"meatball" poems
The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.
It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil
being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling
witch.
sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten
by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no
just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed
to be beautiful.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy
Overlooked and simplified
Like a growing urge, a salivating need
That is entrancing and glorified.
Everlasting for moments we call meals
Forgotten in time, lingering above
But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside
Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again
The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight
And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips
Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center
Halved and topped with mascarpone crème
The man with a skin of caramel glaze
Caressing and savoring
With a fragrance and scent
Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin
In the pursuit of a brief love affair
What oral sensation did my taste buds want?
My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await
Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff
Generous portions and humble pies
Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die
Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté
Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce
A robust aroma and savory appeal
Basil leaves with garlic strips
Olive oil to top the surreal
Hubristic meatball aborigine
Elysian cuisine or many dreams
Teasing the senses, warming the pit
Of flowing pleasures
And tingling fingertips
Without moral measures
And succulent wines
Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone
Seasoned with Sicilian herbs
And paired with broiled asparagus
Drizzled with lemon juice
And a glass of Merlot
Spices I hardly know
Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows
With love there is pain, passion endured through the names
Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums
Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass
Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami
Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami
Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor
Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin
red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread
devilish rounds of crumbling rum-swirl bread
Smells and wonders, tastes so ...
oh god
Divine and sublime.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Struggling to swallow the strong spicy bourbon,
Staining his breath, like a meatball
Splattered onto a white t shirt.
He wondered, the most dear, delightful
Wonders. His minds roof slowly collapsing
Like the spine of a paraplegic.
He dreamed of the ways he could
Revolutionize the world. Desperate for
A sincere societal change; not only in
Norms, but in culture, politics, religion;
It all mattered, it all must change.
His heart struggled, stuck inside the
Pain-staking world he had grown to
Hate. "It mustn't stay the same",
He said. But, what did he know.
Things don't just change. Things don't
Just get better. People must die.
Innocent people. Normal people.
Non-killing people, they must die.
But he continued to think.
He continued to search, deep in his soul.
People questioned his sanity: **** lunatic!"
They would say. They. A word he hated.
Perhaps that was it. They!
He realized what he must do in order
To save all of humanity.
He sat down and he wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And it was good.
His plan was almost complete. One more step.
Society would forever be changed.
Everyone would love. Everyone would eat.
There would be no bombs. No hate.
The world was about to forever change;
He hoped for the very best.
So he went to his room. It was light.
He reached in the drawer and felt metal.
Pulling out the key to societies happiness.
He, himself became happy. He looked around,
Then...
Bam!
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
It's time again it's that Onomatopoeia
Is it a verse is it fire a spicy meatball mama Mia!
Mario warped in those pipes couldn't see ya
Wouldn't wanna be ya look at my sneaker
Nike do it like me I ****** what I want I do t fear ya
Taking it all like I was on my billy and Mandy grim reaper
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Meatball meatball down the hill
it must be having quite a thrill.
Stain the grass, paint it red
I hope you roll up in my bread.
If the bread accepts you so
I'll shoo away that nasty crow.
Down in the river, a plate I found
let me wipe it on the ground.
Imagine now, what you just read
if you haven't already fled.
For if I were to take a bite
my face would show, it's not right.
Let me grab that piece of cheese
from the mouse, I said, "Please?"
In the end, and to end it all
that last bite, was my downfall.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
.
Meat
Meatball Me
Meatball Meat
Meat b all M eat
Meatball Meat
ball Meatball
Meatball Meat
b a ll Meatball
Meatball Meat
ball Meatball
Meatball Meat
ba l l Meatball
Meatball Meat
ball Meatball
Meatball Meatball
Meatball Me Eat ball Meat
Meatball Meat ball Meatball M
Meatball Me Meatball Meat
Meatball Meatball
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
3, 6, 9
Three, six, nine
The goose drank wine
The monkey chewed tobacco
On the street car line
The line broke
The monkey got choked and
They all went to heaven
In a little row boat
On top of spaghetti
On top of spaghetti
All cover with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed
It rolled off of the table
And On to the floor
Then my poor meatball
Rolled out of the door
It rolled to the garden
And under a bush
We then had
A meatball bush
Birdie, Birdie
Birdie, Birdie
In the sky
Why up do that
In my eye
Aren’t you glad
That cow’s can’t fly
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Two clowns with tremendous feet
stacked upon each other
one a miniature of the other
these clowns have diminutive heads
plump bodies
pieced together
monstrous feet out sizing their legs
pigeon-toed outwards
with a big toe the size of a meatball
both have screaming faces
eyes set atop their heads
without eyebrows- but it's not unnatural
ether floats off the larger clown on the bottom
radiating from the knee and the torso sides
and shoulders
the larger built like a body builder
with massive shoulders
and a v-torso
the diminutive clown has massive ears and
skinny arms facing outwards with hooked fists
on rollerskates
the anger spewing from the larger lower clown
is parodied on the upper's face
they are both men
both squat, human
made of circles
nothing is a straight line in their make-up
niether naked
nor clothed
it doesn't matter
these clowns represent nothing
they simply are; they are in the world
but where, I can not say.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
My sister – camping on the coast
Muttering over macaroni
Fixing salad
Talking to a seagull
“George” mews like a cat
awaiting dinner
Waddling web-foot along the stony cliff
To him – life is a handout
against the backdrop of the setting sun
Garlic bread, spaghetti, chocolate chip cookie –
My sister adopts things
What was ever wild after?
Even this “Master of the Wind”
eats Italian tonight!
Till the “Alpha Bird”
younger stronger
spots the eye of orange on plate of white –
Whirls in on protest and demand
George responds in kind
Intruder seizes a meatball
George squawks and lunges
his last...
________
The sunset on the Maine coast tonight
enthroned in vaporous haze
Imbued with fragrance-- ocean rose
The sky-- delicate
mountain laurel pink
bleeding into purple
where the tallest spires of spruce
have stabbed upward
From the coastline's rock
comes qweedling of the robins
calls of sea birds in the peaceful distance....
___________
….George struggles in Alpha's grip
on windpipe
Meal forgotten
as nature serves its worst
His neck arched back
Wings fluttering desperate
in his last display
a spray of feathers
Strength will take this day
Plunge it into faint squawks
George dissolves limp in quivers
as Alpha--
weightless victor
lifts away
Suzy cries out
despair at loss of little friend
“I can't! I can't!
I rush out to hold
his last limp sigh
...tossing his gray and white into another sky
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
I talked with my parents this morning (they’re in a time zone that’s 6 hours ahead). I’ll be off, back to school, before they get back. They sound very tired, certainly tireder than they did a month ago.
They’re working with “Doctors Without Borders” somewhere in Poland. We have a fiction between us, that they haven’t been in a war zone for the last couple of months, spending 16 (18?) hours a day, in ineffable, meatball surgery - sewing pieces of people back together.
Although our conversation topics are no more important than soap bubbles, they evoke a kaleidoscope of emotions (in me), our mutual deceptions as fragile as eggshells.
Aug 7, 2022
Aug 7, 2022 at 12:09 PM UTC
try to make a psychology
off a meatball... and i'll bet you Bolognese's
worth of inadequate pinball bowling with a slack
on the lost ************ wrist tweak...
hence the welsh longbow man's V
salute to the french guard of the king.
guard? heavy calvary - hence
an arrow loosened and indeed i still can
claim pacifism with the V as the index
and middle finger of archery's splendour
prior to the befallen brethren of
the muddied stage encompassed at a distance
soon to be an encompassing grave of my own tiresome
example readied for neither god of fanciful
tastes or a god of omni- encapsulating surveillance.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
In the words of Taylor Swift
a love story began.
First, he stared at me across the room.
Second, he flirted with me.
Third, we had a casual conversation.
Fourth, he pushed a meatball across the plate to me.
Fifth, he asked me to marry him.
Sixth, he's not real...
My love life....
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
red hands
raw meat
up to my elbows
in hamburger
chunks of bread
spices, eggs
just doing
my job
sculpting each
meatball
carefully
in my hands
rubber gloves
metal tools
surgery
why
them and
not me
*(blood, gore
shrapnel and death
suffering, pain
alcohol and tears)*
they were just
doing their job
i'm just
doing mine
*(the voice in my head
says i'm not enough
my glove breaks at
the seam around my ring)*
another day
in paradise
cold fingers
meat on hands
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
If they weren’t in the Polo grounds, the drive was a home run..
Don Liddle served a meatball and Wertz swung and thought it gone.
But Willie Mays thought otherwise and raced towards the wall.
Improbably, impossibly, he caught Vic Wertz’s ball.
He turned to throw; his cap flew off, as Doby raced for third.
When Grisson relieved Liddle, Liddle quipped:” I got my man.”
That the Indians were dispirited you well can understand.
That inning turned the series as Cleveland didn’t score.
The Giants won that game in ten and swept the Tribe in four.
Of all who played the game that day, a precious few remain.
The man who made “The Catch” still lives; forever will his fame.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
it's six am and we are cuddled on a mostly deflated air mattress
the air is cold and you smell like a mix of sleep sweat and alcohol
i don't mind it
you whisper to me in your rumbly voice
stories of steve
walking swordfish
chicken heart
you laugh when i tell you about the meatball i stole
when i imagine you now i don't see your face
i feel your untouchable safety and
wish you into tangibility
although dimensions separate us
i can't do anything but tell myself
you're right around the corner
in order to carry on
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
You are said to be precious.
Precious mind,
I manged to see by myself.
Beauty that struck so Hard
To leave one unconscious.
The one that tells a story,
A story you can never find in the shelfs
The girl is so Beautiful
Beauty strong enough,
To change egypt's pyramid
Into a prism.
Powerful enough to make a guy
Cry who spent ages in prison.
The beauty that can take you
From a jungle to an open space.
The one when lost,
Can never be traced.
The one to put the meatball
Within your ribcage.
Straight into the Rabbit race.
The one you gaze upon,
And see your whole world.
I'm a man, and she's better than
Just a girl.
She's a woman, and she's beautiful
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
she always found it easy to sleep on the train
the low vibration of the motor sent a shiver down her spine reminiscent of the one she got when her mother held her and whispered softly,
"it was just a sad dream, my sweetheart"
she wishes her nine-to-five didn't take up so much time
time she could have spent with her mother before stage five
she sleeps with the notion that maybe when she wakes up from her slumber, she will finally wake up from her
sad dream
he feels remorse for the fact that he can't sit in the normal train seats
but he enjoys the solitude
the passengers' probing judgement cannot penetrate through his
thick skin
he'd rather ride alone than next to one of the classmates that bullied him throughout high school
"fatty" "meatball" "fatso"
he hopes that they all get hit by public transportation
preferably public transportation that he's riding
sitting alone
the anxiety is suffocating him and
no one can see
and no one can help
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
there's so much he hasn't done
there's so much he has to do
there's so much existing
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
every term paper is shoved down his esophagus
every reading
every subway ride spent doing nothing
is going to **** him
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
her eyebrows make her look angry
the arch is too high, she notices every morning
her cheekbones are too severe
she notices
her hair is always pulled back into a tight ponytail
every hair scraped back, flat to the scalp
she notices
but it's a choice
she has to demand things of people
and no one will take her seriously is she looks inviting
she notices
her boss stares at her *** for three and a half seconds whenever she bends over
she notices
her co-worker resents her because she got engaged and promoted in the same year
she notices
he doesn't understand
he came to this country hoping for so much more
but he doesn't understand
how anything works
how anyone functions
he doesn't understand
he takes the same train every morning because he's remembers it
but he doesn't understand it
he misses home, his real home
but this is better for him
isn't it?
she always sits in the window seat of the four-chaired section
whenever she doesn't, she is forced to stare at the ground
or make awkward eye contact with the grey faces
she likes the window seat
she stares blankly through the landscape surrounding the train
and she thinks
about how her nostalgia deepens her melancholy
about how everyone has tired of her humour and wit
about how the only thing she has is a shred of hope that someday she can make her mother proud
and she thinks
she thinks about everyone surrounding her on the train
what their stories are
she wonders if she'll ever know
and then she sleeps
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
So the journey postponed
By the method of twine.
Twas decided they’d book on the telephone line.
A jungle safari with gin and Campari.
And lashings of kippers on toast.
Despite the location of bison migration
There was still time to fish by the coast.
At the end of the plodding in boots made from wadding.
They both had a wonderful time.
They couldn’t deplete all
The stocks of the meatball
From bellies of African swine.
There’s no moral this time.
As their trip was just fine.
Said the owl to the pussycat’s purrs.
Their next time in Turkey
Was rather more murky.
On their quest for some jewellery and furs.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
Not sure where the family
behind us is from
but they are reciting scripture
in the mess hall cafeteria.
This lingon berry soda is almost finished and my patience is almost finish and I don’t know if I can handle what lies ahead of me and my satire stature.
It’s like I forgot how to write;
forgot how to type;
forgot how to spell and tell if I was right. It’s like I’m a meatball
floating off the plate
about to plummet
on the cold, hard ground.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
Stepping out of me
ME encounters me
He doesn’t have my grace
Tells me on the face
It’s ME
Inside of you
That lends you voice
Otherwise you dumb doll
Is just a meatball
A zombie without ME
Eyes that don’t see
Ears that don’t hear
Live blind without a mind
Beneath skin bones 206
Always in a fix
Till breathes this ME
In you
Poetry
When he steps in
I see his reflection
On the screen!
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
If the Rubik's cube was round I'd roll it in the snow
caress it like a meatball then hide it in the dough
If it had same old shades of white aligned to match
and two knobby handles with a little silver catch
I would turn it slowly, rotate it, find the latch
If the Rubik's cube was spherical like soccer *****
combinatorially correct, without four simple walls
If it was soft in the center instead of hard like rock
I'd squish it into place just like a child of Dr. Spock
put it on a leash and slowly walk it round the block
If the Rubik's cube was a big old Ferris wheel of fun
I'd configure it with motion and solve it on the run
If the Rubik's cube was bally and built like solid O
I'd solve it in a jiffy, match the colors yell Bingo !
I'd wear it like a trophy and put it out for show
If the Rubik's cube was made for geniuses like me,
they'd be far too easy, and given out for free.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
life is just a maze
a puzzle like the living
we grow like trees
but are the trees giving
we grow tall
teeth like leaves fall
blood red like a meatball
just like the leaves off a tree in fall
some are straight up like skeeball
some are curved and different
we want to be above like a seagull
and yet we're so insistent
on bringing others down like "I'M SIGNIFICANT"
my mother told me I was gifted
and we're all hypocrites
but we can be forgiving
but we will never give up
this win is not for giving
so we lie awake
pondering "what are the chances?"
life is giving me these questions
but I don't know how to answer
so we look and it's another game of hide and seek
but answers hide like tongue in cheek
you'll find out if you just speak
up
they tell me
why are you so quiet?
long hair, you must be so defiant
and we hate those ******* judgments
but we make them too
most people are made of glass
you can see right through
but the answers are condensation
you cant see, can you?
we make assumptions
wanting them to be the truth
there'll always be a mystery
people ask "what's the point of living?"
wait and you'll see
answers aren't for giving
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
*little bundle
loud and quiet
always in cookie jar
meatball slaloms
sudsy soap and
band-aid wrappers
life, once tabula rasa
an empty page
now coloured-in*
●○
°
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
My cat,
Meatball,
tried to ****
my Venus Flytrap
and he claims that
he was just trying to
protect me
but I think it's because
he's a little ****
Still,
I find it
tremendously
difficult
to stay in a bad mood when
both of my cats decide
to lay on my chest and
purr away
all of my frustrations
and anxieties about the world
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
Suga Booga Marshmallow milkshake pink clouds two ***** fingers
and a saucy meatball, its chill she says, thats the title, giggles to herself and Juniper Rose smiles somewhere as she raps Me and Mr. Horner standing on the corner
An old roommate Carla, told me she liked the sound of the keys because it sounded productive.
she eats a cookie and says she did it, is proud, says its good and makes some tea laughs along to the ring, chocolate chip cookies left at our door,
how lucky are we, these cherokee blankets, small pox, Covid 9, staring at the sun,
we live in a world where its dangerous to hug someone you love
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 6:17 PM UTC