"helpings" poems
Bun o'clock
I'm hungry but I don't say anything
Because I can hold on longer
Chew pm
Someone says I look thin
Have I lost weight??
Three pounds
Potentially three pounds
But I don't know because I always think I look bloated
Four ice cubes to tie me over
I don't need to eat
I'm okay
Five fat shaming *******
Stroll past me in their skinny jeans
Reminding me who deserves to be a size 0
Tricks o' the mind
Start to play
As I tell myself I don't need to eat because I did yesterday
Age seven is when
Mama first told me to stretch my shirts
Hide my figure
Watch what I eat
Stop taking second helpings
No dessert
Eight
Looks like a couple of donuts.
Muffins. Pizzas.
Any round food.
My round stomach.
Nibble pm.
It's okay to eat a little? Maybe?
Ten pm?
Or ten candy bars?
Eleven hours later
Nothing in my belly
But four ice cubes
Twelve: time to taunt my taste buds
Trick myself
Tell myself that I'll eat tomorrow
Tomorrow will be the day
The day I really splurge
Everyone knows that's a lie
But my tummy doesn't
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
We see the strong supportive woman you have always been,
- Now it's our turn.
The unselfish way you have liberally spread your time on us, right to the edges,
-Now it's our turn.
The generous helpings of patience that seemed to come so naturally, with seconds for those who want it,
-Now it's our turn.
You're guiding words seasoned with kindness, so full of flavour,
-Now it's our turn.
The unconditional love you have always poured out on us, full and overflowing,
-Now it's our turn...
Please can you write down the recipe?
Mar 20, 2020
Mar 20, 2020 at 12:41 PM UTC
i am a sinner
my sin keeps me awake in the night
walking with the devil isn't easy
with God by your side
my heart inspired by the love
my mind corrupted by evil
no wonder i never sleep right
hugging tight my broken pillow
i forgot to say my prayers to mend
hope God awakes me in the morn
just so i can sin again
never born a perfect
never lived a saint
i'm in love with second chances;
sometimes third helpings on my plate
today He has already sealed my fate
i just don't know the date
i can only hope He continues to forgive
as i continue to live
self destruction never wins
it's always too late
i was made a true believer, but i've
fallen victim to the biggest deceiver
and while i know the liar won't offer me a thing
i swim in pools of blood from the ring
save me oh Lord,
is there an angel you can send?
no doubt You are my Father,
but you see the devil is my friend
there it is
i've gone and sinned again
forgive me Hail Mary Hail Mary Hail Mary
it isn't as easy as it is written
you eat it, you breathe it, you reap it
you sow, sow, sow
the guilt; you keep it
forever and ever
in a church we sin together
and point a finger or two
because that's easier than accepting what is truly wrong with me and you
there are priests who touch little boys
there are ****** killers as well
and today i told a lie to God
so together we all go to hell
Lord, save me and help me mend
help me sleep, help me wake
walk with me as i sin again
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
Savages
The sting of your words concentrated
at my left temple,
As cold as a barrel
awaiting the blow.
These wounds have torn me apart.
So many hands have
Snatched away my substance until
all I am reduced to is bone.
Savages,
cave dwellers,
ready to run like a cannibal
With my heart
in your hands.
How can I go on aiming my arrows in midair?
Hitting nothing,
going nowhere,
relentless but hopeless.
My identity is formed in your merciless hands
and ignorant eyes
which see beyond the petty and toxic names
you throw at me.
Didn’t I coax your wounds?
Wasn’t I there?
Didn’t I let you lay your head on my lap,
and tickled your back?
But now I realize you eat your two helpings
of manipulation and a vindictive
Side, cleaning the plate.
And with your belly full
you are fully aware
of how to trap me.
Why did I even tell you my past?
Expose my vulnerabilities?
I wanted to share so much,
I knew it would last.
But if trust is thrown around
like a grenade in the summer wind,
It will blow in my direction.
Annihilate trust for good, rip apart my soul.
You are uncivilized
While I am civilized
You are unpolished and ferocious
While I am polished and kind.
You are a savage
And I am an angel.
And one day you will be reduced to the filth
you walk on
While I will ascend to the sky
you will never see…
Kena SunGoddess Dawn 2010
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Take me up. Let the devil take me up, like the morning when we left ourselves. The ides are upon our lives, maybe backstabbing partners really won't pay the bills. The irreverent god, the irrelevant clause that speaks too soon, comes upon the midnight waning sky. Like the moonful of ham in the stock of the flesh, second helpings because I could not resist.
Pick me up. Pick me up. Like a devil born again in the flesh. Your womb is a rotten tomb of forced reclusion, I'm wide awake before I can even sleep. The Time, our heaven is pyre, we're in it now like you thought it had been. But the flesh never whispers when I tried to break it in, it only clung to me like pre-used clothing.
Write it up, tomorrow we make Japan. Tomorrow, the island is our vesper. Your nine lives have come, and you'd decided to trade all of your needs to please me. We intertwined into an elusive butterfly, you're dead inside my beak, chewy, squishy, crunchy meat. You're eleven but you've never tasted better.
Your lies are so stupid, I had to have you in supine. I had to lie to myself to placate me. I survived by being a witness to a life. A dusky, grayish shadow four feet yonder.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
Giant portions of tender beef; bring me a field of cattle.
Large helpings of diced pork; hunt down the fattest sow.
Unlimited gallons of alcohol; brew the strongest in the land.
Ten times the amount of cheeses; let ever mouse envy me.
Tempt me with exotic women; from every corner of the world.
Order another kilogram of cigarettes; block out the blue of the sky.
Never let the chocolates run out; richer than the sweetest syrup.
You think this is too much?
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
To the simple minded man
This day would have been like the rest
Would have been an overdone steak dinner
Alone
But he plays a broken bone remix
Of ex-lover’s gritted teeth
It is the click in his jaw over steak
That reminds him of the gnashing
He nurses a beer
In between helpings
But there’s always the click
A painful metronome
For past music
When he was capable of lapping the language out of her mouth
Days when he was all noise
Like a hallway echo
Or a fist through drywall
Or a nightmare gasp
But now all he needs is the cotton he eats
To soak up the sound
So he won’t have to listen to himself keep sayin’
There used to be this growl my gut made
For your bitter music
When we choreographed a collision
Of bone
And breath
And teeth that touched when I still thought I wasn’t pressing hard enough
The masticating click
Reminds him of her smile
It hurts his jaw
And his memory
But he continues making her painful sound
Like it might actually bring her back
And it does a little
Just for today
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow is too far away
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings
A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?
Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners
I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs
Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes
I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth
I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...
His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.
If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off
And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
When your child sleeps for 16 hours do not call them lazy; ask them if they are feeling alright and do not accept that they're "fine".
When your child skips dinner do not just assume it's a diet, sit them down and ask why they are not eating their favorite meal and don't let them convince you that they are not hungry because odds are they're famished.
When you see scratches and burns and bruises and cuts on their body I hope to god you don't look the other way, I hope you hold them tight and tell them how much you love them.
When your child begins skipping classes and asking to stay home do not yell at them, climb in bed with them and ask them what is going on at school.
When your child eats 3 helpings of food and snack after snack after snack I hope you don't think this is normal and I hope you ask your child what is troubling them and I hope you tell them they're beautiful.
When your child pulls away from you and shuts you out and starts destroying themselves I hope to god you don't think it's a "phase" and I hope to god you take on your job as a parent to try and understand and love them, do not tell them to "grow up" because odds are that's the exact problem.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
My greatest poem—in every letter, creation
of new words and those profound sentences.
Line breaks of the metered stanzas, patterns of
end rhymes, All those wanting to be messages
in cryptic form. A wordsmith written in stone.
_—I'm still searching._
In similes alike, metaphors based on everyday
pictures of life. Food for thought; in second helpings
of a secondary meaning. Allegory, an axillary joint
of alliteration. The alluring allusion of a shoulder
none present; I refer to being a connection. In all
other pieces written before, written in corresponding.
_—I'm still searching._
In these continuing words—a couplet, in the irony
of a leading conclusion not intentionally lead.
But what is once read; is best to be read again....
a repetition. What is once read; is best to be read
again, what is once read; is best to be read again.
_—I'm still searching._
In the deepest parts of a piece; the meat is on
the bone. To describe what's at stake, to be words
thrown at your face. A reminder the second time
of when we'll meet again. In puns of patting myself
on my back—these a self praises of being an ode.
_—I'm still searching._
And will I find my greatest poem,
__...Rhetorical question__
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 4:13 PM UTC
For sure the woman
killed her husband -
she served him hot soup
mixed well with poison
But her defense lawyer wanted
to give her a chance
so maybe she could get
a few years instead of life
And so he asked her as
she stood in the box:
*“Mrs Tile, did you feel any remorse,
considering you killed your husband?”*
“Sure, I did,” said Mrs Tile
“when he asked for second helpings”
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
I’ve had enough. I’ll eat no more;
my bloated waist is very sore
and second helpings, not so wise
when all my jeans have shrunk a size.
I will not take another ****
and lardy cakes, I’ll never start.
No cocktail snacks will pass my lips,
nor will I nibble cheesy dips.
No more the joys of Sunday roast,
instead it’s herbal tea and toast.
I have this strong, profound belief
I can live off a lettuce leaf.
Resistance takes an iron will
and abstinence a real skill.
But sticky donuts do look fun,
I think I’ll have another one.
~
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 2:33 AM UTC
You used to crave me.
I was fresh from the oven
Still steaming
Sauce dripping
You could smell each spice individually
You noticed the garnish
You were there to check on me before the timer went off
Unable to wait,
You'd take the first slice
Sauce smeared on your face
Fork and knife a blur
Second and third helpings were a given
And you were sure to order it the next night
You'd lick your plate clean
You'd lick the serving dish
Never a scrap went to waste
But lately you accept a polite portion
You wait until the right moment to lift your knife and fork
Your tiny bites aren't enough to appreciate robust flavor and savory scent
Your left-behind scraps contain the new spice that you failed to notice
You leave another meal's worth of leftovers in the pan
It sits and watches as the refrigerator door opens and closes
You'll pick at it
Eat a slice with your main dish
The scraps at the bottom aren't edible by the time you get to them
And you're in no hurry to start again
The spices aren't tempting you from the cabinet
You don't see the sauce in every plump vegetable you see
You don't get hungry just by catching a glance of the recipe or the oven or the carving knife
Who knows the next time you'll have a taste.
Your oven is cold, your whisk and spatula sparkling clean, and the sauce splatters have faded from your shirts.
Your tongue seems to have forgotten.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
We are, when bruised by some new qualm,
capable of human knowing;
indebted to the open palm.
Some trials, surely, test our charm -
are we sane, still? Life is showing
we are, when caught in some new qualm.
So someone's hand has brought us harm?
Violent smashes; hateful throwing
indebted to the open palm?
Do we ourselves give in, alarmed?
Powerful and old; we're slowing,
we are, when caught in some new qualm.
Or human friend – you need alms,
others' helpings to keep you flowing,
indebted to their open palms?
This mandala of loving arms
is ever-present handshake-throwing.
We are, when caught in some new qualm,
indebted to these open palms.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
Radio Transmission---Static
Quantum---Tunneled
Cycle---Depart
End Transmission.
With twists like a dying withered thing,
my senses are dulled,
my senses are dulled.
Vaccumed slowly in a first kiss,
the taste of another is potent;
curious you hold fast.
Spiralled into thick pitch,
envision the veil of a muslim woman,
impenetrable,enfolding.
A form rises and waits in the void,
she prepares to receive, to overcome,
to swallow and consume.
Wooing you, gliding about
whispering to and fro
at once ravished by words,
your presence evokes her.
A substance flows through
puckered moistened lips
inflamed and permeated with longing.
Embraced by ghosts lips,
tangling you, while pecking
at cloak, face and body,
siphoning life.
Tingles upon the flesh,
lend to ******* never quelched.
Her words:
"Delicious mate lounge with me,
partake of my sorrows, my intimacies.
One cannot revel alone, replace
the fickle before you."
You languish; absorbing
pungent flavors.
A masked perfume laced
with sufferings.
This longing gnaws,
within the organs of men.
Beating and pawing
against the tissues of the mind.
Kneading fences around the skull,
encasing it in its grip.
Following forth,
lips will seek
lips,
hips will ****** against
hips,
arms will encircle All.
This net will count its catch
when caught, feeding
the glazed fervor of greed.
Stabbings of hunger
seep from your coiling tongue,
elongating, wrapping around tidbits
served aplenty.
Dainties, morsels, spoonfuls, sips
and bites,
these are the helpings evident between,
chompings, gurgles, and slobberings.
Meat suckled from the passages of your teeth.
Becoming a porpoise thing
without definition, moving layers
of corpulence and indulgence.
Before long, you incite wrath;
your skeletal companion eats you,
a banquet of your own making.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Oh Christmas comes but once a year
Waistlines swell with good food and beer
Mince pies, chocolates, nibbles and nuts
Watch vintage TV, with no 'ifs' and no 'buts'
Wrapping paper deal, 2 rolls for a pound
Sneaky wrapping later, shhh, don't make a sound
Christmas tree needed you know what to do
Get a last minute deal down at Rhyl B & Q
Got the presents sorted, a job that so hard
That sinking feeling from a last minute card
A phone call and text is never too much
A welcome long chat just to keep in touch
Christmas day approaching are all the jobs done?
Eat drink and be merry is the way it should run
But often a snooze can be the best part
That can end with a grunt, a snore or a ****
Turkey all gone but there are sandwiches still
Three helpings of trifle can make you quite ill
Then cheese and fine biscuits with coffee and cake
Might slow you right down on the After Eights
So off to the sofa where you sit if you dare
Waistbands all loosened on the reclining chair
A tea or a beer shows who's still in the race
While a quick 40 winks puts a smile on your face
Well there it was done and soon off to bed
You sleep like a log having been so well fed
In the night you are gasping you must have a drink
You make it to the bathroom and drink from the sink
The next day is hellish, there are wrappers gallore
With crisps, cheese and crackers ground into the floor
Red wine in glasses fermenting and mulled
You turn and retreat with your senses quite dulled
So no breakfast needed just a whole lot of quiet
After indulging on what was a plain liquid diet
A quick clean around is a job for us males
As your partner heads out for the Boxing day sales!
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
On the crest of the wave I decided to sit down at my 14 year old escritoire
On the advent of spring I decided to
Fill up the moats in my backyard
The quill in between my fingers commemorating the fall of the mighty empires when I was actually rubbernecking the flowers I filled up the ditches with.
Two universes in my mind helpings shape intricate designs and the inkwell acts as a magnet attracting my soul to get lost within these paradoxes
If I walk towards the palaces the kings will ask me to extemporise tricks of which are on my finger tips
If I walk towards the patio I will fall into the area next to it and be buried beneath the flowers
Met with an accident 20 years ago when I was thinking of neologisms
when I was thinking of atypical aphorisms
when I was lost in between the metaphors.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
my palate favors
particular concoctions
over too many pots
and helpings spurned
I don’t need
to taste everything
imported from China
suped-up HFCS and MSG
the first bites are yum
across hungry tongue
but the rest are all meh
instigating regretful churns
and nutrient deficiencies
I just want that
raw, organic, GMO-free
concentrated, satiating
perfected recipe
crafted expertly
on my tongue
daily
x3
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
For the smallest lick of kindness
I'll forgive ******
I'll move mountains, lay my belly flat down on the ground, ******* up **** syrup, frolicking in ****
For your smallest act of kindness,
I'll strip naked
Let you touch my body and pretend I love you
Just please God hold me through the darkest night.
Look at me with kindness,
And I'll clothe you, take you to my home
Feed you all my hard-earned food and shove second helpings on your plate.
For a little bit of kindness,
For the one who stitches back together my shredded sanity
I'd do it all, God, let me do it all.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
she can see the beginnings of a boy in her husband’s abandoned poem. a skull has nothing to do with a seashell and a dryer is not an oven. god is in the air. her daughter is taking a pregnancy test to prove one can get food poisoning from hunger.
all I seem to lose is ghost fat.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I wish that I breathe only your moons
so many pleasant helpings for myself
the water is a selfish being I have yet to tame
as it watches you more than my eyes have the days
to dwell too long too much into it's waters
would be a curse unforgiven by those in your yard
to ripples away you would become the vision betrayed
and I would not give but the rare moment
to see you as an interpretation of a freeing spell
of something other that what you are when you are ripe and full
blessing the scarcity of the sun's light to touch you
to feel you when the chorus of my fingers sing for me too
but the trance of my eyes wait for your easy so long
as the others in the puddles of their skin
twice died to be of a fragment spinning sphere thought of your beauty
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC
Gentle winds move
Words spoken, forever carried
Be mindful of what escapes you to have been forged in love
Blissful thoughts move in tandem with these gentle winds
Ill fated speak rises from the darkness of an evil heart
Forged in hate and envy
Baneful suppositions disturb placid winds
Blue skies depart overwhelmed by gray
Cold rain dances uncertain in quivering winds
Storms approach celebrating generous helpings of lament
Thoughts are of miscalculated omnipotence
Be mindful of what escapes you to be forged in love
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
And her grades dropped,
From a ninety eight to a ninety two,
And she stopped eating,
From three helpings to just one,
She stopped sleeping,
From ten hours to only six,
And these changes were subtle,
But still they were there,
And she slowly fell apart,
Piece by tiny piece,
And her grades plummeted,
She's failing now,
And she stopped sleeping,
She has not had a bite,
And she has stopped eating,
ButShe was lucky to get an hour,
And these changes seemed sudden,
AndBut they were there all along,
And she fell apart awhile ago,
And no one could put her back together..
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Giving up sounds more beautiful the harder you push it
Like a cream cake in a window
Or staying out too late with the one you love
A cushion to sleep on, on fathers armchair
Second helpings
Nothing is helping
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC