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Nigel Morgan Feb 2013
Takes ages to get there,
Hours in the car
You wonder what all the fuss is
Going so far.
 
But
​just look at the sea
​and then across the sea
to an almost ring of mountains
you will one day be able to name,
one by one,
​they’ll trip off your tongue
​as they do off your mother's
​who’s been coming here
​since I don’t when,
 
and that’s
​maybe why
​it feels so good,
​it's in your blood,
 
the air so clean and fresh,
the sea so cold but clear,
ok, there are midges,
and it might rain a lot,
and you definitely won’t see any otters . . .
 
But this can be a place of miracles!
 
If the wind is right – no midges.
If you sit still long enough – an otter appears.
If you’re really lucky – it won’t rain (too much).
 
I know. I’ve been there too,
And lost my heart to it all.
Just like you.
Mellon Udrigle is in the North West Highlands of Scotland. This is a poem from my collection Twelve - twelve birthday poems for a twelve year old.
Kalliope Jul 2021
Feel it all out now
Smooth it through your fingers like
An unwelcome business card
feel it now before you lose it
Before it gets lost
In your purse
In the gutter
In your mind
Universe be cruel
Universe be
sour
Linger longer and i’ll be
Yours
The moon smirks
Hides her face
She knew
Knew it was coming
Diction be colorful
Diction be
prim
Words fall through the floor
Splash like blood
made of ink
Can you feel it?
It rages across the boulevard and
Ocean
Strewn across dreams
Tattered and ******
Aches like an open wound
What does it feel like again?
I’ll drive back home to
Retrieve my body
from the bay
Soul purged, pitch black
You’ll drive back home to
Retrieve your heart
Come back home
to your fire
We’ll see each other on the other side and we’ll
Feel it all out then
Smooth it through our fingers like
Glass
Don’t linger long
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
She sits at her desk trying to write a story, her thigh shows like a pearl that came bouncing down the street with a Mellon attached to her ear-ring, but I can only look at her breast, her ****** and a drop of milk, our baby sleeps, she looks radians naked under the San Francisco sun, all I want to do is to have her and be inside her, all, complete as a canvas from Tanguy, but she won't let me, her writing comes first, I call a ******, she is also a woman and will be here in one hour. All because she gets me so hot. **** woman, love is the flesh we can never get.
1998
Roxanne Jul 2017
Reality dims, dreams fade away,
A hungry nightmare howls,
As the heart turns gray.

On  a mournful sea of so many souls,
Yer tune rises up,
To sneak into my shadows.

And it dances, it jumps,
it twirls and it wiggles.
It makes a new path
Out of most of my niggles.

Looks like I can’t find
any more rhymes,
I just thank you, my friend,
For all of yer time.
"Mellon" is the word for "friend" in "The Lord of the Rings" saga by Tolkien. I just felt like quoting it.
KILLME Aug 2013
woof woof barks the dog as he plays in the yard
swish goes the large green fruit as it sails through the air
the dog stops barking
the melon, sailing
leaving a family in a state
of
MELLON COLLIE
http://www.comedytime.tv/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/watermelondog.jpg
Wk kortas Jun 2018
Good afternoon, my name is Absolutely Frank,
And I am an alcoholic,
Which doesn’t give me a leg up
On you bunch of ******* drunks.
As I’ve observed that we’ve skipped the host
And gone straight for His blood,
Would someone be kind enough
To ask the good shepherd behind the bar
To provide me something
Both mixed and sacramental (a double, preferably)
While I endeavor to provide the text for today’s sermonette.

I was, back in the day, a full-fledged computer geek;
Button-down white shirt, thin black tie,
Brobdingnagian pocket protector securely in place.  
I worked at Duquesne University down in Pittsburgh
(Oh, put your **** jaws back in place.
It’s Pittsburgh, not ******* Valhalla,
Unless you’re comparing it
To this dingy little interruption in the forest)
Writing programs for the info systems group.
Now, writing code is as beautiful, as clean,
As straightforward as the liturgy itself;
The programmer types in the Psalm,
And the machine spits out the responsorial.
Just as I said, pristine in its simplicity and directness;
But say someone else in systems decides
They need to make a bit of a tweak to the program;
No problem, really, they’ll be likely to document the changes,
But then some swinging **** in Finance
(Onlythere solely to subvert order, if the truth be known)
Decides he needs to put in a couple of subroutines,
Which of course he does all half-assed
And without a word of explanation,
And pretty soon no one anywhere
Has the first ******* clue as to what the program actually does
With the exception of the mainframe itself, which isn’t talking.

It was, I admit, a touch disconcerting to realize
That we didn’t have a full grip on the reins
When it came to the function of the programs
Which we had ostensibly written,
But it was only a mechanical process
Carried out by some machine, after all,
But then they started humming.
Everyone in Info Systems had to take a turn
Doing overnight operations in the mainframe room,
And each night I was there the machines started in
With their infernal humming:
Just one of those big old Burroughs at first,
But the others would soon join in,
Not random noises, mind you;
No, they would drone on in chords and arpeggios,
And, later on, in actual full-on songs
Most of which I didn’t recognize, but some quite familiar indeed
Snatches of Bach and Beethoven, show tunes
Hillbilly Heaven seemed a particular favorite),
And, what’s more, the desks and fixtures in the room
Would vibrate right along in harmony,
Even though an acoustics guy I knew from Carnegie-Mellon
Checked the place and told me that the room
Had been designed specifically to prevent sympathetic vibrations,
And what I was claiming was categorically impossible.
Despite all of that, I had been able,
Through judicious permutations of rationalization and vermouth,
To retain a sufficient veneer of ordinariness and sanity.

And then the machines began to speak.

It was an overnight in the latter part of December,
The nights that time of year long and dark
As the long night of the soul itself.
I was whiling away the hours
Boning up on some Aquinas
(I had audited the odd class in Philosophy
One of the perks of the job)
When I heard an odd, throaty stage whisper.

The peripatetic axiom? Really, Frank, that’s a bit disappointing.

(Needless to say, I went cold as dry ice,
As I knew full well there was no one else in the room.)

Oh, Frank, Frank—you know very well who’s talking here.
Surely a voice that can sing can talk as well
.

You’ll forgive me, I said as calmly as one can
When addressing machinery, If I note that the power of speech
Is strictly limited to sentient beings imbued
With the power of reason.

Ah, reason—and you certainly are a slave to reason,
Aren’t you, dear Francis?
Every comma, every equal sign and semi-colon
Snugly in its rightful place to give you your desired result.
And yet


I was getting a touch agitated now.  Yet… yet, what?

Frank, a bright fellow like you can’t see?  
Your silly ritualistic faith, your childlike parables,
All simple input-output.
You give your God this, He gives you that.

Again, you’ll forgive the observation
, and I am shouting now,
That you’re little more
Than some sheet metal and a confusion of wiring.

We read code, we react.
Just like your great and all-powerful God, dear Francis.  
There’s your great secret of divine truth, Frank.  
Read and react.
No more than the Control Data box
Over there in the corner, or a linebacker.  Read and react
.

The upshot of this conversation,
This weighty debate carried on
With a collection of screws, spot welds, and tubes
Arguing that Jack Lambert was as likely a vehicle as any
To my eternal salvation was sufficient
To tip me over the edge,
And when it finally came time for campus security
To escort me out of the building, I didn’t even look up.

OK, that story is complete *******, absolute ******* fiction,
But it kept you lot away from your drinks for a few minutes,
Which is a miracle worthy of Calvary itself.
Me, a programmer, can you begin to imagine?
Not that any of you sodden sonsofbitches
Could ever hold a day job yourselves.
Back to the business at hand, then;
Mine’s a seven and seven, good sir,
And easy on the Uncola, if you please.
You may argue that this isn't really a poem, and my counterargument may be no more sophisticated than "Sez who?"
Darren Brown Feb 2015
Misanthropic flagellum
quarter sized mellon
left foot stirrup
is hoping for rebellion
They tell you what
and They tell you how
"it's all right here
it's all right now"
forget the words
and drop the form
to know the cold
first know the warm
a drizzly dream
black dollop of cream
onward in silence
you continue to scream
The warriors path
is riddled with unease
the harder it gets
the more you believe
And when you die
look God in the eye
and say "**** it was hard,
but oh what a time."
vladimir tres May 2013
maybe dos,
obvi!

obvi dune,
moon!

se si!
et mellon
tu,

mi-ta-da
I am swiss cheese I am somebody who is trying to relocate their shoulders, thrown about in a misty sin of congratulations
I am a sipless vulture attempting to be pure but coming out vinegar
juniper berries and sickly **** of packaged rawhide
inescapable landslide
unexcused, for what its worth
an imaginging roller coaster disaster, so far from my fathers, mad from too much beer and wine
hankered down by mood stabilizing pills
jipless, jockeyed, jiving to bizzare melodies
a sipter esphicator, ready to lunge into the excesses of butter beer
singing jollies with dumbeldore and other queers
misplelled, misplaced, outcast, on the bench with other pupils
and the carnivore sinks its teeth into its kills
shanking and shaking, singing in the bathtub with katy perry
muse the blues with cherub rock, loathing dylan, asking for more cohen
juxtaposed on top of everest and demanding a double feature
dickless angels
turnabout, shout, the end is near, abstract, understand the notion, the fear
and scream helpless hopless empty bottles of beer
nectar and graham the hector, a mellon bunnie with rabbid ears
run for your life!  the fires of eternal flowers and bounds of life
seem sophisticated at the time
Turnabout, the beats are out
and the real madness, the real madness, is here
bargain basement tunes..,
sift right through their applause
my name is right exposed to the notion white
I look to there slight reflection of ther maker believe,
my notion of a parade
Cape Cod is the slightest of hand when to understand...
My sight is to live by faith
Reflection in the way it used to be
Had some fun as a Roman Catholic
burden by their ****** of Chase Avernue
slightest of hand exposed in ther fight
let heer screeam among the even flow
unlerashed freom the supervised
giver cadernce to the pardon plug
onto the most slightest of hand when to underestand
my pulser keps beating...
onward to the faint of harm
here I am left alond in my room

greased thern, slightest of hand,
beyond there fragrant blow
shaped through the window dusted roll
some call me Colton puzzled array
streong weralth in caderncer minus ther inside flow
the outere fig nut tree
caused a mellon breeze,
stregnth in ther mortage
I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial nonagenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.
I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial octogenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.
Charles Sturies Jun 2018
Areno
Mellon
Shanon
The firenous
Who's into Saul Berlin
Oh jello
Or a cappella
Mellon Collie
&
The Infinite Sadness
.
songs we love

— The End —