Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Woke up in the old town in an old house off the market square,
I had dreamt so many times of being there and who can say this was not  another dream?

but the coffee tasted real and the sofa felt so comfy that I thought, even if this is a dream this dream will suit me.

Tick Tock
and the clock chimed five.

Santa's going to have a problem coming down the chimney unless he's lost a lot of weight,
it'll be like the Krypton factor or the Crystal maze,
Christmas day's such fun
for mostly almost everyone.

Is it time yet?
is he here?
can I drink that cup
of Christmas?
no
not the beer dear
the other one
that lemonade looks
even better.

Oh wait,
that didn't rhyme
but
now is not the time
for a post mortem
on a poetry post.

and now I'm just rambling
so I must be awake and this
can't be a dream.
Wishing the hellopoetry community a very merry Christmas, peace and blessings. j
Scott T Nov 2013
Outside I have no influence
People are born where they shouldn't be
Objects of consumption end up in gutters
Chemicals that will slowly erode me
Are put in the drinking water
A handshake seals the fate of some low lying town
Which is to be flooded for hydroelectricity
The chaos creates a fjord with a great variety of fish
Until catfish take over and an algae that wasn't meant to leave a laboratory in Italy takes over and makes the water toxic
People wrestle with notions that no one else will understand and that none of the many world dialects can express
Dogs **** where they shouldn't
And it is only a dim reprieve in a cavernous darkness that I know the order of my shampoo bottles
Or that a weeks worth of muesli lies in one of my cupboards
Or that my scarf hangs on that chair by the door
And yet the landlord
Is a vulture
That is trying to take
This last scrap of rotting meat
Away from me
Marigold Apr 2012
He loved her more than he ever had.
More than morning coffee, or the Sun at midday, or the first inhale of a new pack of cigarettes.
She couldn't help but hate him.
Couldn't stop from spiking her words with poison,
Laying him down on a bed laced with daggers,
Hiding snakes in his closet, and scorpions in his shoes.

They were the perfect couple,
And oh how he loved her!
And the pancakes she made him,
Of shards of glass,
Her own blood spilled into the batter
And her new perfume of Carbon Monoxide,
She pulled him in close,
"Breathe deeply dear, deeply"
And the way he was never quite sure
his car brakes would still be functional in the morning.

She made "Wanted" posters with his face,
"Dead" they read, neglecting "or alive."
He picked out the tiny blue pills from his muesli,
The circular ones from his sandwich,
Larger ovals squished between a slice of cheese and it's *******,
and he smiled at the notion
that she'd been thinking of him
when she put them there.

She'd set fire to the bed in which he slept,
And leave the gas oven turned on, door wide open.
Put him on a diet,
How long can one last without food?
Without water?
Without air?

Infatuated with each other,
And vain attempts at love and death.
They were perfect.
And she knew,
in all her sadness,
that with the ending of his life,
Hers was sure to follow.
Anastasia Webb Nov 2014
Writing
about writing
is pathetic,
so instead
I’ll write about that time
in March when we went
hiking along ridgetops and
firetrails, and the sun
baked the rocks hard and impassive
to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks
folded back upon
themselves and seemed
so illogical that we thought
somehow we were going
in circles
(round the Sun we missed
that one it felt like we
weren’t moving)

For lunch you had squished
peanut butter and
sardine sandwiches because
you’re odd and idiosyncratic
like that, and I had apples
and muesli bars because I’m
too lazy to make lunch
at 6 in the morning.
We ate on a huge rock
overlooking trees and Lucy
in the Sky with Diamonds
was
playing on the radio.
It felt as if we were two
enclosed in a small
self-erected hazecloud
where birds and lizards
and just breeze mingles
surprisingly well with John Lennon’s
recollections.

I remember the sun-scored rocks
had stored up warmth
from years of Marchdays like
today, they stayed warm slightly
longer than the air did.
We tasted each other’s
post-lunch mouths (you were
sardine and kind of gross)
and pretended like
our hands were ants,
scuttling aimlessly
(we had an aim)

I liked to think my fingers
were all elegant and smooth
as the moon.
I love you and I want
to make you happy here,
I love you and I want you
to make me happy here,
i should sleep – you should sleep –
we should sleep together.

I still remember that Marchday
when we went hiking and I’ve
written about it
dozens of times before in different
modes with other characters
but
to be honest I
don’t want to write about
anything else.
Tom McCone Jul 2015
swam placid through last night, or today, or is it all the same and continual? anyway, i found myself curled up in a lounge, alone, by a great fire. small, hidden beast i, frozen-still stars floating through, wondrous lopsided flesh against the ground; cradling tiny empty warmth, just where i wanted you. & smile. thunder through birdcries through dawn. wanderlust aching me out to the waves, threshing and soft, held at the hand of heavyset horizon. & think about miles. & fake smile. sometimes, our own oceans get rough. i'm so proud of you, though, keeping afloat. got home and muesli and songs and coffee and trees and ah. breathe. set utterances on the seabreeze. sent north n' west.
knots weave fine cycles in my head, like time around treestems. drifts of ocean mist, over inlet ridgeline, roar silent swells over the day. slow procession. slept enough for the both of us, trying to find you, immersed in soft clouds; dulled and fantastical. everything brims on the edge of everything else. a couple sparks away, in a small town somewhere, raining half the time, caught up, tangled in songs & sunsets. smiling gently into the light. i'll call it dawn, sooner or later, but still imagine your radiance, in stead.
bleary eyes and tiresome channels of blood but, small circling sparrow on the horizon, light through leaves, rivulets of smile bleeding up my cheek.
time's strange hands curl round and tie cycles; here, i was but a small chip in the woodwork. some little sharp snag life'd carved out, to grasp nothin' but air. but, somehow, the same air takes on resonance within the hum of my chest, tubelamps ever aflicker, and im sat staring, dead on, into the firm couch-material, trying to calculate the speed of sound from you to i. 'cause i swear i heard the impression of soft lips inch up next to my frozen ears, and in breath let wash warm reprieve, up and over me, and yes i am sad and terrified you too will fall into aches (which is explanatory for my perhaps often with-held-ness) and fold, just as terrified, away. never disallow one self's happiness, though. regardless if the meaning to it seems absent. just learn how yr smile works. and i hope i'm a crease, like sometimes you are the light pouring from my eyes. folding away. sometimes, you are, too, a smile brewing in the corners of my lids.
dreams form light clusters around my weary head. felt really strange today. inexplicable sadness, in the most beautiful things. saw you in people. little parts of you, everywhere, in voices and eyes. enough to fill me to the brim of connectedness. all these effervescent bubbles, so close to shimmering enough to be you, but never, ever you. much as i wish so. would if i had changed time, today or ten years. fabricate this daydream, i now weave slow on settling fingertips. the shock and sting of knowledge. your eyes. sweet smile. and the acres we've still got to pad through, stifling breath floes, changing stories at the tip of the stem. soft touch as dawn breaks. ghost, i know.
Johnny Zhivago Jun 2013
@ a cristian @ a catholic @ an all round ruddy good athlete. @ herd roast beef @ herd mutton. @ i used to lead the pork and dairy through the fields of cotton. @ wear football socks and wellingtons and fleeces and march to the top of the old south downs. @ make a jump jet from bits of old pieces @ act a goat or a hero or a clown. @ do front flips straight from the backflip @ sing who put the dog with the cat fish @ say ship! Take the P add a T @ break the day with a bowl of muesli. @ play snake if my mate had a phone, but playing with others isnt always better than playing
alone.

@ like films made for kids my age, glamourised ideas of aristocracy and faith. The good will win and the bad will be sad and the age of the raging mad will begin, its a fad! @ wear jean jackets, go to the parties @ have fanta and chocolate log rushing through the arteries. @ chew through books faster than a vulture, faster than the fastest man at the height of zombie culture. @ play football everyday football winter time football, dont need sun. And then we play cricket. 40 legs of cricket. 3 days later im counting up the runs
betterdays May 2014
first alarm
feet to floor
empty bladder
feed the cat
walking gear on
out the door
greet the day
tunes in the ears
wave to early morning peers complete the requisite k's back thru the door
hit the shower
wake the boys
fill the bowls
muesli,wheeties,rice bubbles
juice to glass
coffee to cups
lunch in sacks,
icebars too
help dress the toddler
second alarm
kiss the husband
wave him off
tv on for cartoon relief
dress the office worker check the bags
feed the cat again
set him free
make up applied
pack the napsack
time for another coffee
and a look at poetry spots
write a bit
third and final alarm
wash boy's face
shoes on
tv off and out the door
off to daycare and to work weekend over
new semester begun
of the weekday routine reruns
decide to try for a poem a day for a semester.... 94 days
they will be of every day stuff.
Anne Molony Jul 2017
white walls peppered with stickers
       photographs
               concert tickets pinned to cork-boards
         fairly lights around a bed frame
   notes on mirrors
     "sort out folders"

there is a desk
coffee-stained in rings
camera sim card clusters
the "Italian phrase book and dictionary"
lies open in dusty light
a bag of muesli

half-empty perfume bottles
sunglasses
a dream catcher
makeup brushes on the floor beside a
full length mirror

***** converse in the corner
heeled brown boots
a night gown and slippers
hair ties dropped on carpet

ring binders piled on drawers
revision booklets
a guitar hanging on the wall (used often)
doodles of thin women in a leather journal

a poem book by the bed
secret notebooks under pillows
cigarette boxes hidden in pencil cases
french whiskey buried in the closet
behind a bag of barbies
what does the room tell you about the person who lives in it
Fleur Feb 2020
It’s morning! Finally morning on the even ebb of eve.
The tides! The marina’s tides are thick like wicker’s weave.

What sand has shifted? What news from Diego’s dawn?
From covers; the bark of seals sing like a bay yacht’s yawn.

Dinghy docks and pristine clamor; now I hear the bells!
No, not the toll it takes, but just the charm it spells.

I orient, I wake. I’m quick to smile; the sun follows suit.
Searching south; the daily buzz on right, and left: a bay that’s mute.

But the sound’s not snuffed, you see, motors have plenty to spare.
Because whether or not you knew or noticed, the navy never seems to care.

Compelled and called from my fruitful rest; muesli munched with jams.
These charts and graphs I take with me while I brew my grind of grams.
A cozy meditation on my morning routine. A little slice of life when the sun comes up in my neck of the woods. I feel warm and safe when I hear those seals. (Sometimes even in the middle of the night!)
betterdays May 2014
a new piece to my mothers
puzzle....
rather frank and bewildering conversations.

this one regarding ***...
one will admit....
very disconcerting over a breakfast of muesli and cheerio's

her  " your father enjoyed ***, me not as much, i often
just lay there and let him get on with it...it was over quickly enough"

me  reeling internally,
you must understand my mother, the epitome of the straitlaced woman,
sent me to the doctor,
with a group of my peers for 'the talk'.

"oh, um...did you see the whales"

her  " he never forced me tho, he was polite not just any good at it all fumbling and grunting...i don't think
i orgasmed once"

me   * dumbstruck

her*  " after he left, i only had *** once more,
it was so much better...
it was as much about me,
as him.
i orgasmed then...
it was nice.....
but he was married."

me .... who?

her " i suppose it doesn't matter now.
mr clement, bob,
he used to bring the rabbits
and vegies from the farm.

me  "oh.... him" remembering a short statured,  swarthy man
with a kind nature...
and big hands

her  "after that...
i did for myself,
much easier allround..
*** is important in a marriage....good for communicating.
you and ben,
seem to do alright .......

me  " thanks for breakky
mum must get on."

i am so very sure,
i don't want to discuss
my sexlife, as good and rich as it may be.....
with my up till now, prudish
85 year old mother...

even if she,
finally,
wants to talk to me,
about ***..

just way too....disconcerting.
new and a little freaky weird
too many images flooding my brain......
Anji Feb 2018
They say I need healing
But what could they mean?
Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?
Walking alone down this road, planting seeds
Of myself into this poetry and
Watching it grow.
Maybe one day, it will start flowering, and they will see.

Waterfalls flow. They remind me of places I could go.
Of places I’ve been. Of things I know.
Of the loves that I’ve lost. Of the things I still hope.

If he were to come to me, what would I do?
Who have I been becoming? She
Is stronger, more capable than
Any other version of me.
But she is darker, harder, than I know that I truly should be.

I loved him with the best parts of myself.
I loved him like art. Like beauty itself
As down the mountains and silent Alps it fell
We sat together, his hand I held, sharing secrets I still can’t tell,
I felt as I had never felt, as if our souls were bound in a spell
To ever love and to ever impale
The quietest recesses of my most private self
I trusted him with my life, my love, my soul itself
And so, of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised when, he failed.

I was so young. So alive. So sure of myself.
So trusting, naive.

We worked together in the garden, pulling weeds
And churned yogurt and nuts in the kitchen, making muesli
We lay beneath the bright stars at night with a bottle of wine
Giggling together, talking, kissing, we
Were immortal then, impervious to doubts or fears, insecurities or death itself.

Every cell in my body, every fiber in my being, every thought and word and deed
Was vibrating for you, was alive to follow you, wherever you would choose to lead me.
Ah, so young, so drunk on possibilities, so naive.

Nobody else has these memories I keep locked inside of me.
I thought that we would be married.
I thought you were the one for me.
I wanted to give you my future, my everything.
So I did. And I lost myself, then.

I’m so scared, now. I don’t want that to ever happen again.

Because now I can’t see you. I can’t feel you.
You are nothingness to me.
You are worse than death, because that, at least, I could grieve.
You are non-entity, you are a gaping wound of anti-matter heavy inside of me.
You are thick poison, metallic in my bloodstream, slowing my movements, slowly killing me.

You are the haunting nobody else can see.
You are the reason I wake up everyday, fighting.
And I am so tired. So angry. So broken. Untrusting.
You wrecked the feminine inside of me, she’s run, gone from me.
Leaving nothing but furious warrior energy.
And he is determined to protect her from everyone and everything.
I can’t cry anymore. I don’t have that within me. Tenderness, vulnerability?
There is no part of me now that is weak. Diamond is my core.
Hard, tortured, unmoving, compacted into impregnable density.
Beautiful, but terrifying.

They say I need healing. But that means that I would have to be a living, feeling, growing thing.

And yet… Nothing lasts forever.
So, I suppose its just a matter of time,
Until maybe one day  I will encounter a love so bright
It melts down that diamond inside of me, transmuting me
Into something warmer, more brilliant, than this current version of me.
this was a free-write. so... mom isn't here for this one, unfortunately.
I wanted Weetabix
or Cornflakes to
break my fast
and all I got
was Muesli

what good is Muesli to me?
to be honest
it looks like a bed for the
rabbit or something the rabbit
deided to drop,

Stop
giving me Muesli.
Baby it's 3:45
baby I'm barley alive
surviving on muesli
and oatmeal and such
"That's cereal drag,"
her laconic reply
Breakfast,
a bowl of muesli
usually
good for wildfowl and
old goats
apparently.

Not my business
actually,

a fry up
a large cup of tea
does it for me
every time.
A slow inexorable wait for the inevitable
and I want to run, laugh and have fun
while I can.

'time waits for no man'
but the inevitable obviously will.
cheryl love Jul 2017
Jam, honey or marmalade to spread upon your toast
Tea, drinking chocolate or coffee medium roast
I just want eggs and bacon and a little fried bread
or even muesli cereal and thick creamy yogurt instead.
Yes eggs and bacon please and a sausage by the side
I wont trouble you further,I wont take you for a ride
but can I have a little cream  in my coffee for extra taste
chop chop  now get cooking make haste.
Starlight Jul 2018
She leans back,
head rested
head bumping up
and down
like
waterfalls that
sometimes
loose their
magical
glow and
get
confused.

Her sunglasses rest
restrain her glowing face
like the
headlights that
reflect from her
eyes
hidden from sight
she feels the
creases of the
plastic in
her cheeks
curling
impressions like
footprints on
the sand
into her
jawline

like kisses
she thinks
that hang
too long
on the
cusp of her
morning breath.

She had
searched
all morning
for the make up
that fit her
botched
skin tone
her arms had
been a
canvas of
experimental
design
like that
painting
she sometimes
pretends to
stare at

she is artist
she murmurs
as she
looks at
that vase
which
seems so

flat.

She
wears the
make up
not because
she wants to
be
or
feel
beautiful,
she does not want
the sunbeams
to shine
from under
her fingernails
or her
lips
to light up
like
christmas
baubels,
she coats
it as
penance
for a past
life
for the craggled
hag that
has no voice
in her
sternum
its oldened
fingers
tap on
her
waistline
like
measuring
utensils.

She wears
the make up
to
cover up
her
morning breath

the morning
sunlight
had
cast
a
brutal gleam
upon her
showing
all her
dark spots

she wears
make up
as
penance
for the
devilish thoughts
that bounce
like
raindrops
off her
steel roof

of the whispered
mercies
of the
voiceless
hag that
hangs in
her
noosed
throat

she wears
penance
like its
a beautiful
blush

like drifted
snow has
coated her
skin and
she is
now
destroyed

she covers
up the
crinkled
muesli
bar
hag that
sings
old
folk tales
in her
lips

the rogue
red
that
tastes like

his blood.
We brush it under the carpet
but we cannot forget it.

My memory is a sieve,
give it an inch
and it'll take a while
wondering who you are.

No mean feat in this heat

Fate must play a hand and
usually it's the underhand
I muse on this over muesli
which the lady insists upon.

I remembered once
I think,
but it doesn't matter
because
I was never gone
just somewhere else
when the sun shone.

now I am synchronized
my
wounds have been cauterised
and I am
putting down the railroad ties
and getting back on track.
Was it good for you
or
has the British Summer
done for you?

Taken at face value
becomes meaningless
when masks hide your face.

Maybe the Sun's become Klingon
and is cloaked,
when I mentioned this
She almost choked on her Muesli
and said,
that's just confusing me
I boldly went on.

Maybe this is the dark age,
imagine,
no internet
no refresh page
no open mic' on a world stage,

except for the instant coffee
expressing an interest in anything
is free
'and always will be'
This robot rocks
it took me ages
to cut it from the back
of the Kelloggs cornflakes box,

it was
worth it though
because it rocks,

They don't do things like that anymore
breakfast, when you're old, is just another
chore
and it's always ****** muesli
they must be confusing me
with a rabbit.
Kafka Joint Oct 2020
A lot of years from now,
When some muesli for breakfast will be my morning ***,
I will tenderly think about your buttocks
And our beautiful know-how.
Arek Oct 2020
its not a lie but really
i sweat quite profusely
when im eating chili
but even if its muesli

and it gets much worse
when in an anxious state
i sweat then like a horse
at the starting gate

somewhere cold in Norway
early i'll retire
till then there is no escape doorway
from sweating like a liar
She bought for me
muesli
I think She's
confusing me
with a rabbit.

— The End —