"cornflakes" poems
JANUARY
Delightful display
Snowdrops bowing pure white heads
To the sun’s glory.
FEBRUARY
Fresh green buds appear
Indicating spring will soon
Energise us all.
MARCH
Lambs gambol in fields
Frisky with the joys of life
Bleating happily.
APRIL
Bluebells stand so proud
Beneath trees now sparsely dressed
Fresh green leaves unfold.
MAY
Much awaited sound
Echoes heard amid dense trees
Cuckoo has arrived.
JUNE
Parks and gardens burst
With sounds and vibrant colours
Perfect harmony.
JULY
Beaches become full
Of families having fun
In sand and big waves.
AUGUST
Ripe golden harvest
Burning sun in azure skies
Labours rewarded.
SEPTEMBER
Swallows congregate
On telephone wires ready
To migrate down south.
OCTOBER
Red and gold leaves fall,
Crunchy as cornflakes beneath
Feet on a crisp morn.
NOVEMBER
Frosty webs sparkle
In the early morning sun
Brightly bejewelled.
DECEMBER
First few flakes of snow
Dust gardens like icing on
A chocolate cake.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
I spend my nights getting drunk
on whispers that ring
the promises of tomorrow
and days counting
cornflakes in my milk like
birthday candles that never melt.
but whether
the sun is rising
or the silver moon ascends
you’re the caffeine
that trickles through
my veins.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
I laughed in places
Where Laughter was not asked for,
In granite market towns
Beneath refugee palm trees shivering.
Running from giant hands
That were covered in car wash fluids,
The back of children's heads imprinted
On their palms.
I laughed during disciplinary procedures,
Before authority figures
With cornflakes in their red beards
And my laughter crept over the edges of their flowerbeds
And the grass laughed with me.
I laughed at funerals,
The sounds of horses beyond the churchyard
And a messenger ran down the aisle
panting and exhausted,
He had a message for my laughter
' Quick you must come at once'.
I laughed during marital feuds,
Laughter rising out of its own body
above broken guitars and dried up bonsai,
Above all the things I said
That contradict me now.
I laughed during serious films,
The tulips drooping on top of the T.V.
The sun slumped against the door,
Behind heavy curtains
I mistook for pigs on hooks.
I laughed over exercise books,
Above algebra and history
Behind impossible bra straps
That appeared out of acne and ink flicked backs.
I laughed at the swimming pool
Hiding birthmarks like stains,
Drowning above the water saying
'I am a fish I must get back in!'.
I laughed in surgeries among migraines
and told my mother that robots were taking over,
in the same rooms where they removed my brothers' verucas
And I saw the doctors small blade
escape through the window.
I laughed during friends confessions,
In between the silences of repeated songs
While pantomime dames walked past windows
make-up running in black and yellow rain.
I'm laughing while making coffee in a campervan,
I'm laughing because its a monday morning,
Because everyone else is busy,
Because we have an oil lamp from a pound-shop
Burning beneath the sound of rain on the roof,
Because the radio's silent…..
And because sausages are best done slowly.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
You remind
me
of
sweet tea,
honey cornflakes on sleepy, sunday mornings.
That hell of a smile is like thick socks over cold ankles.
Your 'head back; don't give a damn'
laughter
is
like
little sunshines
saying
'Hello'
to
all
the dark, empty
s p a c e s
in me.
You remind me of artfully ruffled hair,
messy white sheets from pillow fights.
You, sweets,
have the loveliest soul.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Did someone scatter cornflakes
All over the ground?
Or some kind of cereal
With a crunchy sound?
When walking on the grass
There's a snap, crackle, and pop,
The dry summer's drought
Just doesn't seem to stop.
Lawns all around
Look about the same,
All turning brown
While waiting for the rain.
August 21, 1993
2.6k
I died yesterday, by my own hand,
And now here I am;
Standing like a ******* idiot in my kitchen,
And craving cornflakes.
The reasons why I did it seem hazy now;
All the buttoning and unbuttoning seemed to much,
Or else a love had left me,
And now I can't even grasp a bowl.
Stupid! That's what it is! Pure stupidity!
And I just want some ****** Crunchy Nut!
The bathrooms off-limits now;
It just makes me angry to see myself lying there,
No longer able to help anyone, least of all myself,
And that body didn't seem to care
About my cereal lust.
So here I am; staring at the cupboard,
But unable to open it,
and I don't even know if there's
any cereal left in the ****** thing anyway.
All those stupid myths about ghosts walking
Through walls was wrong apparently;
I'm just slowly fading away.
So here I am; craving cereal like a spoon.
The stupid spoon that I'm unable to grasp;
That seems to chortle, facelessly, at my attempts.
And being forever angry at that
Stupid idiot in the bathroom
For whom I feel nothing but contempt.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Crunching crispy cornflakes
Gangs of pebbles bubble
White water slurping
Its early morning edges
As waves deliciously lick
their sweet vanilla sands
Man bobbing in a canoe
Ocean swinging him like a baby boy
A bouncing ball stretches
Across the waters view
Like a picture on the wall
For a moment time stand still
The scenery seems so surreal
like plastic or cardboard
Adding a friendly familiarity
Making me so sentimental
About
a place
I LOVE
Called Home
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
i.
he tosses you a chip,
its worth, its worth
it moons over your greedy soul
and you mask them all
with your chained lies,
to your silenced smokes
that wobbles up to your
sunken, tired eyes
ii.
you've been awake and to
the miles along the rims of earth,
your little brother's math assignment
scored over twenty out of fifty
and he told himself to make mama proud,
he, then, scribbled cartoons and addition signs
iii.
you've been awake and to
the valley gaps of the sunshine drizzles
your little sister's finding it hard to
participate in the maze of real life
unkempt to her own voices and she told herself,
"maybe I was just meant to be kept in streets-capes"
iv.
and your home rested on the mountains
of well-lived dreams gauged into your veins
you've tasted perfectly soggy cornflakes
in the morning and in evening, you
could taste the shrill of cicadas, blooming
into the stars-tied rose crescent
and it shut down, I've read novels like these
and heard Kurt Cobain sang to these
it was wonderful, but I'd liked it better
when the sunflower hopes rested into your veins
v.
the eleventh time he tosses you a chip,
it lays perfectly still in your palm
the twelfth time, it took over your greedy soul
with your tear-stained hazels, it whispered
rambling, gambling Willie,
do not let it consume you, as it did Willie
but it still echoed when you knocked on the door
rambling, gambling Willie,
"I'm home," you've been awake
but then, you've found none anymore
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
What’ll happen when you die? Will I lose you again? That would mean finding you. Undoing years, unpicking frayed edges fixed with the wrong coloured yarn. I see you at funerals. At Mum’s you were angry. So was I - but I concealed it. Played numb. At Dad’s you were shaking. I thought your nerves were finally shot. Or that the little boy, naked standing in snow, washing his clothes after a petit-mal fit, was still shivering and waiting for Mum. Then I noticed you weren’t drinking. Said you’d been stitched (again) by police- who’ve always had it in for you. Like they pass this hatred down through rank and generation, onto every town you’ve ever lived in? So that explained the orange-juice-and-lemonade made tidal in your hand. I want to rewind you. You were trouble, of course - but you were nice-trouble and I loved you. I looked up to you. I didn’t see the Big-Brave-Wall you were building. Or the things that made us not-normal. When I was born you were thirteen and already broken. When I was old enough to understand Mum had gained an upper hand, and you always sided with Dad. *Even though you showed signs of knowing he was the ******* that ****** us up?* I didn’t get it as bad. She learned. Mistakes made on you weren’t made on me. For a start she never left me with him. I was less ****** Or maybe not. Maybe just differently-fucked and quicker to heal. My first crush? The copper who called for you, countless times - while I curled m'self round m' cornflakes, burning - too scared to move or turn, rotisserie style, in front of the blue-gas flame. And somewhere in me, not so deep, that teenage ju, that one less-mended who danced-all-weekend-and-slept-where-she-landed, still boasts: Had him y’know. Another notch on a well-and-truly nibbled ‘post. I cried at Dad’s funeral, but I wasn’t crying for him. Why would I?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Orange squeezed, tea brewed, bacon fried
Self showered, beard shaved, robe wrapped
Wife kissed, tea brought, eyes rubbed
Juice sipped, toast munched, day discussed
Sugar stirred, tea drunk, watch checked
Kids rattled, cornflakes spooned, plates emptied
Mum fussed, kids grumped, teeth cleaned
Noses wiped, shoes on-ed, lunch packed
Stragglers awayed, byes waved, friends greeted
Office called, PC packed, car started
Wife snuggled, door closed, journey begun.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING
lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself
careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'
***
WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL
'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.
Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.
Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why - Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."
I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a "K."
I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.
So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.
I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.
"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
This dissertation, written by a double-jointed stunt-double
A sentient being
It must take one to know one
Because he found me immediately
We counted the tally marks
Crushed cornflakes on a Kashmir carpet
We met a paraplegic paralegal
Whose views we're, for lack of a better word "perpendicular"
We we're entranced by him
He spoke of integrity and the dangers of toxic relationships
And how the service of justice is only so-so
He was enmeshed by contractual obligations and deadlines
He left us with two last pieces of advice
"Talk to yourself often, for you'll surely know best for yourself"
"Forgive yourself, for forgiveness proves strength and admitting your wrongs shows humility"
The stunt-double wrote his paper on this
And I wrote this poem
This occurrence so rarefied yet malleable
-Tommy Johnson
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
I go to bed again without brushing my teeth.
Cornflakes for dinner, and coffee and tea.
Four cups, of course, will keep me from sleep,
From dreams of cars-money-dread-gasoline.
I used to love everything that tasted sweet.
Now it’s the black, bitter, burned and caffeine.
Except, sometimes, the way you make it for me:
Milk and sugar.
I know I always scoff at how much you need.
Two or three spoons, then add the cream.
Drink off the spoon, unstudied, guilelessly;
The world hasn’t caught you and made you be mean.
Dear deer-eyes, sweet-tooth, rabbit-knees:
Pour a sugar mountain as high as you please.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Pouring wine
upon
her cornflakes
turned
her pinks cheeks
Rose.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
The night he died he sat on the bed amid
my drum museum and thought about that time
at Christmas, how we hiked up Vincent’s Peak
to Leo Hightower’s log cabin with a box
of cornflakes and pancake batter all ready-made,
but with no knives or forks to eat them with.
He thought about that patch of pumpkins we
found frozen in the snow up there, a whole field full
of hued orange snow, once bright, now half eaten
by skunks and ***** Eau’ de parfum de melon.
Memory, Gramps, your new pied-á-terre. He smiled and
took out his teeth. He tapped my tin drum one
last time—my mother heard—to signal earth,
her mist, his wish, their presence, ours.
He died amid what pumpkins’ say when cut
apart, for it was Halloween that night, and all the timpani…
well, the timpani try to talk come Halloween,
you know , just as the pumpkins try to die.
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 5:42 PM UTC
I'd like to talk about I -
ergo, a poem about I
*I write I poems
therefore I am*
and I'd like you to read about I
and then another poem about I,
ad nauseam
Look, if I find I so obsessively interesting
I don't see why
you should not love my I
I am unique, and I mean I -
so you should find I;
and I reiterate
I'd like to talk about I
a poem about I
each ubiquitous I poem
the equivalent of a visual selfie:
the I-am-eating-cornflakes-now type
or I-am-constipated-now type
I am I's favourite - I follow I
so I'd like you to read about I
You will surely find I
(cos I know I best)
a pleasure to eye
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
Cornflakes.
No milk.
Cough.
Why hast God forsaken me?
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
Hey Skinny Kid
one legged Anne said
have you ever seen
a ********
no
you said
thinking it
some kind
of fish
she nibbled
at her scrambled egg
on toast
at the table
in the children's
nursing home
you mouthed
Cornflakes and milk
Anne was next to you
eyeing
the nursing nun nearby
would you like
to see a ********
Anne asked
in whispered voice
thinking it
some rare find
you said
yes ok
where will I see it?
the beach?
she almost choked
on her scrambled egg
are you all right Anne?
the nun asked
coming over
her black and white habit
swishing as she walked
yes
Anne said
egg went down
the wrong way
well be careful
the nun said
and walked off again
yes the beach
if you like
Anne whispered
trying to keep
a straight face
but you're sure
you've not seen one?
you nodded your head
not that I know of
you said
have you asked Sister Bridget?
you added
giving the nun
a look
o yes she's seen one
Anne said
straining the muscles
in her face
did she say so?
you said
o I know she has
Anne said
you mouthed
more Cornflakes
and milk
little Miss Sad
sat nibbling
at her toast
her tiny fingers
holding hard
the other kids eating
their breakfasts
the morning sunshine
shining through
the windows
after we've finished
I'll show you
Anne said
show him what?
Malcolm asked
who was sitting
on Anne's other side
never you mind prat face
Anne said
only special people
can this see
what I'm showing
Skinny Kid
then I'll tell Sister Bridget
Malcolm said
kiss my backside
and drop dead
Anne replied
Sister Bridget
Anne swore at me
Malcolm said
the nun shook her head
and said
Anne it's a sin to swear
God is listening
you know
and so you sat
and wondered
if you'd ever see
what it was
one legged Anne
was going
to show.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Little Kings on the shores of Jamaica
calling to the Lovers
on the sunny side
Up in darkness
through the little
Lite house
Every Joker
in all the emotion
sees his life
through his tanned
lotion.
No where
No time
the Lovers stood still
hoping & dreaming
& thinking still
the Joker called out
to the kings of Emotion
stop all the tanning!
they left with devotion.
No one cares for Jamacian Runners
in the evening
or under the covers
Sally or John
in the morning
or fog
let me alone-
alone with my Dog!
she understood all
the emotions
painfully singing
the song of sun lotion.
Lying awake under
the stars
in Hollywood's Mars
slick, shiny
consumption-he leaves
with some gumption
under his thumb
under his thumb.
The crowd wails
in earnest
the stupid-the learnest
call to the Mexican
Barber and Florist
flowers and towers
and mild cornflakes
off of the skin
the peeling begins.
Talking to Trees,
"Please, Please!"
No answer received
from the wood
with the leaves.
My mind says a bind-
abide by the rules
that's why they established
little red schools.
But alas at last
forever and now
Everyone knows you
and the plow has
made fertile the soil
while science decides
on poison and med
and movies, movies
cars, bars, stores
laws, draws, tans
land and refills
pools, tools, chairs
and no-cares
clothing and posing
for flickers of light
to record a moment
of no real delight.
Power-power is on!
Thank goodness for
Power-thankfully
thanking the man
with the charm.
Cleaning the stool
on which he sat
The Mexican Dancer
with the little
stray cat!
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
I'm running low on cornflakes
Their box lies on its side
And huddled in the corner
The surviving flakes abide
There used to be a multitude
My bowl was seldom bare
I wasn't even hungry
But I ate without a care
A few fell on the worktop
I just brushed them to the floor
Breakfast seemed so fancy free
There was always plenty more
But now there's just a single bowl
Until my bank is bust
And about a third of what remains
Is crunchy bits and dust
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
nothing much happened today
no great calamity, no suprising visitor
the cornflakes dried to a cement like
consistency in the chipped blue bowl
the tuxedo rex vomited on the newly bought
home beautiful magazine..
my heart beat at a lazy 74 beats per minute
when i checked after my nana nap
my bad ankle creaked and twinged
reminding me to get the towels in
before it rained
I made a wonderful chicken cashew curry
for dinner, but fogot to buy naan bread
and yogurt to accompany it..
I kissed the god boy goodnight,
then read two chapters of Harry Potter aloud
as the tuxedo rex, watched me, from the windowsill
marked some essays of dubious quality,
was given a shoulder massage,
by my agong surfer dude,
that led to much greater intimacies
no, nothing much happened today
yet it was fufilling, upon looking back
it had rhythm and purpose
turned the cogs of my world
it was the miles between the milestones
that often go unrecorded
and as I sit in the almost dark of the moon
I do believe it was one of the best days of my life
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
Woke up this morning to a real blizzard
Well about seventeen flakes an hour
Anyway I dressed Mollie in her little red waterproof
And walked her down along the river
Why in hell does twenty two pounds of fighting fury
Need to wear a waterproof coat?
Well because she's over eight years old
A really good age for a Patterdale Terrier
And just occasionally she has to be reminded about
Just how old she is
Why in hell do I bother?
Fifteen pounds spent on a waterproof coat
Temperature just about zero
And she decides to go for her morning swim
Obviously female, a male dog wouldn't be that stupid
Anyway got her home and towelled her down
And gave her a bowl of cornflakes and warm milk
And then
That smelly wet dog climbed all over me
Man I hate that dog
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
The iron in your blood is palpable
And as my nose discovered it
It was like a new religion to me-
A break into your apartment
In the middle of the night,
Wearing knee socks and a football jersey,
Hallowing religious experience.
And as much as you like them
I can NOT appreciate Corn flakes.
My feline has found a base in my guitar case
Much like I have made a mansion,
A toasty nest in your dominance wafting veins.
Watching her lay there
I understand
What it is like to be.
What it is like to be
the supplier of ultimates
And not ultimatums.
Like how God feels when he see someone
Bathe in the diminutive properties.
And as much as you like them
I cannot appreciate Corn flakes.
They taste like toenails.
I want to fasten my seatbelt to this.
I want to send you text messages
That are blank and know you know exactly
What I meant to say.
I want to make love to you
Without ever touching you
Because grip might be too rough
For what subsists here.
I will eat your Cornflakes, Mr. Prufrock-
I will eat them up.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC