"bran" poems
If there was one word
One word, isolated by itself
That I cannot stand above all others
It would have to be "Okay"
I despise "Okay"
"Okay"
Is how your millionth day at work went
"Okay"
Is off-brand raisin bran
"Okay"
Is how you say life is going
When you don't want to admit you spend
Every second of it
Wanting to die
"Okay"
Is packed to the brim with
Hidden implications
Like a treasure chest
Filled with bottles
With little subliminal hatreds
Written on tiny slips of paper
Passively aggressively pushed inside
To discover later
As I pull out a treasure map
And try to decipher
Where I went wrong
"Okay"
Is a one word dismissal
That feels like an essay a thousand pages long
"Okay"
Is a poison dripping with disinterest
When I dared to share with you
Something I thought might make you smile
"Okay"
Is like trying to talk to a wall
While watching the paint on it dry
"Okay"
Takes two seconds to write
Yet I waited days
For that dreaded word
To grace my notifications
"Okay"
Should be used sparingly
As if each time you send it
You **** the receiver just a little bit
"Okay"
Should not be said so often that
I know what you're about to say
Like I saw it in a crystal ball
"Okay"
Is not looking up from your phone
When I tell you about my day
"Okay"
Is not the proper response
To "I love you"
They say that the opposite of love isn't hatred
It's indifference
And I can't think of a response
More indifferent to pouring out
My heart into your hands
Than "Okay"
At least the last thing you said to me
Before we parted ways
Showed that you cared
At least a little bit
"I hate you"
Stung less
Than the thousands of times
Over our countless conversations
You responded
"Okay"
Okay?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
Cookies, Cookies which ones to make?
Cookies, Cookies which ones to bake?
Is it oatmeal for him? sugar for me?
Ooh! these jam ones look scrumptious (in the picture) you see?
Will it be bran for momma, or peanut butter for sis?
Oh, I could cook them all and someone's favorite still miss.....
I could wash, and I could dust & sweep and mop , till i'm dead,
but alas, if you watch, I'll be baking instead because I have cookies in my head.
Cookies, Cookies, which ones to make
Cookis, Cookies, which ones to bake?
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
*
Never Have I felt a December
So cold, so lonely.
The walk along the lake,
That changed a fate
The stumble in the snow,
I didn’t let go.
The daring walk,
Onto thin ice
Are you watching?
My attempts to see a rise in you.
So delicate was that goodbye
Darkness, up the long road
Upon the destination, no one knew
I ran home,
To see you waiting there.
You waited for me,
For hours I guessed.
This time a true
Goodbye
We made a plan,
So sketchy at first.
Maybe Just nervous?
Never knowing, what could unfold
We changed our plans.
Much more bold.
I rambled on,
For hours it seemed.
Until we arrived,
To a bran new scene
Both so nervous,
But we knew what we wanted.
I motioned you closer,
No cold shoulder.
Comfortably sat,
Until the movie was over
We met some friends, later that night
Continued to smile,
Be polite.
Just dreaming of holding you tight
I think I might…
A gentle kiss upon your lips
I did not miss.
Out in the cold, yet,
All I felt was warmth
The warmness of you and I,
Another night
Goodbye
Sit next to me in the morning,
The bell is ringing…
I’m ignoring
So captivated by your smile.
Again I depart.
Goodbye.
The night before Christmas eve,
We stayed awake for hours
Until our wish
Had finally come true
Its been a year
Since that December
And yet I miss you,
Just as much as I remember
That December so warm,
Now it plagues me with cold
No longer we are.
Growing old
Goodbye
December,
December!
How I hate you now
Drown my mind
In your white lies.
No longer,
Can I see your eyes
I have grown old of these,
goodbyes…
December
The month that will,
Confuse me forever
Lost in the blizzard
Of my mind
We always say that, “truth is hard to find”
Goodbye
DECEMBER
goodbye…
*
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
*Getting out from the waves
She walked away to the rice bran haze
As the summer heat drove the sands mad
I knew what she had gone for.
She would hunt it like a child any day
A few seashells if came her way
My skin burning and eyes dust borne
Moments all to herself she desired alone.
On the distant shoreline when she was a speck
Stirred me a tremor then a rumbling quake
What if so happens she is gone too far
Turned a sea nymph to return never!
The tides were falling weaving a lull
The sun slanted on the wings of gull
I rose up to find sand prints of her trail
She bloomed like a hope in her handful of shell!*
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Healthy bran cereal on discount for 2 dollars!?
I was really happy.
it had the daily fibre
it went well with honey
it just tasted nice
After my victory snack, I gently went to sleep...
I expired in the morning.
Jun 7, 2023
Jun 7, 2023 at 6:27 PM UTC
Lotus blossom frozen on her head
Stone tears falling from many ancient beds
Torn aparts one heart passing on the wheel
How many lifetimes have we bwnn to the other
Mother, Father, sister, brother
Choice no such thing
Given up when the fabric of their flame was sown
Magic was locked inside half her heart
The other half he owned
She is Bran the goddess half
Living blind behind the mask of his
Dark moon eyes
Heard all his lies
And tasted the ******** with bliss of his first wal
As he began to hide himself from others before the fall
Descent
Oh yes she rejoiced a jealous goddess
He belonged bonded by fire only to her
What right did those others have
To taste that first kiss
And to touch with fingers belonging only to her
Humans on earth
Wrapping them so entirely within his wings
Dark secrecy, lust, many other things
So in a rage of passion
She tore the very things that allowed flight
From her back
Oh yes blood flowed red
Descent
Giving up all past memory of true bliss
Every memory of his face, his kiss, his heart
Her dark twin flame forgotten
Nor a backward glance was given
Fallen to earth indulging the passion
Meet and separate time and time again
The wheel rolls on
Blind to the other
The wheel rolls on
So as ages pass some ligering of him
Stored somewhere in her head
Just a vague memory
Would call to her for one brief moment
Bliss remembered
Stolen between the twilight of sleep
And the ending of dreamtime
Great bells ringing, tolling bells singing
Come to me
Hearts beating sirens calling
Come to me
In tunnels of time, in caverns of rhyme
Behind dark moon eyes
Traces of him come calling
Remember
Come to me my torn apart
Dragons tail crosses the sky
Dreaming is ended fall no more
Our flame burns on
Come find me if you will
come find me
You will
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
One day, a decade ago, I came home from school,
And instead of starting my homework,
I showed my grandmother the picture I drew,
And my grandmother Edna said to me,
"Bran, you have one big imagination."
I grinned and shrugged, replying
"Sorry Grandma, I can't help it"
*She knows who she is....
And I think everyone knows where I'm coming from...*
Like all naive lovers, I imagined a happily ever after,
But Aphrodite discovered that i'm a functional disaster
Sort of like what happened when Wendy met Casper?
Silly, I know,
Well at least I tried to capture a little laughter.
I imagine her name as the name of a virtuoso band.
I listen enthusiastically to the band play,
"Eat your heart out, eat your heart out."
Yes, she's a band-aid.
I've imagined attending the salmon church with her,
Even though I don't believe.
Still I would do that for my Desdemona,
"I will deny thee nothing."
I imagined us getting married at an altar,
The honeymoon would be on the moon weeping honey.
Three years later, we have Harmony, our daughter.
My imagination is wild,
Maybe it's too far out there,
Where the wild things are.
Isn't it true that before you make something happen
You have to imagine it happening first?
Something like a self-fulfilled prophecy,
In time we'll see.
One day I came home from Mount Olympus,
And instead of professing agape,
I showed Cupid this poem I wrote,
And Cupid said to me, "You have one wild imagination."
I shrugged, replying, " I can't help it."
Cupid smiled and said, "You have a romantic one also."
Originally written 5/17/11
Revised 10/24/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
This **** is hot
bundled up in my bowels.
Oh how it boils,
how it makes me howl.
Bran muffins and coffee,
they do not mix.
Stuck here in traffic,
I need to drop these Twix.
Oh how time drags on
when you've got the runs.
I need a hole in the earth
to place my buns.
I've held in these turds for so long,
I was actually sad to see them go.
Goodbye brown buddies. Just go.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
(Authors note: I realize this is more short story than poem. I hope you find it poetic as well. Apologies in advance if this is not an appropriate forum.)
Have You Seen This Girl ?
I sat sleepy eyed one morning enduring yet another cardboard and treebark bran flavored bowl of breakfast with milk, 2 percent of course, and I stared at the carton.
First I reviewed the measures of various fat content, and nutritional values listed as a matter of law. And as usual, I thought of you. This time by way of pondering the plight of the American Dairy Farmer and remembering it was the “corporatizing” of the independent dairy farms which led your family to other uses for the land they had raised dairy cows on for over a century. And I missed you terribly.
To quickly shake the associated feelings of loneliness, and your face from my mind, I was drawn to the deep dark eyes of the child who was missing and apparently exploited on the other side of the carton. She had innocent, kind eyes that indicated she wouldn't even harm an insect. Curious eyes that would watch an insect for hours as it munched on grasses and leaves she fed it.
She would be two years grown and two years older since last seen in blue jeans and a t-shirt in Amarillo, Texas, in the company of her biological father who was possibly armed, dangerous, and driving a pickup truck towards Mexico. Or Canada.
And it struck me. You needed to be on the side of a milk carton. 2 percent of course. At some point in our life together, you had been kidnapped. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to replace you, to carefully drop you right back into my life. It was a great attempt but finally my belief that the real you would never do the things you did to me were validated. You had the misfortune of actually having an “evil twin” and corporatized or not, it seemed only the Dairy Council could help, since there is no Center For Missing and Exploited Adults.
Big red letters screaming “Have You Seen This Girl ? ” were what we needed now. God knows I had recent photos, and could describe all of your features-distinguishing or not.
I think tomorrow, I'll have French Toast.
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on my work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 9:13 PM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jack fruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyed house you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslaved his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfil my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jack fruit leaves.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
THE CHILD Margaret begins to write numbers on a Saturday morning, the first numbers formed under her wishing child fingers.
All the numbers come well-born, shaped in figures assertive for a frieze in a child's room.
Both 1 and 7 are straightforward, military, filled with lunge and attack, ***** in shoulder-straps.
The 6 and 9 salute as dancing sisters, elder and younger, and 2 is a trapeze actor swinging to handclaps.
All the numbers are well-born, only 3 has a **** on its back and 8 is knock-kneed.
The child Margaret kisses all once and gives two kisses to 3 and 8.
(Each number is a bran-new rag doll ... O in the wishing fingers ... millions of rag dolls, millions and millions of new rag dolls!!)
1.5k
jumping into a pool of yellow glowing liquid while rich, deep, full synth chords play. time has slowed down and i am in the middle of a cannonball and i can see bats flying over my head in the almost-darkness. friends surround me and are laughing in slow motion as i fly through the air. the sun has changed the whole scene to a tinted and washed dark orange and purple color. it’s like i put on a filter but it’s real life. the liquid is lukewarm, sort of like someone didn’t put a bowl of soup in the microwave long enough. there is no word in the human dictionary to describe this feeling. i’m done pretending that nothing matters all the time. i wish there was some way i could hook up my brain to a screen so you could see what i'm picturing right now. there’s no way that can happen though, so i will just continue trying to explain through words.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
My Daddy, ******* Him,
loved me so much
he used to pick the raisins
out of my Raisin Bran.
Every morning he'd sprinkle
the flakes onto two paper towels
so he could spread it out
dense enough
to catch any raisin scoundrels.
After sufficiently flicking
the cereal to-and-fro
he'd put it in a bowl for me,
with just enough milk
so as to make it tasteful,
and not soggy.
(Anything for his princess)
Well ******* Him again
for the second time
in these lines if I don't still
pick those little raisin turds
out of my cereal 22 years
out of the womb.
And ******* him for
biting my pretty red heart
in two giant pieces
and leaving me with
no way to sew them up
except a handful of joints
in one hand
and a bottle of prozac
in the other.
Know what though?
I was eating raisin bran
last night and I bit down
on a sweet, gummy
treat I had sworn to
despise among
all things
and I didn't *****
I didn't gag.
I didn't do anything
but swallow it
and take another bite.
My tastebuds must be
changing.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
single dark hair pokes through
natural fiber button-up
clinging to a bulging belly
free from beer to blame
38 year old frame
six feet five inches
hides 300 pounds
along with two or three x’s
depending on the brand
and bran
and counting
longing for that ole ****** sheik
that only came with ******
and emaciation
information avalanche out of control
living with bread addiction
sounds silly after melting crack with vinegar
pop can spoon fed
looking at fields of wheat with contempt
longing for enriched flour
status vs station
am I built to die young?
like my fathers before me
extra fat on the organs
can only lead to uncomfortable death
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
I bathe in the cashmere moonlight
The daylight fears what it does to me
My skin bouncing off in all direction to match its glory-
No! I will stay here under the worship of so many stars.
I start my day at dusk
So as not to startle the humans.
My body, to me, has all the mouth-watering intensity
Of a bran muffin
I no longer lust after myself
I no longer lust in general
There are only dark fleeting moments of contentment
As I shovel pasta into my temple-
My body is a Burger King deluxe.
There are no arches that I’m proud of.
And how did it get like this
I used to love what I am
And now
My body lies over a sea of ketchup.
I don’t even eat the tomato-y stuff
But I feel like I’m drowning in condiments
I bathe in cashmere moonlight
I take showers with my candles
I filter my image with steamed mirrors
And again I am the goddess I remember.
My curves are smooth, my skin glows
and my eyes have a hollow hallo of light to them.
This is what light skinned Barbies look like
What uncle sam expects of me-
In a steamed mirror
I
Am a patriot for beauty.
In the sunlight
I
Am a martyr for tuna sandwiches with 3 kinds of mustard.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
it's when it's small
that the cucumber
gets twisted
merely talking about
a difficulty will not unravel it
there is no accounting
for taste an ounce of fortitude is worth
a pound of brains nobody can fully understand
another person's need when something
seems too good to be true
usually it is if fortune thunders
beware of being
snowed under
in a hundred years
we will be dead anyway so what if you humiliate yourself
the pillow is a good counselor as the priests sings
so the congregation responds judge not
the umpire at first sight delay
is preferable to ‘‘in no way’’
much bran and little feast the only gratis
cheese is in the mouse trap
there is no rule
without an immunity don't suppose
anyone to change his ways
by telling him off pay no attention
to what people shout about you
the remedy is often
worse than the complaint
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
I'm the bran bucket boobie
I'm the dollar bargain bin
I'm the prize that they still give you
Even though you didn't win
I'm the chipped cup in the cupboard
I'm the last sweet in the tin
I'm the cheap dime store necklace
that irritates your skin
I'm the actor on the telly
or at least I am his twin
that's the one I'm Quasimodo
wishing he was Errol Flynn
I'm the tattoo after drinking
I'm the one night stand and sin
and the hope that you're not pregnant
or I was too drunk to put it in
I'm the pill in the morning
and the mourning for more gin
I'm the prize they always give you
Even though you didn't win.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
I was Crom Dubh once,
Buried in the mound,
I was the Dagda once,
My club across the land,
I was Bran the Blessed once,
My head beneath the hill,
I was Kronos once,
My stone sickle in the sky,
I was Osiris once,
My body across the land,
I was Odin once,
Ygg was I once,
Ere that I was Thund,
Who am I?
~Muninn's Kiss, January, 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
"You are so unappreciative of what you have"
She screams at me as I lay in a bunk bed
My mattress is from 1982
With my feet dangling over the side
And my soleless shoes lay dead on the floor
My blanket filled with holes
My closet with my clothes from last year all over the floor
All hand-me-downs
My Christmas list half filled
The two presents I really did need
Never came
And not once did I beg for anything more
Little does she know that the school kids
Have a king temperpedic matress
Their five pairs of shoes wore once underneath
Their wool blankets to keep warm
Bran new year brand new clothes
Hand-me-downs I think no
Their Christmas list complete and more
With presents they did not use or care for
And all I can hear from them is more more more
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
You know your old when,
you buy a two bedroom with a den,
and it never empties out.
You have dragged emotional baggage,
cleaning your ears to discover cabbage,
busting at the seams, zippers are stuck!
For the first time in your life, you have a plan,
right?, oh no, you got this far on fruit and bran,
okay cereal killer, bust a move and your hip.
Have you smiled yet?
I really want with certainty,
to give you three steps, not wishes, for eternity,
it IS really important some how.
Not that this is the end,
could be drawn out like torture,
what would you give up, in forfeiture?
I've tried to do it on my own, painful right to my bones,
I am not powerless, nor am I a legend in my own mind,
Some One did it for me, and he found me, in a bind.
Have you found Him yet,
hit refresh, until you do,
don't believe in just anything,
even some lies can be true,
that baggage, it may be your strength.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
A city asleep is ruthlessly efficient
Dreams are distributed
Hopes exhibited
Snapshots in time briefly revisited
New lovers, children
The functionally insane
Serenely succumb to the sandman
To visions that satisfy attention spans
To nightmares that vanish with morning Raisin Bran
But poets and drunkards resist this plan
They walk through empty streets
Feeling incomplete
Taking their women ***** and their whiskey neat
Finally they too surrender to sleep
Tossed by worries into withering wind
Of dragons and fax machines
Of reality dimmed
Sunrise distorts them and they vanish as they begin
Just like tomorrow
And tomorrow again
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC