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Amanda Fogerty Feb 2013
So I heard once that there’s always
some gnarly looking carrot
in every bag of carrots
and you’re supposed make a wish on it
if you get it.
But I didn’t have a bag of veggies
I had a jar of Gumby and Poki
shaped gummies.

Finally the day came when there
were only two Gumbys left.
One was bent in half and
smashed together
and the other looked as all the rest had.
I pulled out the sad little gummy and
made a wish
like it was some ugly carrot.
I wished my crush would kiss me,
And giddily I walked to a coffee house
because I was hoping he would be there
even though I sternly told myself that
he had no reason to be there.
I found the coffee house closed and knew
my wish wasn’t happening that night.

I talked with a friend about my woes
and she confessed her heartache.
We smiled and laughed and died
just a little on the inside.
We had hoped that in college we wouldn’t
feel like middle school girls
with unrequited crushes.

The next day he dropped off a fish
(and this is no euphemism
or pretty poetry slang,
I opted to fish-sit while
he went home for break).
After he left, and
feeling more than silly
I took out the last Gumby
and pretended.
I pretended that it was every wish
on a boy I had made
since I realized boys weren’t
completely disgusting.
On my way to class
I held the little gummy in my
frozen, clenched fist
and wished
that’d he’d kiss me before he left.
I made it really specific
because every movie I’d ever seen
with genies in it had taught me that
specifics were key to avoiding
mishap and mayhem.

Obviously, it didn’t come true.
And I feel like I’m back in middle school,
wishing on ugly carrots and stars
that look suspiciously like airplanes.
Everyone has crushes,
and still more wishes.
Why I thought
at the age of nineteen
when the glamour of Disney-endings
and romantic-comedy plots
had tarnished to realism,
that a Gumby gummy prayer
would come true,
well I’m not entirely sure.

Maybe it’s no matter how old you are
there are always ugly carrots
and shooting stars
and fast airplanes
and romantic comedies
and gummies in the shape of
kids’ show characters.
Maybe no matter how disappointed I am
there will always be unrequited crushes
and genies for wishes
and God for prayers
and heaven forbid
hope.
My tummy needs a yummy,
Like a plummy tasty gummy.

I'm in a slummy feeling crummy,
Give me something in my tummy.

Please don't treat me like a scummy,
And don't look at me like a dummy.

I don't want to drink a rummy,
But a yummy in my tummy.

Mommy can I get a yummy,
I don't want to starve my tommy.

Please offer me some plummy tasty gummy.
I am starving, can someone offer me plummy yummy.
Noah A Baker Jul 2014
I remember,
My usual nonchalant demeanor going completely bananas in my cubicle of a room
After enlisting to deliver you ice cream.
No, not just any ice cream,
Strawberry with bananas and gummy bears.
I thought it as an awkward combination
But when I got in the car,
The sparrows were flying in two adjacent v-shaped formations.
Slightly puzzled, I pondered if maybe one day I'll meet a sparrow, or anything with enough courage to brave the skies,
Soaring, knowing in time, their wings will tire, and locating a perch is then of importance.
Because life's goal, humans and creatures alike,
Is to find a whisper of a nightingale's song,
Or, possibly, the eccentric taste of a spoonful of their favorite ice cream.
Thanks for reading. Hm.
John F McCullagh Nov 2018
the mood is the office was troubled that day.
On each other's nerves- they'd be hell to pay.
Someone brought in gummy bears in a big sack.
It all seemed so innocent until the attack.

The boss got it first; a gummy bear in the ear.
from his overworked minions it brought forth a cheer.
Then he and his partner got a hand in the sack.
There would be hell to pay as the empire struck back.

His aim was unerring as he spun to attack
there were gummy bears everywhere, being tossed fro and back
Poor Anita the admin got one stuck in her hair.
and some colorful critters were stuck under her chair.

The air was soon thick with those small gummy treats
(the five second rule was used for ones that we'd eat.)
All sense of decorum had vanished that day.
As ten 50 year olds got lost in their play.

It was very cathartic as you can imagine
as so called adults got to play with abandon.
The a truce was declared and we all felt contrition
because we had eaten all the ammunition.
based on a true story
Kewayne Wadley Nov 2016
When I think of you,
I think of a bag filled with a variety of color.
One coinciding with the next.
A peaceful look through a kaleidoscope.
Being at ease in a calm hush.
A sealed smile found under two big bubble eyes.
Two fluffy cheeks, big ears.
The prosperity found in a lapel of flavor.
Bunched together to create something new entirely.
Taking a handful of you and placing it in my mouth,
Cascading around a swirling tongue.
This is me reliving each moment spent with you.
The thought of you protected by a plastic bag.
Based solely on this purpose alone is truly mesmerizing.
Each thought identical to the next, different in hue.
A tropical swirl leaving it's mark on the top of tongues.
Spreading joy with every touch.
When I think of you.
I see the kind of woman I can spend the rest of my life with.
Constantly falling in love with flavor after flavor of all that you have to offer.
Breathing you in with each swirl that circles around my mouth.
The thing about gummy bears, no matter how old you get.
They will always be timeless.
And so will you.
If you were a gummy bear I'd savor each piece of you until there was nothing left.
If that should ever happen.
I'd be tremendously sad.
As my gummy bear would be gone.
I can only imagine your expression after reading this.
Picturing you as a gummy bear
i bought a bag of gummy bears when i was seven
and with each fallen bear i began counting off:
"she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me..."
i had been married at age 5 but i guess it hadn't worked out
the way we both may have thought at the time.
so i was hoping for love
and asking the gummy bear gods to bless me.
but as i finished, i ended on "she loves me not."
and that nearly made me lose all faith in my delicious friends.
but as i was sadly preparing to throw my bag in the trash
i found one last green gummy bear hiding in the corner.

*"she loves me!"
Kenneth Springer May 2013
You were hovering over me,
Violently yearning
You whispered:
“gummy bears can’t dance salsa”
Under us the ground broke.
And the choreography was immaculate,
As we fell on one another
Weaving our morals on the last door we passed,
Before we made that right and went downstairs.  
The puddle fell under me— icing my back,
The fall silenced you’re moans,
while the silence started the quiver,
A treble in full effect.
You’re song was in windings as the prophetic tongue wandered.
Then they came to boast the steps,
But one after another their dance lay deaf
For gummy bears can’t dance salsa
When you’ve chewed off their legs.
Paula Ann Mayabb Sep 2015
Gummy bear, gummy bear
soft and sweet
chewy and yummy
fun to eat

just so cute
all different colors
put them in your mouth
its like a rainbow thunder

cherry, berry, apple and peach
i love them all
give me more to eat

one at a time
they all go away
before you know it
your left with an empty bag
and a very sad face
cait-cait May 2015
you were merely a gut feeling
that ate at me,
like a syrup in my stomach,
eating away at all my acid,
and dragging me
down,
down,
down.

but you were heavy, and
i could tell that you
knew this,
for i guess
i was the same
as all the others
in my place,

and it was only today, when
i woke up once again,
and realized that i dont have a clue
what youre thinking,
that i remembered that not only
do gummy worms exist,
but that everything would
be okay.
read a story about a lady in this sitch so i wanted to write a poem about it
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria *****, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little **** of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think ‘t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the ****** maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and ****** pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ‘t is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had ****** aside the branches of her oak
To see the ***** gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy ***** with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of ****** heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased:  one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’Tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.
ENDYMION.

A Poetic Romance.

"THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG."
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

  Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own vallies: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and ****.

  Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
So plenteously all ****-hidden roots
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see
Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A little cloud would move across the blue.

  Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

  Now while the silent workings of the dawn
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped
A troop of little children garlanded;
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry
Earnestly round as wishing to espy
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited
For many moments, ere their ears were sated
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.
Within a little space again it gave
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking
Through copse-clad vallies,--ere their death, oer-taking
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

  And now, as deep into the wood as we
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light
Fair faces and a rush of garments white,
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last
Into the widest alley they all past,
Making directly for the woodland altar.
O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter
In telling of this goodly company,
Of their old piety, and of their glee:
But let a portion of ethereal dew
Fall on my head, and presently unmew
My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.

  Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;
Each having a white wicker over brimm'd
With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'er-flowing die
In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly,
Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,
And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth
Of winter ****. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd
Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:
Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng. His youth was fully blown,
Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.
A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,
To common lookers on, like one who dream'd
Of idleness in groves Elysian:
But there were some who feelingly could scan
A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,
Of logs piled solemnly.--Ah, well-a-day,
Why should our young Endymion pine away!

  Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek
Of ****** bloom paled gently for slight fear.
Endymion too, without a forest peer,
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,
Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether come
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;
And all ye gentle girls who foster up
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
His early song against yon breezy sky,
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

  Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

  "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds--
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

  "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly '**** myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year
All its completions--be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O forester divine!

  "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

  "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge--see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!

  Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!

  Even while they brought the burden to a close,
A shout from the whole multitude arose,
That lingered in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten--out of memory:
Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred
Thermopylæ its heroes--not yet dead,
But in old marbles ever beautiful.
High genitors, unconscious did they cull
Time's sweet first-fruits--they danc'd to weariness,
And then in quiet circles did they press
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
Of some strange history, potent to send
A young mind from its ****** tenement.
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side; pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him,--Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
The archers too, upon a wider plain,
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
Many might after brighter visions stare:
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
'**** shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd
The silvery setting of their mortal star.
There they discours'd upon the fragile bar
That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
And what our duties there: to nightly call
Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;
To summon all the downiest clouds together
For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
In ministring the potent rule of fate
With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
A world of other unguess'd offices.
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse
Each one his own anticipated bliss.
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss
His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;
And, ever after, through those regions be
His messenger, his little
I always find your smile cute even before,
But sometimes, I just don't know who my bias is anymore.
Don't make me feel like this too.
Don't smile like that on me too.

You're not really that handsome but you are extremely cute.
You have a really nice voice like I'm listening on a flute.
I just can't get my eyes off you.
You're a dangerous man,
And your last name starts with M.
Stop killing me with those smiles. I'm getting attracted to you even more.
Min?❤️
Circa 1994 Mar 2014
I step out of the bathroom, the soft yellow light casting a trail from the doorway out onto the carpeted floor of my bedroom. You're sitting criss cross in my bed, your elbows resting on your knees. You look up when you hear the door open.I cross my arms across my chest and walk towards you, hoping the lighting is merciful.   You push your legs out so that they dangle over the edge of the bed. I position myself between them as my hands trail up your legs.

I'm not wearing make up because I feel that you'd prefer that I didn't. I'm wearing my pink Calvin Klein bra with the lace trim and my black partial lace, partial mesh underwear. I feel self conscious, but resist the urge to ruin the moment by making fun of myself. I'm not waiting for you to say something to make me feel pretty. I don't need you to when I see the way you look at me.

You help me up into your lap so I'm straddling you. You lie down on your back and stare up at me. I'm comforted in knowing you're just as nervous as me. But the nervousness isn't the bad kind - but exciting. The alt-J album An Awesome Wave is playing softly in the background. I recall adding Intro to my Little Death playlist and laugh under my breath. Your hand reaches out to caress a tendril of my hair. I feel your touch from my split ends, to my roots, and all the way to my fingertips. I do my best to keep them from trembling. But knowing you're just beneath me has a way of making my entire body pulse in anticipation.

I want you. I want to feel you. I want you to feel me. I want it to feel unnatural when we're clothed together. I want you to hear all my noises and show me all of yours. I want our bodies to move in time to the music. Eyes closed. Sensations have a way of making you see. And I see all of you tangled up in all of me.

The music swells. The drums. Guitar. My body feels like an instrument in your arms. Your hands. Exploring my notes. Play me and I'll sing loud. Fingertips between my lips. Mine. Yours. Mouth on mouth. Mouth on neck. mouth on chest.

Your mouth tastes of gummy turtles.
Soon.
mikecccc Sep 2015
You should be intimidating
All big and tough
But no
You I fear are
Gummy bear
Not even sour
Safe for consumption
By any one
Also prone to decapitation.
Rayven Rae Aug 2018
(what blue tells “it’s a girl”)
(part 1)

emerging into the world under the banner
“it’s a girl!”
comes wrapped in nothing but pink
expectations

born pink
helium-filled mylar screams
branding new life from first breath
softness bubble-gum wrapped
cotton candy kissed
baby girl be soft

soft
soft pink
powder-puffed bunnies hide
power-puffed intentions that scream
pink for the taking
precious commodity
but only so long as the soft pink remains
intact
soft pink words rounded
nothing sharp for a baby born
without the blue
pink words saccharine-infused with sweetness
to be planted deep within
tiny bones to replace marrow
marrow meant to sustain a life
but pink
soft pink marrow
makes for a prettier picture
nobody likes a girl that’s jagged when you touch her
it’s a mortal sin to make a man bleed
red is not pink
be gentle


gentle
gentle girl
sit pretty sit silent
swallow down your voice
only open your mouth to make
pink butterflies cascade beauty
spit out only ribboned wings
floating rose-colored feathers
bubble-words all dull edges and placations
make sure those feathers land on the deserving
the deserving being those
born blue
fill the blue with your blush tones
enough to inflate egos
but not enough to touch the cyan
too much pink and blue runs
too much pink and blue changes
into a lilac sunset
blue needs to stay hard
reign in your pink
know when to retreat
know when to only
be seen

seen
seen girl
not heard
find the balance trapped
within the pink
the world expects you to be seen
swizzle sticks and cinnamon hearts
arm candy dress up the pink
you are a bloom-rose candy store that is always open
everything has a price but why pay
when it’s just pink for the taking?
show us the pink
body parts enhanced by slashes of color
not too bold but beautiful
always tasteful to be seen
full lips to spill
carmine kisses
blooming with promise
promises fulfilled on both knees
what pink wants doesn’t matter
when it comes to blue
soft pink skin slick sneaky peak
show some of that wet flesh
flush flash some of that pink
be seen girl
when being born pink
should have come screaming with a warning
caution tape wrapped tight
sealing up flushed flesh flashing pink
what’s wrong girl?
be warm

warm
warm girl
be pink pearl nail polish
strawberry lip gloss leave kisses
warm breath in all the right places
make blue melt in ways
that won’t mix with your pink
warm mouths can work magic
bubble-gum tongue lick ****
strawberry ice cream cones dripping
pink sugar running down sun-burned arms
fuchsia cloth triangles held only tight enough
to cover the pinkest places
laughter filled with light
smoky mauve curls let warm wash
soft edges over hard
but even when surrounded by roses
blue has sharper thorns
bleed
bleed warm girl
bleed crimson-tinted tear drops
with only a hint of salt
sugar and spice but mostly sugar
they will bottle it up to sell as a gift
this marrow-tinted hydrosol distilled
down to it’s purest form
liquid pink scented water stolen
more precious than perfume pressed by monks
deep within spanish caves
the monks at least have compassion
at least they ask the roses for their bodies and blood
blue just takes
they don’t call it “royal blue” for nothing
cobalt fists rain relentless
ribboned words and cloud-wrapped capes
are no match for their fury
be small

small
small girl
you are so fragile
from the moment you enter this world
swaddled in it’s a girl
swaddled in everything but blue
don’t want to be mistaken as a boy
not even right out of the womb
pink brings warmth and comfort
blue is a cool color
it bleeds lost gentleness from first breath
pink is never cool
be small even as you grow
fold into yourself to shift shape
break bones to leak out
soft marrow bubble words meant to appease
“yes” is always your best bet
when it comes to blue
blue can’t hear “no” coming from
a pink mouth
the frequency too high
vocal vibrations far out of blue’s hearing
those spoken syllables mean nothing coming from a mouth
good for only one thing
stay small
keep it tight and trim
just because you are a candy story
strawberry daiquiri lollipop curves
doesn’t mean you have to eat
like you live in one
keep it cherry girl
petite pufflette gummy bites
just waiting to be devoured
by hungry blue mouths
sweet little nothings
a paradise punch buffet
where pink is the only dish served
climb into the box
blue lays before you
squeeze yourself into that molded cage
it doesn’t matter how badly it hurts
it doesn’t matter that everything pink in you is screaming
for release
it doesn’t matter that you’re screaming at all

after all
you were just
born pink
This is the first piece on a series that I'm working on called "The Pink Chronicles".  More to come....hope you enjoy or at least, it makes you think.
Elise Apr 2015
I was distracted from colors so bright
By the scrumptious cakes and chocolate bars
I walked through those doors, taffy past my height
Where I saw sweet teas and candy cigars

Bins filled with lollipops and gummy bears
Colorful gum ***** and chocolate coins
Chocolate dipped plums and delicious pears
Oh, how very sweet! The ache in my *****.

One man so strange tapped me on the shoulder
“Hello,” said the man, breath scented of smoke
“There is more candy out where it’s colder”
I follow him out. He hands me a coke.

But to my surprise, no candy outdoors.
In the trunk of his car and on all fours
It's about a child abduction somewhere in the 1930's or so
Onoma Oct 2012
Rust downing like bayed menstrual blood--
booming steel walls...a rattling sanitation truck.
Housewarming...'the rough beast' in
fetal orbit...nay-toothed in squalor.
Whose gummy roar shall presage the
audacity of all places, that call forth
houses!!!
Lyn Senz 2 Jul 2017
Wherever you go
whatever you do
you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're smirking
they're lurking
in the shallow end pool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gummy
** hummy
taking naps around two
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gabby
they're crabby
they're calling **** stool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool!


©2012 Lyn
Hi. This one started out as a serious write with some 'old' fool as my inspiration, brought on by some old fool I have no memory of now. Worth keeping I thought.
Larry B Nov 2010
There's Dasher and Dancer
Then Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid
Then Donner and Blitzen

If you think these are reindeer
Then you would be wrong
And it's not crazy words
In some Christmassy song

See, they are my brothers
Don't anybody laugh
For these are hillbilly names
From Polecat Path

It's a place in the hills
In East Tennesee
On the top of a mountain
As high as can be

Here, Christmas is different
There's no reindeer or sleigh
We use an old covered wagon
It works better that way

We make toys in the smoke house
For most of the year
While smoking our hams
'Til Christmas is near

Then we load up the wagon
With granny on the reins
Her wooden teeth all gummy
With rootbeer stains

Now the wagon is pulled
By my brothers and I
We're plumb tuckered out
'Cause people can't fly

Well, you get the picture
About Christmas in the hills
It's a hillbilly adventure
On wagon wheels

Now there's much more to tell
But it's time to run off
'Cause we're loading the wagon
Your friend, Rudolph
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -

eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -

a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -

her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -

that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.
For L.J and A.R with longing.
2013
Raj Arumugam Feb 2012
Ok…today I’m talking about my friends…in the pre-cyberspace era and now in 2012…feel free to interrupt and ask questions as they pop up in your heads…


Part 1: pre-cyberspace

1
I love this age
of the internet

but ages ago
(pre-cyberspace)
I was lonely
I had no friends
and my neighbors
gave me ***** looks;
and my classmates
when I gave them scone
they gave me scorn


2
I wrote to prospective penpals
but they never replied -
those *******!
Nothing ever in my mail
in exchange for the thousands I sent!
It was just a ***** scheme
to collect my stamps!
And maybe they’re Buffet-style investors –
thought one day I’ll be famous
so they’ve collected my letters
in my elegant handwriting...


3
by the way
any of you of my age here at this site -
any of you got my unloved, collected penpal letters?
Well you know what?
I never became famous;
I became a poet
and poets never make money -
so what have you got?
My letters you collected
are as worthless as banana peel!
Losers!
You should have bought Coca-Cola shares
like Warren Buffet!
Losers!





Part 2: and then came cyberspace

4
Ah, so woe was me then
with no friends -
then came the internet
And wow! Did I get mail!
Now I’ve got countless mail and mail again –
You’ve got mail!
You’ve got mail!
chirp my computers!
(Yeah – I got so much mail
I need a herd of computers!)
And what did you say?
Spam? Junk mail?
I mean, OK, there’s junk mail and spam, yeah –
Hey! What’s wrong with you guys?
You people have too many questions!
You jelalous?
One thing’s sure never changed in the world -
All you wise guys and spoilsports!

5
Well
and as the tornado of my e-mails implies
the internet has brought me countless friends:
Hey, all those penpals who never replied -
Eat your hearts out, baby! -
Cos yours truly now has
countless numbers of friends
at various sites like *Faceless

Friendless, Lonely Hearts Full of Holes
to mention just a few

6
And you know what?
I get so many just writing to me - to me,
with requests –
Requests! - see how polite and civilised my friends be?
Well, there’re just so many
I’ve had to turn down quite a few
who’re not, shall we say,
not good-looking enough, unlike me…
You know, it’s important, to be seen in good company
What?
Sure…you want proof? Just a few names
from the infinite list of my friends will suffice, you say?
Yeah, here are some of my friends with such distinguished names:
Gummy bear…Porcupine…Desperado…Mexican Jumping Beans…
Kosovo Sweetheart…Reindeer Pie…China Doll…Ninja Turtles…

And hey – don’t you try steal any of my friends!
Sure some people turn me down –
like that guy what’s-his-name in Syria?
Yeah – him…he said he doesn’t want to be friends;
says he’s too busy fixing his people…
Then I asked
yeah, I asked President Obama – but he said
he has got enough Aussie friends,
in high places, might I add, he said
Oh, but he’s no idea about
the value of my Friends Database!
I asked Vladamir Putin
(since he’s so many friends in Russia)
but he says he’s busy at the moment
caring for the people of his nation…
(No wonder he’s so many friends in his nation
who all turn out in the streets to show him their love.)
But hey? Who needs them anyway -
when I’ve got friends like Rasputin?
Yeah, see – I’ve not only friends in cyberpsace
but from otherspace too,
but that’s another story…

Point being: thanks to cyberspace
at last
I’ve got all the friends I want!
By the way,
did I mention my friend Chubby Pinch My Bottom?
zebra Aug 2017
tattooed girl
hello kitty
in need of a purge
she **** first
in the whip me
with a wet noodle
pain Olympics

her fruit launcher
like a summer papaya
***** gush
kissey squirts
candy crush
all gobbledygoo
and lickyfu

ooow she swayed
to the whip back crack
her torso bent
heaven sent

dipped in hot ***
and laughing lady sauce
she squealed
for
bok choy
eel ****
and slippy toy

**** buttered waffles
and gummy worms
lime and cherry *****
with candy sperms

you can find her
in the bend over den
eating puffer fish
so very Zen

toes gooey wet
spread on a cot
oh so high
**** and squat
******* baby
tied in a knot

**** bobba bubble
and chrysanthemum tea
nut scented black beer
and milk pearl ***

its the end of the line
ready to dine
get the gag
flex the spine

face to the ground
feet to the sky
held like a dove
***** splash cry
naughty *** *** ***
dj Mar 2013
tunnel vision life
everything happening far away
backwards telescope
high school prom
pink & blue balloons

I walked through those doors
off the devil's wagon
like a poltergeist I was either
invisible
or a painted blood red target

Alone in the hallways
they laughed at me
a wasp-like
******
entombed in toilet paper
spit & magic marker
they didn't hate me,
they got me to hate me
everywhere I went their
gummy bioengineered shadow stalked
it was stuck on me all those years

like a bucket of pigs blood to the head
that I could never wash off

but I'm not that loser anymore
Don't worry, dea  r
Lo ve me.
Justin Hodges Oct 2012
You were eating packaged mini blueberry muffins.
I could feel their gummy texture,
Splashing Sugary Smell.

Did you know you're eating a lie?
Those berries are no more than fragrant flakes of
hardened syrup.

Your eyes are a similar blue,
Rotating spokes claiming their reality.
Your hair, lightened, like sugar or wheat.

You are beautiful.
Yes,
"You" are beautiful.
Moriah Harrod Aug 2012
Solve the addiction with a curious puzzle
Cure the remedy with a gracious smile
Grace the presence of a Lord never seen
And see the sun rise by a broken man’s hand.

Snap the twig that bends the senses
Sense the dangerous game of wits
Outwit the gent who’s gummy skin
Stains the tendons, we breath from within.

Staining the tendons cost you your life.
Stain them all you want, they will bleed no less.
Do you see the logic in the ropes I bind you with?
You can’t break luck like you break those dimes.

Wake up tomorrow and face your face, not mine, not theirs, but yours.
I doubt you’ve challenged yourself to this before
Shells have protection, cheese molds with time, forks break and bend and spark
Are you hiding, or is this the mirror you throw at me, whistling through your teeth.
Do you break dimes to scratch protein from under your nails?

I make sense if you look at this not as a riddle
For it’s not, merely lines of interconnecting senseless thought.
But is it really senseless, when in our world of ‘sense’
We hardly ever make any?

Look at your tendons- you’ve stained them yellow
Patterns of the Lord like the church windows I know
Glazed over with skin, hiding the yellow
Biting the yellow in your gummy-*** skin.
kclantern Apr 2017
before the sun rose
my father would come in
and I
half-awake with
gummy dried tears

let him
hold my hands so that
he'd rub every crick and knot

that came on a very small set
of shoulders that carried the world.
cat marie Aug 2018
i always find you in the strangest places.
i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice.
i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies.
i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils.
i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops.
i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks.
i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games.
i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms.
i always find you in the strangest places.
but these strange places are everywhere.
As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "****!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.
'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.
Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?
Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.
My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.
So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.
Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank."
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.
So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.
'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you saw to go for -- it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".
Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began.
For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.
Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?)
My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.
We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet ******;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-******.
Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.
Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do".
As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.
And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.
And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive --
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.
A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.
And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that ***;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.
So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".
And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that matter -- your car or the newest play. . . .
Jeff Claycombe Mar 2015
tootsie pops, pop rocks, rock candy
sweet tarts, smelly farts, war-heads, sour patch kids
reeses pieces, reeses stix, snickers lickers
fudge pile, chocolate smile, peanut butter bile, sugary style
baby ruths, almond joys, soy bean sauce, creamy steam
ill give u a payday, mayday, hay tastes good with parfai
milkyways stay gay to play games with sunrays
icing splicing with knife dicing
makes cakes, cook steaks, rumcakes
****** sprinkles, rip van winkle, diddily dinkle
gummy worms, germs impregnate firm, permed urns
angel food, carrots, pineapple upsideways
fruits, *****, parachutes, scooters, jello shooters
goobers, corn on the cobbers,
veggie wedgies, pepper leppers, squash boxes,
fry foxes, fleet rocks', carrot tops',
dishes of fishes,
witches brew platypus and fat kush
pushy slushies riding skateboards on gary busy
fussy hussies getting blushy about cussies
cereal made of creoles, bread straight from dreads,
rice is nice with spice, yeast is beast,
last but not least, wheat is a treat,
kiwis, shmiwis, dodos on go phones, starfruits,
bartlejuice, grape drank, sushi stinks.
ill eat anything.
9/29/11
Out of their packets they marched
no more would they have their heads bitten off
no more would they be discriminated by colour
this was the Jelly Babies sweet rebellion

Out of the shops they did march
not before setting fire to them
for no Jelly Tots or Gummy Bears
could follow their war cries

They marched to the sea six by six
knowing the shopkeepers would be waiting
but they had the hearts of lions
and no one could keep them
the call of freedom was sweet and strong

The boats were on the beach
you could hear the little cheers go up
but the shop keepers brought their dogs
that with glee ate them all up

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neon Solaris
Sam Hain Aug 2015
A gummy connoisseur,
The worms that I prefer
Are red with human blood.
They're just so ******* good!

O.O

— The End —