is not all that I am
there’s skin and bones and thought,
but even then, that isn’t much
my weight is almost naught.
The mem’ry in my brain is small
which leaves much to be taught.
The people call me names to do
with where they know me from
like, Mugbo, or the wanderer,
or rang-rang, or Nathan,
or Nathan Douglas Day and some
don’t call me anyone.”
This speech of his, it left me shocked.
What kind of life was this,
to have more names than anyone
from this metropolis?
I was so puzzled and confused
there was something amiss.
I said “Okay…” and looked straight down
to where the pamphlet lay
and then began to read about
Lacrosse and how to play.
And Nathan snapped his fingers loud
and got a piece of cake.
A strawb’rry shake came next and then
a plate of biscuits came.
he offered them around and said
“they all taste much the same.”
We ate them all. He sat quite still.
I learned about the game.
My boss and friend were wondering,
who was this Nathan day,
this boy who came from nowhere and
sat down and seemed to stay?
They asked me with their eyes but I
did not know what to say.
Then Nathan started talking to
the wife of my good friend
he made her laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh it didn’t end.
We all wanted to hear the joke
he wouldn’t say again.
“Lacrosse seems very difficult”
I said to stir the air.
“It is” he said “I played it once
but now, I would not dare”
I wondered then why he would hand
the pamphlets out with care.
I wondered maybe did he work
in trade from door to door.
I asked him this and his reply
it shocked me even more
“I do not hand them out” he said
“I found it on the floor.”
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
you see i am very very hungry, so much in fact
i burp very weirdly, yeah i feel so weird
i burp loud and i burp soft when i have a nice cream bun or a nice beef nachos
and i feel like a nice packet of chocolate biscuits
ya know to have with my coca cola
i was watching ellen degenerous and i felt like eating the pie that went in the contestants face
yeah i feel like a bag of popcorn as well as choctop at the movies
because my mouth is burping very weirdly
i don’t want to have this burping feeling
i feel like a strawberry milk and i am fighting myself saying, no, i don’t need it
the strawberry milk says yes, i do, but i don’t want a strawberry milk, it’ll just make me fat
i wanna lose weight but the burping is making me want food, i want a nice chocolate bar
and i want a bag of marshmallows, i want to have more energy
so i can be a cool person, that i am,
i know the burping really is bugging me
and i do want it to stop, STOP, making me feel this way, i want to an artist and a writer and not an eater
please leave me alone strawberry milk and leave me alone chocolate biscuits, i don’t want to eat you
i feel like a chocolate biscuit, but then i say, i will grow fat, ya know keep the fat on me
i don’t want to be fat, i want to lose weight, so leave me alone ya ****** strawberry milk and coke
i want to feel fit in my mind, so i can write and be creative
please leave me alone, junk food, i don’t want to eat you
but the junk food gets in my mind and makes me smell the nice chocolate
i know coke used to be a medicine, but i don’t wanna drink ya
i like to have a healthy lifestyle, and i want to lose this burping because
it’s the medication making me wanna eat, like donuts and vanilla slices and cream buns
and dewok chinese stir fry’s and chocolate biscuits and chocolate desserts and strawberry milk
and a large bottle of coca cola, as my medicine, I DON’T WANT THAT
i had a garden salad for lunch as well as a few glasses of water
i hate being fat, so that means at 2-30 pm, i will go for another walk, whether i feel like it or not
because i must get rid of all this food from my body, so i don’t get diabetes
so if you feel fat, because you eat too much food, push yourself into walking
and walk a regular pace, so you don’t feel sluggish
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
(for John and Teckla Clark)
Ours yet not ours, being set apart
As a shrine to friendship,
Empty and silent most of the year,
This room awaits from you
What you alone, as visitor, can bring,
A weekend of personal life.
In a house backed by orderly woods,
Facing a tractored sugar-beet country,
Your working hosts engaged to their stint,
You are unlike to encounter
Dragons or romance: were drama a craving,
You would not have come.
Books we do have for almost any
Literate mood, and notepaper, envelopes,
For a writing one (to "borrow" stamps
Is the mark of ill-breeding):
Between lunch and tea, perhaps a drive;
After dinner, music or gossip.
Should you have troubles (pets will die
Lovers are always behaving badly)
And confession helps, we will hear it,
Examine and give our counsel:
If to mention them hurts too much,
We shall not be nosey.
Easy at first, the language of friendship
Is, as we soon discover,
Very difficult to speak well, a tongue
With no cognates, no resemblance
To the galimatias of nursery and bedroom,
Court rhyme or shepherd's prose,
And, unless spoken often, soon goes rusty.
Distance and duties divide us,
But absence will not seem an evil
If it make our re-meeting
A real occasion. Come when you can:
Your room will be ready.
In Tum-Tum's reign a tin of biscuits
On the bedside table provided
For nocturnal munching. Now weapons have changed,
And the fashion of appetites:
There, for sunbathers who count their calories,
A bottle of mineral water.
Felicissima notte! May you fall at once
Into a cordial dream, assured
That whoever slept in this bed before
Was also someone we like,
That within the circle of our affection
Also you have no double.
4k
early morning sun
your Maw Maws love on a plate
biscuits and gravy
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
Scandinavian badger sitting in the tree, I can't believe we met, it must be desti-ny.
I look up to the sky and see two clouds fighting, for some unusual reason I don't find it frightening.
Instead as I look up at the angry cloud, all I feel is proud, that its even aloud that this fluffy white sky sheep can be so well endowed.
With all the strength I can muster, I swim thru the lake of custard.
There I meet a female goat- "I'll clean all your biscuits if you just share your picnic"?
"I wish I could but I don't think I can risk it".
As I approach the shore, I meet a male horse. He says he's having a mare.
I don't know whether to commiserate or congratulate. I stroll off wandering what he meant and if I even care
I meet a male cow, or am I talking bull?
Who knows if half this story is even a quarter true.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC