"munched" poems
A pheasant found a sunflower,
And perched on the arch,
And munched,
A little every day at an early hour.
What a way to go -
Obscene remains ragged on the tall stalk,
Startling the tactful dying all around,
The soothing autumn sinking-away-in-a-glow -
A murdered man on show!
5.2k
A little waiting
Some vigorous pushing
A quick look around
On a shaky ground
Grabbed the nearby seat
Some rest to the feet
In minutes squeezed inside
By a woman on the same ride
Awkward journey
The CON for cheap money.
Ticket punched
Some snacks quietly munched
Feel tall from the rest
I am in a red BEST
The driver is in a hurry
I smell some fish curry
Over a bridge
Some dogs cringe
Music for my ears
No more travelling fears
Nothing gone wrong
Now I feel strong
My stop is next
Replying to a text
Trip a little but its okay
I think it’s a good day
The red bus brakes
My balance shakes
I fly right on the drivers grill
With my face drilled
All eyes on me
I can barely see
I shiver as I walk the stairs
No one even cares
People just want to get to their destination
And I stand numb at the bus station.
-Zainab Attari
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
“Mr Pyre, come on through.”
“Pop your bottom in my chair.”
“Open wide, please Mr Pyre”
Mr Pyre shaking, quaking in his ***** boots.
Couldn’t bear the dentist.
Was so very scared.
Nurse pops on his cape.
So no dribble spilled.
Mr Pyre, the frightened patient.
Wasn’t very thrilled.
Dentist stuck his mirror in poor Mr Pyre’s mouth.
Sees nothing.
Shocked as no reflection seen.
Very discreet.
All knowing grin.
Working with vampires never ideal.
As Mr Pyre’s teeth they grew.
Leaped out of the chair.
Thought he’d have an early lunch.
Dentist was no more.
For lunch, Mr Pyre munched his dental man.
Ate the nurse, receptionist too.
Extracted his cape of plastic.
Restored his own.
Being a vampire, such a curse!
Then from the surgery he flew.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,
read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,
what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.
Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?
Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.
And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.
On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.
Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.
Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
Bamboo shoots, cooked in oil,
we munched were delicious. The tender love,
we shared, in our sojourn, in the lodge
deep inside the forest, had complemented it.
She was a playful tigress, transformed
by the atmosphere, with a manifested ****** interest,
different from her usual demure self.
One thing led to another, we fed each other,
heady vintage wine, from our mouths,
till we found out, in such circumstances,
love would make us do things,
we never imagined we could.
The sketch she made depicting us,
as two wild elephants, in musth*
rummaging the bamboo grove,
eating shoots to our fill,
reminded *Shiva and Parvathi, his consort,
taking the form of elephants
indulging in every possible play amorous,
culminating in the birth of Ganesha,
the cute God, elephant faced,
the remover of obstacles.
Love drunk the song we both sung,
was one of innocence.
The booming wind in bamboo leaves,
suddenly changed tune, sounding like ankle bells.
Dense, dark, green womb of forest
and the flow of wind above, like a blood stream,
kindled the prenatal memories, from deep down,
and as the background score,
cacophony of unknown birds of many feathers.
We swam in the lukewarm water,
of a day so different, with joyous abandon.
A voice mysterious, spoke in my blood stream:
"Be like birds, wind on bamboo grove, elephants seeking what they want,
the love you share would bring, fantastic results,
the world, would look far more simple,
life and death cease to be riddles, just natural,
shadows vanish, no fear remains in deep caves,
everything gently flows, like a clear river to the ocean"
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Profound profanity, he says, is the key to germination.
But why, I say, would one ever want to procreate?
For the experience, he says, which is about the journey and not the destination.
I can understand this,
it's like riding a bike
a stationary bike
that goes nowhere but see, you're going! Going and going.
I do see
and so does he
so what do we do?
Not a whole lot, just sit and talk of trains and temperature and how pirates walk.
He likes to do litmus tests of our saliva and hang them in the windows for all to see
that we are not acidic, but on acid, and sometimes a bit base in nature,
like the trees and the crysanthimums and corinthian columns in Greece.
We traveled to Greece, once, on our stationary bike
it was beautiful and real and there was much salt in the air-
they grow olives and fish in the trees
and their water is just teeming with rust.
We put our rust on buttered toast like cinnamon and munched at the oxidized metal,
crunching like captains and cheesin like goats
just a random bunch of fools with our silver and tenticals and suction cups of steel.
We are like robots, fighting crime and boredom with music and shrugs
because frankly my dear we don't give a ram or an aries or any other kind of anything.
We simply do not
because we will not, and refuse, above all else, to sleep without a star in the sky.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
All others talked as if
talk were a dance.
Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet
would break the gliding ring.
Early I learned to
hunch myself
close by the door:
then when the talk began
I’d wipe my
mouth and wend
unnoticed back to the barn
to be with the warm beasts,
dumb among body sounds
of the simple ones.
I’d see by a twist
of lit rush the motes
of gold moving
from shadow to shadow
slow in the wake
of deep untroubled sighs.
The cows
munched or stirred or were still. I
was at home and lonely,
both in good measure. Until
the sudden angel affrighted me—light effacing
my feeble beam,
a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying:
but the cows as before
were calm, and nothing was burning,
nothing but I, as that hand of fire
touched my lips and scorched my tongue
and pulled my voice
into the ring of the dance.
1.8k
(Authors note: I realize this is more short story than poem. I hope you find it poetic as well. Apologies in advance if this is not an appropriate forum.)
Have You Seen This Girl ?
I sat sleepy eyed one morning enduring yet another cardboard and treebark bran flavored bowl of breakfast with milk, 2 percent of course, and I stared at the carton.
First I reviewed the measures of various fat content, and nutritional values listed as a matter of law. And as usual, I thought of you. This time by way of pondering the plight of the American Dairy Farmer and remembering it was the “corporatizing” of the independent dairy farms which led your family to other uses for the land they had raised dairy cows on for over a century. And I missed you terribly.
To quickly shake the associated feelings of loneliness, and your face from my mind, I was drawn to the deep dark eyes of the child who was missing and apparently exploited on the other side of the carton. She had innocent, kind eyes that indicated she wouldn't even harm an insect. Curious eyes that would watch an insect for hours as it munched on grasses and leaves she fed it.
She would be two years grown and two years older since last seen in blue jeans and a t-shirt in Amarillo, Texas, in the company of her biological father who was possibly armed, dangerous, and driving a pickup truck towards Mexico. Or Canada.
And it struck me. You needed to be on the side of a milk carton. 2 percent of course. At some point in our life together, you had been kidnapped. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to replace you, to carefully drop you right back into my life. It was a great attempt but finally my belief that the real you would never do the things you did to me were validated. You had the misfortune of actually having an “evil twin” and corporatized or not, it seemed only the Dairy Council could help, since there is no Center For Missing and Exploited Adults.
Big red letters screaming “Have You Seen This Girl ? ” were what we needed now. God knows I had recent photos, and could describe all of your features-distinguishing or not.
I think tomorrow, I'll have French Toast.
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on my work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 9:13 PM UTC
The smoke circled halo,
Bent smiles and summoned demons,
Brimstone come a reverent silent
And obeyed sort of way.
I let my left eye avoid.
I’d let my right dream,
As I munched skewered calf,
Innocent, slaughtered, salivated
And my only excuse – Survival.
Toe-to-toe with
Home-field advantage
I nodded from shadows
To the one who scented venom;
Lace tucked slightly thigh,
She’d wink and hours later,
The demon would meet the Devil
And she’d devour –
All I’d known,
All I’d ever know
And all we’d ever be.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Once upon a thyme
In an herbed house
Their lived a witch
Whose ripe rampion
Was so overpowering
That the neighbors
Left bottles of febreeze
On her doorstep.
The witch didn’t care
- But
In the flat-ironed town
Of Lunch time lipo
Where you were defined
By your eating disorder
She looked like
An Omish escapee
*With hips that wriggled
And ******* that jiggled*
So her cell phone number
Wasn’t in anyone’s top five
-Except
For one confused neighbor
Who never made it to college
And got to experiment
Like a true Gemini.
Now imagine the witch’s surprise
When this neighbor confides
That she would love to eat
Her ripe rampion.
- Naturally
The witch agreed.
It was nice to have something
That somebody else wanted
Though it was exhausting
For the neighbor
Who munched day and night.
And if one surprise
Wasn’t enough
The witch discovered that her
Neighbor was pregnant.
Now the witch had many powers
But that wasn’t one of them.
It appeared that her neighbor
Found her husbands
Carrot patch to
Quite esculent also.
And the witch
Being a picky Virgo
With a jealous Scorpion moon
Thought that her neighbor
Should not
Have spun around the vegetable
Color wheel quite so fast
And so in a fit of temper
She stole her baby
And locked her away
In an ivory tower.
Initially everything worked out
Until the oil crisis
And then the witch couldn’t
Visit Rapunzel quite as often
As she would have liked
Not with gasoline
Being so expensive
And so Rapunzel became bored
And started chatting to
Prince charming
On her face-book wall.
The witch took all the hopeful Trojans
That the prince had left
On previous visits
And tied them together
To form a rubbery step ladder
And when she heard him shout
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel…let down your hair!"
She threw this at him…angling it
With just a little thread of hate.
Prince charming grew all shivery
And put on his worst
Austin powers "Oh behave" accent
*Thinking of the delights
That awaited him*
However, his shivery-ness
Soon became a full body tremor
When the witch met him
On the top rung
And he knew quick enough
This wasn’t a
Ménage à trois.
The prince spent many months
In traction
Recuperating from his fall.
Rapunzel was sent off
To boarding school.
And as for the witch…
She dropped twenty pounds
And got her own reality show
Housewives of Salem county.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
I am a player of words.
I will be the the one to grab you by the neck first
but I might show sympathy on you
kick you in the shins and call you a fool.
My pen can do wonders
crush kingdoms, **** children, point out your blunders.
It takes a movement of my hand to change it all
fulfill your dreams, defy science's laws
I can make your lover infertile
make you an illegitimate child
send you to the most brutal fight
or present you with the Nobel prize.
I can make you a part of a dirt poor family
I can make you live your life without a tragedy.
I can make you an old hunchback
who has seen failure
I can make you the knight
in his shiny armour
I can push you off the cliff from which you hanged
or give you a nice pair of fangs.
Oh yes, I am nefarious.
write words which are a mystery or hilarious.
I would rule this place if I had asked for it first,
I am a player of words.
I have painted your world in different colours
cheered for you when you got the medal of valour
I killed your favourite character? Go figure!
I can make you turn into someone else at full moon
I can torture the ones who were your muse
I can build a world of my own
Not taken down by any force
The fire in my veins cannot be extinguished
I will present you with people between whom you cannot distinguish
I can bathe in the tears of my readers
Don't underestimate words
through your spine they can send shivers.
They see me as danger
to trouble, I am no stranger
there is no extent to my freedom
I am half angel, half demon
I have had my mind drift away to places
I have made friends with the one with scarred faces
danced on waves, sang in deserts
all of this can't be done in reverse
I have killed you using shells
I often write to vent.
I often **** the things which you clenched.
I hold onto your soul and the boredom you munched
isn't all of this fun?
I could be queen if i asked for it first
the world calls me an introvert
and
The player of words
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Sitting in the after-sun of a chair freshly rained on
Just starting to dry
Wet jeans, who cares, it's nice out
I'm going to read about Odysseus
And all his series of unfortunate events.
I was at the part in the underworld where
all the souls are drinking the blood offering and
giving their past-life histories
When I heard a crinkling,
And peering under the table, saw
a red squirrel (the kind only those who hate non-native species can truly dislike with a passion)
shuffling a cumbersome
brown candy, a milky way
in his handsome claws,
Whiskers twitching as he munched,
Like bouncing eyebrows,
Stuck with
Strands of chewy caramel.
He clutched at his high-calorie treasure,
spitting out gold and silver foil,
black, beady eyes, glistening greedily
as if to say "My precious"
Till he snatches up the last crumble
of chocolate.
I've sat watching-still so long
He approaches my foot
At which I call him a fat little squirrel
And he runs off, indignant
Leaving behind,
His
Desecrated Christmas package.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Orange squeezed, tea brewed, bacon fried
Self showered, beard shaved, robe wrapped
Wife kissed, tea brought, eyes rubbed
Juice sipped, toast munched, day discussed
Sugar stirred, tea drunk, watch checked
Kids rattled, cornflakes spooned, plates emptied
Mum fussed, kids grumped, teeth cleaned
Noses wiped, shoes on-ed, lunch packed
Stragglers awayed, byes waved, friends greeted
Office called, PC packed, car started
Wife snuggled, door closed, journey begun.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
antwone the gang leader always
be like: imma make a call; two
minutes and they here
regardless what the issue about:
antwone always about dat
(and they always come for sure)
me? i ain't made for that
me just tizzop
ain't belong to antwone's
brotherhood
even if i wanted to:
they wouldn't let me
dem dudes roll heavy
while i note down outsider dreams with white ink on
black pages
you feel me?
antwone's dudes addicted to
drive-by-shootings
i'm deep inside; yet no part of that;
my handz not made for glockz
my hands are made for pens;
i'm from the ghetto; who cares?
my hands are made for pens
and if i'm broke i will
write with sparkling fingers
that is for certain therefore my death will be silver
my eyes be shiny like gold then
god is always by my side
you feel me god? good cause i feel you god (HEART)
last breath: tizzop's dead body will be floating on air
because a good man does the right thing (i want to be good)
dead brotherhoodlums be munched by icy blacktop
you feel me?
eternally doomed down there without air
i won't be there
i am from the ghetto
who cares?
my hands are made for pens
* WRITE TO SURVIVE *
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 1:32 PM UTC
Drink a toast to the dreams that got lost.
Sat in a world of the single minded.
The location of shattered dreams lost.
No longer whispering.
Ghosts of long gone dreams.
They wail.
They scream as banshees of doom.
Predicting solitary misery.
Not destitute,
Quite happy really,
Hell maybe, I am,
I am not.
The music plays and I drown in it.
Swallowing it, hook line and sinker.
This funny woman,
A deep thinker.
An amusing muser.
Somewhat bemused.
She lives on the planet of miserable cow.
The couple next door.
Sharing a lunch,
One between two.
In oblivious dreams of true romance.
New romantics perhaps.
As lucky sods and demi-gods,
They sat and munched their lunch.
Me,
The she,
Listens to the music, listless.
In a place where no-one can dance.
Tapping my foot in time.
Yes, my friend.
I said in time
And the music strokes the air.
The music gets stuck in my auburn hair.
Soul to soul,
She is bare,
Unwrapped.
My coffee went cold.
Should I maybe be so bold.
To stay and listen to more.
And the music became more.
So much more.
My inspiration on this glorious day.
Passion in full view.
C'est la vie.
(And Alaric ,my friend).
May the devil enjoy my play on words,
Such injustice be kindly greeted.
Would prefer to tickle angels, with my words instead.
Sooner meet the Lord of Love,
When I end up dead!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Kanye West made me think polos were cool. I thought playing rap music while wearing polos would make me into a rapper. And then I turned into a tennis player. Tennis got me out of the hood. Let it be known. I could have went to court, and instead I chose the Tennis Court.
Tennis is fun. Before it was ratchet. Now it is tennis racket. Rapping was fun. Bernie Sanders liked rap. He liked Killer Mike, and he was a phenomenal rapper. Hilary listened to me. So I don’t know what that means. I should have been a rapper, but when I saw a videotape of Arthur Ashe playing tennis for Wimbledon, I felt a yearning grow inside of my gut, and it grew until I raised my hand to my mouth to smother the scream of nostalgia that I was feeling.
I wanted people to like me so I started rapping at cafeterias and bleacher stands. People drank cola and munched on popcorn as I talked about growing up in the hood of Burke. Real **** went down in the Burke. Like **** you wouldn’t believe. And that’s real.
I hung out on a rooftop overlooking the city drowned in sunshine that was sad as the girl who left me. Kanye West saved me from becoming a piece of **** And even if he’s an ******* now, everyone knows he was the greatest with 808’s and Heartbreak. Robocop used to play from the car speakers, as we rolled spliffs in the front seat, the wind pouring into the windows.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
Bad luck--eggs are now an allergen,
I shall never eat them again,
No soft boiled eggs,
Munched to the dregs,
No fluffy omelettes for me,
My lips turn blue, you see,
So, I placed all eggs on a centrifuge,
This is my cunning subterfuge,
I rotated them in this way,
Eggs flew off to space one day,
Launched as astronauts,
Chooks can't fly, I thought,
Bad luck-eggs are now an allergen,
I shall never eat them again!
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
A worn out segment sliced from the cake of life
Raging candles burned down to nothing, wax
Parting company, blazing wick no longer cares
Hot and fiery, flames deny their existence
Forgetting the meaning of life as they fade away
Burning episode....they’d waited all their lives
For, dissolved, quick and painful, heat searing
Cake sliced open to spill its contents, only
To be munched and mulched into oesophablivion
Short and sweet, guaranteed to be swallowed
With no regard for the time and toil of preparation
Of melting moments, whisking wildly, meeting
New partners, shaking hands magnificently to
Encourage the flavours to follow through...as if
They should know who they are, what they’re for
Is life a cake or a gateau coated in whipped double
Cream? Next to my lips the cream melts splendidly
A cake connoisseur I’m not, neither do I eat the same
Slice, mundanity slipping away with each mouthful, no
Point in rubbing salt into the wounds, cram in the
Fullness that is living, bloated out with your cake
.......and eat it!
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
Sheba was sleeping quietly on her special little chair
And Oscar was snoring loudly like a hibernating bear.
I munched on Danish butter cookies and sipped some wine
While I typed this silly poem, trying to make it all rhyme.
I thought of Christmas memories made special every year
Full of love, lots of laughter...with people I hold dear.
I miss my parents and grandparents oh, so very much
But I feel them surround me with their sweet angelic touch.
Especially my mom, who made Christmastime so bright
Knowing she's with me always, I feel the warmth of her light.
Something I pondered as I played with words to rhyme:
"Cheap Danish butter cookies are tasty for $2.99..."
Back to the task at hand, before I drift off to sleep (I hope)
Heed the words I'm typing, although they're not from the Pope:
Be present in the moment with the ones you truly love
Forgive those who hurt you (though you'd like to give 'em a shove)
Give yourself a break for the mistakes you may have made
(You know, that cliche about turning lemons into lemonade.)
In the still of this moment, take in all of your blessings
Drink plenty of eggnog, eat turkey and lots of dressing
Make the most of this one day to be light and not cuss
Life goes way too fast...slow down and enjoy Christmas!
The End.
(I'm also out of cookies.)
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
Thirsty beyond words
his eyes drank
from the blue depths
of her eyes,
hungry lips munched her smile
again and again.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
Spreadable
Dipable
Nomable
(but not sippable)
Munched in the morning
Munched with crackers
Munched while flunching intelligent professor
You are definitely most delicious
when you come from a goat
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
My dear your clothes out grow you
Heavy they are upon your back
The life of you they lack
Colorless
Black and grey
My love your face betrays you
Your legs sway
Leading you down a helpless road
Gravel can't feel any rougher
Your ribs can't get any tougher
Yet they have concealed your backbone
My darling your lies
Reveal you
Your stares make me weak
We had lunch and tea
You spoke but never munched
Your words fed me the sweetest honey treats
My dear your clothes out grow you
Tell me may I walk in your shoes?
You step on my feet as we dance
You tip-toed around soft subjects
Rejecting me a chance
My pet your knee's bend away from me
They uphold the legs too petrified to walk away
You hold me close as we sway
With clothes to big for the body I feel so near
Oh my dear my dear
Eat a bit just to stay
A word mentioned
I'd never say
But I've noticed the things others may
Heavy they are upon your back
The life of you they lack
The soul our good God has taken back....
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
From that moment the mouthy man in the middle,
top hat in hand, barks and waves our three floodlit rings
into motion with a flourish of brassy blasts,
the big top gets turvy and my stomach's all nerves
making the bushel of peanuts I just munched feel
like broken glass chewed by my friend the tattooed geek.
Martha says, Elephants are supposed to be more
dignified... don't mope! It is hard to grasp for her
tail day after daisy-chained day when I'm holding
this bouquet of forget-me-nots rubber-banded
by a grudge. I tell her, The real indignity's
being dressed in a rhinestone-studded satin cape.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 3:30 PM UTC
I’ve seen that pretty face,
I blushed and I’ve seen that pretty face,
I crushed and I’ve seen that pretty face,
I just can’t get over it.
I’ve seen that pretty face,
I hope she isn’t ugly in the inside.
Seen that pretty face
It keeps me away from suicide,
Seen that pretty face though that face hasn’t seen me.
That pretty face
makes me think twice before I munched the third donut.
And I don’t nut
Because I’ve seen that pretty face and I don’t want to be fat.
I’m far from her but i still see her
pretty face
In my mind,
All the time,
That pretty face and I can’t take this phase,
I’ve seen that pretty face
I just want to be with her
And eat cup cakes,
Eat fancy dinners,
With that pretty face,
Who has scars on her cheeks.
That pretty face,
Got burnt marks on the lips.
That pretty face,
I want to kiss her twice and thrice
And all the days that are gonna be nice
And I
Hope In time
that pretty face
Sees my unpretty face
And sees that I have a child’s smile.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC