"pretzels" poems
I love baseball and football.
basketball, and hockey too.
Boxing, golf and wrestling,
but not as much as I love you.
Never think I put sports first.
You’re more important to me.
Now bring me a drink & pretzels,
and get outta’ the way of the TV!
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:39 AM UTC
worldly belongings
paper pencils pillows pretzels
bedtime things
blankets pillows secrets sighs
shuddering words
chill moist blossom cinder
seashell emptiness
can you hear the ocean?
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.
Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?
Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
(have you ever touched the rock?)
(has anyone?)
I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.
I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.
We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.
I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
I don't know what he was to others—
fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
most of the time.
As always, when he died this year
he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
I listened to his death rattle
of rustling yellow leaves
and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
and wave at me.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
everything is in boxes
in my mother’s house
in my father’s house
in the back of my trunk
different things in each of them
books and vinyl
jesus, innocence, mirrors
paintings that my little brother and sister
made for me at school
and i can’t find my journal in any of them
i didn’t used to have to tie strings
around my pinkies
to remind myself to breathe in words
i used to write too much
with ink smears tattooed on the
side of my left hand
i carried it around
******* on my fingers
tasting the poetry drip
from my mouth like sticky mango juice
and people read it
and my muses hated me
and i didn’t even have to try
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves
It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster
This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******
I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"
This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married
You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them
My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed
But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts
We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in
I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches
I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands
Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
What is wrong with using "not"?
It is a negative to an eloquent adjective, verb or noun.
Simply the opposite state of being; which one should NOT frown
For programmers, "not" is a logical complement,
which helps us filter-out things we do NOT want.
And is used sparsely and NOT to flaunt
By simply twisting our thought at 180-degrees,
it's used to portray an abrupt reversal image in our mind.
A quick look at a mirror, and NOT you will find.
Affix a k-, yet "knot" still sounds the same
but it will help keep our things secure.
From our pretzels, shoes and the ribbon-wrapped gifts we procure.
Add an s-, and the children will be amused;
defiance is in its nature, is it NOT?
That is, to disgust their friends with each others snot.
So, to be or NOT to be.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
“Ah you hate to see another tired man / Lay down his hand / Like he was giving up the holy game of poker”
Leonard Cohen
<>
“Will I remain within God's house at night as shadows drift through dimming my light?”
written by Weeping Willow, gifted to me, by Edmund Black
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I,
***instant understanding, perhaps in my experiential possess,
some answerings perhaps...product of late night, many, many
theological arguments over poker games, with coarse men,
tough women, and ethically-challenged Gods, all faithful regular attendees
With a little bit o’ luck from an occasional guardian angel, even
I possess an occasional winning hand.
now we all commence with a passionate uttered blessing,
for the good beer and salty pretzels, giving thanks for having
reached this act-exact moment of being, here and now, in God’s house at night, plus a holy add-on variation, a swear-to-god (we all snicker) promise solemn, no cheating, no absolutely divine peeking/spying in soulful futures, no fun in that, sanctified & sealed with hearty amens and ****** noises offered for emphasis.
hear you scratching you head, wondering what all this to do
with a whispered prayer of soulful, on-shore drilling deep,
product of a drill bit cutting the black quietude of interstellar voids internal, where there is no censorship, lying an impossibility, and the only questions are super hard, so some never return with an answer truthful
so, I remain in God’s House, playing poker, with deities who
jealous guard their moments as human facsimiles...cherishing humans who guard with care, an ability to see that they and gods differ little, when making honest truth a shared primacy
in the intimacy
of an overnight stay
in God’s house at night,
all our coming-led light dims,
when my/their need is greatest***!
(written sometime this year, Jan. 2021, Manhattan)
~~~~
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 6:36 PM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Since you guessed the Password on her Chat
And realised your Smooth Ring was the Key
Past Admin's notice the Prince on the Bat
Made promised Pretzels and let her Love be
Happily, miraculous Spheres you own
Which you found real Logins are just as base
Place it closer to you. And it was shown
Just how pillowy was her lone disgrace
Try to be yourself. These Guys on the fringe
Act on tattled theatres they do not know
Ever thinking they live Life on the binge
When all this time it was just for ****** show.
Continue your Chat. She deserves to talk
But make sure then you take her for a walk.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
You can’t see me,
But I’m here at my desk,
In a gray swivel chair,
In a sea of cubicles.
But you can’t see me.
And you can’t see
My colleagues
Over the shoulder
Concerned faces.
Or their quiet looks
Of sympathy.
And you can’t hear me,
Because you’re too busy,
Screaming.
And I know
You’re scared.
“My loved ones are being taken advantage of“
You say,
But this is a one sided conversation.
So I let you talk,
And I let you end it.
“Go **** yourself,”
I say to a dead line.
And I go out for pretzels and beer.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:30 AM UTC
Twist ties are for pretzels
Not killers of dialogue
Unless, of course
You dream of
Stalking wire pieces
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
Aaron Evans - Magic
I love you, I really do
Alex Forte - ****
**** you
Alex S - *****
I hate what you made me become
Andrew T -Beer
Do good in Rehab, dear
Austin Kearns - Lake Water
really?
Garrett A - Pretzels
Burn in Hell
Garrett F - Soy Sauce
I'm so sorry
Hunter G - Cigarettes
You still turn me on
Jason H - Bubblegum
I kissed you out of pity
Jeff C - Water
I'd still Hate **** you
JJ S - Ciroc
What a regret
John Bradshaw - Football
How is Pennsylvania?
Johnny Bozeman II - Marlboro Reds
I just really ******* miss you
John Butler - Coffee
Don't ever touch me again
John G - Sugar
I'm sorry I ruined it
Julian R - Cherry Popsicles
Thank you for freeing me
Justin B - Cheap Wine
*******
Justin Haupt - Mint
I really enjoyed all the free *******
Katie Moorman - Red Lipstick
IloveyouImissyouI'msorry
Kyrstin Bruce - Grey Goose
I don't like kissing you
Mario Luppachino - Pool Water
I would've ****** you in my car that night
Michael H - Hash Brownies
Stay Away
Ryan T - Want
Kissing you made me *** in a school hallway
Rusty H - Need
I still wonder what became of you
Sam R - Mistakes
Heard you're a father now, congrats
Sean Ellis - Berry Hookah
sigh
Steven Spence - Gasoline
I'm a **** person and so are you
Taylor Vaughn - Sunset
Go back to your baby mama
Tim Hoback - Hangover at 7 am
You made me breakfast and gave me your pants
Trevor W - Candy
Time is a funny thing, huh?
Tyler Farris - Missed Connections
If I was a little prettier could I have been your baby?
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
I looked at the room broken bottles blood fragments of clothes.
maybe a tooth from somebody not fast are to drunk to get outta the way of a conversation turned bad.
The juke box had almost made it threw but it just had to
play that one song that caused it to become a target
for a flying cue ball.
And I herd someone speaking to the toilet I thought maybe
I wasnt that hungry after all.
As to what caused the riot slash the human tornado of fun I cannot say
But in my opinion that jukebox had it coming always playing the wrong songs at the right time no one likes a ********
And that drag queen could sure throw a mean left hook.
While looking fierce and lip sinking to madonna at the same time that my friends take true talent .
Seems as though the register had went on vacation but they
left the wild turkey and pretzels thank god happy hour was almost apon us.
And theres nothing worse than telling a proffesional drinker as myself
theres no snacks it's like tellinga kid theres no santa claus.
And that big fat guy in the red suit with his little dwarfs
were really just some of momies friends.
I always wondred why santa was so into getting the crap beat outta him
by a woman in a latex outfit calling herself mistress Claus.
Yes coffee always made things better mixed with some of my personal corn whiskey yeah grandpa may went insane and herd voices from drinking the stuff but at least he always had someone to talk to.
As I looked at the chaos that was my headquarters memories came to me in a flood the booth were I met my first wife.
that same booth were i caught her with my best friend and worst enemy and santa i swear he gets around.
So much for online dating dam you napster.
I should just stick with street walkers and circus people.
And I think after my tweenty first DUI
that it was good i never had a license to start with.
cause i really hate losing anything.
It's a shame about my mind.
So really other than this little get togather turned riot turned
love in turned back to brawl turned into
big kid slumber party.
It was after the jukebox had to put in it's two cents
that it all turned to ****
For nothing kills the mood worse than a bad song
at the right time.
Love always Dr Gonzo
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
I sing America from Frankford
Commonly called 'home of the 'trem',
where the buses fly down the street, almost crashing into feral children
Where the scent of not-so-soft delicious pretzels are ubiquitous as it
soars through the streets like an airplane
Where the impudent teenagers scream at night
sounding like an angry choir
Where elderly widows rise gardens out of damaged bushes and dead grass
Tiny un-trimmed lawns are a can of tuna for stray cats
Where row homes cover tiny streets connect everyone
causing too much closeness
Where gum coated pavements are welcome mats to the running feet
running to catch their bus
Where cop cars fly down the streets, providing the next scene for the new Fast and Furious
Where at night, the constant sirens echo in the night sky
piercing through my ears
But in the end, I wouldn't want to be anywhere
but here.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
My phalanges shake under the
Blood red sunset
My heart beats rapidly
In my throat
My nerves consume
Every inch of my flesh
I'm sitting on that bench
Our bench
Outside that little store
Our store
And I'm thinking of you
Dreaming of you
And it's Autumn
And that song you played
Our song
It's stuck in my head
Because I don't think
It ever left
If only there was a way
To avoid this whole situation
Some way to circumvent
Around life
But there's not
And suddenly
I'm distracted by an
Angel
Or the closest thing to it
That I've ever seen
On Earth
Straight purple hair
Pierced septum
Thick black eyeliner
Cuts down her arms
Oceans in her eyes
It's cold
And I'm alone
And I'm waiting for you
And she's there
And my mind is spinning
And my heart drops
And my posterior goes numb
And I swear to God
If you don't hurry up
I'm going to follow her home
Because my mind is
Skidding off the fringes
Of sanity
And my emotions are
Twisting like pretzels
In a bakery
Confused and broken
The girl
That caught my mind
And stole my time
Walks by in slow
Motion
And the reason
That I'm so easily
Obsessed
With her
Is because she did
Something
No one ever
Could
For a few moments
She actually helped me
Forget about you
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Getting on
through a trying work hour in the night-time rush,
groped by strangers with dark eyes
the color of neglect and whiskey.
Men with knives under their sleeves,
calling you back and back again,
refills for their poison and pretzels for the table,
don't be a ***** darling.
I only want to feel those hands trembling
under mine.
All you ever knew were the bruises and the burns.
Gliding closer and closer to
your face, your hands,
inching towards the skin that gleams, exposed
and invokes the shame you feel from
fetid breath on your neck, these
animals with moldering livers.
but another round for the men in the grease and grime.
Green bottles and a smile that said
'I like the taste of your weakness,
You like the abuse.'
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Are we on my **** yet?
Because it's coming up
Conversation of time
six to noon
Innuendo
Ending up inside of you
It was going to happen
Sooner rather than
Lather you later
******* up with new
Ways to make pretzels
Carnival sideshow
We make *******
Confections
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
Oldest of two
Responsible for none
She was always a daddy's girl
And a morning person
She quit a lot of jobs
Before she turned 20
And when she wasn't planning to marry someone
Exactly like her father
They were ripping each other's heads off
Over nothing
She had strong shoulders
Not as broad as her sister's
She started swimming later
She was always more of a runner
Than anything else
Her parents should have known
Not to let so many hopes
Ride on her
Because life savings didn't translate
Into education
Her nose was always sniffing in the wrong books
Nothing on the booklists
Flouting authority was her favorite thing
So all of daddy's money
Couldn't buy her a degree
And all the lectures
She didn't attend
Couldn't make her see a dream that wasn't hers
Truth be told
She wasn't aiming all that high in the first place
A sturdy library
A cottage in the country
A dog
A tattoo sympathetic
Honest-eyed husband
And then she picked all the wrong ones
With every broken heart
And every finished book
She called home crying
"Dad, I can't do this. I am so lost. I see the destination but not the path."
She'd been drinking again
Frequenting tattoo parlors again
It would be a lie to say he wasn't disappointed
When she could have been
A professor, a musician, an author
Or president by then
"It'll be ok," he said
And when she asked why it couldn't be better than just OK
He asked "have you been taking your meds?"
She hung up
And thought back to a time when the whole world tasted like
Beer and pretzels
Before she even knew what beer was
It was a picture on the wall
A curly-headed
Naked girl
Tiptoe on a stepping stool
Making pancakes with her daddy
So when the sun came up
Breakfast would be ready
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
As I'm dipping pretzels in my tea
My cat wanders on up to me
He rubs at my leg, as if to say
I know how you feel, you wish he'd stay
He climbs on my lap, looks me in the eyes
*I know you wish he were here tonight
I know you miss him -- I miss him too*
But then I realize, he probably just wants some food
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
We plan, organize, gather and pack,
we fly - what liberty is this - to fly
like a weapon on the edge of heaven.
Having no power to do it ourselves
we trust security, the silver whirligig,
and the immutable laws of lift and ******
Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound
“Yes, I’ll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite.”
aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights
wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars.
We land with a bump, and reverse engine ******
remaining in our seats until signs are revealed
we then become the many-headed impatience
to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust
made the journey with us.
Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus
the grumpy, disheveled, six of us
we weary travelers thus
were returned from vacation,
to a near dawn New Haven.
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 10:04 AM UTC
I got hummus and pretzels,
but I wanted a bag of chips.
I got creamer and cheesecake,
but ate corned beef hash with a pepsi.
I don't quite think I'm lying about
who I am to myself, but
on the other hand I'm feeling
like there's something behind
those curtains. Friends I don't
give a **** about, and an increasing
incentive to just start walking
and never turn around. There's
a diner somewhere out there
with a meat and potatoes dish
just as good as mom's, I bet.
I'd sincerely like to give a ****
Sometimes I wonder if life seems
easier for people who feel gung-ho
about dying in military slavery
and ********** to FOX news.
If you're reading this,
hey, maybe we're not so different;
You play a zealot's game of
love and peace, but pull the trigger
right in their children's faces,
and I tip-toe around people
I couldn't care less about.
We nourish each other in the way
that chairs aid discussion
in an episode of Jerry Springer.
Doesn't have to be comedy,
but I wasn't going to cry about it.
I'd probably just fib and say
everything's aces.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC