"kosher" poems
The Peppered Pickle Clown
(Peppered Pickle Day)
This is a story you may not know
And it's banned in pickle town
It's about a peppered pickle
That became a circus clown
He started out his short life
Looking through a stained glass jar
Watching his sweet pickled brother
Become a kosher star
Although his peppered pickled life was sweet
This peppered pickle wanted more
He would join the circus as a clown
And be a smash that fans adored
At first it started slowly
No fans would call his name
But a peppered pickle as a clown
Well thats funny just the same
As time went on he made them laugh
They started yelling for him more
Then a show was given just to him
And a peppered pickle day was born
All the fans they ordered pickles
On peppered pickles they would gorge
Then one day there came a time
When peppered pickles they ran short
The peppered pickle clown knew right then
That it was time to make his mark
So he made a deal with Vlasic corp.
To put peppered pickles in their jars
Well Vlasic corp. invited him
To come take a private tour
They said that he would relish it
And be a cut up in the stores
They put the peppered pickle clown
In a clown chair and tied him down
They said it was for safety
As the belt showed him all around
The belt went slow when starting out
Picked up speed as it went along
The peppered pickle clown was sliced and diced
Vlasic didn't clown around
So remember the peppered pickle clown
When you shop at your home store
He gave his life for stardom
And thats why you now pay more
Today is peppered pickle day
And should be known the world around
Made famous by a sweet delight
The peppered pickle clown
Carl J. Roberts
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
God was tired that day
After all
Six days shalt thou labour
And on the seventh
Shalt thou rest
And he'd be slaving away
For eighteen days nonstop
Mainly because of the offer of
Double overtime
Had proven irresistible.
He'd written out these great rules
On how to live,
All eleven of them.
And God yelled out:
*"Oy Moses, you fat bearded ***
I got some tablets of stone for you
So move your ******* kosher ****
And Moses came out of the pub
And picked up the first ten
But, being a bit the worse for wear,
And nine sheets to the wind
With cut-price passover wine,
He never noticed the eleventh one:
*"Never accept a personal cheque
Without a bank guarantee card"*
Is what it said,
And you can't argue with that
No ******* way.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter"
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me!
If there is a God approachable by men
as yet I have not found him—
Pray for me!
For my heart is dead,
prayers languish upon my tongue;
my right hand has lost its strength
and my hope has wilted, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end?
How long? Hangman, traitor,
here’s my neck—
rise up now, rise and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me
although we—the chosen few—
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize—
strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain
drenching your pristine uniform again and again,
staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice—quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face,
let her false scales be overturned forever
and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice,
suckled on blood, unweaned of violence:
cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden;
such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss!
Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness,
eat it away and undermine
earth's rotting foundations.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
How does it feel to roll in your own filth,
Stupid human beings never learn,
Nadda- zip- zilch ,
Tie your muthafucking mouth up with duck tape,
Two of you ******* wouldn't last,
Instead you contemplate,
I mean,
Ones desperate,
And ones going thru post dramatic stress,
But I guess it doesn't matter,
Cause beneath me lies pest,
With ****** female organs,
Excuse my french but is this be a grandma really important,
That's why I don't allow stupid or old people in my groups,
Cause they know about everything,
Including you,
**** **** it,
I don't care if you join the mafia or make your thing,
But there's no discussion,
Of a big mistake you two dummy's are making,
**** ya!!!!!!!!
So when everything is kosher and its time to pay dues,
Hey ! Poetic mafia ! I'm giving them to you,
These two :-)
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
A Pickle is Many Things
A Kosher Dill, A Gherkin
You can Pickle Beets and
You can pickle pigs feet
Pickles for Bread and Butter
Sweet Pickles Canned by Mother
Pickled Herring can be found or
Pickled Eggs that are so round
A Pickle's a fine thing to be
But...don't get yourself in a Pickle
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Grab your Kerouac coat,
get on the road and
find everything you lost about yourself,
reclaim it from city street code.
Dust travels with the wind
when the wind is hesitant to go alone.
Along with the clouds that
cover the sky, cover the unknown.
Cars with driver and passengers
flee the mounting mess,
the debris of souls, money,
cash around the necks-
Choking on greed and new sofas,
deep porcelain baths, chunks of
meat: expensive, not kosher.
So grab that Kerouac coat
and get on the road.
Find something worth doing, before dusk becomes sweet-taste cold
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Kabob keepers **** kooks
Kangaroo Kicked Kat
Karan's Karma kayak
Kansas Kills Karl
Kazoos Keep Kosher.
Koops Kup Kun!
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
for the ladies who liquid lunch
<>
the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palate,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!
<>
your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears
it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing
I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me
so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty
impossible to eat just one
****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,
bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry
****
back for more already?
****
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
Mahatma gnaws at World War hungers
Reincarnated forms of Wild West lungers
Spatially realigning to a kosher and beloved state
Krishna stands ignored, can’t help feeling irate
Walrus tusks dig into the carpenter’s brow
As an eight armed saint is revealed as a cow
Scriptures packed and rolled, exhaled in suspicion
Prophets praised for violence incurred, act of sedition
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar
(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)
Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling
to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve
Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all
Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Where do thugs go?
Who do they run to?
Where do they call home?
Not a house that they go to, but a place where they feel belonged
How do they cope with the scarcity of love?
Thugs, not the kind that most women think they are attracted to; therefore, not the imposers
Not the kind who landed at the bottom of the hill, sliding from the top only to scrape off their rot
Not the ones who were born with all the right people in their corners, but boxed them off while trying to fight to be someone that they are not
Thugs, the ones who momma loves? Because he appreciates her worthiness, her works
She's the only real love he ever had since birth
Thugs; who can't really go places because trouble doubles
It multiplies whenever he is with his guys
Because they all know how it feel not to live under a roof
Neither one of them have anything to lose
His dudes are equal to himself cubed
They rely on one another like proofs
And they are radical from the roots
Living in a negative atmosphere trying to multiply it by itself
So that they can make it to where the grass is greener and the sun does shine
The other side of the number line
Where the gunfire and homicides are divided
And the dope is reduced
All their lives they have been thinking that they are enduring the truth
That they "cannot amount to nothing and cannot be put to use"
They are neck deep in the streets
And the authorities is at their throats like a crew
But nothing around them is cotton
So when their fingers symbolizes a "V" they are only representing the place where they have to be
And they are not weak, but sometimes they wishes that they can take off a week
Black cats can't chase yarn
Mexicans don't have a specific day for casual dressing
Asians don't get any waivers
Cubans can't take less hours for a semester of schooling
Haitians don't get vacations
The **** life is given
Difficult to make it
As it is to escape it
It's hard to deal
When all they know is reeling in deals
To people who are saltier than Dill's
While at the same time trying to act real... Kosher
Without a companion to share meals... How do they find closure?
Too busy being tyrannical
Never learned how to be grammatical
So **** just got "worser"
Interviewee for a job
Or being suave to a child's mom
Besides their eyes,
Their oration is just exposure
Not knowing their duration to exist on this surface
Thugs need love
It's hard to tell through his mean-mug
But he's hurting
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
On black sheets
And silver pillows
I pledged a kind
Of oath to you
My love, my love?
Keeper of my coffee cup
Affections and
Bumblebee hive
Passions musings.
Sing to me love and light in a song
And I'll promise that only for you I'll long.
With tshirt lamp
And crystal glass
Kosher wines that
Taste of ash and
Dust in summer campfire
We made ourselves
Like remote batteries
And tuning slides
Together. A: 440
Sing to me of devotion and commitment with your voice.
And I could finally make a similar choice.
Promises made, promises kept.
I promised again even as you slept.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
State of union
as we're unified, we're lateral
parallel,
paraphernalia in our religions
to add to this televised broadcast
forecasting short cuts and short comings
Sure—
I'm running out of excuses tongue-loosened painfully,
but who thought,
the chief that is,
invited everyone to our ghost dance
they stand and applaud,
Me at the helm of our podium
they **** and they gawk,
you at my breast plate
the air I drink is futile I cough,
But Is it kosher?
Nova Scotian landscapes supplementing dinner,
The candles on your dessert,
reminds me of our fire,
We once had, We flicker,
Once singular now plural -- yes adulting made us thorough,
through the rigours,
I feel different
YOU'RE TRIGGERED,
them posts traumatic symptoms I remind you of
frequently,
I listen
I sin again, I sin again
Differently,
You take me back,
Religiously,
And say,
meditation is key,
Khalad would be proud
emotionally I'm wolverine --
Untouchable,
But that was yesterday and I'm trynna say,
Sorry
I'm trynna be unguarded
as a point guard off the inbound,
Pointing to your tilted crown — Adjust it to your coils
Flag a waiter down,
Beef is not what I wanted
nor pleasant to your palette
major key — take the salmon
Overall I think we're better now,
I asked my mom about you
and my aunt about your culture
What you really need is closure
Instead of asking for permission,
settled for forgiveness,
you sweep your pride away in the name
the victim,
Treat me like I treated you
Treat me like you're bullet proof,
Treat me like those systematic flaws --
Unforgivable
You left me?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
not often do you meet
true gentlemen
perchance two of this kind
I met on Hello Poetry
it has dumfounded me
to see them no longer here
for they were genuinely
courteous and well mannered
indeed
Beryl Dov The ******** Rabbi
a noble guy
his satirical verses
I did heartily enjoy reading
no finer writer
of this ply
WolfSpirit
ever polite and friendly
he supported
his fellow poets
and wrote
from the heart
I'll always have a good word for both of them
kosher
these
gentlemen
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Dead people are no doubt bored, so I'm sure these folks would be happy for free food and conversation. Of course, this is just a partial list, subject to addition and deletion. Feel free to add your own in comments.
Buddha, but a light lunch.
Jesus, but kosher of course.
****** come on, who wouldn't.
James Joyce, just to mock him.
George Washington, to try to catch him in a lie.
Hemingway, but just for drinks.
Reagan, to deliver some Depends.
Bakunin, for mutual aid.
William Butler, my ancestor who survived The Wheatfield at Gettysburg.
Audrey Hepburn, but a date, not lunch.
Ingmar Bergman, just to cheer me up.
Ervin Schrödinger, about that cat.
Shakespeare, because I've always wanted to meet an extra-terrestrial.
Ezra Pound, to tell him he was right about usury.
God, to let her know how disappointed I am.
Richard Nixon, so I could drive a stake through his heart.
Julia Child, just to hear her voice again.
Lenin, because he was a self-starter.
Mozart, because he would be fun.
Emma Goldman, to dance.
James Dean, as we look so much alike.
Janis Joplin, because I might get lucky.
Come on, I'm sure you can add to the list. Don't be shy, try.
mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.
The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.
The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.
The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
Is it cruel to silence a pregnant woman with a dozer
Sold their souls to a war criminal's thirst
Rationalizing every lies with more of them, so kosher
Ask the children died of starvation and thirst
Ever felt threatened by the fire they spit
Lessons never learned, or was it a skit
Feb 12, 2024
Feb 12, 2024 at 12:10 PM UTC
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.
I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.
Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
My daughter came home sunday
And pronounced as loud as hell
I got married on vacation
And there's plenty here to tell
From now on it's a new thing
At Christmas, here's the test
Before we eat our dinner
By a rabbi, it is blessed
Her mother, not the sharpest
Thought a bit, and with a grin
Said, if we sit down with a rabbi
Would he truly , well...fit in?
My daughter said, well Mama
The man that I just wed
Is jewish so I'm changing
I felt a pounding in my head
From now on a menorah
Would be needed in the house
My wife said, no more pets here
Your brother has a mouse
My daughter said, no mama
It's a special, holy thing
Where you light up eight blessed candles
And enjoy the holiness they bring
My wife, said, Oh I knew that
I was testing, that was all
I'll put one on my shopping list
I'll go and buy one at the mall
My daughter then continued
there's other changes that will come
I just stood there, headache pounding
I was feeling deaf and dumb
The Christmas Tree will have to go
No turkey, kosher food
No crackers or old stockings
They may think of these as rude
At this point I exploded
No Christmas Tree, no way
Little girl, this is my house, my dear
Now, listen as I say
The tree will be as always
In the corner by the fire
the stocking hung with tender care
With nails and picture wire
The turkey will be 20 pounds
At least, stuffed full of bread
Kosher food, if served here
Will be only if I'm dead
Christmas is my holiday
It's in my house, where I am boss
And I say we have a turkey
And pray to Jesus on the Cross
A Kosher Kristmas in this house
May never come to pass
We can celebrate at your new home
Got it straight, my little lass
In my house I'm the ruler
So don't come in with something new
In my house we are Christian
And we celebrate a jew
We will welcome your new husband
To our home at Christmas time
But, while you're in this dwelling
The rules in force are mine
If you want a Kosher Kristmas
I think it is a good idea
If you celebrate together
But you do not do it here....
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
IN LIGHT of new technology (but mainly the failure of the old)
we the people have decided to place
a ban upon these ridiculous beliefs of
kosher music and **** food (maybe it’s the other way around?)
AND BECAUSE we are so influential and such a
bona fide group of Republicans (in which the likes you will never see again)
we’ve also decided to show mercy upon your own religion
(even though it is far less substantial than our own,
and just PROVES that you’re a terrorist)
and we'd also like to accept your nomination
for presidency
AND IN stark contrast to our earlier comments
we'd like to let your garage band play at our son’s bah mitzvah
(even though we’re a bunch of self righteous catholics)
and please, tell your sister when we said
“you’d never amount to anything”
we didn’t mean
“you'd make an awesome stripper.”
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
Our love is natural,
organic.
Our love is raw,
our love is wholesome.
Our love is local,
from scratch, unmodified.
Our love is kosher.
Our love is a nutritious part of everyday's
balanced breakfast, lunch and dinner!
Our love is just desserts.
Our love is cage free,
free range,
fair trade,
home grown,
the 100% real deal!
Our love is not for sale.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
I thought I could conform,
wanting to become part of the pack.
I dressed differently;
closed my mouth more.
I tried to be less caring yet more selfless
hoping to become more desirable.
It didn't work.
I wore black.
I abstained from interests in favor of theirs.
I slept only with candles for warmth
and bathed in ice water.
I froze.
I laughed at the idiocies protruded from their mouths,
trying to fit in, but stay me.
I was brainwashed.
I ate kosher for a year and a day.
I drank tea to bleach me inside.
I prayed to Mother Earth and Father Sky for strength as the moon waxed,
but was weakened when they turned away my heart at Witching Hour,
and thought I would die from the cold.
I did what I thought was good,
thinking blending wasn't a bad idea.
But still deep inside me is the need to know:
was adapting always like this?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC