"cornflake" poems
As a uniform, he always wore
the grey ironmonger's coat
immaculately pressed and bore
clipped hair neat as well as a
close shave.
Mr. Cornthwaite (all of us
minions called him only Mr.)
was no "Do It 'Cos I Say So" boss
but with patience would teach
and preach retail folklore:
Cooks' staples stored well inside
our mini-market shop advanced
for its 50s' existence; shelf-stacking
to re-arrange for early use-by at the
front; fast-moving lines checked
hourly if not sooner; trusted staff
becoming the Tasting Squad for
new fresh produce being considered
for supply - The Cornflake (never
uttered in his hearing) circulating
to ensure not only that his ever-clear
commands were reflected in full shelves
but also that staff were coping not
rushed or overwhelmed.
The best Warrant Officer cares
just as much commands as
my de-mobbed Warrant Officer
father used to tell me when I asked.
(c) C J Heyworth
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
It was new years day
I remember it like it was yesterday
We had a birthday party for my nephew
Everyone was there and I loved you
I told them all what I would do
I'd ask to marry you
You said yes
I was pleased
But I remember from then on
It was diseased
I loved you
More than you ever me
I couldn't help the jealousy
But that night I caught you
At the Wally Mcgees
That made me absolutely crazy
**All I could think about;
Was that **** Beatles song
Where they sat on a cornflake
And pigs ran from a gun**
I couldn't help what I done
I had to do it,
You were causing me too much pain
But I ended it
My pain I mean
With a knife in her vein
I guess you could say
That I was Mad Hatter
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
he rots at his window,
a stale cornflake man
with eyes like ****** smoke.
behind his tree bark eyebrows,
he watches the children on the sidewalk
and paints wet dreams
of how they would taste
wrapped around his tongue.
this ***** fingernail man,
he smokes his cigarettes the wrong way round
and swallows the ashes.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
A prolonged war with virus has worn her quite a bit
Back home though from hosp she is still far from fit
I don’t know how to cook can’t make a simple meal
She drained of strength has to gather all her will.
For she knows for all my rhymes I’m practically no good
Won’t budge from my ignorance to make for us some food
In the kitchen I tell her ‘show me how to make
A few basic dishes I’m tired of cornflake’.
She says ‘too late dear, know what I feel?
You lost thirty years to grow some culinary skill’
Then she busies herself while I get lost in rhyme
Her occupation is life saving, mine not worth a dime.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
In my father’s cosmology, God rose late come Sunday morning,
Having wreaked His vengeance by proxy the night before,
And it was a given that we greeted the Sabbath
With whispers and sock-soft tiptoe,
Knowing that his belt (black, wide, thick with implicit warnings)
Hung within easy reach of the bed,
Though sometimes, with no more explanation than
Man alive, what a beautiful world it is today!
Cold cornflake brunches would be postponed
(Our wonder mixed with consternation and rumbling stomachs)
As we would be whisked into the car
In order to sing His praises, our father all but jumping from the car,
Heading toward the preacher at a trot,
Invariably greeting him with *Devil’s on holiday, Father,
So here I am* (the church was Lutheran,
Though it could have been a mosque for all he cared.)
He’d sit through the sermon, rapt and at attention,
Alternately scowling and smiling, knitting his brow and nodding,
And then he would corner the incumbent occupant of the pulpit
(He’d have scarcely noticed, if at all, that the leadership of the flock
Often changed hands between our cicada-esque appearances)
Backing him into a wall or against a railing
While he jabbered away, pointing or grabbing a sleeve in punctuation,
Gesturing like some latter-day Prospero, arms ****** Heavenward
To embrace the air, the sky, the whole of the cosmos, amen,
While the pastor’s gaze varied from bemusement to outright horror.
Such occasions were outliers, of course,
Father being much more inclined
To spend his Saturday evenings in un-Christian pursuits
Then stagger home singing a litany of done-me-wrong songs,
And his search for a joyful hundred-proof clarity
Ended before he glimpsed fifty, that being time enough
(So the pathologist noted in his final judgment)
For his liver to become elephantine, his kidneys mere pebbles
(Those effects, be they deleterious or otherwise,
Not listed explicitly nor in the footnotes
Which accompanied the post mortem.)
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
I want the be soft edges melted down from the broken mirrors of my hallowed halls
I want to be whisper touches and gentle words
I want my smile to be bright,
never faltering,
and always knowing
When the world is loud and the wind is howling out of control I want to be the quiet
I don't want to fill the space with what I want you to see but with what I am
But what I am is sharp teeth and prickly points with an ooey gooey center
Words leave me feeling frozen when they slice through my warmest sweaters
My knees click and clank together, faltering through every step like my legs are stone and the street, molasses
I am Christmas songs in June staring you in the eye, begging you to tell me it's too early
I poke at my own bruises and have the audacity to condemn you for reaching out with spindly fingers to poke them too
I am also spiced gingerbread and hugs with too short of arms that seem to be able to hold you tight as if they're miles long
I am built from fire, one shot of me will leave your ears burning
My icicle veins have long since thawed leaving puddles deep enough for us to grab hands and jump into together
Butterfly kisses and cornflake potatoes shaped this body standing before you
My cells are made of crystals of sugar and tiny fireflies
And my heart reaches towards the souls floating around me
I am the good and the bad
I am leftover ashes from fallen homes
The longingness of nostalgia and the need for new adventure
I cry for the weeds that are cut down along the road while my own hands are painted with the dirt that pulled out my own
I am contradiction and balance
I am a desire to be.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn
& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.
My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.
I wiggle each
character’s characteristic
and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,
trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”
I command my paper people.
“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.
“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil
that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.
“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that
is borrowed from
me **** sewing basket.
All is well
in this my make-shift
Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s
Cornflakes packets.
See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!
Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.
Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.
And, so...let the Masque begin!
I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing
as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.
“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out
but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee
can be
to paper theatre.
The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.
My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes
burns to the ground
only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken
crumpled piece of foil.
I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )
the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of
this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!
But wait, is this a football I see
before me?
Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!
We cry ******** and let slip
the dogs we are!
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
Poor old Howard.
He's a Cornflake coward.
Jumps art the sound
Of each crunch
And brittle bite.
Giving up the fight,
In his act of
Guttless confession.
His mother was a
Breadcrumb beater.
His dad was a
Post box persecuter.
His sister a sadistic
Spider spinner.
And each night they
Ate cornflakes for
Dinner.
Cornflake coward;
No need stress at
Their crunchiness.
In time; milk
Will soften their design.
Giving you a chance to
Chill and recline.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
It's never what you think if you think it never is
and wisdom doesn't come in cornflake boxes.
They feed me leaves and chocolate drops
**** me
sell me to the shops
but
don't I taste so good?
I'm turning vegetarian
never eating meat again
or chocolate.
Another blame
heaped on the radio
if I didn't listen
I wouldn't know
but I did and I do.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
A slash of a smile, kimono stripped shoulders
Koi scale tattoos, Okinawa rainy day blues
Drown yourself in ***** fight 'till you lose
Pale skinned pathological lover
Soulstone hustler, rustler & bustler
Revolving revolvers under samurai dusters
Wild west Tokyo rose blessed
Handwritten love letters on a desk, kiss sealed
A bowl of cornmeal, these things we steal
A lovelock of hearthsouls, sous chef gazpacho
Tasty cannibal nachos, eating hearts in a palm grove
Children gathered round a stone
The feeling of truly being alone
Making tools from your enemies bones
More brutal than any historical score
We sleep, we snore, 2+2=4, once, no more
Coconuts falling on the shore for eternity
Every blade of grass is holy to me
It's the bullet we see that gets us
We can all love each other is we let us
Balloon powered spaceships, liftoff
Raise your sails on the submarine
Big, square, wheels on your SUV
Life is like a tree, just growing
Forget all your worries, let's just get going
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
he was standing in the shadows wearing a skirt with a black bag over his head. in the other corner of the room was a mouse ******* the blood from a frog and eating a cornflake. Grandma then walks in.
''SO I HEAR YOU HAVE THE SPECIAL?
WHAT WHAT IS IT?"
'not today madam,
not today''
''WELL *** YOUR ****
FAGGOT''
and grandma walks away
and sits on a beehive where her ****** is consumed by fire ants
and detritus
material.
James
rides on a floating peach into the sunset and the moon kind of smiles
upwardly
to him,
but in a condescending manner like how the school nurse would treat you upon
showing her
your gouged eyes.
LAUGHING
LAUHGING
TRA LA LA LA
TRA LA LA LA
vladimir putin is ****
with his
beer gut,
Trump --
well I'm just throwing that in to be 'CURRENT'--
hillary is in a bush
more ''CURRENT STUFF''
to be 'hip'
and 'with it Y'ALL''
in my room tugging on a ****
watching home movies
from '92
still breathing
but not really sure if I'll make it.
better days are ahead
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
You can't consider living until you've done your share of dying and you're not dead nearly long enough for that
but
you'll kid yourself you're minto just to go out with the beau who's got the biggest reputation,
I'm busy
wiring up the footnotes to the signals at the station
the express can wait a mo' or two for me
because
the faster soonest said is the least I ever read on the back
of cornflake boxes in my youth.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC