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My great grandaddy was a farmer
He was set in his ways
My great grandma said he was a charmer
Always jealous of Edie May

He went on a date with Edie
Way back in 1908
He swore it was only one date
But grandma brings it up each day

I remember asking grandaddy
'What's the box of corn cobs for'
That were sitting in the outhouse
Stacked neatly on the floor

Never ask what the corn cobs are for

I stayed with them for a summer
Back when I was nine or ten
A feather bed was where I slumbered
Photos of ancestors scared me to death

They never smiled or seemed happy
In the framed pictures around the bed
I thought they were watching me
As I laid down to rest my head

Dancing corn cobs haunted my dreams

Grandaddy smoked a homemade pipe
With tobacco he grew from scratch
Told stories of how his great grandaddy
Crossed the ocean on a wooden craft

We rode his tractor across the hills
Rounding up cattle and mended fences
Grandma was in the barn getting milk
Oh how I loved her buttermilk biscuits

I couldn't eat corn on the cob she fixed us

They never owned a television set
No air conditioning could be found
So I caught craw dad's in the creek
My splashing was the only sound

I went back and can't hold it anymore
It's been a few days and I have to go
I stood up and walked out the door
I'd better hurry and not move so slow

Don't ask me what the corn cobs were for
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
Nebek Wormer Sep 2015
been awhile
just wanted to let somebody know
that being is doing fine
being has never felt more complete
but yet it is still incomplete

out on these tiles
finding remnants of the true nature within
where are all of the friends
so we can commence the feast
it isn't proper until everyone has arrived
and nothing will settle for less

No need to digress.
Where was the train of thought last?
Funny.
The reflection of past is foggy from the steam

jet propulsion-
scorching-
water evaporation-

writing words in the mirror to pass time
even though all the time that was had
has been burned

when will being learn?


...i tsum og ffo.. ot eht wotrednu fo eht evaw.. sgniht lliw eb rethgirb.. taht i wonk os ll'i evom no...
flow. flow. flow. its been awhile. no i am not a victim of the dreaded writers block. i just havent been writing because... no excuse can be made. i simply havent. but ive been spittin like a private cleaning boots.
Nishu Mathur Jul 2016
Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors

Dreams are made of iris and jasmine 
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes

Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees  that cast a spell 
A  gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well

Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A  tangerine orb riding a rainbow

Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette  of love in rain soaked June

Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves

Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you
Written about 2 years ago
Nigel Morgan Mar 2013
this small lake where only the breeze is present on
the water’s surface where only the ducks and moorhens
chatter about us silent hills and the shadows of clouds
passing  passing dark shapes passing over the snow streaks

horses suddenly four dark cobs sturdy travellers’ beasts
grazing a golf course gentle souls quietly padding
moving close by inspecting us for food I touch a coat
black as black as short as the sheep-clipped grass

distance everywhere spreading out into a haze of a lowering
sun fold upon fold of field and pasture walled tree-lined
disturbed by dwellings grey stone white-walled even
red-roofed disappearing into trees nestled next to barns

flow of the hill the hills flow long stretches of stunted grass
upwards to nearly snowlines where fissures of white fingers
reach down towards the sheeped grass a few tops nearly
mountains brilliant white

suddenly finding troubled thoughts are nowhere gone away
left somewhere perhaps on the train journey north passing
out of the windowed view and now just the present present
resting in the cool to breathe cool air

strange that so many images now mind-snapshots conjure
past-thoughts sharp memories your blue figure almost
motionless sketching with charcoal and finger ends
kneeding texture into the paper so still still

the track beyond this farm is an unrolled pattern towards
the higher hills across the meadows winter has almost
drained of colour to disappear the once green becoming
nearly neutral but going further before a surprise in store

a valley revealed after reaching the hill’s brow there a
river’s part-song flows across a tree-accompanied edgeland
before a sleight village there’s a road one vehicle
passing in the half hour you sit and draw

there is colour here autumnal shades though nearly spring
the earth sandstone-red bracken fit to be burnt and there
very distant a line of smoke following a crease in  the
southern hills rising and spreading horizon-ward

every time birds crows starlings gulls lift from a field
a wood a hillside my heart lifts with them to glide with
unexpected joy that this should be so that such movement
should make this landscape sing

walking westward sunward into the sun’s setting haze
distant Lakeland distant Ullswater somewhere in the
gathering purple corrugated sheets of rising hills in the
almost empty sky promising a cold night

and later in the warmth of resting as the sky reddens
and dusk falls the snowdrop rich woodland from our
window captures the westward light and birds roost
as we roost on our bed we might not sleep in tonight

but we are to stay and later walking the night-dark road
leaving the small town behind the stars bend down to the
very edge of nearer horizons the cusp of close fields so
sharply bright bold alarums of once-worlds everywhere

to see you sew is to witness peace I often imagine dream
of close my eyes to see those quiet fingers press and touch
and move so later I bring my own fingers into a play of  
unclothing to stroke and press and bring close

and morning there is frost fielded to a curve of a pasture
edged with what seem to be trees but are distance-belied
falsely distant felt too close extraordinary I pull the curtain
just a little to gaze that I see it so

my darling there is more and it is more than I know how
to place on the page my notes now run to not-quite sense
but I discern to be full of walking’s pleasure to grasp a
freedom paced together to tread to be under the soft sky still
Appleby-in-Westmoreland is a small market town in the Eden Valley famous for its annual Horse Fair attended each June by over 10,000 travellers from across Europe.
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
Icky things
with legs and wings
and oh! too many eyes!
Things what hide in shadow
spinning webs
and eating flies.
Little flying cobbies
(They are not there in the book
of insect or arachnid
though I often look and look...)
They were just too sneaky
to get written down
I s'poze...
Still I know they're
down there creeping
up onto my toes!
On and on and on and on and when you think they're gone they go on and on and on and bomb.

What hell is paradise?

And what religious lunacy is this?
why not blow a kiss and make a friend?
don't blow a bomb up
make this end
But
**** them if they think we fear
we've seen enough and we hold dear
the freedoms that our fathers fought for,
no one wants this war
no one wants the fight.

Conspiracy theorists beware,
we've seen it
done it
all been there and it's all
a crock
of ****,
do not get dragged
into it.
K Balachandran Sep 2011
At high-tech city street
where trees flower
in digital displays
and giggles of girls
repeatedly echo
in metallic voices
geeks, grave faced
human computers
crowd around a
wooden push cart
of a village belle
selling boiled cobs of corn
conspicuous by
toothy yellow grin
much like the seller's.
Her single handed creation
of cornucopia
with farm fresh corn
is no conundrum:
the world of unreal,
cyber nowhere,
and it's zombies
desperately seek
the taste of reality bites
to get grounded.
tread Jan 2013
Flashing numbers; this isn't a binary
sequence but the universe has got me
wondering. 01001011010101011
combinations of 2 create infinitesimally
complicated creatures, craters, croutons,
castrations, cancers, colons, concretes,
convulsions, corn-cobs. 'Where is my
mind' by the Pixies; wish I'd never heard
it before. No simile metaphor for what's
next, swooping ultraviolent. Almost like
skin being ripped off so I'm nothing but
bone and muscle. 'With your feet in the
air and your head on the ground,' the
dam snaps and floods my Amsterdam
cheeks like New Orleans; scrambling for
roof I drown. Scrambling for roof I drown.
'Try to trick and spin it, yeah,' polka-dots
and floaters; bacteria in my eye dives into
the ocean and makes me wonder which
flew bottom and rounded-dust to eat *****
on sea-floor. 'Your head will collapse, but
there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself,'
mashing cellphone numbers now; mashing
cellphone needed now dad pick up please pick
up worlds end pick up mom pick up I need
to know I'm real I need to know there's truth,
'where is my mind? Where is my mind? Whee
erre is my mind?' the world fades into itself and
what crosses mind is death but no, why? No,
need. Dad picks up to my heaving sobs. Rational,
collected. Collect call. World freezes.
I've been suffering with severe anxiety for the past year and a half. I recently had to request less hours at work as a result. It brings me a measure of peace if I know I can half-explain myself through poetry because otherwise, the panic attack is probably the most profoundly lonely experience known to man. It feels like you're the only person in the universe and the world is a figment of a solipsistic dream you're about to awake from. So I hope if you feel the same you can know that I do to, and we can be mutual in our realization of this-has-happened-before.
ERR Nov 2011
An unsuspecting observer would view his property as bland
With subterranean secrets rarely breaching for detection
When pointed ends met with his cracking winter surface
The sludge bubbled out filling every empty space
His inner oil to some
Was black gold
Prosperity
To others still, a tar pit worthy of dinosaur death
He grew as a sheet of ice which could harbor skating lessons
Or unseen, send auto travelers in lack of traction spirals
His light-stealing sticky venom clotted neural networks
A fat tarantula plucking whims from the web between two ears
He fraternized with Morpheus
On odds
With cousin evens
Awakening unsure if he were caught in silky cobs
Or the hands above it all
He certainly felt like a marionette, dangling on feeble feet
Pulled by the digits of ink stained impulse
Hate, tug
Create, tug
They made him dance to their tattooed meter
He felt the crunch of beetles and flies
His temples throbbed as tar dripped from his eyes
Drops forming clefs, pictures, and words
I am but a stencil, he buzzed
Elemenohp Nov 2016
The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.
Jane Aug 2010
Actions not words,
new lesson learned.. or trying at least.
It's a hard one to swallow when it means so much more..
More to my heart..
To my health..
To my life...

To question the actions of the one I hold dear..
I don't want to see, to look, or believe.
Could you be...  only words?
You couldn't... You wouldn't.. be just like her?..

Her, a girl who cared for me not,
but her words spun a web in which I got caught.
Took a year to untangle, brush the cobs from my eyes
To look at her actions and cast aside all the lies

I tell myself now, never again
But could you be.. only words?
You couldn't.. You wouldn't .. just make believe?

If so, I dont want to know,
I'll just let it be.
The truth would hurt more, or I'll die and then see.

You couldnt.. You wouldn't.. do that to me?..
*Any feedback is/criticism is great!*
Please leave any opinions or thoughts you have after reading it :)
brandon nagley May 2015
Absurd accumulations, broad- cloth's to wipe each bays station! What a joke of clownery tools.Irritated refuge, instigated neices and nephews miss their woeful father's.... One for a count, a whole cell to a slaughter.
Down and out lane I make mine way to your lonesome hell, where ankh arched wells draw back from higher hills..Robust outbreak of plentiful disease, orthopedics outclass your sneeze!!!!
Ovation applauded to ******* alike!!! Ordaters to outvoted daters, silence is thy key to your miserable life!!!!
Pasturage for slobs, corn for all cobs, your colonels panel design twists slow around the vine!!!!
Seconds until six, ten minutes until nine....... Will you behave like the boy you should be?
Or could have been?,
andy fardell Oct 2011
Last night i had a dream where heaven came to me
did follow this road so beautiful the drive was oh so free
led me to a place... a heaven ...a place for me

the sea was so exciting ...crashing waves in jest
a church left in the turmoil of battles gone and hence
the ruins felt so so right they looked not out of place
sea smelt of the saltiness yet bacon in the breeze

a cafe puffed smoke from near the front so small
it fit a few
bacon cobs a plenty ..and tea so right not stewed
two dogs did try and lick me ..they smelt a freind in me
my heaven came to be my life ..its name obscured from veiw

A map i found now of this place that hid so well from all
they called it bourne ..i didnt know and never been before
I woke up from my dream and knew what I had found
a heaven from my inner side a calmness now was found
fresh and printed new
as the glistening morn dew
tis a lovely view

old and so well worn
as the near dead cobs of corn
tis a sight forlorn
Having just woke up and
lit a smoke up
I'm going to take up
knitting.

I'm spitting cobs here
because of that fear and
that fear being,
the wings of the night that beat me into
submission, to commission me into the
army of the impossible
into improbable situations.

The four horsemen and the creation
of dark dreams,
screams in the closing of eye dreams.
The racing of headlights and dipped beams
and the sound of a carriage.

A marriage of mind and mayhem where
the phlegm of the soul plays a role on the
boards with the devil and his hordes.

I'm taking up knitting and I'm going
to knit me a shawl
then I shall wrap myself in it and
when the wings beat against me,
it will be
my defence against
the night and
the enemy.
and the dreams
that haunt me.
having just woke up
Maria Apr 2019
I am a slave to change.
Eager to finish self construction.
The cobs of familiarity tighten
As I long to breathe fresh air.
Nervousness invites itself.
What part of me will die, transform?
And which part of me will hunger and be born?
Day 2 of National Poetry Month
Harold r Hunt Sr Dec 2015
Old Sam's last supper
The old jailer came around to Sam that night.
He asked Sam what he wanted for supper.
Old Sam said with a smile on his face.
Mash tarter piled sky high, gravy that runs down the side like
A river. Corn on the cobs with the corn being real yellow. Like as if the sun was shining on it.
A nice thick steak rare to see the blood I have spilled.
A thick pile of apple pie with whippers-in on top as if it had snowed.
The jailer said will do,
Sam said if he could eat his supper by the moon light it would be great.
After the meal old Sam said to the jailer. Let's get this necktie party started.
I want to go home to heaven before the morning sun.
Nabil Apr 2021
Here’s to rocking the dome of the rock , waking the nuns from abstinence with wet dreams and fathers with a fix till you’re both stem and root ; ***-less , ball-less , tongue-less , ****-less , ****-less , to rewriting our rules till we are trees at root . Meditating on vigor of vitality for the sake of no clue . Vines that stretch and bind their way colorless , soundless , figuratively motionless , till  we reach a cage . Become the complacent urge to demonstrate hogwash because the impending breeding of this pig threatens my chaos . May be
Honeydrops Mar 2014
We grudge in pains
Tears soaks our pillows
We mourn and groan
Nightmares stomp on our hearts
Tearing deep into the soul
While sorrow captivates the heart... leaving the spirit to battle with grieves ...

We battle to be freed from the tangled cobs of madness
but the more we try, the less we gain..

The more our pain increases, the heart looses its grip

But surely, we try but fail....
In all our attempts to be loosen
We omit the path...
The path of certainty that break all chains
Our only path to unexplainable peace
We fail to commune with our Creator
Who was,Who is and will still be
We give prayer an exception...
But get ourselves encumber with frivolous pleasures...
Which only last a moment or less... leaving us feel more depressed
the soul often oppressed
the spirit... entangled with torments
And Alas!
we aim for suicides....
Oh!
What peace we often forfeit
oh!
What joy we often lose
All because we fail to carry
Everything to God..
In Prayer....
SelinaSharday Feb 2018
This Poem was given to me by my friend the Author
and poet J Alexander thank you so Much Jay!
Where are u queen?

Somewhere...
seated in-between faded lines of a potent love poem
written in the 60s by hippies named Flower with the
power putting peace in pens teaching Zen to 10 crescent
moons refusing not to glow, only to then grow-up making
a living as a breath-taking metaphor?

Somewhere...
in a private casbah being made to feel like more than
a woman while God summons a handful of her ebony
angels giving each an epiphany of ample high-5's and
performance promotions for a magic potion creation
well done, one eternity at a time?

Somewhere...
still reminiscing about a kiss that could soften stingy steel,
calling no cobs on the cookie unless cats come correct,
not like rookies but like roosters that ****-a-doddle-doo
and make you sit still while layers get peeled till you fulfill
your fantasy feeling the
power of Niagara’s flow?

Somewhere...
letting tomorrow take care of itself as it usual does
while wishing someone-unlike-no-other would take
care of you today, tattooing the inside of your eyelids
with the letters L.O.V.E. with binding blood for you
to gaze at a view of outer-space using commitment
constellations as mental masking tape, sticking by your
side until there is no such a thing as time?

Where did you go?

Somewhere...
sleeping solo, dripping "I'll show him" slob on pride
pillows instead of riding bicycles with no seats -
just the pole, juxtaposed underneath unapologetic
satin sheets swapping gossip on unlimited minutes
about unfinished business to bitter listeners with
limited vision, although behind your back would switch
in an instance, since it's existence - misery always needed company

Somewhere...
thinking about making the 1st move for the 2nd and 3rd time?

Somewhere...
keepin' it 100 with 90% of your single friends?
Where are you my luv?

Somewhere...
becoming conscious, covered deep with earth on a
continent in a South African mine in your prime,
replacing the black blood and applying your tear drops
upon diamonds, making them shine twice as bright
with infinity shelf life?

Somewhere...
practicing saying a surname on for size in front of a
candlelit white picket fenced vanity mirror,
placing pillows near navels underneath your
blouse knowing it fits your style and hoping
that daddy will be speechless proud about his
princess, pride and joy?

Somewhere...
working too **** hard?
Where are you irreplaceable?

Oooooh.....still right here, sippin' Verbal Koffee,
listening to Sade’s I Couldn’t Love You More and down for whatever!!
©2009
jAy aLexander
Fountain Head Publishing

Years back!
A wonderful him back then and when to be remembering the talents of a poet with his hearts pen.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
and there was a Fiona,
and me working the Edinburgh
***** nightclub
picking empty glasses
from the parkiet...
emptying ****** into
bottles of beer,
getting cornered by skinhead
homos eager for a blow...
Fiona...
    played her the mandolin,
outside her window like
a ******* twised Romeo...
rod steward's maggie may...
then there was Janina,
a love worthy of a canvas,
and a rose... roses bewilder women...
not ough pearl or oyster shells
on them... come next spring...
like any Dutch tulip addiction...
frivolous scoop...
n'ah... this ***** hit the bull's eye
of the bell tower...
ich troje's song
zawsze z tobą chciabym być...
a commoner party song...
became a critique of my skull...
as she deemed it,
the protruding occipital of Africans...
and the squashed, flat "missing"
protrusion was a sign of degeneracy...
even though we shared the same ancestor...
from a pop song...
toward a flat occipital...
wheat-gob bulging jawline
of African Amricans?
they stick corn cobs in there or what?
come on... even Somalia pirates
know the diffrence between not liking
a pleb song, and making comments
about the ******* cranium...
oh wait... and all of this...
in art class...
   so I sketched an answer for her...
her youth...
   eyes with no pupils and no iris,
pure sclera... looking into a mirror
and a babushka...
                if they **** for a reward
of 72 virgins...
              god give me strength...
anticipating 72 doberman
or alsatians, or rottweiler puppies...
       too much fictive love,
when the reality demands...
  once upon a time,
        when a young couple were
to be married,
the parents of both bride
and groom...
    invested in...
    the rewards of retirement,
and the anticipation of reinvigoration
by youth in the format of
grandchildren...
now?
oh you know the subsequent script...
*******.
kirk Mar 2021
Who needs a box of Sandwiches, who needs a plump Pork Pie
Snap those flimsy plastic Knifes, and bleed your Hip Flask dry
***** up your Paper Serviettes, kiss Plates and Cups goodbye
The War on Picnics has begun, and Coffee Beans will die

Bar B Q's will let them burn, checked Blankets can be ripped
Don't squeeze those juicy Oranges, all Bananas must stay zipped
Lock away your Wicker Baskets, cos Yogi's post is piped
The average bear has had his day, and smartness will be stripped

Cobs of Corn are wilting; they can't believe their ears
Asparagus has now been thrown, along with all the spears
Fresh Cream is left to curdle, Milk shaking through the fears
Too many Hops have been deflowered, so stick your crate of Beers

Who wants your Cheese and Onion, spin on my Sausage Roll
The march of Walkers has commenced, and Crisps have gone Awol
Let Iceberg Lettuce melt away, toss out that Salad Bowl
Tuna Fish has just got canned, so has the Dover Soul

Vanilla in an Ice Cream Cone, that's frozen to the scoop
Hard Boiled Eggs are going soft, so they've all flown the coop
A ****** on a Cocktail Stick, one ***** that's on the droop
Ripe Tomatoes are now squashed, pack up your Cup a' Soup

Chicken has turned rather fowl, Ham is now wafer thin
Kitchen Roll has given up, their towels have been thrown in
Farmhouse Loafs caught Cottaging, will take it on the chin
Candy Floss is so confused, and gone into a spin

Pizzas have fell like Domino's, they refuse to leave the Hut
Oyster shells are clamming up, so they are staying shut
Quarter Pounders lost their purposes, now they can't bust a gut
The bluntness of cheep Meat Cleavers, just didn't make the cut

The revolution of French Fries, cos they've all had their Chips
Slavery has come to pass, amongst the Walnut Whips
All Smoothies have had it rough, no blend without the Pips
Escargot are much to slow, so they can't pass my lips

Spaghetti tried to slip away, because it doesn't give a Fork
It's hairy for the Coconuts, but they're too shy to talk
Pepsi has been smoking Coke, as well as pulled Roast Pork
The Battering of the northern Puds, has forced them back to York

All the Grapes are souring; they have good cause to Wine
Nuts are turning to bad Seeds, upon the lonesome Pine
Pigs say that Bacon rationing, "is really just a swine"
We've grounded our Black Pepper, and of coarse it's now too fine

Fallen Fruits are badly bruised, too hard for any healings
A Jacket that once was snug, lost in Potato Peelings
Jelly has thrown a wobbler, why Trifle with its feelings
Biscuits forced into a Jam, so no more Dodgy dealings

Those Chillies are so lazy, Watercress will stay in bed
It's as easy as a piece of Cake, but the Beetroots seeing red
Margarine has hardened up, and the news has not been spread
Beef Wellington has had the boot, and there's nowhere else to tread

Apples are forbidden fruit, and Ribs are going spare
The Pastry has flaked away, from my sweet Chocolate Éclair
Will Lady Godiva ride again, to show off her lovely Pear?
Pringles popped and cannot stop, but they decline to share

Salad Dressing that gets caught, well isn't that just rude?
All the Kebabs are angry, because their Vegetables are skewed
Bottles are remaining corked; it looks like we are *******
Food unwrapped will go to waste, now that its in the ****

My Candelabra's round the twist, and it's getting on my wick
Pineapple Chunks and Silver Skins, are sliding down the stick
Unsliced Bread on your doorstep, I'm afraid it's much too thick
Fields of Crops aren't dusted off, so you can't take your pick

Peperami was an animal, but now he's just a yob
Gourmet food has lost its class, and turned into a slob
My Butter has now melted, Lurpak has got no ****
Donut holes are being filled, so ******* PC Plod

The Salt is in the Cellar, Sugar has got the Cane
Lollipops have all been licked, Crackers have gone insane
Soufflés refuse to even rise, and Tea has felt the strain
Frankfurter has to face Riff Raff, and won't be sweet again

Tarts who've lost their Cherries, are no longer sat on top
Unlucky Scones have been let go, so they've all felt the drop
Beans have done a Runner; fizzy drinks have all gone Pop
Cops are giving us a fine, cos they want Picnics to stop
On 6th January 2021 two friends were fined £200 each for travelling just five miles to Foremark Reservoir in Derbyshire for their daily exercise.
Jessica Allen and Eliza Moore were surrounded by police officers in the car park shortly after arriving in separate vehicles.
Both ladies were read their rights and was told that the hot drinks they were carrying were not allowed as they were "Classed as a picnic"

It seems a bit extreme to confiscate a cup of coffee and classify it as a picnic and maybe a case of over zealousness on the part of the Derbyshire police officers.
Incidents of this nature over the past year are increasing and as a result of this I have been inspired to write about it.
This poem is just a small part of a bigger document but I thought it was worthy of its own posting
Unfortunately the document in question is too large to post in its entirety so maybe I will have to post it in sections as I was going to post a link
As a small bonus I have also re wrote the Teddy-Bears Picnic to fit in with this situation I hope you enjoy them thanks for reading.

Coffee Becomes A Picnic:
If you go down to the lake today well that is a big mistake
If you go out for a walk today there's officers on the make
For ever cop that ever there was will gather there for certain because
Today's the day when coffee becomes a picnic

Every bent cop will be there to take your treats away
There's lots of marvellous things to steal including your steamed latte
Beneath their knees whenever they please
They'll lurk and prey then issue large fees
Cos that's the way the coppers define a picnic

Picnic time for two young girls
It's only two young girls walking around the park today.
Stalk them, catch them unawares
It's no picnic when drinks go astray

There are many cops about
So don't you scream and shout
They're arresting women in pairs
By six o'clock you're treated like baddies and they'll take you instead
Because they're trained in illicit affairs

If you go out for a walk today you better go on your own
It's lovely down at the lake today, but your safer to stay at home
Cos every cop that ever there was will issue fines for certain
Because the day has come when coffee is now a picnic
Stu Harley Dec 2023
One day a poem stood at my doorstep
and I let it come in to get warm and dry
we sat by the fireplace and had a chat

We laughed and shared stories between us,  
about yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and  
yes, it was delightful to get a chuckle or two.  

I picked up my old guitar,  
the poem dusted off the ancient fiddle,  
and we played sonatas and variations of Bach    

Then, we sat down at the kitchen table,  
nibbling on sweet delicious corn cobs and  
sinking our teeth into succulent roast pheasant.  

At last, we filled our wine goblets to the brim  
with vintage brandy, and we drank to our hearts content.  

A poem does not want to be left alone,  
so the next time you see a poem outside your door,  
please do me a favor, and let it in.
Penne Jun 2021
The sound of the skeleton flower's petal was heard.
Time to go home.
Dripping from the roof is the moisture for the family and animals for 1 whole day.

The sheep filed through the cottonwood gate.
The aardvarks came next, tiptoeing on the birds' isle and then proceed to float on the eye of the lake.

Hot crackling popped from the bird seeds and savaged corn cobs.
All trees and webs lost their sway to give breath to the farmer's daughter.

The miracle of the picturesque was all stolen by her.

The hair is unmatched with nature's colors.
Her rough, sticky, lavender gray curls.
Love is the black ants gathering for the flan, leaf-shaped.
She dips the lark in a pool of beet juice.
Glazed the firewood with snaps of her belting notes and wiped with trots of chameleon.
And the whole world glowed.

One time, the farm girl had too much fun  
But does not know what day it is Neither the sun blinks
So hey, why not start expanding this farm?
Instead of an animal kingdom, a planetarium is forged.

He whispered, "I'm soft as a cloud."
He caressed, "I can give you everything."
He slashed, "I promise."
She knew. But, it was her ambition to have no ambitions.

The baby sheep were sleeping next door.
They were crying.
They were always crying.
Sometimes she wished they had less rights.
But the cries meant something else.

"Baby, why do you keep dying? Just walk already. I wish you were already 25 so you can feel alone."
Sundials were Sunday oranges to drink
Melting, melting, melting it until confessions became concessions.

Obsessed on breaking a patch of grass to look at her reflection. That is her only way to have a reflection.
Comb the grass up if she felt hazy.
Comb the grass down if she has the urge to joust.
Comb the grass everywhere to just forget every minute.

The figs were sagging and darkening. Yet, it was no tither season.

She wondered, "Is there even a  mosquito that likes me? I always ride a horse soaked in paint and has eyes of a distant phone light."

One night, she boiled the fur and then baked some cake.
It was the time to brave the punch.
Nobody was going to take away her hunch!
She heard a poke and an acne groan.
No, to eden! To eden! To eden!
When she opened the main door, the scent of ice shaved her mien.

"This will just make me look hideous,"she thought.

"I'm not a cycle!"

She closed the door. Now, she was afraid to leave and to stay.

Rather mourn as a ringtone and lie as a jester.

No one believed her.
Just because she did not told the story well.
a cereal plant
is found in some tortillas
cobs used for pipes, corn
MavericksDivine Oct 2019
The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.
cobs are used for pipes                
fruit, vegetable and grain
is hardened skin , corn
Michael Perry Dec 2020
A SIMPLE MOMENT

to be an observer of a day, a simple moment
it takes time, as i stand still; frozen
on this morning, it's so cold, i can  see
my breath, easily formed, why am i here?
i am drawn to moments, made aware
like a snap shot if you will, of life captured
as it happens, so I am waiting, tucked here
behind a river birch, denude, devoid of
skin-peeled  away by the weather and time
last night i laid out corn cobs and apple cores
in this pursuit, knowing that this morning
would be just right, the light was beginning
to form, a purple delight, with a slice of orange sun
peeking through, as my anticipation was building
i heard a rustling sound in front of me, as three
deer made their cautious approach, a doe, a buck
and a fawn, making their way through the clearing
as they came to the opening of where I placed the food
i watched the three circle around sniffing to be sure if it
was safe, then the buck let the doe and fawn feed first
while the buck kept watch, they stayed aware
until all three ate, then they silently disappeared from view
i kept my distance, no need to approach, my soul was satisfied

by Michael Perry

— The End —