"eggy" poems
I do love my little egg cup,
His brother much the same,
He holds my egg so perfectly;
Boiled eggs are not a game.
They bounce about for 4 minutes
Before they take their test,
They need a place to hold them straight;
My egg cups are the best.
When the soldiers are awaiting,
Those buttered friends of mine,
I need my little egg cups
To keep them all in line.
They come with little cosy hats
To hide their eggy heads,
I take it off and just like that;
Prepare for eggy bread!
© Karen L Hamilton, 2013
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
God **** them eggy *****
Have you seen their eggy butts?
Gently put one in butter,
Or slam one onto another.
If the eggy **** screams
Simply flick your bean.
If you're a guy, don't forget to pat your thigh,
And sacrifice your eggy ***** to the man in the sky.
This is the story of the eggy *****
Hide, quick, or they'll **** out your guts.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
So its the weekend ...the deep end
time for chillin ...beerin and feeding our souls
room for sleeping ...wantin and needin time out
watch some footy eat me breaky and drink lots of tea
grab me hangover ...drink some oj ..eat me eggy on toast
sunday dinner ...roasty tattys and beef on the bone
Hovis ...salmon sarnies or leftovers me boast
time of argues ..family values and shoutin each out
time for reason ,time for grandpas and cousins to visit afar
So the weekend ..what a weekend
time for monday morning blues
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 6:54 AM UTC
Well let’s just jump right into it.
Everyone knows, the question right, “Which came first?” So let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, in this specific case that is, that which came first was the egg. It’s also really the end of it in this case as well because there’s no chicken to follow. Just really it’s followed with the warm lettuce and the recooked bacon, the unripe tomato on a freshly baked bagel, which for argument’s sake is really the only part of the whole she-bang that’s actually any good.
But if that’s true then why even include the egg. Why abolish the chance for a chicken to exist? Why not just get a plain bagel? Well it’s about protein, you know. Does anyone really even like eggs or do we just eat them for protein? Does anyone like them, for argument’s sake let’s call it Tim Horton’s, does anyone really like them, eggs that is, when they’re cooked at Tim Horton’s? Are they even really eggs or just that powder, you know what I mean, that eggy powder like the powder milk that they have in the military? And if it is right, that eggy powder stuff, would anyone even care? Morally I mean, you have to assume people (which people I don’t know, some people I guess) stand behind eggy powder. But others right, you know the ones, who are disgusted by the idea of eggy powder. I’m one of those, not ashamed of it either and you know what, let’s just assume that it is eggy powder that they use at Tim Horton’s in their bagel BELTs. Would I have bought it if I thought it was eggy powder, probably not but here we are and I did and for argument’s sake let’s just say I already ate the whole thing. I mean morally I’ve just saved a chicken’s life but now I’m revolted by my having just consumed powdered eggs (right that’s what they’re called).
Let’s assume also that now I feel as though I’m figuratively standing on a moral high-ground but I’m also more or less disgusted by what I’ve just eaten even though I’m proud of myself for having eaten it, or rather not eaten a genuine egg. I’m ashamed of my disgust right and this has now proliferated into a casual nexus of disgust, shame and pride.
Q: Is it better to eat the powdered egg and simultaneously feel pride and revulsion or is it better to eat a real egg and **** a potential chicken?
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Bedtime stories we tell ourselves
Are actually quite funny if you really think about them
They all seem a little dark in their own way
Kind of like humpty dumpty
Who is this egg and why would be sitting
On a wall in the first place
And they always show the picture of him
Sitting with a pained grimace on his face
As his eggy innards are flowing on the ground
Or even the story of old mother hubbard
We sat in her cupboard eating her curds and whey
Who actually swallows a spider when they are eating
And if they did would they really die
Sometimes I wonder about the people who write these bedtime stories
And nursery rhymes
And wonder why parents keep telling their kids these stories
That seem to make little sense
But still seem to be very popular
Maybe we are just so used to telling them
That we don't actually sit and wonder
About what they really mean
Or how ridiculous a lot of them are
Maybe I just think too much about the little things
But I can't be the only one who thinks this way
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
I watched a hopping little frog
He bounced across the road
He landed upon a mossy log
My feet got wet in the smelly bog
It looked to me a warty toad
I watched a hopping little frog
I heard the barking of a dog
Casing after a ball was throwed
He landed upon a mossy log
T’was hard to see through the growing fog
I considered a shade of green unowed
I watch a hopping little frog
Just a piece of the ecosystem, a cog
Dashing across grass freshly mowed
He landed upon a mossy log
I sipped a glass of eggy nog
And thought of pictured I’d been showed
I watched a hopping little frog
He landed upon a mossy log
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
When the crime is right
& the devil wet
the nocturnal forrest is a skin
and ceremony thin dreams broach reason
they poach me with a caustic blooded rash
approaching as nippy darts ; visions of shard and coil
a metallic eggy rot
and pan to the darkness
snapping electric
irregular from that darkness
spaces between the trees comb
form a hyper hectic wealth of flushes
a blush burst discharges in the body
booming pulse
blooming rabidly
salivating to a ******* savagery
a nature to express
forecast
within permeable forrest
i have energy amazed limbs
daring a dance
screamin' hole The Frenzy
dog-shaking the head
legs flung and planted
crushing ferns
this hefty simian sway
a broadcast challenge
invitation
a power coward
commanding a matching of kinds
excitation
no longer to be foetal and cowed
an aching unmend amended
a call is placed
the spell is rendered
- resonate
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 9:11 PM UTC
Your green skin sun-baked,
Crunchy and crispy.
Gummed rice lay over,
Sticky and mushy.
Orangey carrot sliced thin,
Fishy Fish chopped symmetrically,
Unwilling they aligned
bearing the cacophony of sticky and crispy.
Nescient avocado,
Addle-pated eggy,
joined the jarring combination.
Grudgingly they were rolled,
Trimmed into circular disk.
Melding of those was awry
Heedlessly the dish a masterpiece,
Loved by small and Big
Praised by all.
Whatever things may be,
Bad from the start,
Dont be sad for the end
For it may be different,
From what you expect.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 3:02 PM UTC
Retreating from
weighty day of toil
I settle my slack
on tailored sprawl of lawn
Compressed soil radiating ;
tapped battery
of a day's warmth
Life is raised through my cartridge
I stretch out
receiving reptile charge
Aimed shyly
at the expansive dark bedding of night sky
speckled
pierced
pecked at with pinholes...
each emitting brilliance
firing out fuel
exhaust from further worlds
less adulterated than our own
There is a correspondence
amongst the insects in the grass
ticking, clicks and tats
like static amongst laundry
There's a great correspondence out there
in the night sky
here am
invulnerable human
suburban and secure
belly...
a cross draft
from the open basement window
invades me
eggy sulphur burping from the drains
an organic degassing from below my house
: Betrayed !
my feeling passes
the stars behave stagnant
and dismissive of me
; withholding glove oblivion ;
the clouds step in
like a quick curtain
over some 'lewd private show'
(must I pay more
to see more ?)
My world is kept restrictive
; a muzzling
I bare the weight still
of the days wetter ill
Better off indoors
filtered
of my own dander
and projected upon
by a feeding screen
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 1:05 AM UTC
i don't know how long it's been since i was thirteen years old- feels like a lifetime
maybe i am cicada child,
living 3 lives, dying too young too eggy
leaving my ridgey shell behind, hanging from a tree.
tan jacket, goes past my thighs
but i leave it wrinkled in the closet. maybe when it's summer, when bart trains switch with buses in the back of my head
and my phone is a soft playlist of names i don't recognize.
it is late but i am not sad anymore.
sometime this year the salt dissolved from my arms and the bitter coating fell away from my lungs.
i am in my second life, eating other bugs
waiting for summer
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
You could be
Ginger haired
With a Pepper head
Onion-skinned
With a Garlic Breath
You'll be all the spice I need.
I don't care if you're
Foxy witted
Thinking fishy plans or
Chicken hearted with
Monkey business in your hands.
I'll tame every wild fauna that you are.
Bring on those
Cheesy lines
And Eggy praises
Cry over spilled Milk
For Butterfingered choices.
Honey, you're the sweetest pastry to me.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
I met a young woman named Megan
Who's either laughing or grinning
Whenever she's near
She spreads serious cheer
And then she gets on with the mopping.
I know a young lady named Ivy
Whose kids are constantly smiley
Her calm and good grace
Pervades the tent space
From Monday to late on a Friday
I know a great lady called Abi
Who's started an interesting hobby
As well as her teaching
Cooking and singing
She now does professional cleaning
I met a dear woman named Bev
Who won't look at a Chicken Kiev
She says she prefers
To bake flap jack squares
And fry up some great eggy bread
I met a dear woman called Debbie
Whose mood is consistently peppy
She readily hugs
All her old chums
And makes new friends in a jiffy
Now Rachel is a woman of class
All you need do is ask
She'll readily help
And if nothing else
She'll be ready to fill up your glass
I met a dear lady named Gwen
She's a perfect motherly hen
She cares on instinct
Her fashion is dis-tinct
And she scored a perfect round 10
I've met a great bloke called Mark
Who's been heard to pass a remark
That despite all attempts
To live life in a tent
It's an idea that Abi has parked.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
The resilience of yellow,
Yellow, which is so often brushed off
“eggy” they say or “oh god, not lemon”
it’s more than that.
The folds of the petal,
velvety, resilient to the world it faces.
Uprooted it may be,
but tall and proud it stands.
The arms are outstretched, perfume given away freely.
Beautiful, fragile, captivating.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC
I remember the fall
My life flashed through my mind
Years of confusion, in a second of time
I fired the King's horses
I fire the King's men
I finally managed, to climb up again
The wall is scary high
And my **** is still round
Yolk is leaking from my cracks
Running to the ground
I hope I can hang on
I know it's a gamble
But sunny side up
Is much better than scrambled
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC