"poached" poems
You weren’t worth the
Hundred dollars it cost to
Keep you in my car.
Princess got poached by the
League of Losers with Pedestrian Ideals.
I’d spit venom in your direction, if
Poison meant anything to you. But
Akin to most things, so sub-human,
You miss the world moving around your
Ever pulsating veins, and repel these
Toxins with a slip of the tongue.
Around you I could line
Bodies of those you’d loved and left.
Each clasping hands with one another,
Privy to a specific type of pain, only you can
Deal out. And
In the center of the circle you’d
Stare, stunned by your state of
Affairs, and flings. Collectively concerned
For the safety of your
Rotting consciousness.
One by one, I could set these men
On fire, and hand you a place
Where your head could be danced off.
Drunken and diving heart-first into
The burning lake of a
Surfable crowd. Since that’s
All we are, serfs.
I hope the fire gets too close to your
Gorgeous face. I hope the
Love you receive is no more likable
Than a few more licks from the flames.
The scars couldn’t sideline you.
No one can stop ****
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
I'm creating a Lego alter-ego
Called Scarlet.
Her skin is flawless
Her face a fixed fierce determined smile
Her drawn on ******* will never sag
And she never has a hair out of place.
She has a pet monkey by her side
Poached from my brothers 1989 pirate set
After she duelled with Pegleg Pete
And made him walk the plastic plank.
She has lego lovers in high places
Batman has given her the code to his 6860 set batcave
And the white Knight from castle set 70404
Has lent her his trusty steed
And he drank from her cup.
She is fearless and has an interchangeable
Wipe clean wardrobe
She can be whatever she wants
She is **** yet robust
When placed on a high shelf
She may gather dust
But she is always ready
For fun and adventure
And she will never age or rust.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
A MILLION young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads,
And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red roses.
Yes, this million of young workmen slaughtered one another and never saw their red hands.
And oh, it would have been a great job of killing and a new and beautiful thing under the sun if the million knew why they hacked and tore each other to death.
The kings are grinning, the kaiser and the czar-they are alive riding in leather-seated motor cars, and they have their women and roses for ease, and they eat fresh-poached eggs for breakfast, new butter on toast, sitting in tall water-tight houses reading the news of war.
I dreamed a million ghosts of the young workmen rose in their shirts all soaked in crimson ... and yelled:
God **** the grinning kings, God **** the kaiser and the czar.Chicago, 1915.
3.1k
Green garden, my lovely little garden
over run with weeds
Cracked dirt, no water to be found
broke the spigot
Neat rows, gouged between spiny thorns
sweating, back bent
Such a waste, to throw down this seed
poached by ants
Some day I'll till it all, lovely garden
never work again
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
You'll eat meat
And love a bacon sarnie
When you're ******
You'll smash a biryani
But when it comes to
Chopped pork, rinds and ham
No one wants to eat spam
In the Great War
We survived on rations
And beat zee Germans
With ******* passion
The lads didn't complain
About what they had to eat
Whether it was a le carte
Or mashed-up meat
But these days
That's not your jam
And no one wants to eat spam
It's great in a fry up
And ******* lovely in a butty
Get the kettle on
And get comfy
And enjoy
A cup of ******* tea
And eat your spam
Perfect with ketchup or HP
And don't complain
That it ain't real meat
Just get it in your gob
And enjoy this tasty treat
But most of you
Are to blame
And like the majority
Don't think it's the same
You're into avocados
Poached eggs and all that
And can't stand the thought
Of a chopped pig in a can
When you were young
You should've listened to your nan
Now it's a ******* shame
No one wants to eat spam
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
The hippos are boiled alive when the curious circus caught aflame.
Who is to blame? The drunkard clowns or the tightrope walkers and their ineffable fear of heights?
Maybe the ringmaster and all his lion taunting, crowd cheering, crowd antagonizing ways,
maybe he's to blame for releasing the bearded lady in a room full of kerosene and unseen wicker flames...
Or...just maybe, it was an accident and could not be prevented under the extraordinary circumstances
which took place on that fateful day where hippos became a poached soup of meat, teeth, and lard.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
Maggie was my mother, my emotional mother.
She came into my life when I was in third grade.
She and her husband, Floyd, lived in the apartment
on the third floor of our house. My biological
mother was too depressed to be my emotional mother.
She spent every afternoon taking a nap from 1 to
4:30 and watched TV by herself in the living room
from 7 p.m. to 1 a.m., then went upstairs to her own
bedroom and read detective paperbacks until about
3 a.m. So Maggie always fixed breakfast--two poached
eggs, grits, and two toasted and buttered slices of
wholewheat bread--for me every morning as I grew up.
Maggie also washed my ***** clothes, spanked me
when I need a spanking, and hugged me when I
needed a huge. I have never forgotten the time when
Maggie (I have no memory of my biological mother
ever being in my bedroom when I was in it) brought
me lunch when I was sick in bed with a cold, along with
an ice-cold bottle of Squirt. I remember loving the taste
of Squirt, which, for some unknown reason, I had never
tasted it before, nor was I ever going to taste it again.
Many, many times I would go up to the apartment around
dinner time when Floyd had gotten home from working
at the Santa Fe shops, knock on their door, and invariably
Maggie would say "Come in," even as she was cooking
dinner for Floyd and herself, because she knew it was
Tod. I sat with Floyd at their small kitchen table and
talked to him about, among other things, who we each
thought was the better center fielder, Willie Mays or
Mickey Mantle. I felt at home with Maggie and Floyd.
The two took my two sisters and me on occasion to
the drive-in to see a movie in their old car. What fun!
Maggie, a Black who had grown up in racist southern
Texas, was illiterate, but I was not conscious of it when
I was so young, and when I got older and knew Maggie
couldn't read or write, it didn't matter to me at all.
Maggie could love! That was the important thing.
I always felt loved when I was with Maggie. And Floyd,
even though he thought Mays was better than Mantle,
remained my friend for along time after Maggie had
passed away.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 24, 2023
Apr 24, 2023 at 12:28 AM UTC
Tell me why, if
We’re all I
In a Charlie Brown Pumpkin pie
Patch in the sky I
Each a small piece of the pie I
Some a flaming cherry pie
Some a Georgia peach or
Perfect plum pudding pie
Perhaps a strawberry
Sweet potato or crumbled apple pie I
You a poached peach pie
Together-
we’re a mixed metaphor
whatever for
Pie.
All sharing the same awareness
In all fairness
No one can define this thing called awareness.
Is Awareness the isness of you
Is isness the business of God
Is God in the business of defining
A color by number world
Too much blue in the sky pie
A little less green in the scene
please
Could Awareness exist
To let you decide
What kind of I-pie
To die pie
To be a pie guy
Or a gal pie
Or pie gal
Goldie locks or Goldie Hawn
big bad wolf
Or Genghis Khan
Now hear me out
If you were God
What would you do with infinity?
Got it!
Without a doubt
Better bake a pie
This proves God is a woman.
But you already knew that.
My explanation quite reasonable
My logic unarguable
Once again
The proof is in the pudding pie
You should never argue with a woman.
Guy!
But,
God reserves the right
To change her mind
So next time around
She could make a different pie
Bigger pie, better pie
Or perhaps
no pie at all.
She’ll bake a cake.
Or build a boat
For God’s sake.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
Today was a good day,
Not a single tear was shed.
Today was a good day,
That's why I'm wishing I were dead.
The desolate sea beckoning me,
Depression, a mere inevitability.
Dare not lie to me,
My death will be chosen, setting me free.
I rue the day I attempted while crying.
Is it not superior to leave the world smiling?
Today was a good day,
I best get to flying away-
Before my monsters return,
abolishing yet another day...
Death being an opportunity,
Again poached away.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
You wonder why I dwell in the dark,
You wonder why I never call back,
You wonder why I be a lost sane,
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again,
Evading the city flare,
Evading to the mellow lair,
Evading the caramelised routine,
Evading a contagious whine,
A thing of pity, years and hence,
A sweet obsession, that only commence,
You wonder if I have lost every sense,
I wonder if I ever made any sense,
You wonder why I invest so much,
You wonder why I run on loss,
You wonder what became of us,
I wonder if it's fantasy or lust,
Come! Come! Sure let's reshape our maps,
What has been and maybe perhaps,
Swoosh! Whoosh! Be undone and done!
How awfully convenient, is it not, hon?!
Exuberant creatures they flatter me often,
Those lofty lot, enticing I find none,
Sure I shall allow an unbiased trial!
Sheath the heart, her eyes a biased thrill!
Never mention my poached heart,
And we'll get along just fine, love,
And be forever entwined,
In that same old fairytale, concubine!
You wonder why I am a repugnant aristocrat,
You wonder why I am a narcissist in grave dearth,
You wonder why I am a deception to change,
I wonder how passionately I was never your gain...
Of course I am not an island of my own,
Of course I am but a mere fraction of the whole,
Oh! Tempting balms! they embrace me so,
Quite the way you wrapped me Cozy, long ago,
You wonder why I am stuck in a rut,
You wonder why I choose not to be smart,
You wonder why I wait without disgust,
I wonder where my rescue boat is lost….
You wonder why I let the years fly by,
You wonder why I live in the bygone and deny,
You wonder why I never forget your voice,
You wonder why I keep every memory alive,
I wonder if I'll ever see you again,
I wonder if it will all be the same.....
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
Humpty Dumpty what a numpty
thought that he could fly
with paper wings attached with strings
he leapt into the sky
Jack and Jill stood on the hill
and watched him with delight
as up he flew their laughter grew
at such a wondrous sight
The fiddler cat said fancy that
as with her love did spoon
and watched awhile with pleasured smile
the cow jump or' the moon
The blind mice three they didnt see
and neither did they care
for he'll come down and break his crown
like ev'ry fool that dare
Miss Muffet thought it's all for nought
though eggs will one day fly
the spider spoke well then the yolk
will be on that poor guy
The clock struck one the night was gone
the paper wings caught fire
poached or fried Briar Rabbit cried
of both I'll never tire
Thing one thing two yes you and you
don't stand there get a net
and bring green ham oh Sam I am
for breakfast now is set
So read and learn before you burn
the wings your heart hath bore you
for this the end my learned friend
as I wouldn't want to bore you
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
i've scrambled
trying to find the whites of my eyes
(have i cracked yet?)
it all boils down to the thoughts i've poached from others
(i exist to create, not to consume)
i tried looking at the world sunny-side up, but the devil in me broke the yoke that i used to share with Jesus.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
Only LOVE can save Earth and all living creations upon it.
But to LOVE, one must first be loved. That is why it is imperative that the embryo must be loved. Then the infant, then the toddler, then the child, then the teenager, and so on.
If you have never been loved, or not enough, you will have problems, serious problems. But it is never too late to be loved.
I was not loved by my mom and dad. They had a terribly miserable marriage for 36 years. Neither was emotionally capable of loving me.
But our maid, Maggie Woods, bless her heart, loved me. Did I care that her skin was black? If you have a garden that is drying up, do you care if it rains?
Maggie loved me. She fixed me two poached eggs, grits (she grew up in southern Texas), and two slices of toasted wholewheat bread buttered every morning for years. She washed my clothes. If I needed a spanking, she spanked me. If I needed a hug, she hugged me. I could feel Maggie's LOVE.
My biological mother never entered my bedroom when I was in it. Maggie did.
I remember one incident in particular. I was a kid. I was sick in bed. I distinctly remember Maggie coming into my room with something to eat and a Squirt to drink. I had never drunk a Squirt before, but apparently Maggie loved it. (Maggie and Floyd, her husband, lived in our house in an apartment on the third floor.) The Squirt unconsciously symbolized her LOVE for me.
In my early 30s, I entered psychotherapy with Dr. Patricia Norris at the famous Menninger Foundation. We used what I was to refer to as "unguided" imagery. (Most refer to this modality as guided imaginary,) I worked with Pat, as I came to call her, a long time.
In short, the way it worked was that as we sat in our chairs, we both closed our eyes and waited for something to come into my mind, which I then would share with Pat. The long story was that Pat became my surrogate mother. We experienced many loving moments in our "unguided" imagery. The LOVE I felt from Pat, though through imagery, was real. I was finally and fully loved, and that made me who I am today.
Hate is not the opposite of love. It is the absence of love. Those who suffer from the paucity of LOVE unconsciously try to compensate for its dearth through becoming wealthy, then mega wealthy; by garnering fame; or by accruing power. None works.
But LOVE works. The more of it you share, the more you have to share.
Earth suffers so greatly from the lack of LOVE that it is dying. But even if one human being feels love, that love can spread like wildfire.
Let's hope the wildfire of LOVE spreads over Earth entirely and soon.
It is utterly plausible that it can happen.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 3:01 PM UTC
A song and I'm wayfaring
Me small things tall
No questions I'm guided
Acoustic Travis
Drifting under bridges
Moving with the flow
Nothing degrading
What is a worry
Picked up and taken places
In others arms and eyes
They talk for me
I watch things and play on stuff
This compilation is leading me astray
But I just want to stay
Haven't heard in years
Where have I gone these years
Who have I been
Oh the thoughts are warm
My heart is poached
Sunny side up
I recall
Letters spoke to conceal a word
Tree sap sticky
I climbed not that tall
Idle with my fun plans
Loll to a place holding a safe hand
Stroll through this gate
I'm seeing good people today
Sit down to play
Hard skates won't fit my feet hurt my toes
Old toy car won't turn corners
Make do wear my jelly blue shoes
What's a schedule what is time
I don't think ahead
Explain it to me in a nursery rhyme
Kiss goodbye can't stay
Red sky at night shepherds delight
Blue sky and baby faced sun tomorrow
Going home sleeping tight
Won't let the bed bugs bite
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
i threw the stone and it went however far
and my arm grew tired; puckered at the rotary cuff
like a cannon ball in a poached egg of oak sap...
i threw the stone and saw my breath thread
through the placid brilliance of immovable calm.
i watched how the aphids were gone
and kept a journal in braille and short-hand
in Kubla Khan's Garden.
i longed for the valleys i had never swept away
by descending from such heights
as i pondered the yonder god
of a misplaced
dream. so exhausted,
i stood in the damp muck
legs apart, straddling -
odd rocks and thin grass.
i wavered in the stillness
of ceased motion
and tarried in the Calliope
of throbbing in the Sun.
a fawn in the furnace
of a loving
lost.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
Splendour surrounds with exquisit-ness found
In the coo of a dove and the worm in the ground,
With the look in your eye when you smile at my face
The lift of the brow as penny drops into place.
Exquisit-ness found in the phrases you write
And the softness of shadows when day turns to night,
The touch of your fingertips touching my brow
The wonder engaged when you show me how.
The love of the feeling of being alive
And the buzz of the bee at it's honey filled hive,
The taste of tomato, acidic with bite
And the roar of the laughter when joke telling's right.
The scent of the lavender, colours of rose
And the joy of the tones in a violin's prose,
Pink cheeks in the frostiness, dancing blue eyes
And the look on your face when I spring a surprise.
Hot bacon for breakfast with two poached eggs
And I've swallowed my coffee right down to the dregs.
Such splendour surrounds on this beautiful day
I'm at the top of the world in a wonderful way.
Marshalg
Taranaki bound in an hour or two
27/6/13
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
A sea of buttery happiness
Is home to the roundest of islets
Side by side they wallow.
Quite naturally, the islands,
Are covered in ham.
Ham? Ham!
And lazily perched
On the hams highest point
Sits an avian sphere
Perfectly poached.
Straining against its
White little straight jacket.
Pop.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
deafening entrapment
bursting wings
through tight and suffocating epithelium
born into a beating prison
barred and trapped
clawing crying
out
if only these tears could melt through my body and sweep onto the floor like over filled bath water
to
sink into the earth
where the turning ceases.
poached wings and a chalk outline
how can you fly without wings?
weighty
lascivious
odious perfection
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Like a thief
My heart was poached
Causing me to fall
In the spiral of
Love.
But I did not know
The thief was evil
Causing me pain
Each day.
Shambling my hear
For the satisfaction
Of his own.
Never,
Never have I thought
I could be whole once more.
Then I met another thief
Who glued the
pieces one by one.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
There is no set price to
its worth.
It is not polished jade,
poached ivory
nor a vase dated
by a dynasty.
It is hearts blood drawn
to hearts blood.
And it provides a warmth
that no poppy can
produce.
It drives some mad,
until they're left
peering into the bottle,
pounding the polished
wood top for more.
The heart is truly
unbreakable.
If only it could
crack just
a little.
If only the hollow in the
chest could be dumped full
of the good times
and left just as that.
When did forever
equal a year,
how could something
so good
end up in tears.
I wish to rip my
heart out,
bury it in a wooden
box deep
below the earth.
Hide it away
from its need
to be loved.
I lived alone and
alone was good.
I did not seek it out
it found me.
.
And the torture
lays not
within the
waiting.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
The sound is uncontrollable,
it bangs, it knocks, the side of my head,
it rolls and rocks, my face turns red,
with anger, I burst, it burns.
The door was closed, I cursed,
isolated yet easily approached,
it searches me, I feel hunted,
I feel poached.
I yell, I scream, it's all the same,
from inside, it's different,
it's not getting anywhere, I hurt,
my cries were never heard.
I wash away the dirt, build up
after days of focus, my dreams, they mention
attending a funeral for my attention.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
(W = Anonymous Elderly Woman With Sudden and Severe Dementia)
---
W:
"I was an evil little girl".
I used to stick my tongue out at little boys. They would say,
"SHE STUCK HER TONGUE OUT AT ME".
Then the teachers would always say,
"Young man, she is a respectable young lady and has done no such thing".
So I'd put my thumb to my nose and make faces as they sat".
"My grandmother always raised us to be "GOOOD" "GOOOD" and I was goood.
It was so boring.
They used to get so frustrated with me".
"I was so proud of my father.
Everywhere he went he had to fix people.
He changed things
nomatter where he'd go. He always said
"I CAN MAKE IT BETTER FOR THEM.
IT CAN BE BETER".
He never loved me. Didn't have time. I should call him.
I want to call my father"
Me:
"Did he ever self-actualize and realize that he was making their lives /his version/ of better? Before he died, did he realize maybe what he thought was better wasn't better for everyone?"
W:
"No.
He was a tsunami that changed everything he touched. We girls
respected him.
Listen to me, hah.
talking about such things, on a toilet.
I have no dignity left.
We have to laugh.
Am I crazy?
Me:
"You're no more crazy than I am.
Who wants to be sane? That's no fun".
W:
"That's right!
If you can't laugh,
you die".
Me:
"Earlier, to describe yourself
as a child, you said
you were "Evil".
Do you beleive that part of the reason you were so "evil"
was because you were beautiful?
And you knew it?".
W:
She paused for a moment and pursed her lips in contemplation.
...
"Yes."
The woman nods a slow turtles nod, with both eyes shut and squinting and a pouted mouth.
Her puckered lips fade into a smile.
"Yes, absolutely It was".
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC