"pips" poems
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
saw a tasty treat
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
thought the taste so sweet
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
licked his sticky lips
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
spitting out the pips
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
looked around for more
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
ate an apple core
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
rolled into a ball
Harry hedgehog in the hedgerow
loved the fruits of fall
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
I'm sat in a pearl
on your lips
Mouthing sweet hymns
Of the lemon pips
That you spit from your lips
I'm stood in ruby
In your hair
Hearing bitter chorals
of beetroot stalks
That you hang from your ear.
I'm struck in amethyst
Through your pupil
Tasting great lilacs
And smelling supple,
Subtle lavender.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.
The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.
The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.
The pain
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
~ for Angela Scuteri ~
Cancer cells bloom and open
their capsules split apart
and spit the pips
on the red tide.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
rich soil
fleck with a bit of black
dark chocolate
parched summer soil
glossy chestnut brown
unvarnished oak
mahogany flecks
apple pips
varnished cork
dessert palm tree
flecks of acorn shell
his eyes
the most beautiful pair
of eyes
she has seen
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 3:55 PM UTC
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes’ eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o’-clay,
Waiting for the time o’ day.
While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o’-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o’-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind’s breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o’-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
4k
I will never understand this feeling
It's a feeling of worthlessness, is it not?
I will never understand its emptiness,
Though I know it too well
Dare I say, I want to fall in love
Again?...
Would It help me to understand,
In ways I can no longer?
I'm aimlessly placing blame
(I don't feel real)
The tip of my finger repelled by,
The denial in my heart
How can something so heavy
Be worn on a sleeve?
Whilst the skin on my body,
Would tear at its seams
I am the worst of all things
I am man-made
Sadly I feel as though, not made to last
And sadly so, I'm afraid to know
I may never make it past,
This feeling
Two months now it's eaten away
It's not a chemical reaction
There will be no half life here
And more than half my fear,
Lies in a reality where,
I can not be free from this
It's a feeling of worthlessness, isn't it?
I am an apple eaten to the core
No
I am the pips spat out
...and forgotten
I just want to be carried away
I want to be more than man-made
I just want to be Finley, Finley again
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
O blush not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.
There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
And a blush for just begun it.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!
3.5k
Ticking the days off was exciting
Yet became a living nightmare
She’d had an invitation to the ball
She now worried how to get there.
It was the End of Year Fairies Ball
Where the best of the fairies went.
She’d got her gown, her fairy shoes
And had made her rose petal scent.
She had chosen pale green for her dress
And had sewn buttercups to the hem.
Little golden flowers cascaded down her
With tiny leaves still attached to the stem.
She had a buttercup upside down on her head
With golden thread under her chin
Daisies draped from her arms held tight
By a tiny golden wrist pin.
She looked adorable but so did the others
They all looked like a story from a fairytale
Nerves sometimes got the better of her
So the breathing slowed down, a slow exhale.
The buttercup fairy looked divine as she did
Always and mingled, taking her time
She ate raspberry pips and drank blossom juice
And had her first sample of apple wine.
She sat under an acorn and arranged her wings
A robin provided a pillow for her which was nice
Before he knew it she had fallen to sleep
But was she about to pay the upmost price.
She had missed the best dressed fairy time
When all fairies were judged by the chief elf
Instead this tipsy little fairy fast asleep
And was sitting on a very expensive shelf.
She awoke with the sound of little bells
Announcing the winner of the best dress
She tutted at the robin for not waking her
She as angry because now she was in a mess.
She now wore a face as long as a fiddle
And did not care about anyone or thing
She had prepared for this day since the
Beginning of this year’s spring.
The moral of her story don’t nestle
Next to a naughty little robin with fluffed chest
Otherwise you fall to sleep all afternoon
And then end up seriously depressed.
The buttercup fairy found some comfort
In a super little bar under a mushroom
And smashed her way through too much wine
Which for now ended her doom and gloom.
Staggering her way home in the early hours
Singing over the blackbird’s morning tune
She perched herself under an oak leaf
And slept until the new light of the moon
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
On one of the myriad bays
along the Maine coast. Keep the holocaust
at bay I said to Dave because
you’ll spend all day gathering
2,000 calories and still be miserable hungry.
An undiminished population of humans is risible.
Black spruce and balsam fir,
you can eat the inner bark
in a starvation emergency.
There’s plenty of Cornus—bunchberry—
each orange pith around the stone
worth maybe a quarter calorie.
Lots of sarsparilla but the fruits
not out yet and to date I have not
savored one. Let’s see—dandelion
of course and huckleberry but
the most important source of sustenance
would be seaweed.
Learn your mushrooms! for the protein.
Accept the situation
come the apocalypse.
I struggle against my insignificance
but it would be better to struggle
against my ignorance.
Less effortlessness, more fishermanliness.
That’s the lesson of this Maine vacation
there’s a lot you can eat when in need—
the hips of roses and the pips of grasses.
And an endless supply of seaweed—
bladderwrack, dulse, kelp and thin green lettuce.
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 6:09 AM UTC
Never had a single
Sang to empty clubs and bars
It seemed our music came from Venus
While the crowd was all from Mars
We've been doing, well...a comeback
Though we never went away
We've been here, though no one knew it
You know this band is here to stay
No one knows our music
Now we have a different crowd
They don't care what we play them
As long as it is loud
No faces look familiar
Although the bars all look the same
I guess we should be thankful
If at the end they know our name
We knock off songs they've never heard
We play them just for us
They ask for stuff we do no know
And they rarely make a fuss
It's not the same as it once was
And neither then are we
We're doing well, a comeback tour
Though we've been here since sixty three
Some kids think we're the shadows
Hermans Hermits, or the Pips
We don't care that much though
If it gets us bigger tips
We missed out on a contract
When glam rock knocked us aside
We wouldn't wear the makeup
I would rather go and hide
We still play clubs and empty bars
Done it now for 50 years
We make a bit more money
We don't waste it all on beers
We've never gone away though
Even though folks always say
We're glad you're back together
We never ever went away
We're a band that loves it's music
Never made it big
We're out doing a comeback
Me, Ronnie, Bart and Stig
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
you spread me like strawberry jam,
licking syrupy wrists and chewing on pips.
i will thaw leisurely, until my skin has saturated through
your insanity.
open me like a mango,
slurping, drops of juice upon blemishes,
sprinkling candy through open wounds.
bite through me, an apple hard and
mouth watering.
the pits of me will fall, searching for fertile soil,
and grow.grow.grow.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Raspberry pip boy lingered and hung around,
He was sweet, but with a tartness that juiced up your mouth,
He flowered in Spring, and swelled my heart up through Summer,
And I plucked him, and I ate him, and I begged for another,
But as I chewed up, my heart slid down my back,
As I was gulping down raspberries my tooth had cracked,
The raspberry pips had sunk deep and rooted
In between my poor teeth, how I hollered and hooted
"RASPBERRY PIP BOY ISN'T AS SWEET AS YOU THINK,
HE STAYS FAR TOO LONG, I'M STAINED BY HIS INK.
I CAN'T WASH HIM OUT, BELIEVE ME I'VE TRIED,
THAT RASPBERRY PIP BOY HAS JUST RUINED MY LIFE!!"
A former tooth model, my contract was lost,
To that Raspberry Pip Boy, his seeds, and tooth rot.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
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Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
In English gardens she blooms lilac,
comes with her petals spread
and swept across for me to pick
out a red droplet ready to bead.
She reaches my lips, then I bite.
And as the pips tumble and hit
teeth, tongue and cheek, I find
the sour taste she leaves behind
is ill-fitted for me. Innocence dies,
so now I swallow in hesitant takes
with spoonfuls of sugar to get by.
She drips from her brittle-soft skin,
and bleeds until she begins to break
whilst in an English garden I lie within.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Poem
I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?
Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.
Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like
a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels
and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars
My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards
I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.
If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me
and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature
though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.
The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.
I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Today, she went from strawberries,
To raspberries, a bit more ****
Sharper, full of pips,get stuck in between your teeth, you know,
We never had raspberries,
Raspberries are stupid,just blown by stupid fools.
(C) Livvi
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
Into his plastic lunchbox
He did, an Orange and biscuit, shove
And said the biscuit to the orange
“Come sit by me, my love”
And the orange, taken by surprise
Gave him a sheepish grin
And flashed her pips and dimples
So he knew they might begin
She was smooth and round and juicy
He was crunchy, brown and fat
She introduced herself as Lucy,
And he said his name was Zak
And throughout the sunny morning
They did laugh and love and tease
When suddenly with no warning
Their lives were torn apart with ease
The sky ripped from their little world
Their peccadilloes for all to view
First Zak, then Lucy disappeared
With a bite, a crunch, a chew.
So dear reader, please take heed
Don’t shy away from love
For we never really know quite when
It’s lunchtime up above.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
Best Week Ever
Just had my best week of all time,
I'm 42 but still in my prime.
Spent some time with Brittany Spears,
I left her begging and in tears.
After a night with Beyonce,
she wanted me to be her fiance.
Just one night with Pink,
now she can't even blink.
Had a date with Katy Perry,
she asked me to pop her cherry.
Spent some time with J-Lo,
she was more sloppy than a joe.
Rihanna likes to play rough,
**** she looks good in the buff.
Me and Fergie ate some black eyed peas,
then we were joined by Alicia keys.
Had a blast with Taylor Swift,
we did it on a ski lift.
Avril Lavinge wanted it never to end,
now she wants to be her boyfriend.
I turned Miley Cyrus back into Hannah Montana,
its a secret what we did with a banana.
Me and Kesha sang her hit Tik Tok,
then she ****** on my clock.
Selena Gomez is a witch no more,
I turned her into my little *****
Carrie Underwood won't slash my tires,
the heat between us started some fires.
Gwen Stefani left the singer from Bush,
she loved the way I smacked her ****
Lady Ga Ga showed me her poker face,
with her I reached every base.
Me and Lita Ford kissed each other deadly,
then she sang me a **** medley.
Madonna said I was her best,
we spent no time dressed.
I was man enough for Sheryl Crow,
let me tell you, she can really blow.
As the week ended, I had Shakira moving her hips,
then I woke up and it was an **** with Gladys Night and her Pips.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Poem
I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?
Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.
Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like
a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels
and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars
My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards
I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.
If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me
and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature
though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.
The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.
I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
It comes after heavy rains.
Naked amphibious marauder
crouched beneath dampened stars
bip-bipping its personal intercom;
soporific in sleep-weary bleary-eyed dreams.
I imagine a Cop on his elbows
zig-zagging, belly-flat
under cover of darkness;
he not naked; peaked cap askew,
shoulder pips glinting in half moon;
he too, predator on a mission -
Echo - Charlie - Zebra.
The freezer kicks in
out-droning night sounds.
Light eases between blinds.
I slurp chocolate dregs from a crazed mug.
Over and out.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
The P inside lifts to shallow pools of thirst and moving pictures.
P is purpose, personality car crashes to park the private Idaho.
A sign of the cross, will not stop P.
Prove it to the pin drop puncture of ****** on heat,
insecure to many tongues dripped in keroscene pantomine.
P is pretty. P is pop. P is pandamonium. P is plucky. P is pink.
Patter, panky, pips, puddle, paraquet, puncuation.
Property is theft Parker, pity, purity, punt, plunder, *****
Past, paint, pander, pringle, puppy, pesky, pest,
petrol, patrol, pamper, pastel, plunder, pongo, plip plop.
P.................
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
how by chewing wildflowers
til your tongue turns numb because
you're enamoured by the way it sounds
when you slur your words.
your gums turn black and
when you smile all i see is
pips and petals stuck between your teeth.
oh you're so pretty.
you're a real loose cannon, tendrils
tethered to every orifice and
every breath smells a little more
like the grim reaper is sleeping
in your mouth. i can see he's
making quick work of your gums.
but it works.
better that than he move into your chest
or burrow any further
in your head.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC