"porridge" poems
Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
It it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!
On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.B.E."
(By a young dog of three)
11k
My unrequited golden dove,
you are a merchant banker
them bloomin' groovy bars
are sad tonight
but given the chance I wouldda gotten
cash & carried
& spent me porridge knife
loving your mince pies
had I not known
you'd treat me golden dove thus
& yes, been your trouble & strife
with all me Horse & cart.......
I know, not smart
I know, not smart
Translation:
( In English tis not a very impressive poem... it's just amusing how you can make cockney rhyming slang into a poem, so I've been experimenting.... I really want to send this to the guy I'm unrequitedly in love with actually... & leave him (hopefully)confused & in the dark as to what I wrote....mostly I just really want to call him a ' merchant banker' e.g ' wanker' & get away with it!! xD ' Wanker' is a particularly offensive term to use when referring to a man!)
* My unrequited love
you are a ******
them ****** stars
are sad tonight
but given the chance I would have gotten
married
& spent my life
loving your eyes
had I not known
you would treat my love thus
& yes, been your wife
with all my heart
I know, not smart
I know, not smart*
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
There once was a girl called Goldilocks
Who lived in a forest filled with phlox
She did not to have a soul to play with
And in the forest she would often drift
She once became lost, the lonely, little girl
The one with the head full of golden curls
Panicked and scared, she came upon a house
But it appeared that everyone there was out
She helped herself to the food, cold and hot
She tried the chairs until one hit the spot
Too tired to try to make her way back
She hit the sheets to take a nap
Very picky was this lost, lonely tot
Some porridge was too cold, some too hot
Beds too soft or too hard to sleep tight
Only one she found that felt just right
Mama, Papa, and Baby Bear were soon back on arrival
After a long day of fishing for their survival
What? Who had their nose in each of their bowls?
Gone was one porridge that to the brim was full
And who had sat in and broke one of the chairs?
It looked like a human by some strands of golden hair!
Hunters? Oh, no! Could they be on the prowl?
The bears sniffed around and started to growl
Baby Bear was the first to see
The little girl catching some Z's
"Oh, cool!" exclaimed little Baby Bear
"Can we keep her? Can she stay here?"
They all came upon Goldilocks all snug in bed
Papa Bear was now furious and began to see red
"And you call us animals!" he yelled loudly at her
"Who gives you the right?! Where are your manners?!"
Goldilocks woke up with an ear piercing shriek
Facing three hairy bears, she could not speak
Out the house she ran, far enough to see her home near
And that was the last that Goldilocks saw of those bears!
"She was just a scared, little girl", Mama Bear said to her spouse
"We could have stopped her and let her stay in our house!"
Papa Bear, disagreeing with her foolish trust, swore
**** it! I told you the last one out locks the door!!!"
"You begin feeding them...they are so clever
You'll never get rid of them. They stick around forever!"
Mama Bear refused to fight, for Papa Bear refused to bend
And that is all there is to the story. THE END!
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.
Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits
And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more
Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother
Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
porridge with syrup
duvets & long lies
crime novels, tea steam
she sleeps as the leaves die
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Mother bear in a waterfall
With bigger thoughts than blonde harlots
Eating porridge,
Fallen starlets with outer space in their hair.
Just you wait;
I'll be the happiest little sonofabitch
You've ever seen.
Some small consolation, if any.
That weekend we spent with our
Necks perpendicular to our spines,
Of course I still remember the films we watched.
I condition my hair with split infinitives
And live off the poisoned dew that settles
Every morning in my closet.
Turn your little black dress inside-out,
I've got this magic idea for a recipe
But we're going to need some ants
And that crazy Harryhausen dream you've got up in your attic.
Ten or twelve little blond kids up
On the cliff, each ten or twelve years old
And dancing with a flame-Buddha called "Home".
Let's spend this week underwater,
I'd much rather give up my weight and my due
If it ensured me any small hour
With you. Oh, god how I love you anymore.
I may have told you this a while ago,
But did you know the first Pledge of Allegiance
Put us some good height above God?
Sometimes I find the sugar in my gas tank
Makes for a rough start in the morning,
Not that I particularly want to go anywhere,
But it's what I've thought that counts.
He's a bit upset that I skipped movie last night:
But I can't play horizontal baseball
With my violent, violent imaginary friend.
The Rubik's cube beats deep in my chest
Without a hand to cheat and rearrange the stickers.
Claude enunciates something queer into my ear
And turns off the lamp with a snap.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
she hovers over the handwritten letter
with maniacal grin gripping her face
as she devours his texted words
with weeping eyes
and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some
forgotten french dialect
delightful reflections in song of the garden gate
leaning broken onto the rough hewn path
where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed
in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears
and labour at the desires never felt and
the dark soils never fertile
seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon
which decorates the far wall of the tomb
the cherubs brief delighted laughters
soon sputter and fail
as in the dying light of day
reveals that they must labour yet another day
to no useful end
she lives in this place
a cottage of straw with dark windows
and a wood stained door
she sits on its porch with knitting in hand
weaving futures for her beloved cherubs
weaving pasts for her own
she devoured him like she did his words
and came home to roost
like her innocent faced dragoons
she will someday march forth with this army of doom
but today she is content to be contrite
knitting porridge and whey wall hangings
from the tables of the
steampunk princess
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
Water the Greenhouse
Water the plants on the deck.
Walk Autumn Moon.
Salutation to the Sun
Yoga on the deck
Prayers
Angel of Air
Reading & Study with Ken
Sipping herbals & he, his coffee.
Pick up.
Moving the living room furniture
Rearranging. Sweeping. Mopping.
Clean the kennel.
Fresh bedding for Autumn.
A break for Sevenfold Peace in the sunshine.
Listening to the Holy Stream of Sound.
Playing with Autumn.
Laughing with Ken.
Continuing with rearranging & cleaning
Done!
Another break
With Ken, Autumn & Habibie
By the firepit in front of the shop.
Auti chasing water up and down and around.
Walk to Alli's, talk and pick up the key.
Cut broccoli, cabbage, carrots, & kale
Add a few pods of peas
Drizzle poppy seed dressing.
Two bowls with 1/2 cup of rolled oats each
Add cinnamon.
Taking a teaspoon
Half full with honey.
Dipping it into the center of the oats
Pouring boiling water over the honey.
Into the oats.
Stirring and stirring
Watching the cinnamon spirals
Mix into the sweet porridge.
Small cacao chips, sunflower seeds
A few raisins
Sprinkled as garnish.
Eating together
Smallville, playing with Autumn
Habibie resting near by.
She maybe carrying kittens.
Too early to tell.
Tired. Good night. Sleep.
2:30 am.
Ken up watching a movie on is phone.
My, my, how times have changed.
Return to bed.
Writing, writing, writing….now it is done.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 1:07 PM UTC
When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.
My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.
We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.
That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.
Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.
Please, welcome me.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
You said you're innocent
and that all was just coincidence
I sneered "Oh, such confidence.."
I feigned my courage
but how could I manage
to taste this cold spoilt porridge?
Why does it hurt more when you say this?
Why does your tears feel like acid on my skin?
Do you see these wounds?
They never healed
You scratched my scars
All those times you pleaded
You twisted the knife you once stabbed
You drilled your nails as I watch it jarred to my flesh
And what else? Drenched them with brine of memories
But where were you all those years?
When this girl cried buckets
Drowned with her own tears?
How I wish
You can put her arms back to their sockets
Maybe then
She will forget how you made her feel
And once again
Hold you like everything was just a dream.
-Twist The Knife, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
As I lay beside my darling
On an early Sunday morn,
I could feel her rounded softness
Sleeping under blankets warm.
My mind caroused the memories
And loitered on it's way
And found itself deliciously,
Immersed in golden play.
I remembered something special
In the way my little boy would look
As his eyes rose up in wonderment
When I read his favorite book.
And the joy involved in feeding
A hungry little mouth
When the porridge spooned all over
From the eyebrows heading south.
A tantalizing moment
On the beach down by the sea,
In the warm December sunshine
With my happy family.
We were running in the black sand
Drawing circles with a stick
As the surging waves approached them
Laughing little boys were quick.
Laughing, happy moments
And some sad ones like the day
When dear old Meg, our Labrador,
Got sick and passed away.
Young Boaz in his sadness
Climbed the big tree to it's crown
And it took a lot of pleading
To persuade him to come down.
And young Solly played the taniwha
At the Cornwall Park school play
And a better taniwha has yet
To grace the stage today.
A natural in his element
This young comedian
So hilariously funny
As he drew the audience in.
The tender, loving moments
As we both strolled arm in arm
Through the verdant Ferntree Gully
With it's sunlit grace and charm.
And the towering eucalyptus,
Hanging wood smoke in the air
And the whiplash resonation
Of the lyrebird hidden there.
Of Buttercup's wild parties
When fancy dress was king,
When everyone would whoop it up
And laugh and dance and sing.
When mum's and dad's and little kids
All joined the happy throng
With spud mashing as a ceremony
And a night of fun and song.
Of sitting in the garden
With your feet up and a book
And a cold beer at your elbow
And a barbecue to cook.
With the easy feel of family
As they go about their day
And the joyous sound of summer
When two noisy tui's play.
Memories of yesterday
Moments in the life
Of ecstasy and agony
And wonderment and plight.
And the ordinary ness of everything
And the magic everywhere,
Like the auburn in the sunlight
As it strikes my darling's hair.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
10 October 2009
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.”
Sack of rice is empty
Stomach rumbling mercilessly
Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically
Cold porridge is a feast.
“Go home!” says Mama sternly
Frantic, frightened, panicky
Rocks hurled, bullets fly
Blood splatters; running aimlessly
We dodge our way to safety
Cold porridge is a feast.
“I will not,” I say adamantly
She looks at the sack mournfully
Empty. Devoid of sanity.
Cold porridge is a feast.
“We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I feel weak, I am crabby
I’m staying despite this misery
Cold porridge is a feast.
Childlike will, piety of soul
Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole
Cold porridge is a feast.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.
The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.
Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.
The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.
Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.
So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?
Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.
Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.
In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
Porage Oats?
Porridge simmering slowly on an old gas hob,
In a large enamel *** that was kept for this job.
We stirred it occasionally with a spoon shaped stick,
This stopped it burning or getting too thick.
You knew when it was time to do the spoon test,
If the spoon stood up strait then it was at its best.
Served with golden treacle the way I liked it most,
That melted like a glaze Oh yes and a slice of toast.
Those cold winter mornings it warmed the heart,
We would all walk to school with a healthy start.
Just been too busy working all my life,
No time to make porridge for me and my wife.
I have tried many new cereals in the past 40 years,
Some not to bad but containing too much sugar.
They call it glaze with bits of chocolate to,
But with a threat of diabetes it just will not do.
Now that I’m retired I go shopping every day,
More time for cooking in the old fashioned way.
Last winter a large promotion caught my eye,
It was for porridge, I could not pass it bye.
Not the instant stuff, cooked in minutes two,
It's Proper Porage Oats that sticks like glue.
Is this a second childhood where I want to play?
No, just a wholesome breakfast for a frosty day.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 8:32 AM UTC
*Boat was ready to leave the shore
An Old man waving hands to get in fast
People come running to the boat,
The only transportation of the village
Sitting in a tea shop watching
The boat leaving with school students,working women,
Fish sellers, vegetable vendors,
Old age youths
It was raining to make it more worse
Back to home with an umbrella of palm leaves
Calling out the number of coconuts ready to pluck
A man on top of the coconut tree with his loops
Courtyard was full of blooming flowers
My favourite the jungle flame flowers
Frog hops after the raindrops
Some hot rice porridge and coconut dip
Was kept ready on the table
Drying my hair with a towel
Had my porridge watching the rain, flowers, flies
And my mother standing near me
With an innocent lovely smile !*
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
Force and fluidity and
Strength
Swimming through
Thick-as-porridge water
Fifty meters gone by
Calm and serene ripples of laden
Muscle and
Waves
A dollop of chlorine soaked into your skin
Fragrant beyond belief
The artificial lake
A square
Of stony beach and
Eight foot deep
Marina trenches
Catch your heavy breath
And react to the adrenaline
Sink deep into the
Blue-black liquid
Admire flecks of
Melted silver emanating
From the fluorescence above
Land on the bottom
With weighted feet then
Push back up and break the surface
Breathe again
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
you, you little
lighthouse of love
your gap-toothed smile
sent out over a bowl of
brown butter porridge
guides me away from
the reef of workday despair.
your hand in mine
so small trusting
and divine
brings me back
to the path
and
out of the dark woods
your cheery wave goodbye
keeps me swimming
through the murk of
the tedious day
and that welcome cuddle
at the end of the day
brings me back to my
home harbour...
you, you little
lighthouse of love
my bearings
my light on the hill
shine on, shine on
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
did you ever do Bojangles at the end of a social rope.
stretched out on an ant hill looking up at the slate gray skies of Babylon.
Slip a notch.
Hop scotch...
give a dog a bone.
Peas porridge hot Peas porridge Cold.
Slip a notch...no porridge at all.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC