"corns" poems
My heart yearns for an adventure
For a strange and rare venture
Oblivious of the tons of dangers
For in adventures I ain’t a stranger
For I would relieve childhood years
That I spent with my little peers.
An adventure in distant lands
Where the children play with wet sands.
And dolphins jump out of water
When the noon sun makes the ocean hotter.
Where the fisherman yaw his boat
To capture all the salmon afloat.
An adventure by the oasis in the Sahara desert
Where Tuaregs sit by the cactus to eat dessert.
And watch as scorpions prey on lizards
To feast on their gizzards.
I want day sun to warm my smooth skin
And the night cold to shiver my crude chin.
An adventure cuddling cold snow on my hand
Where the icy pillars in their majesty stand.
And make a cave of snow
Strong to stand when wind blow.
Then I will scare the polar bear
That my cave like a paper wants to tear.
An adventure on the corn field
When in summer the flowers yield
When the butterflies pollinates the corns
And the farmer weeds out the thorns
I want to watch the corn spring to life
When the early rain is rife
An adventure across the sky in a plane
And watch as daylight slowly wane.
I want to leave a route on the sky
That in the future I would still ply.
Then immortalize my name in the cloud
That dark clouds in their anger cannot shroud.
An adventure deep in the amazon woods
When the purple squirrel burrow for food.
Where the monkey sway their tails
And red roses litter narrow trails.
I want to watch the ants builds their mounds
As the ripe mangoes fall on the ground.
An adventure that will lead to places
Leaving on all its paths my traces.
Permanents prints that will last
Even when my life like history is past.
And my adventure would be told as a tale
That like time will not stale.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
just like popcorn -
those soft, incredible clouds
appearing from what
once was
solid,
golden,
rock -
my thoughts are formed.
out of nowhere,
another pops into my mind,
joining it's fellow corns,
only to later
be consumed,
rearranged,
and discarded
by people who
*aren't
even
me.*
- v.m
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns
And ills of other sorts
Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion
Establish naval fleets
Of fisherman friends sweets
To banish nasal congestion
smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue
If your enemy is constipation
Let senna be your friend
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends
Show viruses they're not welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
If I had an apple
i would have eaten it with her,
sitting close by,
looking eye to eye,
under the umbrella shade
of a tree, near a corn field,
with the view of a lone hill,
at the far, far end.
An ****** experience
it would have been for us,
turned on by her eyes
a bite I would take from the apple,
then, it's her turn
as soon as she does that
I would ****** it from her, once again,
tasting her saliva on it
would electrify my tongue,
and evoke distant animal past.
Green corns sway desirous
in the playful naughtiness of the wind,
slowly proximity works, as the worst intoxicant.
By and by nature's prompt,
gets in to our blood streams.
She would get bold, sensing
that lonely spot's intent,
slowly remove her jacket first
then one by one, the rest,
standing before me naked,
sensuality personified.
*I am an illogically crazy wind,
swooping, over the water: her.
I'd repeatedly blow over her,
till she uncontrollably erupts*
she has eaten from my apple,
I've tasted hers;
without deceit or evil, we indulge,
and partake the gifts we within hold.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Just...Stop
Stop wishing away the lines on your face.
Every line means you smiled!
Stop wishing away your stretch marks.
For every one of them there is a grateful child.
Stop wishing away those extra pounds.
It means you have food to eat.
Stop wishing away your corns and bunions.
It means you have shoes to put upon your feet.
Stop wishing away your grey hair!
It means you've had many years to enjoy life.
Stop wishing away imperfections,
perceived by others lies.
There is someone out there
who sees you
as perfect in their eyes!
Badges of Courage!
Not shame.
Please...
Stop wishing them away.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
She doesn't recite poems in the darkish sunset
like golden corns dying to be reaped
she needs a hand to cut her through
reach to where a fleshless lust is still not ember.
Seasons come and fly away.
Her own poems withering
she pines for one simple nest
to rest.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Socks and sandals a fashion faux pas?
I've been told that its an unspoken law.
Whether they're thick or thin, woolen or silky.
As long as they hide feet so pale and milky.
Not only do they keep my toes toasty warm.
But cover those hideous and unsightly corns
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
When sun was shining bright.
I went into the field of corns.
There I saw a tree very large.
Filled with flowers and thorns.
Changed eyes with man on left;
And then carefully saw the tree.
Flowers could not be spotted.
Only thorns appeared to me.
Changed eyes with man on right;
And then carefully saw the tree.
Thorns could not be spotted.
Only flowers appeared to me.
Was that tree really a tree;
Or kind of magic in disguise.
Was that tree really changing;
Or twas due to changing of eyes?
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Pleasure plays its game when obeyed the voice of desire,
There sneaks into the chamber of peace a ghost of darkness
Invisible to the eyes of flesh and bones with the wand of evil.
Looking at the world busy with mundane philosophies
Each moment of time exploited to reap corns out of weeds,
There sleep souls stained with lawlessness and unrighteousness.
Each rule of the game dictates the conscience to slip and fall,
And the conscience, buried underneath the coffin of deception
Once kept for sale on the Tree of Knowledge ‘midst the garden.
The souls never wake up, and the conscience looks bargaining with the ghost.
The bargain looks heavier than the product laid for sale.
Countless souls fall in line to buy the coffin of deception,
And there breaks out rupture and chaos in dramatic monologues.
The ghost never speaks of the warranty of the product,
But fills its ghastly den of glittering darkness with the fallen souls.
Time and again there strikes the conscience with the voice of Heaven,
But sin and pleasure hath shrouded the sleeping souls with their wand of deception.
The Word of God keeps knocking the door of the souls,
But the souls run down with the charm of wealth and wine.
The ghost of darkness hath sit on the flesh of the souls.
And there appears the Cross drenched in blood and shame
For HE hath laid the curse on HIMSELF for the fallen souls to breathe again,
And HE longs for their repentance and forgiveness to take them back with HIM.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
It is indeed a month to remember
As we headlong into October
The spiders creep in our door
and there seems to be more and more
At least the wasps are gone in September.
Fruit and nuts that are gathered are vast
Apples for cider are falling fast
Conkers and acorns
Cabbages and sweet corns
It is my favourite month at last.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Winter brings the bitter chill,
I shiver standing in the cold;
We warm ourselves near the fire,
We bring a tree into our home.
A blizzard wraps the wood around us,
A glistening blanket - snowy white;
Our forest is so silent now;
Stars shine like diamonds in the night.
In spring, the birds join in a choir,
Hundreds of songs in harmony,
I look around and hear them sing;
Flowers bloom so gloriously.
I smell the scent of fragrant rain;
Showers drench the fertile ground.
I see the trees begin to leaf,
Rustling rain comes pouring down.
In summer the sun radiates,
Filling the forest with all that's green.
Oak and pine fill my nose,
I walk beside the crystal stream.
The grass it grows higher, higher,
I feel it soft between my toes;
From time to time a storm arrives,
Clapping thunder, wind that blows.
Autumn brings a change in palette;
Squirrels hide their treasured 'corns;
The taste of nutmeg - pumpkin pie,
Jack-o'-lanterns at our doors.
Mouths are filled with apple cider;
Leaves piled upon the ground;
Children jump into them laughing,
Hidden in orange, maroon, and brown.
A thousand faces of the forest.
Winter; spring; summer; fall -
And yet the face of my beloved
Is more beautiful than them all.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
The homes are opening up in the mist
like grief of figures
with eyes, opened up to the sea tract.
The walls are crumbling, to this evening
groaning with strength.
Who is shouting there?
Who is building fire on the shore?
The oars were dying of the sweat.
The sails were torn by the winds
dead.
Did they bring ebony and silk,
myrrh and emeralds from Lepanto?
They remained with ashes of the sea,
with corns,
with grief, resembling anchor.
On winding, light-footed caravels
captains are shouting on the deserted shore
and building
Epiphany sacrificial fires.
The original:
Богоявление
Разтварят се в мъглата домовете
подобно скръб на фигури
с очи, разтворени към морска шир.
Изронват се стени, до тази вечер
стенещи от якост.
Кой вика там?
Кой огън пали на брега?
Умираха веслата от потта.
Платната се накъсаха от ветрове
насрещни.
Донесоха ли абанос и свила,
смирна и смарагди от Лепанто?
Останаха със морска прах,
с мазоли,
със скръб, подобно котва.
На вити, леконоги каравели
капитани викат на брега безлюден
и палят
Богоявленски жертвени огньове.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 2:14 AM UTC
Downhill after dark we took our nightly showers
Under the standpipe, dodging the cars light,
It was fun in those days, the life of the poor black child
The countryside, but the sweetest thing to remember,
Roast breadfruit, roast flying fish, roast corns,
It was fun in those days, for the life of the poor, young villagers
in today world it called Backyard Barbecuing with friends,
when we did it was called poor people way of cooking, and celebrating.
So often now and then,
it's good to go back in time
And relived, those awkward and happy moments
Only thing I detest was loading the sugarcane
On my head and going up the ladder,
The white man reap all the sweet
The black man bake under the sun.
Last month I sat in the most expensive Restaurant
And eat, lobster, drank expensive bottle of wine
I wouldn’t reveal the cost of the meal,
But, I always knew, that one day, this would
Have happen, from roast fish, on the hill of Prout Hill
To Washington DC exquisite night restaurant. MI*VIDA
And yes I made all of this happened:
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 7:34 AM UTC
Oblivious to the rest of the world,
My mind devious as he brushed back a curl.
Black tips exploring,
Soft lips imploding,
As we let humid thoughts unfurl.
Fingers land just off the grass on sweet thorns,
To counterpart my luminous corns.
Like rain on sand,
Like a fish on land,
Feels unreal like stars in the early morns.
Tentacled creepers wind around the vulnerable tree,
After sweeping black cascades over valleys free
Spicy honeysuckles fall still,
As they shadow the hill,
And they move on to darken knolls as they agree.
Yawning caverns filled with awoken bats
Cause chaos and whispers through the cracks.
Like the first breaths of life,
When impatience is no vice,
Reticence falls away outside steel vats.
As the wind runs over the dunes,
As he plays and strums and croons
Fingers running through the grass,
Smoke melting on the glass,
While we lay underneath the half moon.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Enid turned her wheels
A red flash through
Luscious green
Across the wall of corns
In what felt like
No time at all
The gabble reconvened
Inside the hessian on bread street
Taiyo and Darcy
Evoked the Spanish coast
Fresh faces following
More mature fingers
Frankie and Debs
Move us from Spanish shores
To Antarctica, with penguins
Brian and David
Then comes 'The Man'
Four men , four beautiful men
To play us out and
We don't stand a chance with them now
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Okay let's get the etiquette straight
I walk towards you, i nod
You nod back
Works all around the world
What doesn’t work, is, you stopping
Stopping is bad
It’s a protocol thing
One must never stop and engage one
You just don’t do it
I really don’t want to know about your corns
Don’t give a crap about your lumbago
The price of fish doesn’t interest me
Old Mrs Jones died this time
Sure she’ll be missed
Your wife’s having an affair
How are your corns
They really can be painful i’m told
That lumbago
I could recommend a good chiropractor
The price of fish these days, shocking
Old Mrs Jones
God, i’ll miss her
Is that my bust, bus
Need to rush.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
Today, my eyes are drawn to trees whose
leaves are now scouring their knotted roots,
just as podiatrist's fingers search for corns.
Forbidding skeleton branches glance back with knowing,
and our lives’ meaning it seems
are the lives’ meaning of leaves, growing strong and colorful,
getting this and that from the earth, but
impossible to stay for long.
Today, my fists clench. Waves of anxiety as blowing
leaves are gathering, compounding against my person,
just as pedestrians waiting to cross,
forbidding contact but crowding, shoving the curb.
And our ligaments that fail
are the limiters we feel,
getting thinner and thinner, seeing its
impossible to stay for long.
Today, my thoughts continue to dim while
leaves are loosed and blow in the wind,
just as peddlers flee the scene of the scam.
Forbidding dotage, autumn knocks at our door,
and our livid little cries
are the lights we use to cut the shade that’s
getting thicker and thicker, making it
impossible to stay for long.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
On a foggy dawn, as the socks were drawn,
The toes prepared for battle.
The pinky declared, with lint in his hair,
“We’ll rattle those phalanges’ cattle!”
Big Toe led the charge with mighty arch,
And Second Toe braced his shield.
They clashed in glee on the knobby sea
Of the wrinkly battlefield.
The bunions bellowed, the corns would cry,
While calluses thickened their skins,
And nails like blades in jagged shades
Clattered with fearsome grins.
Then Little Piggy, with shrill ******
Let loose a mighty squeal:
“I’ve had enough, your stench is rough-
Our truce, let’s make it real!”
So Big Toe sighed and put down his pride,
And Second Toe did too.
The toes all hugged (though they all still bugged),
As feet so often do.
And thus it went, till the socks were spent,
And shoes enclosed their truce.
No more they’d fight in the stinky night-
They’d save it for when they’re loose.
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 10:19 AM UTC
we were just two corns in a hot farm
sun on us, harsh **** terrible harm
every men, waiting
for us get burned
better taste maybe
horrible fate
we went on a journey
such a long trip
riding on a donkey
of a Maize ****
one became Pop
and the other Oil
holy saint, whatever
give me your soul
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
"Why do you put so much pressure, on the soles of my feet!" "You use me to over jog, and dance to every beat!"
"Why load me down with heavy weight that's too hard to bear!" "You often neglect me, not giving me any care!."
"You seem to think it's fine, to squeeze me into tight shoes!" "You wear those that are old, especially, those that are used!"
"Stop making my feet swell, creating bunions and corns!" "It's embarrassing to see them popping, from shoes with holes and worn!"
"Will I ever get a chance, to have feet that are pretty and neat!" "Right now I am afraid, to take them out on the street!"
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
I saw the gust of winter
Walks a billowing shadow across the field
Unmasking all covers of a happy summer
Whispering a once cold secret untold.
The dire wolf leashed under a leafless tree
Warns the old wise moon for omen
Has she come to betray me for a visit?
Or, steal me a kiss of vengeance.
Skin as pale as snow
Flowing in a cosmos of abyss
Thought ocean devours everything
Flesh with rocks can't rise above.
Has justice been this early winter?
Knocking on every door
Warranting about Summer 1990
Of a wrath under a sycamore tree.
Three wise men under the stars
A girl dances with the corns
Happy feet can't help but wander
Leading her to where daddy is.
Safe on these arms of forever
Carry me over where home is
Lit the light up unveils
Two shadows under the stars.
Seeing through a thick fiber
A nameless fear of silence
Not even a single drop of needle
Till her breath has faded.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
The day is hallowed
A fresco croft of Sunday shire
made Gabriel in stallion- manes,
Decanted into bottled ships
of scalloped Wedgewood
promises.
Trees
slope away in careful rows,
Well- fed matrons
fountain pruned
wear puff-ball cheeks
of flouncing gourd
that curtsey in bewildered
corns of desiccated flora
,
flawed by scorn of August forays
left as unkempt graves
.
Much more than these
stand poplars, ordered
keepers on their plated watch in
ruffled smocks of coppered
lime to tame the knee- worn
names of climate ,buckled
down the yarrowed lanes.
This day retains
its hallowed mien
as I pass through
these borrowed years
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:45 PM UTC
The battle
Horns
Whistles
Fights for corns
In tussles
I am on another LEVEL
Flip me I don’t change my stance
I am still on another LEVEL
I am like your MOM or your MADAM
I dont change when you flip me
I am “CIVIC" I don’t change when you flip me
Call me MR Palindrome
You are REPAID but when I flip you
You are a DIAPER
You are SMART but when I flip you
You are like old TRAMS
You are WARTS!
Flip and flip
Straw! Weak STRAW
You want poetic WAR
But when I flip you
You are just RAW
You are on TOP
But when I flip you,
You are just a *** being kept in the kitchen.
The poetic "god" is ready to battle
Flip that word!
Congratulations you just won a bone!
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 2:55 AM UTC
parasitic
poached goats
are not for
petting zoos
but that has never
stopped them
before
and of course
there’s cream
in a little hollow
place tucked
so very deep
inside them
(almost like custard I’d wager)
they know
all about
the lobster
and how she prefers
to lay her
eggs in a
tight cluster
all grape-like
on the
underside of the
algal frond
where I dream
that we too
might someday
find cool shelter
from the plastic bits
that rain down from
the tortured sky
the 3-D printers
that spit
out pink toes
and little
baby corn
holders
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
Why is it that
when my heart breaks
words form in my mouth
like saliva does for hard corns?
When happy
they peel back the back of my mind
laying bear my soul
When non feeling
NOTHING
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC