"cabbages" poems
Loyalty
They talk about loyalty,
Like it’s a fantasy,
They talk about loyalty,
But have no clue, what it means.
They talk about equality,
Like it’s currently happening,
They talk about democracy,
But have no clue, what it means.
Glocks aimed at cops,
Glocks aimed back at someone’s pop,
Many lives have been lost over Gaup.
Gaup that buys whips and thots.
All got something to prove,
But to who?
All got something to lose,
What will you choose?
If money equal power,
Than why is the taste so sour?
After all the castles and ivory towers.
You’re left a lonely dragon like bowser.
Loyalty tell me what it means to me?
To hang with royalty,
Or help those in poverty.
The place I used to be.
Helping people like me.
That society has coated with a cloak of invisibility.
Because they can’t stand minorities.
And that’s why we can’t stand authorities.
A toxic cycle that stems from a different ideology.
Instead of equality,
We have uniformity,
Instead of democracy,
We have white supremacy.
Instead of loyalty,
We have hypocrisy.
They talk about loyalty,
Like it’s a fantasy,
They talk about loyalty,
But have no clue, what it means.
They talk about equality,
Like it’s currently happening,
They talk about democracy,
But have no clue, what it means.
Too many broken promises,
I feel like James Sie,
Losing all his cabbages.
But since we are deemed as savages,
All the damages attributed,
Are treated as shenanigans,
Instead of answering calls to action,
We have a government completely dumbfounded.
Instead of compassion,
We are harassed and hounded.
We still got all lot of work to do.
And I hope one day we’ll have a breakthrough!
For we all got something to prove?
But to who? Maybe for me or for you!
All got something to lose,
If we never take the time to put on another’s shoe.
So, what will you choose?
Will you help light the fuse?
Or treat this issue like your alarm clock,
And put in on snooze?
Who will you be loyal to?
Your heart? Or to your privilege?
Hmm…
They talk about loyalty,
Like it’s a fantasy,
They talk about loyalty,
But have no clue, what it means.
They talk about equality,
Like it’s currently happening,
They talk about democracy,
But have no clue, what it means.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 8:26 PM UTC
When his eyes first fell upon her
She was choosing avocados
In the fruit and vegetable aisle.
And he watched how her thumbs lingered
On the base of the alligator pear
And pressed, maternally.
He feigned interest in the cabbages
Whilst sensing her delicate architecture
Through his peripheral gaze.
He thought that somewhere,
In real or imaginary life,
They would soon bathe together.
And when they did,
They soaked for years in secrets,
Details suffusing through their lips and arms,
Water-hole satisfaction and moonlit deserts
To make them feel they might have transcended cabbages
And be pervading a rhapsodic realm
They forgot their friends watching in greenery,
Subsumed by each-other,
They felt no need
To live in a world of relativity and apples.
Their love-traced sphere tightened around them,
Until it ****** at the edges of their skin
And wailed when they parted.
Tighter it grew, elastic dug into their humid thighs
Contorting their once harmonic bodies
That used to fit like crosswords.
And they each became ugly to the other
As the seconds ingested their perfection
And they bickered like flailing urchins
In a deep sea soiled darkness.
Decisions were made and paroxysms detonated
And they were taken back by their
Fungal friends with tissue offerings
And ethanol.
Time passed, and memories were binned
Periodically on tuesdays
Until neither knew the other
And they would pass in the supermarket
With no more than a quickened gait
And a silent thud in each ribcage.
But neither could buy avocados.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
There's a hidden sweetness in the stomach's
emptiness.
We are lutes. No more, no less.
If the soundbox is stuffed full, there is no room
for music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean with
fasting,
Every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you run up the
steps before you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier—write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, an ugly metal
statue sits where your spirit should.
When you fast, good habits gather like friends who
wish to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring.
Don't give it to some illusion and lose your power.
But even if you have, if you've lost all will and
control,
They come back when you fast,
Like soldiers appearing out of the ground, pennants
flying above them.
A table descends to your tents, Jesus' table.
Expect to see, when you fast, this table spread with
other food,
better than the broth of cabbages.
~Jalal ad-Din Rumi
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
The lake is little different
chlorella puts a green coat on her
when the wind comes
thick ripples appear
remnants of lotus and withered reeds
some pierce up the sky
some bow to the water
the branches of willow on the shore
still they keep the same demeanor
they like touching the tip of your nose
sometimes you bump into their arms
little surprises await in the cold
of wind and drizzle
you walk slowly on the periphery
in the fine rain of the morning
vivid knotweed guarding the mound
lettuce offers four-petal florets
radish flowers are not in full bloom yet
though the rain of last night
is still hanging around the corner of your eye
the lively vegetable farm by
the lake doesn't lie
little cabbages aren't afraid
when we lean forward we see
it is a fun-sized garden.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
The Toadstool Goblins are at it again
soon as the sun goes in and it starts to rain
they have eaten all my cabbages
I think they are going for my sprouts
I think I may set a few beer pits up
they can't get enough of the stuff
they drink their fill, then can't stand up
then in they plop and drown in the swill
Well off I must go with macintosh on
down to the store for some beers
sink the traps for the blighter's
then when drunk they fall in
I will hold my can up and say cheers
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
Throw a tomato! They're squishy...
Snails are too though, but you can't
Toss them too well.
You could use them like a baseball?
"Hey, batter batter. Swing!"
Touchdown!
But...
T
H
I
S
Isn't high school.
And we aren't jocks.
We just throw cabbages and rotten potatoes
Po-tah-toes.
Tomatoes.
To-mah-toes.
Lets call the whole thing off...
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
a funny odd thing happened when plato banished
the poets from his republic,
he invited the likes of mozart
into it... oh god the jealousy grew...
i say, the Platonic idea of music
never mind relations with men
and women gave us opera! hmm!
opera! if plato didn't banish the
poets from his utopia we'd have no
opera! the market is saturated though,
england the most musical nation
has become over-saturated with music...
in it, i could write philosophy on toilet-paper,
wipe my *** with it and tell you
it's candy-floss... honest to god, cross
my heart, stand leg tied like on a crucifix
and name all the scouts' honours
including the one about aiding an old
lady cross the street...
the music over-powered, no wonder
the poets have a battering ram with them
(there's so many of them! ooh, a mongolian horde
on the prowl),
they're thumping and with trébuchets
launching rotten cabbages and tomatoes
at the walls of this ridiculed utopia...
sure, banish poetry, create opera,
and everyone "suddenly" speaks less
eloquently...
darwinism is just a nice way of talking
about genocide our species did unto
humanoids in between resemblance
and the assembly line... where no
other species evolved to extract history
so far back as to carve an existential
chasm, a grand canyon of despair,
hoping that a little stream of celebrity
culture feeding us would "do the trick"
of becoming satiating...
i just laugh... atheism and darwinism
don't mix... mass ****** torture and sodomising
children and atheism fits to a crescendo!
applause.... encore... applause... ah...
now that's my jaw dropping thing to smile at.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Squish! … Squish! ... Squish! ... Squish!
Despite their many legs
caterpillars can not move
very fast.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
Every night he's out with his torch
shinning it from off his wooden porch
looking for unsightly bugs and slugs
knowing those greedy munching critters
He had put beer cups in the soil
but to no avail
only a few slugs got so drunk
that they fell inside
So this night would be his sweet vengeance
this night will be liberation of his green friends
with salt in a bucket he goes storming Norman
throwing a frenzy of burning salt that melts flesh
He was a very nice chap most of the time
but tonight it was just protect those cabbages
and protect them he did and destroyed
yet forgot the cost to his liberty he claimed so right
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
We were so small,
But we felt galaxies within us—
Miles and miles of open road, splintering off in all directions.
We'd talk all night about how one day
The boys would come running and we'd pick them off like flower petals, humming
'He loves me, He loves me not.'
We'd dream about having our hearts broken,
Just like in all of those movies,
Hoping to one day be shattered so beautifully
Our hearts would become kaleidoscopes
When the light hit just right.
We'd stare at the old women in the theaters who talk too loud,
Ask too many questions.
We swore that'd be us one day,
Kids grown up, husbands at home,
Laughing at the little girls wearing high heels and bright lipstick.
But you found a boy, and he has a car—
He says you must be the prettiest girl he's ever seen.
And I'm not even a single star, much less a whole galaxy.
Time doesn't fly away—it dies,
And I've come to realize that we die with it.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
rain falls like
streams of our
subconscious
in a dream.
she was no
small dream
but she has faded
like a song.
paint your
dream town
red.
everything is
just a dream.
fall inside your
rabbit hole and
dream of cabbages
and kings.
scream my name -
make love like it’s
your dream because
it’s my dream too.
sweat and breathe
emotions as our
dreams connect
we will connect
and move like tides
of some forgotten shore
where dreams exist
in layers like the sand
and we can live forever.
©Ben Ditmars 2014
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
rickety minutes twitch in wood stained cabinets;
mittens in a bin . birch tones postpone in mauve
twilight... an unfinished diorama.
clandestine. a small glitch in a good rain... cabbages
smitten in mist. a thirst groaning; long bones caw
fully reclined... as timeless Brahmans.
old beams of light stack like gold bricks in a humidor;
mittens in a bin. black birds comb rogue stones then.... [ pause ]
triffids... blemish barnacles.
crystalline. a ball of lint in a storm drain... vanishes -
bitten out of sight. at first, toning old gongs... wind
chimes... earth's most wanted.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
my father loves coleslaw
slaw saw
slop
slipping
and he bought a new car.
and he loves to wear orange.
I want to buy him
orange cars
orange trees for cabbages
growing onions
mayonnaise, my father is
a mayonnaise addict
amazing at it,
we eat artichokes
I hope you choke
my father never would
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.
His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.
Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Like tiny cabbages, they look
a green and leafy fare
and with butter, cooked
steamed with utter care
Ware not the subtle flavor
or pungency of scent
but you must be prepared
as gaseous, their intent
Roughage but a name
for things passing through
to the bowels, it's all the same
just vegetarian-al glue
Spare your loved ones the attack
retire to the loo
after all my friends
there's nothing else to doo
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
*but i'm a true reflection of a ****** up world, it's hard to push the button repeatedly using only one example... after a while it just becomes a case of eccentricity... but what's scaring you, is that this eccentricity doesn't really speak - no flamboyance to rest and feel comfortable on, like a sofa... well, indeed, an iron maiden, to my gusto.*
as one neurologist said to me,
'if someone says you're
mentally ill, then they are mentally ill.'
or as i say, sometimes you
wouldn't believe what's happening
in england, all that boasting
and jesting concerning the
magna carta: oldest democracy,
free world... a load of decapitated
cockroaches with leeches *******
on the wound - psychiatric
darwinism, you name it, a *******
**** hole of failed multiculturalism,
a bunch of former colonial subjects
assimilated and integrated,
tongues forgotten, mothers of
linguistic d.n.a. strapped to the caterpillars
of tanks, ground into bony shrapnel;
oh yeah, and asian jokes about cabbages -
tell that to the turk making his kebab,
while i tell him... how about adding
sauerkraut instead? because, i mean,
you're using pickled chillies already.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
They've all been naughty boys
so
we take away their playtime toys, but
cabbages can make such lovely kings with
brussel sprouts for diamond rings,
they've all been naughty boys.
Images that toy with me,
the boy inside can see
the future's not what it was meant to be,
no coco pops or jam for tea,
they've all been naughty boys.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
To sleep -- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
For once your life's candle is but a nub
Your fate has been decided and you cannot run
And you wonder what happened to bulletproof weeks
In your arms, just building sky-castles of words
And as you open your mouth, the raven first speaks
Telling of cabbages and kings, and gentle demon birds
Playing an asphyxiated song of angel's wings
Leaving me intoxicated and feathered with silver crowns
And as the breath from my lungs makes rings
Of vapor in the air, the mist settling on ancient frowns
The future runs through me now to capture
Absolutely clawed leviathans, found in rapture.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
THE FUNNY FARM
Take a look, the cow’s milking itself
And the sheep are shearing their wool.
The hens gathering eggs from the shelf
And the pigs entertaining the bull.
The geese are collecting litter
Foxes are mending the fence
Farmers never been fitter
No work for him to commence.
Chickens have pecked the hedge
To make everywhere neat
Ducklings have polished the ledge
Where the farmer keeps his feet.
The plough horse back from the field
Had quite enough for one day
Now has to calculate cabbages to yield
Then clean out the hay.
This is the funny farm
Where smart animals hang out
Full of character and bags of charm
Lots to shout about.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
this dawn has no sun... it has an eye.
it is nothing but dreams and a risen Christ.
the long beyond behind me, is the avalanche... the tremors
in a golden misery. a blunder on glass stilts.
this dawn has to step outside -
to have a mirror. it has to bake the clay
that made a man.... into
an iron wisp.
it has to occur to God
to have your entropy be a deep kiss.
to obliterate the schedule of planned events
and substitute the void for the real fear.
is has to occur to Us
to have no reality other than this.
to celebrate the anvil of cartoon antics
and most refuse the void
with the mind clear.
' bout a train don't come.... been always here....
sinking into the ravines of your cabbages
and sulking in the mulch
of some soiling ambrosia.
a cure for Krackens in your refractory-
stammering the diphthong
of an adjacent
howl.
but not quite an amethyst
at rush hour
but a diamond in
the hush.
a black diamond
within us.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
I water the cabbages
the dog runs about mad
as I walk back and forth to the blue barrels
filling Gran’s grey watering can.
In college I learnt how to depreciate …
I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.
The caterpillars squatting on the cabbages coil
as the water rains down upon them,
followed by my thumb.
(I keep meaning to write that poem.)
19th of June; 9:45pm —
I have one more job to do
and I will do it practising a few reels.
My fingers do not need my eyes
so make myself a ****** be
in the woods where they can’t see me —
the snakes.
Years and years and years
of cleats traversing the field below
have to left pairs of ungelating snakes
slithering towards the four gates in the field.
Soon I pan to install a 5th
and this worries me,
never having hung one before; plus
what if the snakes bite me. Or worse
I succeed.
For now I fret, leering towards the bull,
I want to see him *** —
#414, she’s still not in calf.
If she repeats again, it’s goodbye for him.
But the ****** just grazing. Swishing at flies,
periodically ****** and poops.
Is my playing distracting him?
I suppose … we’re all entitled
to a night off.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:06 AM UTC
His Small Dark Man; our minds lovingly serenaded,
through the warmth - the faint buzz from the downy
salubrity of a brain to which no bird ever flew on one wing!
An’ so clarity, somewhat vague, paid for by a sorehead,
Leaves us a solid truth; that men are forever at war with women,
Forever being defeated and accepting this defeat as Victory,
Minute wheels spin endlessly yet happiness is static,
Measured out to the minutest drop – never increased,
Never depleted – Unchangeable in all lives; Men or Cabbages!
Simple visions of a life less extraordinary with faith in the ability,
To bid farewell – a gesture that had in it a fine dignity,
And yet a terrible finality; I must speak to Maurice more.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
It is indeed a month to remember
As we headlong into October
The spiders creep in our door
and there seems to be more and more
At least the wasps are gone in September.
Fruit and nuts that are gathered are vast
Apples for cider are falling fast
Conkers and acorns
Cabbages and sweet corns
It is my favourite month at last.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
You really don't understand the difference
between property and territory
do you?
When you buy yourself a nice plot of land
then won't allow anyone to grow their cabbages on your land
That's property.
When a dog takes a **** on a fire hydrant
and all the dogs know to keep the **** away
That's territory.
I never called you her property.
All I said
Is that she's ****** all over you
and now every ***** within a 20 mile radius knows to keep the **** away.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC
Let us consider
The walrus and the carpenter
And the plight of poor
Mother oyster and her babes
To be eaten
To be digested
To be pooed
This is the way of the farm oyster
Cultivated lovingly
For mass consumption
By those with the taste
For salty snot ***** –
The time has come to speak of other things
Like clams, and *****
Lobster and squid
Octopi and the urchin
Jellyfish smeared
On fish pate
Spoken how it is spelled
Fish pate on a date
Seems great unless grated
Or outdated…
Just leave it on the plate
Pate on a plate
For goodness sake
Kaloo Kalay
Fishing is work
Just ask the learning channel
The history channel
Animal planet
OPB
ABC
Fox will tell you it’s easy
But seriously,
What does the fox say –
I sit at work
Longing to be as the walrus
Do a little ocean fishing
And have a bit of a bake
But alas,
Kaloo
Kalay
Cabbages and Kings
Sometimes have to work –
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC