"omelets" poems
My gorilla wears tennis shoes
He reads the paper and sings the blues
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla, he's a sensitive guy
I took him out for a wedding, and man did he cry!
Tears all down his tie
Well, he can drive most greens from the back tees
But his putting brings him to his knees
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves pork and beans
He rides a scooter in his cut-off jeans
My gorilla, my gorilla
He can make a mean souffle
He's great with omelets, but his specialty is flambe
So I eat one every day!
He's been working hard on a half pike
But his cannonball empties the pool
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla is so much fun
He buys taquitos for everyone
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves tequila with lime
He's taking classes at a school for mime
Cracks me up every time!
Well, he's looking cool in his "white face"
And his French beret looks oh so fine
My gorilla, my gorilla
Oh yeah...
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.
I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
your laugh
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
the deepness
of connection we have
our conversations
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your touch
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..
Just to list a few
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
Your unique omelets
Fascinate me. Like your ***
Always exotic
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.
My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.
Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.
A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.
Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.
So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
do me this solid
and keep up with the
tired and over exhilarated
won't you ask me how im
learning to dig
inside my heart for my most recent
emotions are so awful they keep me
running for more and i can't
really see exactly where I'm
going to where im supposed to be trying to
understand how i feel is like
learning Chinese upside down, underwater, while having a tea party with an octopus
i guess ill just take the stairs and maybe i
could actually finish a
great deal of me feels
like i need to buy a nice looking
man and make him cook me spicy
omelets and he'll look quite **** under
my umbrella on the purple rooftops that i
decided to jump on my way to
work has been lowsy too many
people wishing for something and here i
am trying to finish a sentence i think
i might need to go back to grade school and take
an english course.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
A Problem And A Blessing
It’s a problem and a blessing;
I never do the same thing twice.
My omelets, cookies, ice cream –
Never twinned and absolutely never thrice.
My husband says, “That dish was consummate,
The best I ever ate…you must, must imitate it!
Why not write it down”.
And there’s my limit.
Always acting in the moment,
Home ingredients at hand,
Forced to recreate a dish
That will not taste of sand,
That may or may not turn out grand;
A failure or success – there’s no predicting,
But who cares!
My brain enjoys the dare,
For dare it is,
And there it is,
The blessing.
The problem?
Codes of norm, jazz (my profession), daily dressing;
Not recalled, created by improvisational necessity
Anew;
New strains, all things thought through
As if they’d never been.
What do you do?
And how?
A Problem And A Blessing 5.12.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
A cutie.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
I own a huge,
dazzlingly
blue emu egg
given me
by two lovely
young women
who used to make
omelets for lions;
beauty emerges
from even
the most unlikely
orifices.
- mce
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
to crack an egg
break it apart
but remember beaten eggs
make savory omelets
It takes someone
to cut a tree
saw it down
make it fall
but remember fallen wood
makes homes for all
It takes someone
to light a candle
make it shine
brighten a room
that once was dark
like a tomb
It takes someone
to plant a seed
grow a garden
to till the soil
that once was harden
Jul 5, 2022
Jul 5, 2022 at 8:11 AM UTC
Less then
three hundred miles
and three years away,
but I can still feel
the sunlight
streaming in
from the fifth floor
window.
I can still see
the long
multi-laned streets
cluttered with cars,
trucks, and billboards.
I can still taste
the hot wings
dipped in ranch
that I ate for dinner,
and the small omelets
in cheese streaked
plastic wrap
along with
the gravy soaked
biscuits.
I can still feel
the cool blankets
that saw me safely
to sleep
after I would eat
the free breakfast.
I can still hear
the sound of
strangers
speaking in
muffled tones,
blocked by
thin walls.
I can even recall
the sound of rainfall,
and though I am
almost content
with this moment
in my life,
part of me
would like to see
that memory
in real time.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
Looking for a cheese omelet
when you a million miles from home
is a tall order,
and even if,
even if they use egg beaters
& fake slices,
is better than eating nothing at all.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Every time I eat here,
I wonder if she’s still in the restroom.
I watch the cakes orbit
On refrigerated turntables—
a silent waltz for the ballerinas running omelets and coffee.
Back when she excused herself to the restroom,
the hostess was probably still in diapers.
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
I wrote a happy ending for you.
You found this girl;
she was the bees knees.
I liked her.
She wrote the end of the songs
you had already been singing.
She liked the mushrooms and the spinach
in the omelets you made.
She watched baseball
and made videos
and bought the posters to cover the walls of your apartment.
That space was not home without her touch.
I wrote your smile that opened when she walked down the aisle.
I wrote the arguments which threatened to tear you apart.
I wrote the good times that held it together.
I’ve written this, for you.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
She thought of you as Sunday morning
You thought of her as Friday night
You were her cup of coffee
She was your hangover delight
She wanted you every morning
You only ever wanted her at night
She wondered what she could do to make you see that
To clear your blurred vision of life
You never listened to a word she said
all you ever wanted to do was get to the bed
She exceeded your expectations
But you were too blind to see
She could've been your Sunday morning, your morning coffee and your favorite type of tune
She could've been your messy bed sheets, your comfiest pjs and your midday afternoon
She could've been that but you were too naive to notice
now she's spending Sunday morning with someone who treats her like java beans and omelets
While youre laying in a bed full of empty on Friday night
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Dance with the devil with
two chicken feet,
spilled beans
pills reeking of sin,
braided veins, clenching fists,
the Lord is my shepherd when
I'm the sheep,
manifesting brethren and manifestos
of governments,
depopulation of educated slaves,
drink from the cup that
defines your worth,
***** lips, thoughts in braille,
diabetic oldies and cabbages,
dead fetuses and tomatoes,
manhood and eggplants,
sterile women eating omelets,
abandoned kids eating goat meat,
buried underneath slubs,
subscribe to the notifications
of corrupted media,
mutating phobias, the feared is
the victim.
Poets and marijuana,
writers' block and emotionless poems,
******** eating molds,
fungus and bacteria foams.
Hide righteousness in a cloak,
dangling nerves have strangled
our generation!!!
Club Controller;
Boom bap,
*** shaking,
wombs filled with ghosts of babies,
Ovaries now main ingredients for corporate omelets.
Adam and Eve,
the dominant and the submissive,
Bitten forbidden fruit on Apple logos.
Artificial intelligence,
human negligence,
mummified peasants,
death is proud of its workspace.
Institutions judging
black ops as being too rebellious for success,
stores selling tumours
and diabetes symptoms.
Atheists and theists fighting in poetry pieces.
Innocent citizens dodging bullets whilst diving into graves,
mortuary polluted with the smell of corpses with gunpowder in small spaces.
Free our souls,
stop polishing the chains that shackle us,
remove handcuffs that have extended to our throats whilst we dangle from Amarula branches.
Deceived intellectuals,
searching for Nirvana in cannabis trips,
mocking poetry,
seeing Shakespeare as a founding father.
Deception poeticized,
corruption politicized!
The truth is my artery,
wisdom is my capillary,
poetry is the hidden mos code in my fingerprints.
Poetry is the stem to
ascend truth into the human language,
use it for no social
media whilst
marketing for likes!!!
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC