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preservationman Oct 2014
An Evil Pumpkin Witch reigning over the pumpkin patch
Planning something sinister not being Pumpkinville’s match
But here is the catch
The Pumpkin Head Witch was vanished centuries ago from the Pumpkin patch
Through our journeys on hills and our thinking on still
Pumpkinville’s town folks decreed a curse
Somehow from the latch the Pumpkin Head Witch was freed in reverse
Now the witch is determined to get her revenge
Darkness casts over Pumpkinville as doom with an end
Danger in the air raging from multitude pumpkin heads
It was a showering effect like a stead
Warriors being the pumpkin heads
The Pumpkin Head Witch’s spell
The citizens in commotion could sense in tell
A sigh at the moment of Oh well
But Pumpkinville had a plan of their own
However the citizens can’t say as it is a spell and they don’t want it to be known
The Evil Pumpkin Witch is having a time in her stride
The hour is now, but there is no sign for abide
Yet the town of Pumpkinville all run for some place to hide
But for the record in Pumpkinville’s book
All it takes is just one look
Pumpkinville’s wish in their own spell
Only seconds remaining that will tell
The wizardry of evil that might sell
The skies remain black and for Pumpkinville to just stand back
Lightening verses the foe, but fate will determine the outcome of the flow.
Emily Joyce Oct 2017
I am a pumpkin.
I am new and young and happy. The grass is comforting and cool. I spend my days lounging in the warm sun surrounded by other pumpkins.
I am a pumpkin.
The grass is changing but I am still comfortable.  The sun isn't as warm but my company makes it all okay.
I am a pumpkin.
I have been taken from what I knew. Everything is different and I'm scared. Why has this happened?
I am a pumpkin.
Until I'm not.
I am a pumpkin but something is wrong.
My head hurts.
It's gone.
I am a pumpkin.
I feel wrong.
I can feel you removing my seeds.
I know I can't stop you but please, be gentle.
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin.
I am... hurting.
The carving is sharp and mechanical.
It's excruciating.
It's okay. It'll be over soon.
Smile? Why?
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin no more.
I am a jack-o-lantern.
I am changed.
I am sore and in pain.
I am bitter but concealed.
I am a jack-o-lantern.
Watch me wither.
Watch me rot.
Watch me smile.
About my experience growing up and having Endometriosis.
Bo Burnham Oct 2016
Someone carved a face in that pumpkin,
and now it's perched on a stoop, grinning
with the same sinister grin the carver must have had
when he carved it.

And everything I recognize as expressive
(the triangular eyes, that big toothy smile)
is marked by a lack of pumpkin.
A red face of dead space.

And now I'm seeing just the opposite.
I see two spots where the eyes should be,
an open wound where the mouth once sat,
and a fire within, baking the insides.
JDM Apr 2013
Would you walk with me into the pumpkin patch?
Lost among the grassy meadow
Would you dance around the scarecrow?
Staring at the smoking cauldron
Do you see the spirits flying over our heads?
Now its time for us to call them

In the waning years of the third era of time reel master was right to discipline us. We are foolish, your life ends here

Do you know why I brought you here with me tonight?
You are the one I chose to join me in my walk of sorrow
All the children walk with me into the darkness
Everyone is holding candles, lets begin the ceremony
I can hear those angels crying so I hold you close to me
Then I grab you by the neck and start to squeeze the life out of you
And then your body dies and your soul floats away
And then I say
Welcome to my pumpkin dream

Would you walk with me into the pumpkin patch?
Lost among the grassy meadow
Would you dance around the scarecrow?
Staring at the smoking cauldron
Do you see the spirits flying over our heads?
Now its time for us to call them

All the children walk with me into the darkness
Everyone is holding candles, lets begin the ceremony
I can hear those angels crying so I hold you close to me
Then I grab you by the neck and start to squeeze the life out of you

Death is upon you

Would you walk with me into the pumpkin patch?
Lost among the grassy meadow
Would you dance around the scarecrow?
Staring at the smoking cauldron
Do you see the spirits flying over our heads?
Now its time for us to call them

Welcome to my pumpkin dream
© JDMaraccini 2013
There's frost on the pumpkin
My life is nearly done
I've caused a lot of heartbreak
And I had a lot of fun
I lived a life of excess
Lived like I was twenty one
But, there's frost on this pumpkin
And my time here's nearly done

I've done more
in my short life
than most folks
do in ten
there's nothing
that i've done
i wouldn't do again

nothing ventured
nothing gained
you've got to show
you were around
nothing ventured
nothing gained
before they
put you in the ground

leave a mark
large or small
just enough
so people think
do things
that create stories
you can laugh at
with a drink

nothing ventured
nothing gained
time is getting close
there''s frost
on this old pumpkin
there's no
petals on the rose

live your life
with feeling
make sure
they know you're here
be the one
that folks remember
don't live your life
in fear

There's frost on the pumpkin
My life is nearly done
I've caused a lot of heartbreak
And I had a lot of fun
I lived a life of excess
Lived like I was twenty one
But, there's frost on this pumpkin
And my time here's nearly done
Poetic T Oct 2016
She knew she wasn't like the other pretty girls,
they had words for her uttered in silence not
formed into word other than those on scraps
of paper. For rumours have power not through
voices but images held like a prisoner in he head,

Disfigured were her traits, genetic abnormalities
most were told or as rumors spread. She held it
every year nearly identical such intricate design
that went into this pumpkin head, those of ill taste,
muttered words aloud is that your father as she
rested on her pumpkin patch.

She smiled with all she could, for her deformity
made the resemblance of a pumpkin similar but
for a difference of she had flowing hair. As years
past and the head seemed just slightly different
with each year that passed seemingly the same as before.

But this time the eyes were hollow and inside not seemingly
pungently orange but white and hollow.. this was scarier
as what became before... till a policemen wondered near.
Smelling a stench of not rotting fruit. but something more.

"Child what do you hold on this dark forbodig night,

"Why my daddy sir, I wanted to show the world something
uglier than I, so I held him on hollow's eve to show the world
that there is something more ugly than me,

"Ugly my child who pray tell would say such a thing,

"Daddy did everyday, said I was a seed from the field
and seeds don't fall far from where they fell,

In amazement he looked beneath where she sat pumpkins
from years gone by had rotted and new ones spouted in
there place but each a distorted look as each started to rot
on top other that had fell. beneath he saw what seemed to
be a palm of white holing on to seed a bag of something prey tell.

"What's in the bag sweetness,

"A bag of seeds, from where his hell sprouted and began,

"Each of these you see is a moment a memory of his life,

"And I sit here with his head and then I place him their
to watch what I crush  each formation o thought under foot,

"For each one that grows is a memory and I will crush them
all under my footing till nothing grows here till death is still,

Child why would you do such a thing,
"Do you not know beauty is on the inside,

"I will show you beauty of what you speak,

Following cautiously from what is seen, he should have radioed
in. But she is but a child what can she do. leading him between the
long grass to a garden of illuminated beauty. looking bewildred
at what was and now seen.

"Through the pumpkin patch, that was my place of regret,

"So what is this place child,

"My garden of redemption,


And those where his last word as she spoke three words


For he was the treat for the flowers to bloom.
Blood lilacs and roses of the night had a taste for certain
nourishment, and they only drank on each hollows eve...

She smiled as she sat on the pumpkin patch, that hand
of her fathers features just revealing enough for her to allure
the curious to not take her features as a needing for sorrow.
but more of a trick to treat that what thirsted out back..
Kelly Rose Sep 2014
I am the Pumpkin Pie
I rule....
Woofer drools with envy
Over the Pumpkin Pie
Oh, yeah he tries so hard
To Usurp me
But I grab that dude
by his ear
And drag his *** about
Cause that Fool
is no Pumpkin Pie
I rule the Roost.

Just a few words
by Pumpkin Pie
The most supreme
dog of the Land
Two puppies who constantly fight for attention
CharlesC Sep 2016
Waiting for the white paper
which underlies this writing
to loose a flow of words
finding Peace
in the facing-off:
a pumpkin and a purple cushion..
Henry David Thoreau chose
to sit on a solitary pumpkin
not a crowded purple cushion..
Many we know might charge him
with most slothful neglect..
Our venerable teachers
have exhorted us to
lift up the purple
with their assumption:
what is real is purple..
Yet we..startled by experience
find that very often
purple is pain..
We long to sit on that pumpkin
long since overgrown
with dead purple vines..
At last in our longing
the pumpkin may speak
of what lies in hiding
.. 'til just now..
with Peace emerging
the Pumpkin is Purple...
I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. Henry David Thoreau
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.
My little pumpkin
Are you my pumpkin?
My little pumpkin pie

My little pumpkin
Come out and play
Or are you going to stay?

Are you a Jack o’ Lantern?
With a Candle light
To light the night?

Waiting for the night
To shine your light
My Jack o’ Lantern bright!
Ana Habib Jun 2015
I Love you Pumpkin!

As they lowered my mother’s casket into the ground
I held on to my father’s hands tightly
I looked at my father—failing to read him
His grey eyes looked at nothing in particular
And lips uttered words only he understood

He let go of my hands abruptly and started walking ahead
Leaving me behind with my aunt and her husband
I stayed with them till it was time to go home

Home- the word sounded strange to my ears
What good was a home if you did not have a mother to go home to?
One who you could talk to about all your worries
Rest your head on her lap and feel all your tensions drift away every time she stroked your hair

But I had to go anyway—It has been raining and I was soaked to the bone
When I got home
The air smelled musty and everyone was still in their “mourning clothes”
If I had my way I would throw away my Wednesday Adams inspired frock and Mary Janes into the fire once and for all
My father, aunt, uncle and grandmother sat around the kitchen table and tried their best not to weep into the food that was sent by the neighbors
I had no appetite to even begin with so I left the table without saying a word
I went to my room changed my clothes and flopped on my bed
I was too tired for anything else and wanted to be left alone for the rest of my days
But this was just wishful thinking
My problems started during the next couple of days
My aunt and uncle had graciously stayed with us for 2-3 days, before leaving on a Friday morning
But not before my aunt took the liberty of rummaging through my mother jewelry box stealing a keepsake or two
“Oh something to remember my older sister by” she laughing said
But I knew better
This had upset me a great deal but it was the least of my worries

My father had started behaving strangely
Coming home late into the night and bringing with him empty bottles and strange odors instead of dinner and clothes
Forgetting to restock the fridge and pay the bills on time
I was busy with school but I pitched in to help whenever I could
But nothing ever pleased my father!

“Lola why are the eggs burned” that earned me a pinch on the arm
“Take out the garbage” he would yell out and smack me across the head
“The soup tastes like dishwater”

The complaints increased with time and the beatings as well
There were 7 days in a week and he may be spared me for two
Everything and anything ticked the man off

I on the other hand was changing colors like chameleon from blue to purple and looked more like a ragdoll then a 14 year old girl
I hardly fit into my school uniform anymore

I could not remember how long this went on for but soon enough it was routine
He would beat in the day
And come to my room to sooth my wounds during the night

He never apologized- all he had to say was this “I love you pumpkin”
As if that was enough to heal the cigarette he placed on my arms and legs

My bruised face
Purple eyes
Broken bones

Things took a turn for the worse on my 17 birthday
My father would only come home now at night just to slowly creep into my room and check on me
Not on my wounds but my body instead
My eyes remained closed the entire time but that never helped
He was big man and had me easily pinned to my bed
He slapped me about when I tried to get away and thrashed around like a fish out of water

He only had this much to say
“I love you pumpkin”

Going to the police did not help
I could not inform my aunt and
My grandmother was buried six feet under the ground

July 1st The day of his birthday
I decided to end this once and for all
I made Chinese and baked a cake
My father always got home around one in the morning
So I thought I would surprise him by dressing up like his lovely dead wife

I walked into my mother’s room for the first time after she passed away and opened up her walk in closet.
I didn’t waste any time in looking at the dresses and endless arrays of shoes and handbags
I picked out a black dress—one of my fathers favorites
Adorned myself in her precious jewels and spirited on her favorite perfume “Haiku”
So it was the first thing my father would inhale when he walked into the house
Just like I predicted the vile man finally came home
I made myself comfortable in the family room but sitting on my mother’s favorite chair with a glass of wine

The front door suddenly creaked open and I could hear the sounds of heavy footsteps making their way to the living room

The lights came on and I got into character
My father was very startled to see me
“Luna” he croaked
“Yes John It is I”
The man was definitely drunk
I put the glass down and stood up to embrace him
He ran to me like a child
“My darling how I missed you” I mimicked
I gingerly embraced him before coaxing him to sit in my mother chair and offered him the wine

He protested but I did not take no for an answer and begin to massage his neck
Just like the mother used to do it without getting sick
And hummed a tune of my own
After an eternity later I could see he was a little calmer then before
I continued what I was doing but this time using only one hand
And reached for the frying pan I had kept behind the sofa before hand

Before he could take my mother’s name again
I brought the pan down and struck on the head
I smiled when the blood finally started to trickle down

With a satisfied smirk I only had this much to say “I love you pumpkin”
Star BG Feb 2018
Pumpkin seeds,*
sprouted in head,
making way for
dreams of marching
in the Halloween Parade possible.

Pumpkin seeds,
expanded in mind,
gives self a grand idea
for Halloween costume
destined to win first place.

Pumpkin seeds,
growing in head
produces pumpkin,
with eyes that glow like moon
on October night.

Pumpkin seeds,
beware you don’t
eat too many.
Otherwise you might become one,
meant to be cut and displayed
at doorstep ledge.
First poem of the day.
One never knows what lurks in the mind of a poet.
Oh my another poem has just been born. LOL
Check next posted poem.
Alice Butler Jan 2013
I. The lifespan of a pumpkin is incredibly short. Considering the rapid pace in which a pumpkin goes from flower to fruition, it is quite literally a blink of an eye. And there is no nobility in a pumpkin death. No, it is a long and grueling process. From the beginning, the pumpkin patch is like Wall Street, 1763. Being poked and prodded, weighed, gawked at and compared to my brothers and sisters. I was chosen earlier than the rest for my robust size, even ridges, and vivid colour. I remember being severed from the vine- I know that humans don’t remember being cut from the umbilical cord, but it’s the only human experience I can compare it to. I imagine that if I had lungs I would scream or eyes I would cry, but I suppose the lack of these organs is what makes it so easy for humans to humiliate us as they do. We have no voice of our own- and who would stand up for us? Possibly vegans, but I digress.
Once inside the human home, I’m set on a “tiled countertop,” as they call it. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it’s polished and hard and artificial. The coldness of it makes my skin stiffen. And then, as if overcome by brain fever, the smaller humans rush about their living space grabbing up “newspapers” and “paper towels” (no doubt made from abused trees) and just as I had feared, knives. More polished coldness. I know what is to come- I’ve heard the cautionary tales. When my siblings and I hung on the vine as buds, we’d swap horror stories. Of course, we didn’t think that they were real then. Though we had seen older pumpkins snatched up, we were too young to understand. And now that I know it’s all true, my fear isn’t for myself but for my kin. I know that it isn’t normal for humans to hope for their loved ones to rot, but it is for pumpkins. I hope that they will grow old, old, old until the day comes that they quietly fall off the vine and become food for the animals and the soil and their seeds impregnate the earth. And though I may be faced with this violent fate, I am not going to be afraid. I shall not sweat, nor make my skin tough to their blades. No, I will be soft as butter and dry as the sky. As the humans pick up their tools of operation and discuss what kinds of sweet treats they’ll be making with my “guts,” I yield to the steel and dare them to do their worst…

II. They’re finished now, and I’ve been gutted to within an inch of my life. My insides are piled in a white bowl beside me, my seeds rest on a tin sheet, dried of juice and covered in salt. Their skin is transparent and flaky like fish scales and the flesh underneath is toasted brown. They baked my babies! They baked my babies and now they’re popping them into their pudgy, glistening mouths like the giant who used bones to bake his bread. It occurs to me that I can see more of the room than I originally could. It makes sense… now that half my skin is gone that I should have a clearer view of the world. The oldest human walks over to the small ones.
“What did you make guys?” she asks.
“A face!” they exclaim. Was my original face not good enough?
At this point I catch a glimpse of the “face” that is being discussed. Behind the humans is a painted forest locked in by a sheet of glass. On the spotless surface I see my reflection- my smooth, rounded skin has become a hideously comical mask. Two triangles and a semicircle make up this face, the mouth being a jaunty one-toothed smile, a sweet ironical touch. A hanging man with a grin. A tiny white candle has been lowered into my hollowed out stomach and lit. The flame burns my core and scorches my skin in some places to a charcoal black.
My consciousness is sliding around now… from the kitchen to the pumpkin patch and back again… The fire in my belly has dulled to a pleasant burn… maybe because I’m so cold and now I’ve gotten colder… they’ve taken me outside… placed me on an artificial hay bale… more children appear with plastic replicas of me dangling from their polyester-draped arms… they grin and their smiles match the “pumpkins’” smiles on their arms, match mine… this is all too hilarious…
“Trick or treat!”
Very short. It was supposed to be a monologue for my theatre class, but I was too nervous to perform it in front of others.
I looked and saw frost on the pumpkin
Strange because it's July
I don't understand the frosted pumpkin
Can someone tell me why?
I've never seen it this cold in summer
Our old lows are now our new high
I looked and saw frost on the pumpkin
I still cannot figure out why

Birds flying over my back yard
Drop from the sky, all stone dead
There's no reason for this strange occurrence
So, I blame global warming instead
Crows and pigeons drop like missles
Hitting ground and just missing my head
What with this morning cold frost on the pumpkin
and now birds are dropping stone dead

You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head

A spot has appeared on my rib cage
Just a spot, nothing much, nothing strange
but, since I saw frost on the pumpkin
I keep watching the spot for a change
I used to play out in the sunshine
Now there is a scale, a safe range
I've a spot that just seems to get bigger
I think that my spot's started to change

Water is bottled in plastics
It's not safe to drink out of the tap
the rivers and streams are all dry now
And the trees hardly have any sap
The fish are all farmed in a warehouse
Where they don't swim upstream they swim laps
You can't swim around all the beaches
For the oil wells may blow a cap

You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head

My grass is a nice shade of brown now
I used to know my grass as green
But, they ban using water in May so,
The weeds are the only green thing that's seen
Pesticides, they are all natural
The government does not say what it means
You can go to the Parliament buildings
Because that's the only grass that is green

Dead birds and frosted up pumpkins
Dry rivers and lakes and dead grass
Say a prayer for them all this next Sunday
and an extra one too at the mass
There is no reason I know of
Don't worry, it will come to pass
That you will have to go to a museum
To see a live bird and green grass

You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head
It’s getting to be pumpkin time
The time of magic and fun
A time when there’s a chill in the air
Apples abound along with scents of cinnamon
Carved jack o lanterns
Faces etched creatively
Candles lit

It’s getting to be pumpkin time
The beginning of the holiday season
When cookies are baked
Pies made
Children dress up in costumes
Seeking a reward of candy and other goodies

It’s getting to be pumpkin time
A time of celebration
A time of remembering
Good friends
And traditions
Where turkeys are roasted
Sweet potatoes baked
Cranberries served

It’s getting to be pumpkin time
A time of holiday cheer
Hot chocolate
Apple cider
Herbal tea
And peppermint

It’s getting to be pumpkin time
A time of snow falls
Snowball fights
Laughter and glee
Trees decorated

It’s getting to be pumpkin time
Judypatooote Oct 2014
Carving a pumpkin
It's that time of year
Should it look happy
Or should it show fear

Years ago my pumpkin
Had smiling eyes
A nose shaped like
A diamond
And a mouth filled
With carved teeth
A candle inside
Shining to show his smile

Years later the pumpkin
Turned into a creative jack o lantern
Made by my kids, for there kids.
A contest
Mom and son against
Dad and daughter
Once They made THE BEATLES
singing there songs
It was quite a creation
They couldn't go wrong
and once they made KISS
with there tongue's hanging out
They used there imagination
It made me want to shout
And each year was a different look
Shhhhh!   Don't tell the other
It was a surprise.....
I have seen the most creative pumpkins ever posted on pinterest or facebook...they brought back memories of some of my kids creations. The one thing i miss is roasting those pumpkin seeds...would they taste as good as i remember
Folded pieces of paper.
Old past due assignments.
Made paper footballs with-
Corners pointed like diamonds.

Spent all that time.
Scooping out room for-
You in my heart.
Like guts of a pumpkin.

Stay close to you I tried.
But the pumpkin got rotten.
Corners got bent.
And my company unwanted.

A couple of cans of root beer.
Sitting along my windowsill.
Sitting still, lukewarm and flat.
Dragging in gnats.

I remade my bed.
Cleared off the pillows-
I pretended were you-
And made room for two.

I took down the pictures.
I took down the lights.
Took down some notes on-
How to resist my-

Need to be loved and-
My want to be fine.
My urge to move forward and-
Hunger to fight.

I get lost in the right-
Ideas and go wrong.
I hope that you don't think-
That I belong here.
Traveler Jul 2013
Have you ever burn for someone
You can never have
The nectar of the gods
Will only drive you mad
Do you wonder what might be
If we had never been
If we could rewind time
Would we fall in love again

At this point I could never stop
I would bite her even deeper
No way I would throw her back
In a pumpkin I would keep her

Gypsy girl the way you shake your stuff
Make me know that I’m alive
Country girl I like to feel you up
Before I tie you down and drive

At this point I could never stop
I woud bite her even deeper
No way I would ever throw her back
In a pumpkin I would keep her
Sometimes lust bleeds into creativity,
after all, I am only a man.
Traveler Tim
Kyle Oct 2019
A feverish dream under the phantom twilight,
The tiny hamlet rests on a colossal pumpkin,
The gargantuan bulbous emerges every Hallow’s Eve
Carrying with it an ominous kin,
The Pumpkin Folk are eccentric & gaunt,
From Dainty Betty to Growling Bob,
They speak very little, eyes bloodshot,
Bent on making menacing faces on Jack-O-Lanterns,
The air sweetens as they carve & peel,
Until an unfamiliar gallop draws near,
The headless rider with an ethereal glow knows no halt,
His battle charge mocks the very tempest Nature spawned,
Terror looms over the Pumpkin Folk but their Elder came forth,
‘Oh Great Fiend, what is it you seek?’

*******! Your pumpkin island looked smaller up North
Guess the perfect head will have to wait
Happy Halloween
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Judy Klein Oct 2013
The Pumpkin  fest
The night of Halloween,
We went to the pumpkin fest
We were all in costumes and dressed our best
thousands of pumpkins were on the ground
Wagons hooked up by horses were all around
Filled with excitement
And filled with cheer
As we load up on the wagon for another year
Oh how I love Halloween
Carameled apples with sticks in between
horses pulling the hay ride
  yelling trick or treat out side
They fill our bags with lots of candy
Reese 's peanut 's and m&ms;
snickers and kit kats
and three Musketeers
Oh how I love Halloween this year.
The grown ups are sitting and drinking hot cider
I'm dressed as a witch sitting by a tiger
Ghost and goblins their there too
a Cinderella and bear bear boo
The night's coming to a end
and the hay ride is over
It won't happen again til next October.
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream

Logan Robertson

taylor kathleen Dec 2016
.   .   .
pumpkin spice and everything nice.
all the girls fall for your charm.
uggs click three times to go home.
a refreshing gulp of processed sugar
accompany a nicholas sparks novel
and future thunder thighs.
mugs full of wonder and spite.
380 calories to tighten those leggings.
smashing pumpkins for your pleasure,
extra large sweater please!
cream ****** dry from a tortured cow,
whipped senselessly to the brim.
our name scribbled onto your exterior,
pronunciation awfully wrong.
drip drop on the ruffle of your infinity scarf.
this grande drink will make you largo.
a pinch of nutmeg for satisfaction.
but first, let me take a selfie.
pumpkin spice and everything not so nice.
.   .   .
CK Baker Feb 2017
There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial

and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting
Harley Oliver Oct 2014
half a cup of
a two toned muse
yeilds a quarter of
a sultry pair of cat eyes
& a tragic obsession
with princess serenity
stirred in with a dash of inconsistencies
and every teenage boys dream
under the heat of a mistress gaze
correcting grammar and errors
mixed in with your matching blacks,
& a quarter dozen
of féline decor
with shoes to complement
toss in a diamond ring
throughly wrapped around
your annulus finger &
indulge it with
strange behavior then
top it off with a silky whip
to accommodate
the quenching fluid of
a ******* *****
October 18, 2013
preservationman Oct 2015
It all started in the town of Orangeville
There is an upcoming commotion relaying still
The pumpkin patch being on the move
A mission having everything to prove
The pumpkins were tired in being carved and having to show their scars
It’s time for a change
Let the world feel our range
The pumpkins move through the streets and pulsate their weapon juice
Revenge is certainly taking place
This is something the world will never erase
The world becomes stuck in their running tracks
They were together being a pack
Their faces became pumpkin faces
Scars design beyond any human form
The world now knows
It took a pumpkin to actually show
Pumpkin vow victory has become theirs
The pumpkins now can preserver
Now the pumpkins troops march on
It was a battle that seemed long
The pumpkin patch multitudes that showed they were strong.
Michael Amery Sep 2014
You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.

I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.

And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss,  I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.
I really love PSL
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

Slow think,
make real

what fighting for life is…
this is the only
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Weil's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,

And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen


60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?


Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
Fenix Flight Jun 2013
Precious pumpkin pie sits on the table high.
Untouched, waiting to be devoured on Thanksgiving.
       I try to take a taste but
Mother forbids it. I storm off to my room, slam the door
      and start to
Pout. On thanksgiving day everyone is so busy I can
Keep up. Tiptoeing into the kitchen to find the pie where
I** had left it last night. I stick my finger in the whip cream
     and then taste it. I
Never knew it would taste so good. Oh know mom
      caught me she
Puts the pie in the fridge and sends me to my room and
I never even got to
Eat that precious pumpkin pie.
Note that this poem is childish that is because I wrote it in 4th grade :-D
b getty May 2013
The maiden of the pumpkin patch,
Glowing softly in her home,
The sky above her, thatch,
And pumpkins below her, throne,

A bright robe of autumn leaves,
Sparkling with the morning's drops of dew,
All around her, protective trees,
Seeming so many, yet, so few,

Her heady scent of earth,
So ancient and divine,
Solemn, still diverse,
My lady of autumn, so wild, yet refined

— The End —