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Francie Lynch Mar 2019
We have seen the magic bullet
Cure all disease.
Cows won't go extinct.
Lush, green pastures run to the waters' edges.
Twisted ankles in gopher holes are passe.
Trees are well-placed for shade beneath a relentless sky.
The lands are full, plush and crowded
With work-a-day leather. Wool is everywhere.
The barren creeks are clear of poison.
The grunts and runts of the stead
Blissfully graze, munching towards our tables.
Brown eggs thrive in computerized out buildings.
We are idle. No wars, disease or poverty.
It is either life or death by choice.
We implant, are implanted, removeable,
And sustainable as any Victorian.
In place of the Immaculate Heart,
I hang a picture of my old pet, Sophie,
Walking on a balance beam,
With a strange black V high in the sky.
And with all this, we grow fat.
870 species go extinct each year. That would wipe out everything in 10 000 years.
Waverly Nov 2011
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.

The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.

The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.

When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.

It might be a bomb.

The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.

Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.

The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.

Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.

You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.

******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.

This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.

Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.

A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.

The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.

By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Terry O'Leary Oct 2013
"Once upon a midnight", ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
Black fanged werewolves gorged, engrossedly.

In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly),
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.

Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced, so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.

Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely,
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.

As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.

If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...

;-)

Apologies to EAP
Cecelia Francis Apr 2015
Hypocrite tournament
put the hippos in a
tourniquet

Turnt a bit
too turned up

Two ton tummies
summo wrestling,
who will win?

Mounted champion
munching on
mountains:
A hypo-hippo-perbole
Pug Rollins Oct 2014
It was November, dry and crisp
The priest kept talking with his lisp
The funeral home deserved itself
As pictures of it were on the shelf

Someone kept munching on some chips
Avoiding his teeth, ******* the juice out with his lips
So not to make a noise, keep it a bore
He knew he'd get evil eyes at the dollar store

Everyone was dressed in black,
The bratty kid, the mom, and Jack
The latter man still eating the chips
All Jack could think of is where was the dip

No one was really sobbing, barely a sniffle
Old time's sake was nothing but stifled
No air conditioning, no fan turned on
Jack looked at the fan, seeming fond

T'was a bore.
No one missed her.
Brycical Jun 2013
about pictures of bears without any fur, and they look horrendously terrifying. Like ****** space gorillas you see in poorly done sci-fi movies. Do you think panda bears are still the cutest bear without any fur?

I wonder if dragons get lung cancer from all the smoking they do. I'd rather think about a hairless panda bear breathing fire--it's jaws sinking into the underbelly of a mortally wounded dragon and as it starts munching on the dragon pancreas, it accidentally sneezes causing it's lunch to incinerate to ashes.

That's probably why dragons are extinct. Hairless panda bears donned armor, riding horses; questing to eat dragon pancreas.

They also thought amor prevented lung cancer. It was the middle ages, people or animals didn't have modern technology to explain diseases, let alone where babies came from. Except for dragons, and look at how their species turned out.   ****, I'm throwing my phone in the toilet right now.
On my way back home from an evening walk
I noticed ,as I always do
People
And what they do

A little boy with a bag of chips
Brought a smile on my lips
I did smile at him
He smiled back munching on his chips

Barely a few minutes apart
My son's friend riding pillion with his dad
Waved at him and he gestured back

A woman and her son holding hands
Taking an evening walk
The son my age or older than me , ageing mother some illness she had couldn't understand that
Felt blessed that we have people who do care.
Thanked the son in my heart .

Then,
A little girl and her mother , hands held
Walked past me
A feeling , I do relate
From ,
What  I had noticed
A few moments before, which made me a bit sad .

An old friend , a neighbour from yesteryears , she has twin sons .
I remember they were toddlers then .
One of them accompanied her
A handsome young man , Sure, he did not recognise me.

A little chat with my friend
And there , I reached home .
In my hometown
BarelyABard Feb 2015
I am the kind of guy who goes to bars alone with my headphones in, munching on a cigar with half my brain on iambic pentameter and the other half on the feeling of a girls thigh under my lips.
I love the moon and I love the sun but both can be too bright and too dim at the same time. Red lights don't exist and my soul wants to be wild.
The colors of the world scream at me in silence and I smile with closed eyes, just living in the few seconds given to me by whoever is holding the knife next to the string.
This world, these people, living their lives like caricatures of trendy Hollywood films and fashion magazines leave me weary and disoriented. The laughing man next to me in ragged clothes and missing teeth calls to my curiosity more than the man in a pressed tux trying to sell me expensive cologne on expensive advertisements.
I don't understand, but I want to.
There is a pain I feel every morning and every evening.
It flows through my bones and courses through my veins like a patient army, building their palisades around my heart.
It makes my mind swirl in anger and beauty. The pain on being here. The pain of floating through the universe on a spinning fishtank.
The pain in every breath. The hell in the foundations of eden. The pain of my existence.
Olivia Kent May 2014
Went to work,
toddled of to eat my lunch,
it rang very loudly,
screaming,
mother answer me,
so I did,
the vibe of the cell,
The voice said momma,
you're there munching,
but your little dog is wailing,
why,
why, said I what's the matter?
"Mother you locked the dog in the study",
gee ****,
I think she needs a ***,
she hadn't had her dinner yet,
No sign of the spare key.
son in law climbed on the roof,
forced the window,
that's the truth,
clambered in from land outdoors,
the door was opened,
dog took to her paws,
dashed outside, running free,
my cool doggy had saved her ***,
no mess on the carpet, the floor was dry.
the good dog had a better day.
(C)Livvi
I will check that she's out when I go to work today.
Tom Spencer Mar 2018
The donkey and the ox
what a racket they must have made!
Munching on the straw
from the crib in the manger.

Such thick headed beasts!
How did our Savior survive
with all of His toes -
His swaddling free of slobber?

Imagine, if you will
their warm grassy breath forming
little clouds that were filled
with His radiance.

And pity poor Joseph
asleep, off to the side, and Mary
completely exhausted.
For, while resting, they missed

what soft brown eyes sensed -
that before shepherd or angel
or wise man arrived, a feast
had been set for the taking.


(For Sherry Smith)
Tom Spencer © 2018
Simon Obirek May 2015
A girl's love, they say,
is so easy and kind;
it should make you want to put even the ******* days on rewind.
Walking in hazes, tripping on wires in mind mazes.
Dandelion ships, Jedi mind tricks.

Your love, on the other hand,
makes me want to **** myself;
run my car into a tree
getting stung in my eyeballs by a bee, hey, look at me
I'm controversial!
No, I am just in love and your love is a house
set ablaze
filled with exits, just in case,
but I don't want out.
I want the fire to gnaw my leg in half,
to rip open my calves, to rip me apart.
Keep munching on my heart,
but spit those seeds out.
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
"Dog's Longevity Due to Tobacco Habit"**

The staple diet of Sebastian, a pitbull-miniature poodle cross-breed owned by Mrs Emmie Snaggletooth of St John's Road, Little Tittington, Berkshire, is Bruno Extra Strength Old **** pipe tobacco. He consumes two ounces of it every week and his proud owner keeps it in his very own tin.

The procedure is as follows: Mrs Snaggletooth rolls a cigarette and puts it between her lips. Sebastian then leaps up onto her lap and removes the unlit cigarette from her lips and sits with it for several moments between his own lips.

His mistress, who is a pipe smoker herself, then lights up and, as she sits contentently smoking her twelve-inch ivory carved Meerschaum, Sebastian eats his cigarette, leaving only the filter tip which he normally spits out into the fireplace. He has twenty cigarettes a day and enjoys his tobacco best after he has eaten his evening meal of Pedigree Chum (Older Dogs Recipe).

Sebastian, who is now seventeen years old, discovered his penchant for tobacco when he found an open tin of Bruno Old **** and ate the lot. "He became very agitated and barked for three hours non stop", says Mrs Snaggletooth when she fondly recalls the incident, "And we have not been able to stop him since. He's become a bit of an addict and has appeared on TV twice as a result."

Emmie Snaggletooth has smoked a pipe for over seventy years; she keeps her treasured Meerschaum on a cord around her neck. Born in Stillfockin in the County Cork eighty-eight years ago, she went on stage with her sister Catriona as part of the renowned music hall act, the Fabulous Snaggletooth Girls. Emmie picked up the pipe-smoking habit when she had to smoke a traditional clay pipe whilst playing the principal boy in **** in Boots at the old Queen's Theatre in Reading, before it was pulled down to make way for the Pay-As-You-Go Municipal Car Park and Disabled-Access-Toilets.

"All this talk of smoking being bad for your health is a load of old *******", declares Mrs Snaggletooth through her few remaining blackened teeth. And it would seem that Emmie and Sebastian are living proof of this. Emmie sadly points to the fact that her sister Catriona, who never smoked at all, died aged only 25 after being run over by a runaway bus and she emphasies Sebastian is the longest surving member of his litter. "Sebby is the only one of his family who ever liked tobacco, I'm sure of that", she says, "Although his sister, Mary-Jean, was fond of a glass of stout with her biscuits."

Readers are invited to turn to page 24 to enter this week's competition to win a year's supply of Bruno Extra Strength Old **** tobacco and a free ****** examination from Hilary Clinton (Mrs).
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2011
Orange hazards blink in gloom
Autumn mist in early light,
Traffic cones direct the flow
Attenuators keep it tight.
Through the mist construction looms
A mighty swath comes into sight
A structure massive, incomplete
Sweeps past the Birdcage portal light.

Burrowed deep within the Park
Surmounted by its stark white beams,
The tunnel curves towards the Bridge
To emerge near the Victory screens.
Symmetry in huge largess
Biblical in size and form,
Built by puny hands of flesh
Man inspired, conceived and born.

Columns in the concrete mass
Loom as sentries, side by side,
Level in majestic sweep
Through the tunnel’s corner glide.
Massive beams locked overhead
Cap the roof’s gigantic clasp,
Reinforced by gridlocked steel
Bound within the concrete’s grasp.

Mounds of blue, congealed wet clay
Layered in an old sea bed,
Hauled away from ancient crib
By Fletcher excavators red.
Roaring diesel truck and tray
Loaded overburden high,
Water blasted ***** and span
Keeping highways clean and dry.

Monstrous cranes with hanging rig
Lower weights of ponderous steel,
Gently to the tunnel base
Led by Dogman’s coaxing feel.
Urgency in every move
Hard hats drill with diamond core,
Fixing massive panel slabs
To the looming concrete’s bore.

Well below incoming tide
Pounded by the drenching rain,
Four inch pumps snake to the sump
Ensuring flood control’s maintained.
Foremen bark and keep control
Hard hats share a secret smile,
Safety first for every man
Think before you lift that pile.

Gate girls smile at passers bye
Politely chiding those who stray,
Holding up a halting hand
With trucks inbound in hazards way.
Smoko at the Bowling Club
Murmur of a hundred souls,
Grubby in their hi vis vests
Munching on the caterers rolls.

Morale amongst the working men
Is high because they feel the cause,
A project that is so worthwhile
They KNOW that it  deserves applause.
Traffic roars above it all
Passing in a steady stream,
Brake lights on the viaduct
Cop cars flash and sirens scream.

This project has a consciousness
A Heart, a mind, a soul.
And an inspirational spirit
Which guides us to the goal.
To eliminate the bottleneck
In Auckland's traffic day
And to streamline the system
Of our vehicular motorway.

Politicians snarl right now
Champing at the huge expense,
But by next year’s finish date
Congratulations will commence.
The jewel in the crown they say
Is found within our park of green,
The Victoria Park Tunnel, friend,
Is a true magnificence, to be seen.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
The hum of the fan
sings a lullaby
as the stress of the day
falls out of the muscles

An angels cloud of a pillow
my head sinks in
covers pulled up high
warm in my womb

The sheep ramble bye
one bye one
and slowly transform
into nothing

The sandmans dust
has been sprinkled
and rapid eye movement begun
falling into the land of dreams

Landing softly
in a newly mown green field
with knee deep patches
of bluebonnets and Indian paint brushes

A creek trickles nearby
its lulling sound
a salve for any remaining pain
brim swim in its cool waters

In the distance
snow capped mountains
haloed by the sun
that hides behind it

Cottontail rabbits
on the move
pay me no mind
on their journey

The purple martins
sing their song
interrupted
by the mockingbird

A whitetail doe
and her two spotted fawns
ease by, head down,
munching on grass

Calmed, and relaxed
breathing easy and rhythmic
eyes dart around
taking in the beauty of the dream
Nadia Dec 2019
Twas the last day of school
before a long winter break
Not a student was learning,
they were all munching on cake

The children had tidied,
supplies all snug in their places
With candy cane smiles
lighting up their sweet faces

The artwork was stowed
in their backpacks with care
In the hope that they'd bring
holiday cheer home to share

When outside the portable
there arose such a clatter
Ms. G sprang from the party
to see what was the matter

The class followed her out,
filling up the whole porch
And right out in front of them,
near as a bright as a torch

Rudolph, nose blazing red
through the dark Vancouver rain,
Behind him the reindeer
pulling Santa’s sleigh like a train

Santa jumped out spritely,
red hat bouncing with glee
He waved at the group and
boomed out, "Hello there Ms. G,"

“And Division 14,
all of you good girls and boys.
We’re rehearsing our run
to practice delivering toys”

The reindeer pranced all round,
putting on a fine show
Santa offered his hand and said,
“Come on Ms. G, let’s go,”

“We’ll drop you in Mexico
before we head back,”
Ms. G happily agreed, asking
“do you have time for a snack?”

The class joyfully welcomed
the jolly crew to the party
They delighted in the games
and the food, eating hearty

Too soon it was time
for the guests of honour to go
Santa sprang to his sleigh and
exclaimed, “**, **, **,”

"Now, Rudoph and Dasher!
Dancer, Prancer and *****!
Now, Comet! on, Cupid!
On, Donner on Blitzen!

“To the top of the portable
then over the school
To Mexico we go,
to Ms. G’s holiday by the pool.”

And off the sleigh flew
with Ms. G safely strapped in,
Her pink toque a-bobbing,
her face all a-grin

They heard him exclaim,
ere he drove out of sight—
"Happy Holidays to all,
and to all a good night!"
Wrote a little rhyme for little one's teacher holiday card after twas the night before xmas
PNasarudheen Mar 2012
In VANCHINADU EXPRESS
By the window I sat with stress.
Munching by the dust-bin sat a mouse.
Disturbed soul in mouse-trap-inn
Though dismayed senses beamed in shells trio-
The encircling walls that make three koshas-
Annamaya of metals and minerals
As the shell of eggs form; form the body.
Manomaya of thought-waves is magnetic field active;
As prana vibrates in its shell pranamaya kosha
Dead engine whistled abrupt;
On the rails the train swaying moved
Vanchinadu express swaying moved.
How can I express  its  pressing stress?
In dress  is my body ; in body my spirit: the soul,
Under  pressure of crowd and crowding thoughts.
Smoke clouds of the engine chocked me, shook me.
How can I express this pressing stress?
The stress of balloons soaring high up
Of surging waves and volcanoes live
How..how can…how can I express?
Am I not one, one among them?
Oh!  Calm mouse, you too not ?
How-
Express?
X Y press?-
Progress?
Regress?
Elite-
Soul's
Senses-
How I express?
Note: 1. Annamaya kosha= shell of body;manomaya kosha= shell of mind;pranamaya kosha=shell of soul/nucleus.
          2. X and y are chromosomes
          3. Vanchinadu express is  the express train servicing from Ernakulam  to Thiruvanamthapuram
When I speak,
my eyebrows tell their own story,
filling in the details.
Even when I try my hand
at tact, striving for
porcelain politeness,
my eyebrows loiter in dark corners,
gossiping.

Living with two feral beasts
on one’s face
requires discipline
just short of a chainsaw.

In private I must
chisel & furrow,
for these miniature sculptures,
these Michelangelo topiaries.

This isn’t vanity.
This is protecting a pious public
from a lecherous, libidinous wolf.

For me, leaving the house and
participating in pleasantries,
daily interactions, is enough of a
Leviathan leech loading my back
without seditionist caterpillars
millimeters from munching my eyes out.

It’s for me that I tweeze,
for one only PLUCKS chickens,
that row of hair
which runs the length of my brow.
For me, for my comfort in
social negotiations.

I also do it for you,
if only to keep you from
flinching in fear
as my eyebrows defy
my utmost efforts
at not offending you.
What the ******* looking at
I’m that loudmouth
Cotton-picking
***** ***** you heard about
I’m that slick-talking, big-walking *******
****, I am a *******,
*******
I’m a watermelon-eating, cornbread-munching, fried-chicken-smacking *****
I’m a black **** that will do anything for the white skin, for those white men, that little bitty white plan
That western thinking, that only got us sinking.....
Into generational oppression
Contemplating deep thoughts of depression
Like clockwork
Over and over again
Wait
Over and over again
Is my clock broken?
NO!
Over and over again
In this sin, we call life
Playing the game with a disadvantage
A Catastrophic injury
Not having all the tools to conquer
This constant relapse of cycles
Hating myself so much that hate you
Hating myself so much that I beat you
Hating myself so much that I **** you!
As I say,
Yes sir,
No sir
Yes *****
No *****
But hates his own kind  
A *****, who doesn’t sit by the door
But on them corners!
Right on that corner on 79th
Or maybe 78th, or 63rd maybe 65th,
Name a street, I’ll sip the 5th
As I plead the 5th, for crimes I did not commit
Feeling so bashful and so cloaked with indifference, that I cop a 5th
1st, 2nd, 3rd—5th
As I amend my thoughts
I understand!
Just another body to this cause
Again
I don’t think you understand my pain
So again
I’m that ***** not by the door but in them fields, crushed in between a jail cell and genocide
With homicide in my conscience  
Ready to blast nine shots by two Glocks in a ***** that looks at me crazy!
From being a crack baby
To selling to crack babies
From whips to chains
To whips to chains
Not knowing why I hate
But deep down inside, I am full of love
Unfortunately, I will never show love
Because I was never shown love
and in the deepest form of honesty, I don’t know how to love.
So, with not knowing the stereotypes continue
And forms a mind of its own
Hate!
This is Poem 6 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
To everything I will be.
To everything I see in you.
To your friends.
To the people who did you wrong and oh so right.
To your lovers.
To the one who got away; I love her for pushing you away.
I love her anyway.
To everything I was afraid of.
To everywhere I am lacking.
To being enough of one thing,
that it makes up for all things.
To being.
To touching your feet. To melting in your breath. To munching on my skin.
To watching you love me.
To hurting my heart. To me "getting it".
To letting the past lay in peace.
To making way for something greater. To loving unconditionally.
To my childhood. To yours.
To us. Our talents. Our songs. Our mementos. Our way.
To the mindless goings on of day to day life. We WILL treasure our love notes.
Your friends will love the you I get to grow old with.
My friends will love the me you're turning me into.
Our friends will love us.
I play this beautiful scenario in my head often: It goes:
We dance          We meet the rest of the world
*We play             *They keep us
No particular order and the ellipses between each are expansive.
Night will cover us and in our bodies we'll blanket one another.
Despite the worst. It wasn't that bad. Despite all things.
I love you. I kiss you. I fall for you. I hold you. I treasure you.
Love me and I will sing all your favorites.
Compile my love into notes, novels, songs and the ever impressive smile
that you found me in the very very first time.
Tonight you will find me again. Confident. Beautiful. Billy Joel.
I'll always have a way about me.
Just like home is just another word for you.
nivek Sep 2016
They hand out pennies to the poor at a certain door in the city
and sandwiches are a sickening staple given to the homeless.
All while the engines of commerce grind the populace into debt,
Pointing the finger at those collecting pennies and munching sandwiches.
On her knee sat a pallet of paints, a blank canvas and the trees, slowly her eyes closed into the emerald depths,

Once not long ago, the splendour of winters nature witch was in silent slumber on crisp meadows, gone are blood berries of Holly’s frozen clusters, I see hedges spiked and glossy leaves,
Awake I am moving past the trees, nowever will I wonder in glades of silver and green, I am a gentle jewel entwined within trees

High pitch calls of the little owls are peeking, the woods be alive
Little Robin Ruby Red breast is showing a deep chest, serenading me,
A badger munching and crunching yonder I see,
Tiny oak trees sprouting upward, a little gift from the squirrel’s scurrying year

High above, a Raven black ink to my eyes.
A jet feather is floating free, a gift from my beloved woods in mind
Feeling the leaves dancing among big oaks trees, maples, beech and twigs are spiraling down enchanting on me,
Whispering are the leaves that move, now dark, now light

In the morn Wildwood tear drops of sliver hung on clever leaves, fairies are laughing hither tither and yon, sun catching their smiles in glitter,
Golden rays bow to the dancers in the green glens and groves
Apple and pear trees laden with blossom perfume the air,
Sweet grass is tickling my legs, and lady bird red wing sings in the passing warm breeze, gazing upon Blue bell carpets just for me

Into nights spell

A voice wind runs through my hair, come and dance by the edge of the sea,  I will guild you on a moon beam a bride to be, cooling the passion you feel, Beech nut husks crunch at my feet, and acorns marbles are laughing at me

Wildwood possessed dew drop lips, majestic of night in the glades of silver green,
Summer’s evening fire warming the passion you feel, dressed in cotton, wire and silks purple be,  I am who you invoke and have always been, come to the edge of the Wildwood's near the sea to dance come be thee

── Gently her eyes fluttered open, lifting her brush, smiling she began her self-portrait among the trees.


© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet  T20.2014
Amethyst Fyre Apr 2016
I’m sitting in the hallway with 3 friends,
4 hungry girls waiting for practice to start.

Another friend comes along with a brown paper bag.
In it, he has 2 donuts- 1 sugar coated and 1 frosted over.
The friend quirks a smile.
“Here, fight for them.”
He throws down the bag and turns away.

I’m closest.
Quick hands, I ****** the prize.
In seconds, the pack begins to howl,
1 begs, 1 reasons and 1 prepares to fight
they all move in to take me down i’m the enemy now they’re about to pounce i shout

“Wait!”

My voice echoes down the hall.
They freeze. They blink.

“2 donuts, right? 4 girls? Split 2 with 4 and we all get ½. That's reasonable, right?”

They sit back on their heels.
Slowly, no sudden movements, I reach into the bag.
We share our ½’s with sheepish smiles.

The friend turns back around and sees us all happily munching away.
“Wait, did you split those evenly?”
He says it with such disdain.

Is it so wrong to want the world to work in a way where everyone wins?
True story- Makes me a little worried for humanity, but it also reminds me that there only needs to be one voice of reason to make things better.
Paul Celano Jun 2010
My creeping life started a new
Yet something was plainly missing
Like a penetrating cut with no sharp pain
Yet I felt a horned pain
A pain I could not control

Tiny somber soldiers surrounding my tender heart
Swords drawn to an unpleasant point
One intense robust beat
I am struck with blazing burn

I thought of no sheer cure
For this dense lifeless plague
Is munching on my concealed emotions

But then I met her
And she brought her rich golden army

I felt saved

Her tiny vivid soldiers of dazing beauty
Broke through my debilitated defense
Strengthening my forceful offense
Bringing to this once stone face
An enduring bright smile

The skies rained supple kindness
The grounds shot up to feel
Making my sheltered heart
Fight back with pure emotion

All it took was this nice pleasant girl
Combining her mind with mine
Linking two hearts to help heal each other

Together we made one truthful army
Toned by friendship and much more

I found what I was missing
©2010 Paul Celano
Lightbulb Martin Jun 2014
Redneck bikers munching sliders.
Looking mass unfettered riders.
Stars & Stripes and girls in Stetsons.
Cows in buns and boys in Westerns.
John F McCullagh Jan 2014
There’s safety in numbers
I’ve oft heard it said-
Unless there are ninety cows
stuck in a shed.
Those numerous ruminants
Munching on hay
Produce mucho methane
in the course of a day.
Ninety odd bovines
Snacking on grass
Take in the fuel
And produce moos and gas.
Those flatulent heifers
Many cow pies produced
Until a stray spark
blew a hole in the roof.
It was shocking to the farmer
And a blow to the farm,
But at least we take comfort
That not one cow was harmed.
based on an incident in Germany
Makana Queja Jan 2013
Behold the Weight upon my back,
In stunning armor, no luster lack.
He rides and rides till break of day,
Plotting out the fastest way.
To save a damsel in distress,
A challenge conquered by the best.
Riding above the mountains and the sea,
But really he sits. He sits on me.

We arrived at our destination,
He prepares for his occupation,
of rescuing princesses from a tower.
For that is all that's in his power.
So there I wait, and watch him leave,
Walking to the gates with ease.
He left me with no water to drink,
So I decide to wait and take a leak.

It was minutes until he came out,
Running around and all about.
A young girl upon his shoulder,
Just as the night was growing colder.
He threw the ***** upon my saddle,
And loaded me up like some cattle.
He jumped up and decided to scream,
"RUN RUN, YOU ******* STEED!"

And so I ran, as they both sat,
Galloping hard as those two chat.
They spoke of riches and much gold,
Of their parents, all reasonably old.
We arrived at the great castle gates,
As I was reminded of how little I ate.
Looking over at a couple of goats,
Munching on delicious oats.

I was drawn, for I was starved,
But into my side, my Weight carved.
He pulled my reins towards the castle gate,
He would not dare to be late.
When we had made our approach,
He tied me to a very strong post.
"Stay here and don't move," he said to me.
"I'll come back later, you will see."

He entered the gates and let me be.
I waited for the night, but did not see
The Weight come back, like he said he would,
I was hoping he was not gone for good.
It was then that I saw a shadow move.
It was a superstition that I did not approve.
Behold, a thief in the night,
Come to steal with all his might.

In his hand, he held a large bag,
Of gold and jewels, and royal flag.
He leaped upon my back to escape,
His confidence left my mouth agape.
I dare not move, my Weight will return,
Him and his wicked little spurs.
The thief leaped off and scuffled around.
He went into the stable to bring a bag, round.

He opened the bag, and there I did see.
A bagful of oats, and they were all for me!
He took a handful and put them to my nose.
I ate them all quickly, fastest I chose.
He patted my hair, and gave me a scratch,
He sang me a song, and let me relax.
He leaped on my back and spurred one last time.
I gave him a prize, because he gave me mine.
Amanda Kay Burke Oct 2019
Hungry
Always hungry
Munching on yummy food
Eating delicious snacks all day
Starving
Day 8: Write cinquain on any topic
Listen, my friend, this road is the heart opening,
kissing his feet, resistance broken, tears all night.

If we could reach the Lord through immersion in water,
I would have asked to be born a fish in this life.
If we could reach Him through nothing but berries and wild nuts
then surely the saints would have been monkeys when they came from the womb!
If we could reach him by munching lettuce and dry leaves
then the goats would surely get to the Holy One before us!

If the worship of stone statues could bring us all the way,
I would have adored a granite mountain years ago.
Jack Singer Oct 2011
A steam hangs off the wet asphalt;
The fresh rain water
Seeps off the sticky ground
In low hazy mists. Beside the road
The trees hang down as if
Weighted by the humid air
And the reeds and undergrowth
Glare back a violent shade of arsenic green.
Above the earth wet electric lime
And vibrant cherry leaves
Hang over the slick black surface.

A forest
Choked with muddy and twisted
Vines and shrubs,
Dense and gritty mud,
Ferns from a prehistoric era otherwise forgotten,
And yammering birds that shriek
Upwards in the tangled branches
Stares back at a black cat,
Who sits and cleans herself nobly,
Occasionally munching on grass.

Her head bobs up and down
As she chomps the sour stalks
In her mouth, staring once in a while
At the ominous maw of the forest floor.
The grass is soaked against her paws,
And soon she trots
Into a quiet house at some distance.

Outside dusk has arrived like
The terrible bringer of some evil destiny,
Walking quietly upon soft yet inevitable footsteps.
Meanwhile the insects crawl forth from the mud
And pour out into the mauve and fleshy night air
Buzzing and biting.
Left Foot Poet Aug 2016
none more than I,
surprised and wary,
that my all-my-life
urbanized body,
be so unnaturally well attuned
to a slight degree
temperature modification

I,
proud city dweller,
born and bred,
urban dust,
the sandblast used
to erode and etch-a-sketch
my body's skin pores hollows,
by definition, pride and myth,
a tough skin necessified
to survive where
plants cannot

the chill of fall,
and the follow up of
it's 'whiteout' afterwards,
faintly dimly but
remarkably present,
unmistakably different
from the chilling moisture
forming on the ice bucketed bottle
of dinner's colden, golden,
waiting white Sancerre

the lowest, coldest single note
any viola can exhale,
I,
hear coming from Itzhak Perlman's
so close, Shelter Island retreat,
a foghorn warning
clearly felt, smelling its deep fried heard mournful warning,
tonal hum, swelling from the outside in,
not despite, but to pointedly spite
the surrounding humidity condensation of August
on the air cooled window panes

the very same humidity
that makes humans
curse the blessing of sweating,
registering slews of
no-one-cares complaints to
no-ones-listening people,
about the drying out everywhere
wet dampness of the end of the
simmering season

a sliver, a musk,
a prophet's portent,
so subtly well entrenched,
secretly by nature sent,
a realtime single line of code,
message that winter is indeed coming,
but not to the Seven Kingdoms,
but to the Czar's literary summer palace

I,
the sole prosecution witness,
to winter's germination
as the evening cools,
testifying about the acorn droppings
felt beneath flip flops,
like hurtful peas
beneath a princess's ten deep mattresses,
reminders of too soon time to be mourned
as gone, gone, gone
the summer,
the peak of the foliage, the zenith, the crest
of this old and very peculiar man

but one?

how can this be,
one **** degree
of Fahrenheit
leads directly to
sniffles and endless
gesundheists?

one **** degree,
separates the operatic arias,
the shower sing-a-long songs of his summer soul's
contented tented revival,
which now, in these sultry days of  August,
he sings, so swell,
practiced with an artistic style of
summer lazy's 'doing nothing'
so, so well

soon to suffer the mysteries of
the longest day
of wintery night,
where silent snow falling,
beautifies but makes the man
put down his pen and
reread his summer poetry

tonite,
we fine and dine
dressed in summer attire,
sock-less, coolest linen with cotton blended,
only ******, good natured,
political discussions allowed,
some daring souls,
bare their left shoulders,
more tan skin out than in,
while others defend
the natural human right
of man to wear in tandem,
white socks and ugly cargo shorts

all the fabrics, all the friends,
crinkling wrinkling upon the tannins
of sweet brown sugar of caramelized skin

some wearing bright pastels
clean new white T's,
so eye brightening-whiting-delighting,
that they are legally required,
and illegal to wear anytime else,
except for this one abbreviated quarter
of the best days of his life

smell the snow,
hearing  the boots and parkas,
making tramping noises upon snow cleared paths
swimming unhappily across
slushy street corners, almost mountain pass impassable
all these molecules, wafting in the coolness
of the August shore breezes ,
fedex'd  up from the polar south winds
of wintertime Argentina

all of these hints,
present and accounted for
in the atmosphere,
but of them,
I,
do not speak
not out loudly anyway

why,
to be lost beneath,
under the munching noises of summer corn
summer fruits, tongue exploding,
clinking of happy glasses,
toasts of "what a great summer eve!"
the wisdom of silence loudly asserts

for who am I to
rob us the deceit,
the human natural conceit,
that the future is the identity of our
permanent press present

that the unpracticed pleasures
of lapping up breezes,
the genteel salted aroma of
heated sweated forehead beads and sea water,
the cocktail odors of barbecue sauce,
fishing boat's diesel, Campari,
root beer floats,
strawberry shortcake's speaking of its peaking,
little children laughing with carousel joy at
running unshod and free upon bunnies and frogs,
all words and thoughts somehow miracle rhyming with...
forever

soon to end in the
disenchantment of reruns on
a flickering black and white tv night,
once again, no longer obsolete,
unlike the man

the eyes glisten from held back tears,
all come to give me hugs, thinking
the old man, in his white apron is
joyous simply happy or simply,
grill smoke got in his eyes

but that one **** degree...
8-7-16     7:21am
_______________

The Cold Heaven
W. B. Yeats

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season

--------------

DAY

84°HI
RealFeel® 91°
Precipitation 2%
Mostly sunny and less humid
WSW 6 mph
Gusts: 10 mph
Max UV Index: 7 (High)
Thunderstorms: 0%
Precipitation: 0 in
Rain: 0 in
Snow: 0 in
Ice: 0 in
Hours of Precipitation: 0 hrs
Hours of Rain: 0 hrs

NIGHT

65°LO
RealFeel® 64°
Precipitation 12%
Clear


all clear?
At five in the morning
you would hear her munching
scoffing down with milk and honey
she was a homicidal lip smacking queen

The eerie sounds
the moaning and groaning
it was enough to give you a chill
and your feet would curl by their own will

By the light of day
all the packets would be away
with not a trace of spilt milk
just honey dripping down the legs of the table

I'd ask her, have you been at the cereals again
no my love was the answer she would deliver
but she knew that I knew
she was a cereal killer


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

— The End —