"poultry" poems
Flown Away . . .
Mom tweets; Dad Twitters
The children sling angry birds
Poultry words are shared
A gap, Agape . . .
With desks connected
And sharing a power strip
We exchange e-mails
Cellacious . . .
Discourse is lacking?
Digital Intimacy!
May our Smart-Phones touch?
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a
florist behind her. *'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'*
She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
I have nothing better to do
when it rains so I go to the pier
on vacation with my pole and chicken necks
and rusted traps, drive down
to where the kayaks wait
in the mud, stop to smell
where fresh fish float through
brackish waters and tie a knot
at the end of my string, attach a bob
and minnow and cast
out towards the bay spotting
dead skates and hope
for mackerel and striper,
how my father taught me be gentle
I tie the necks to string and let the meat sink
below the surface and wait to be caught
up with delicious ****** poultry
to feed on and get trapped behind
the jailed walls. I hope the blue
crab knows I had to drive over
the county line in my shoddy white
pickup to the quiet co-op
when she bites into the chicken
for our dinner.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
it will be, you know
1.
small bird
shivering
kind hand
covering
warmth
spreading
destined
for life
2.
her well-trained cats
at the door
ants always spared (!)
on sill
with sugared saucer
poultry in the yard
collecting deep-yolked eggs
making gooseberry jam
and sweet, strong tea
with hot milk
just for me
she taught me inner grace
and the real meaning
of quietness
just birds chattering away
whistling wondrous
in fig trees
laden with heavy fruit
awaiting her deft hands
how I loved her so
accounting exams
interrupted
in sixth grade
sorry
she's gone, dear
dumbstruck silence
they ask
why I'm not crying?
3.
kismet peeps in
to embrace you
and kiss your brow
you try to sidestep
and stub a toe
knock your head
in the end:
full-circle prayer
que sera...sera
S T, 28 June 2013
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
Tell me,
Does the scarlet of a rose
surpass the turquoise of a tulip?
Which is larger:
The savouriness in poultry
Or the sweetness of candies?
How much more
Is the descant of a soprano
Than the rumble of a bass?
Honestly,
I'm not really certain.
But I trust what you tell me is right.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
No more vibrant bazaars with vegetables lined across carts
No more shouts of vendors piqued with anticipation for the day's sell
No more selling of fruits and poultry to the hordes of families lining near a mandi
I must be on the wrong street, my memory fails me.
No more spices being sold for a day of solace from the midnight cries of a mewling child?
No more rabble of vendors that belong on fields, away from home and from their wives?
Is this even Delhi?
Oh! Look a tricolor map on a desolate stretch of empty push-carts
Why does that torn flag that unites us all hang low in humility?
Where are all the people of the city?
Is that my India putting on a broken disguise?
The only thing holding me together is my dignity
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 12:43 PM UTC
Adjectives continue
their downward spiral,
with adverbs likely to follow.
Wisdom, grace, and beauty
can be had three for a dollar,
as they head for a recession.
*Diaphanous, filigree,
pearlescent*, and love
are now available
at wholesale prices.
Verbs are still blue-chip investments,
but not many are willing to sell.
The image market is still strong,
but only for those rated AA or higher.
Beware of cheap imitations
sold by the side of the road.
Only the most conservative
consider rhyme a good option,
but its success in certain circles
warrants a brief mention.
The ongoing search for fresh
metaphor has caused concern
among environmental activists,
who warn that both the moon and the sea
have measurably diminished
since the dawn of the Romantic era.
Latter-day prosodists are having to settle
for menial positions in poultry plants,
where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms
is considered a valuable trait.
The outlook for the future remains uncertain,
and troubled times may lie ahead.
Supply will continue to outpace demand,
and the best of the lot will remain unread.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
He is a wringer
snapper of neck, diseased infested bird.
Dancing ***** strippers
pieces of puked up poultry.
Laugh when the sun is up
during the night you are real
when the clowns come out to tease and ****
haunted by their giggles
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Poseidon reared his unkempt head
Above the waves today
An ocean monster dripped in dread
Chest to chest with the bay
“Today, or any day at all!”
The shore-side heard his plea
Salt shucked shoulders tall as islands small
“No being shall ever challenge me!”
One gull omitted a thoughtful word
Which sounded much like “Rak!”
One offended brow raised at what he heard
Poseidon countered with a slap
Five foul fingers touched the sky
And fell upon the sea
A wave as great as mountains high
Sighed upon the beaches knee
With a drunken beat of lazy wing
The gull escaped his perch
Finding another on which to cling
Without a moment’s search
Fists clenched around the shallows
Poseidon was enraged
With urchin riddled lips pursed he bellowed
And blew the beach away
Up went beachgoers along the coast
Into the sandy storm
Sun chapped mums beginning to roast
Castling children, One man named Norm
Gull glided softly on the wind
Providing a flap or two
And to the defeated Poseidon's chagrin
Let out a cantankerous coo
In one last fit of aqueous rage
Posiedon surfaced to land
And in a briny blind rampage
Grabbed the gull with swole hands
Gull in hand Poseidon yelled
“What dare you mean sly poultry?
My kingdom is unparalleled,
All pilgrims seek my choultry”
But the oily gull slipped through his grip
And flew quite far away
And as he watched it dive and dip
He came to see the bay
Debris was strewn across the sand
His subjects were in ruin
Disaster spread across the land
And it was all his doin’
A desperate shade turned Poseidon
As he returned to the great deep
“What use am I as a mighty king
If protection I cannot keep?”
That is how a seagull won
Against The God of Sea
Who forgot about his job, just one,
To keep the big blue world carefree
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
Petrified are the hoppers who fed on all the corn that died
Terrified are the squirrels whose nuts were taken for harvest
Angry are the birds that never seems to stubble upon a worm
Hungry is the cannibal who tore my flesh and drank from my blood stream
The hoppers will cut the dry hay pasture
Squirrels will dig into poultry houses
Birds will fly to were lichen surfaces rocks
But this cannibal will hunger to death 'cause I will return,
dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Navel gazing poetry reduction
Set schemes and syllables, are all defined
Words within these set guidelines are confined
automatic, a five point deduction
odd
nothing really rhymes with
poetry
poultry?
I
am
sure
the
chickens
like
a
certain
rhythm
to
the
piece
(kind of looks like one)
But in Days of yore, but so goes the tale
Poets would lyric, prose, perhaps, with a lute
But poorly formed rhyme meant pay not in loot
A Homophone, gets you payment, in ale
Momentarily,
The flow is interrupted
By a small Haiku
The point of the piece would be
As anyone could plainly see
without breaking some joints
to win back the points
And not be among the debris
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Quickly cunning,
armed with a witted tounge.
Eyes of a murderer,
with the rope already strung.
Coat of copper,
lying sweetly as it promises,
the appearance of a dog.
The fox feeds once again.
He runs through the brambles,
reminiscent of an open door.
Eats all the farmer's poultry.
His mouth waters no more.
As quickly as he came,
the bushes he now does part.
He has stolen a living.
He has stolen my heart.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
I tried to protect you by not remembering when the rabbis were teachers
and preachers we're on the beaches
Wishes were had in between sheets
Catfish spoken riddles but truthfully
Beautiful ripples in *******
So I was going to invite you over for txgiving but all pathology from the dsm-5 was represented. When I say over, I mean to KFC-
cousin Larry had to work but all the coleslaw and breadcrumbs you can swallow. How bout you did you get stuffed by the poultry-geist?
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
In sandaled feet we stroll beside the hedgerow
And Satan’s nettle bites with wicked teeth;
But doctor leaf is growing in abundance:
Open all hours to provide relief.
For God created all things bright and wondrous
And took his rest upon the seventh day;
Then evil set to work with Mother Nature
And led the birds and beasts and bugs astray.
The owl and hawk prey upon helpless creatures:
Vole, shrew and rabbit are their daily bread;
While fox sneaks up and steals the farmer’s poultry
And banquets when the farmer’s in his bed.
Way up above our heads in lofty tree tops
A greater crime’s committed than the rest:
The infant cuckoo murders all his siblings,
By pushing eggs and fledglings from the nest.
Survival of the fittest is important
In order for a species to survive;
If only dodos had been more aggressive-
Then those peculiar birds might be alive.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
in my mind,
i work at a third world convention,
bleeding saliva and avocado paint
behind a mule's *** like
seeking coverage was difficult
or something.
now it's past
the pillaging of painted americans,
valleys once rolled with corn and feather's weight,
but seized by nation's serious fathers.
the table creaks as sister
literally screams, "Grace!"
and the cotton tablecloth even
bows its head in poultry's spicy scent.
i said it was past,
un-remembered after a
murderer (more than)
antagonized another's HDTV
(bold, high, pronounces, and shrieks
more shivering-ly
than when a spider stepped on my toe).
now there are halos
beginning to blush,
vibratos crescendoing to
the last of leaf's sultry breath.
Noel was large-eyed,
carols twirling lighter than snow.
they made the Lord
wonderous, because o,
my baby king,
the manger was not a velvet cushion,
and neither will his
(or your)
days to come.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
Ichor
Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
opticon
theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind **** beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
Replace
old blood
Regicide,
Warm
running
red
over
Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
White emaciated pale weathered withered
wothered wondered want I want I wont ...
A L I L Y S T A N D S
In v a n i t y v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
Look how it not dies in my hands.
Look
I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...
When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
River
run red
with
orange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
a
l
l
To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
I stretch, and stretch
up towards a place where my head is far
further above so
that I cannot hear the jet engine of your words.
I hear my bones creak
with the effort to get
away from the pollution
of your coal train ramming me.
I hear only my body
cracking like spring ice
as I rise, rise -
rise above your noise toxins
that settle like limp and sodden cardboard crowns
worn about your tortured head.
High above your hollow community
above your entitlement park,
above your tiny-
tinny voice.
I hear it. Your hateful sounds like poultry jibber
so far down in
atmospheres
below.
I laugh to hear your wordless squawl!
I stretch but now to bend
and see you
beneath my squishy toes.
Bend at the waist
to see who's nipping at my ankles
and I cry a tear of mirth.
A white rapid that
whisks your bitter apple groove
far away.
I stretch you gone.
I stretch you indifferent.
I grow myself pardoned, I grow my self free.
sahn
2/15/15
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Home alone
I play Dinner
Dinosaur.
Growl through dead
Poultry in
Sauce.
Men; perpetual
Boys.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Are you a fruitcake?
Are you all kinds of nuts?
Do you eat poultry
and
turn in-to chicken butts?
If we are what we eat
I guess I'll say moo!
Oink cluck, glub glub,
and
cock-a-doodle doo.
I do not eat crows
road runners,
or
turkey gizzards
monkey or elephants
or brown to green lizards.
So, guess what's for lunch?
Yum, fried Alligator,
with octopus legs,
bye bye
see ya later.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Looking around
the banquet table
Feeling the singe
of all the glances
Sifting through
unknown enemies
I hear the
laughter
I see the
guilt
I smell the
champagne
Waiting for
a devil's sunrise
Sweating from
dancing candlelight
Flanking shadows
catch me smiling
I make my
move
I cut swiftly
and deeply
I set the poultry
upon my plate
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
I found myself in a record shop
Which got me all to wondering
How these bands all got their names
And wouldn't it be summon
If I went through all the racks
And pulled them randomly
What it is that I would find
To solve this mystery
When this idea hit me
I was standing before the M's
So based upon that simple fact
Is where this journey begins
Mega Death-You must be kidding!
Are theses guys for real?
How big a death do you have to die
Before your still road ****
I decided to jump around
To get the full effect
Can not help but wonder
At what will pop up next
Oh, lookie here...Butt Hole Suffers
I bet their momma's proud
When those guys hang ten
Are they surfing in or surfing out
I came across Badfinger
In an old 70's record bin
I'm telling you the honest truth
I don't care to know where that fingers been
Over yonder a band called The, The
The, The...What?!
Then there's Chumbawamba
Chumbawamba...Whoba?!
This may all sound a bit far fetched
But it's the honest to goodness truthba!
The H's are holding Hoobastank
The closest I can figure
Is that the guys in this band
Hang out with Badfinger
Albino Toilet Boys
Cottage Cheese From The Lips Of Death
My Dog Has Hitlers Brains
Norman Bates And The Shower Heads
Poultry In Motion
Brady Bunch Lawn Mower Massacre
**Roid Rodgers And The Whirling **** Cherries**
Are today's record shop de jour
As I'm leaving out the door
Arms piled high with newly purchased song
I grab the last copy of **Yoko ****
For soothing dinner music later on
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
I just received a letter of warning
From the people of PETA no doubt
Informing me they've seen my new picture
I think the chicken must have ratted me out
Well you can rest cause I can assure you
In the picture no poultry was harmed
And the chicken also was taken
From a free range organic natural farm
The letter held all the usual jargon
About lawyers and lawsuits and such
It's not like the chicken was wasted
After filming I had her over for lunch
So let me tell all you people at PETA
Don't get your ******* all up in a ***
Right after my head she laid, I supplied the Preparation H
Then carried her gently to the chopping block
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
You Use To
drop the turkey
twice on special holidays
glaze the ham
with stubborn certainty
that lime chutney was
just the ticket
Sterno steaks
brought your short lived
grilling career to a
screeching halt
not to be outdone
by the half- cooked goose
with New Year’s champagne
what I wouldn't give
to see you
greasing
the kitchen floor
with poultry again.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC