"chunk" poems
The church field trip led to the most beautiful presence,
The elegance protrude by the sweet scent.
I dared not moved so hastily,
I dared not the red!
Glanced by the peripheral eye lids,
The red beckoned the thumping beats within my chest!
A visual decor permeates from the illuminating of the perfect circle,
And my inner most demon want to ravage it!
I wanted to devour every essense of the crescent,
Becoming one with red.
I slightly move forward so no eyes may pry onto my movement,
Like an orchestra moved to one trumpet to a violin scurry along.
Finally came side by side of the precious glimmer of the curves,
And moved my hand to palm the red's grace on the tilt of it's end.
I open wide to cusp my mouth to bite deep into it's brilliance,
In my teeth feeling the liquid and crunchy of it's body!
Sour taste of salt expand a vigor of darkness cover my mouth,
I look at the apple's plate beneath me read " Ida Red!"
Water upon my eyes,
No longer can chew any further,
I simply shallowed the chunk in my throat!
"Your elegance beckon me red, but in the end, you have seduced me to bitterness!"
I dared, Idared, ida red!
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?
Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,
fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like
those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.
I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
No matter how you feel, get up, dress up,
show up and never give up being sure that
you never water yourself down just because
they can't handle you at 100 proof and
remember that life is short, so break the
rules and forgive quickly, kiss slowly and
love truly, laugh uncontrollably and never
regret anything that made you smile.
Never stop doing your best just because
someone doesn't give you credit and know
that you are not born a winner and you are
not born a loser but that you are born a
chooser so understand your worth and
value your life and appreciate your blessings.
Always believe that something wonderful is
about to happen and train your mind to see
the good in every situation and work so hard
that one day your signature will be called an
autograph as you **** them with success and
bury them with a smile.
One day you will just be a memory to some
people so do your best to be a good one and
be a voice, not an echo and make today count
because you'll never get it back as you accept
what is, let go of what was and have faith in
what will be.
Be somebody who makes everybody feel like
a somebody and give but don't allow yourself
to be used and love but don't allow your heart
to be abused and trust but don't be naïve and
listen but don't lose your voice.
Jon York 2016
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
*frozen a lion stands
tamed by the modeller's hands
eyes unblinking
he has no inkling
why he can't move an ounce
roar and pounce
can't jump from his place
to bite a chunk of flesh
but bugged by the creator's flaws
can't move a bit his paws
stand there in dazed surprise
in helpless awe before thousand eyes
mouth agape in a tragic roar
the truth dawning on him
he's a king no more
just a clayed clone
of a lion*
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
All the stars as one in unison
Make up the galaxy we're in,
Floating around a white celestial
Being on this planetary ship.
We'll wind up in the "path of Gods,"
A self-made volunteer appears with an
"Informative" plan to share "love's book,"
To speak of "things we'll find on this journey,"
No future planned stone can be pre-overlooked.
And in the skies float the particles
That started out light years away
Have finally made their touchdown,
Leaving the express universal highway
A rocky chunk of history found it's way to town.
A story that is so ancient, so in tune with time,
That it even has developed a star-struck
Lightning fire in the backyard of galactic life,
And what sprouted from the ashy rubble is us,
Eyes hands and feet and all to experience,
To explore the many creations of natural love.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
Our worlds keep spinning; around and around!
Constantly spinning around!
When I was a child, I’d open my mouth and bite the moon,
When I was a boy, I’d lay my head within the stars,
And when I grew old, there was no place like home,
When I died, flowers grew from the palms of my hands.
When I was a star I sailed for a boy with a dream,
When I was a moon a child bit a chunk out of me,
And when I grew old, there was no place like home,
When I died, flowers grew from the palms of my hands.
Still our worlds keep spinning; around and around!
Constantly spinning around!
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
Criticism is validating
Your love is a choke hold
A marriage committed to my compromise
Generic mending
Each strand of bronzed chunk, represented a vow you gave me
The scissors cold and bare, cutting it away from my body
Swept into the nearest waste facility
I was invested until the end
Dying with you was never scary
I now degrade, picking scraps off picture frame edgings
Look at us so happy
Lusted objectifying could qualify as the new I do
Well, we didn't make it to 80 not even 32
Congratulations to your selfish needs buddy
I hope you finally find you
Here take this ring, it doesn't fit me
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
The professor said
"Family therapy is like a Pie Graph
Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie.
When people leave
there's a chunk of pie missing
and the other members of the family
have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie."
Here's my theory:
Everyone in the family has their own whole pie.
Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it.
how they view them in their family.
how they relate to them,
Imagine a home
Mom and her four daughters.
Step dad, his daughter and son.
imagine three bedrooms.
The adults taking up one of them.
let's look at the Mother,
Her four daughters
all with different fathers
she knows how to raise children.
The daughters all know how to
Be
Children, be
Sisters, be
older or younger than each other.
The step-father knows how to have
A Wife,
One Daughter,
A Son.
Well Step-brother leaves the house.
Susie has a child at fifteen.
what does
her pie look like now?
She used to have a boyfriend,
four sisters,
a mother, father.
Now lost a brother
gained a baby.
She only knows how to be a child.
let's look at the mother.
She hasn't learned: Grandchild
but she knows how to raise a baby.
lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters,
what's another one?
The sisters, lost their brother, a role model.
Exchanged for this this new baby.
another sister?
everyone's pie is empty in some parts.
judging by some other
dead white guys theory
when who you are doesn't line up
with who you see yourself as,
that's when people develop
Mental illness
Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises.
That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister.
Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men.
Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie
and Big Sis.
like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death.
The farther we go back in each family member's backstory
the more slivers of pie we find
Georgia has autism,
Carley diagnosed depression,
Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years.
Clover is quiet.
The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar.
Any number of names they can slap on him.
He doesn't live there anyhow.
isn't human.
Muffle the sister that says she miss him.
hit her, cut her, lock her up.
This was a case study.
I lived with this family for four years.
unintentionally filled up parts of their pie.
I was Son.
Older brother.
Boyfriend.
Father.
When I stopped being a fly on the wall
Stopped seeing how their story was developing.
I didn't have any pie left.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Every day fare eaten with every meal
Stew beans and rice or rice mix with beans.
Pour lee gravy and a few chunk of beef
Rice and beans gial is every-man meal.
Rice and beans gial
Easy and fresh, just cianh seh no. She jus roll wid di flow.
My rice and beans gial suit every dish.
Stew beans and rice.Rice and beans mix-up.
Smell just like coconut eyle. (oil
Easy squeeze make no riot my granny used to say.
Bwai how you like it?. Any way da way. Just
Pass di onion sauce.
Rice and beans girl ( gial )
Rice and beans gial steady and true
Mix up fi me,beans and rice fi you.
One size suits all
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
I see Sloth from “The Goonies”
whenever I see you.
You softly ask me to make love
but I hear “Baaaby Ruuuuth?”
Maybe it's your crooked teeth
or your rancid funk.
When you say you love me so
it comes out “Sloth love Chunk!”
I see Sloth from “The Goonies”
when we go socialize.
And when you greet our many friends,
you're saying “HEY YOU GUUUYS!”
Maybe it's the way you grunt
or just your lazy eye.
But when I'm having *** with Sloth
it makes me want to die.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,
A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,
Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,
This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,
The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,
Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth, trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,
The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,
Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers
The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main
attracter
A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man.
Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft *****
Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep.
Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks.
And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him.
I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around.
I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings.
He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart.
"People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
I drift lifeless in this weary night
Not cognizant of these dark ways
A tear in my eye blurs my sight
Souvenir of bright, beautiful days
I hear the sound of leaves, dry
Crushed like my life, torn apart
Like a soft, muffled cry
I hear their echo in my heart
I turned around with a firm belief
Of someone in this way unknown
But the sight multiplied my grief
An empty road with a shadow of my own
I looked up at the moon profound
Prepared I was to shout aloud
At this happiness I just found
When she hid behind a chunk of cloud
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
You can’t deny what is justified
Neither the wrists that were crucified
And at the peak of His sovereign grace
And the crown that pierced the top of His face
And we destroyed in our eyes a chunk of mud
And yet; He saved the souls of Adams blood
He forgave our ignorance and tall some grew
And many today through Him become new
We were granted a gift you see
One so unnatural it shouldn’t be
We know it so well it’s like we don’t care
But truth is you look at what else He’ll spare
You glance at the list and we’re bottom to top
And everything else is washed with a mop
So may it never be! As Paul would say
To belittle such a privileged way
I can’t save you from your delay
But sovereign is the Lord through Him you may
The invitation is written in us now
And it’s your choice where you’ll be when our knees will bow
Maybe I’m saying this a little too lightly
Understand when you’re given a rope, you should hold on tightly
For crying out loud do you still not comprehend
That others given a soul aren’t lent a hand
as a being in God’s creation alone
and made to accept a debtless loan
Through a process foreign to things known
And here we lie guilty and not blown
In all evil is God given wrath
No escape from a hopeless death
So as not so mind-opening as I wanted to be
Think to yourself about this significance and see
What we live in this life is passionately hated and despised
But yet it’s still your choice to either be loved or denied
For our helpless minds were those wrists crucified
You can’t deny what is justified
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Giving off pieces of myself to complete you
You're a mess, but I can fix you
Allow me to take you around the globe and let the world stare
I wanna make you sure of your beauty, let's ride together
And be like the '03 Bonnie & Clyde
O'er the moon like the shining star No clouds can block our shine
No sun can outshine us. Hand in hand we'll patch up to be imperfectly perfect, for me. The piece that will set my world in motion,my motivation. Tattooed into my spirit, you'll have a huge chunk of my heart to keep in yours. Capture a shot of you smiling, heaven never looked so beautiful. My kind of forever.
By: @Ofentse_Tsie & @__Dvniel
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
A Valentine's Card dressed
With Steve Buscemi's face,
photoshopped onto a child,
disturbing and hilarious,
tattooed on the inside
with once-true truths.
Flammable.
A severed chunk of
35 mm film,
cut in a rhombus,
or trapeze or whatever,
highly flammable.
A piece of cloth
I brought with me,
And the part of
the belt I had to cut
off so it would fit
my skinny ***
Flammable, slightly.
A dead and dried up leaf,
Impaled on the bulletin board,
From a tree I don't even know what,
That sometimes crinkles with the wind,
If she were alive still,
She would comment on the
Cold thumbtack spear
In her abdomen, and
Sniff regrets at the sweet,
Artificial Vanilla waves below.
I keep my wall of
flammable memories
Above a lit candle,
Every day, I wish the flames
Would reach a little higher, but
Every day, the wax sinks,
low, low, lower still.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
It twas a chunk.
A bootleg papertowel, ziplock baggie, hairband combo
Allowed me to continue
Cutting and subsequently cooking
Perseverance? Check.
Being a bad ***** Check.
Maintaining a sense of humor while I'm gushing blood? Check.
Jamming 90s alternative rock with my nineteen year old brother? Check.
No ******* this time though..
He wouldn't allow such.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
So hot in the stone walled algebra room.
Heat suffocates the students leaving us all confused.
Got so hot in there all I could do was rip out my hair.
Ripped it out chunk by chunk until it was all gone and I was bald.
But, but, but, still too hot.
Stripped to nothing I threw off all my cloths.
Sat at my desk naked and bald.
Now I am far too cold...
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
~~
Don't get me wrong, darling
Because that's exactly, I do not know how to say
However, what goes out of the home
Rivers, Mountains, Sea
Or beyond the horizon, Any call
You don't make a mistake
I'll be back to whom
So, for a moment, don't misunderstand me
That exotic flute, distant Kans grasses
Even from far away:
From the seashore, I have heard the echoes of another time
So don't misunderstand me, darling
They have relationships with, and you are like me
They are not devoid of love
I give you, borrow from them
For a moment, don't misunderstand me
I bring your pearl beneath the sea,
From the mountains the ancient forms,
The original earthy flavour,
A chunk of drifted white clouds from the autumn sky as a little boat
So, you don't misunderstand me
Where 'll I come back
Where 'll sing their song
Where to lose my soul,
Or will not come
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
What happened a week ago
I’m still recovering
Some have told me I’m in mourning
when you lose something that was a part of you for so long
I feel like I’ve lost a limb or
a big chunk of my heart
what happened a week ago
friendships severed, felt like an amputation without the anesthesia
sawing and gnawing
whittle by whittle
the pain, never less than searing
what happened a week ago
I feel the phantom limb
I think it’s still there
I go to my inbox, check the chats, click one and
BOOM
shouting matches and f-bombs being dropped like the a-bomb on Hiroshima
my words, arrows dipped in poison
I flung everything I had
poured my chopped up heart onto a silver platter and let the blood drip drop for all to see
what happened a week ago
I said some things I shouldn’t have
I let my heart speak instead of my head
letting my anger and red flurries get the best of me
what happened a week ago
is an awful lot like what happened 11 years ago
I’m six years old
piecing together a puzzle of forgiveness
walking back to my room after a yelling match with my sister
I scribble I’m so sorry I got mad at you on the back of my homework
slide it under her door
and wait
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
Life doesn't always hand you lemons
like snowballs they can be thrown at your legs
Down on your knees you'll go,
because lemons are much harder than snowballs you know.
Crippling you for however long,
this harsh act forces you to crawl.
Don't expect a wheelchair, there wont be one for you.
We all crawled at one point or another
a past lesson; a past stepping stone on how to walk
if you can remember,which I doubt you can
crawling was much easier then.
Back then you weren't use to standing on your feet.
But for whatever reason life decided to chunk a lemon your way
knock you down in the middle of the road,
then run off like some silly little girl, all the while laughing of course
Life chose you.
You with your habit of bad luck and terrible morning breath...
Keep your head up when you start crawl, if not you'll miss the ladder.
As one of life's wonderful attempts to keep you down
just keep going, keep moving forward and when you see that ladder...
don't climb it.
Use it to stand back up
then hunt down a brand new lemon squeezer,
cause I can guarantee life 'misplaced' your last one...
on purpose of course.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
Coffee
Heath
Bar
Crunch
Will sabotage those taste buds,
Like Dublin and its Mudslides.
So blast off with that,
Fossil Fuel,
And don’t let me
Catch you.
‘Cause I’ll keep you,
My Maple Blondie.
I’ll capture you,
And hold onto,
Those Cinnamon Buns.
You’re the Crème Brulee,
Of Chocolate Macadamia,
And the Cherry Garcia,
In my every breath.
You’re the Chunky Monkey,
To this Chubby Hubby;
The Dulce Delish,
for this Americone Dream.
Can’t you see I’ve just got,
A sweet tooth for you,
And your Phish Food?
Your Chocolate hair,
Key Lime Pie eyes,
Strawberry Cheesecake lips,
And your skin is a delight,
Much like Vanilla Caramel Fudge.
Did Ben and Jerry create you?
Please tell me they did!
So I can eat you,
With my cup of Boston Cream Pie,
And I’d eat you all up, Well,
Everything but the…
Half Baked, Karmel Sutra,
Which I’d lick,
Like a cone of Cake Batter,
And then dip into,
Like Cookies and Milk.
Imagine Whirled Peace,
On top of this Mudpie,
And then Split,
Like a Banana.
That’s the kind of Brownie Batter,
I’d stir with you,
And then add a scoop,
Or two,
Of Turtle Soup.
And you would yell,
PISTACHIO PISTACHIO!
Where for art thou pistachio?
And with a bowl of Peach Cobbler,
And a spoon of Vanilla,
I’d look at you,
wink,
and offer you a pint,
of my Mint Chocolate Chunk.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC