Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt May 2019
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Mark Ball Oct 2014
Jigsaw-
Noun
1. A lively handtool dance for cutting wood or other hard materials with leaping movements, typically with a long, thin serrated blade.

Rhythm denoted with the phrase 'Rashers and Sawsages'
Marius Surleac Apr 2010
  dedicated to Rene Magritte *

An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away

An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow

An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine

An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp

An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head

And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
the folly of chasing
an impossible dream
drained the fellow's
limited money stream

invoices stacked high
in a towering pile
the paying killing
his lopsided smile

a snow queen sending
unending requests for powder *****
an addiction dependent
on the cash cow's stuff

the ledger outgoings
to the province of York
extracted more than a few
rashers of prime pork*

in time they'd wipe out
every shilling he had
which was an expense
of a destiny so sad

there he sat grappling
with the long years of loss
all fanciful ideas
*smothered by moss
Yenson Apr 2019
The Cuckoo Bird declared solemnly
after invading the Starling's nest
and breaking her eggs.
"You Are so greedy,
you just want that nest for yourself"

The great whale solemnly declared
as it sailed happily in the deep blue ocean
" Oh Ocean, you're a wet sponging immigrant
in this vast big land of ours"

The sharpe wiry tongue solemnly declared
as it languidly sits in the mouth
"Oh you mouth, are so rude, how dare you
say such things to me"

The Giraffe solemnly declared to his neck
as its eye the juicy leaves on the top branches
" you are so arrogant and proud, you think
you are longer than all the necks around"v

The big Night Owl solemnly declared
wide eyed, perched on a branch
" The night is always around me all the time,
everywhere I go,it's there, I do say.....
the Night is so clingy and needy".

The big fat Pig, solemnly declared
with its snout in the trough,
"Oh squirrels, you are so greedy
scuttling and leaping from trees to trees
you think you own all the trees"

The Cuckoo Bird, the Great Whale, the Sharp Tongue, the Owl,
The Giraffe and the Big Fat Pig, all solemnly declared
" our perceptions are valid, right and true because we all
believe it's so .....
And these humans, who cage, hunt, confuse, capture and zoo us,
and make us into rashers of bacon ......

All these sane, sensible and lovely Humans
as they hunt, ****, ravage, **** and destroy each other
and the planet, Have all solemnly declared
" all animals, birds, tongues and Sea creatures
are all friends and earth companions
and all totally safe and free, from us"
Wk kortas Feb 2017
There’s no arguing that idealism has its place,
For if it does not flower, bloom, and spread its seeds
As the dying dandelion casts downy remnants hither and yon,
Then we have wept our tears and trodden in funereal processions
In pursuit of nothing more tangible than the wind itself.
That said, my boys, we shan’t live out our days
In some misty fairyland where the streams run with single-malt
And the trees are heavy with lamb and rashers;
This world can be a bitter, unpleasant place
(The unconditional love of mankind
Being the sole province of Our Saviour)
Where a man will give his wife a quick peck goodbye,
Then give a swift kick to a limping puppy sitting on the stoop,
Or the kindly veterinary will raise a lovely mouse
Just below his missus’ right eye
Upon returning from his local on a Friday night.

That ‘s the game as it’s played on this pitch,
And injury time has a whole new meaning here, lads,
For many’s the striker who is carried off
With pennies over his eyes.
Again, we have no quibble with Locke, Voltaire,
And the rights of man,
But know this: your leaflets will tear and blow away,
And speeches which roll through Parliament and trade union halls
Like great thunderstorms which blow in from the North Sea
Shall fade into the silence of minutes bound and shelved away
In some corner of the vast library of the forgotten.
You may shun the handwork of Messrs. Lee and Enfield,
Simpering that the rifle is the gavel of the coward,
That the garrote plays the music of the ******.
Tell us, then, where the bravery lies in scribbling crimson prose
While ensconced in the warmth and safety of your rooms,
What dignity is gained by meekly dropping your gaze
When confronted by the stare of the Black and Tans?
There is no valor in sighting down windmills.
Nigdaw Mar 2020
the time has come
when walking home
with two loaves of bread
and a pack of gammon rashers
makes you really feel
like you're bringing home
the bacon
I have seen sights
that are from the movies
I am Legend comes to mind
the whole world become
greedy grasping zombies
out for their own personal gain
we have turned our backs
on community compassion
left with a void
once filled with toilet roll
and pasta
queues outside supermarkets
marshalled by police
people stockpiling petrol
***
we're supposed to be on lock down
where the hell are you going
the old and vulnerable
pushed to the kerb of life
thrown from the safety of a pavement
now reserved for the big enough
to elbow everyone else
out of the way
but today I have bacon
and bread
today I can have a sandwich
johnny solstice Jun 2019
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer,
bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop.
Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments
he was surprised to find it contained a small book.
The book titled the Plaice of Cod
(a philosophical treatise on theology)
contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer,
several of which were wildly inaccurate
and a few that were accurately wild.
In the appendix there were twenty-three songs
attributed to a medieval troubadour,
who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones.
  
William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle
on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill,
a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes
and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs.
  
Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on,
took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals
and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ******.

Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew
which some say numbered sixty-nine
or seventy-two, but no-one could swear
how many were there especially
on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right
and the cattle lowed on their knees.
And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate
would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen,
and dreamers would dream
of jumping through flames
that carried the names
of those who were soon to be dead.

Goats head soup
with yarrow root
was served to the guests …..whose favourite request
was Wort of Sacred Johnny,
they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light
sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home
to the place where the days are shorter.
When the dew on the grass  …..comes to pass
and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway,
when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed
and the False ones only moved slightly
the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring"
and the treetops will shake with the dancers
the day is but done and the Knights just begun
to get a little bit longer.
   But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle"
And riddle me no riddle
I need to get high as the moon….
"which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?"
"Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes
to the ones I'm currently wearing"
and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew
the Stones roadie crew
withdrew
for the next seven years
their horses drank tears
and everyone's fears
were fried up for breakfast
with marmalade toast
two sausage
mushrooms
and beans
eggs over easy
rashers done crispy
a fried slice or two
and a teapot of glue
to ensure it stuck to the belly.

The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
Don’t need my ‘full English’ served
On a giant rectangular slab
Don’t need a dressed salad garnish
With my bacon, sausage and egg

Don’t need vine-on cherry tomatoes
Give me canned ones in juice instead
And though I’ve scoured this ridiculous slab
Can I **** find a slice of fried bread?!

And where is my builder’s tea?
English breakfast or Earl Grey’s the choice
But cutlery won’t stand up in either
I want Tetley’s, nowt else will suffice

Oh, what has happened
To the greasy spoon?
This ‘N8 Brunch’
Is loony tunes

10 of my squid
For two brittle half rashers
That crumble to dust
When faced with my gnashers

One measly egg
Yet a goblet of beans
Presented as if made
Of priceless things

Resplendent on said slab
In a vessel all of their own
Yet still I detest these things
And deign to leave them alone

And every cuppa you have
Costs an additional fee
No bottomless beverages here
No meal deal where your tipple is free

This wasn’t always the case
But gentrification is setting in
Prices soar, pretension is rife
Poshification of everything

I love London toon
Particularly Crouch End
But I’m northern at heart
And it drives me round the bend

When I’m being ripped off
Taken for a ride
Fleeced and shafted
Hung out and dried

If I pop down the road
To N22
A tenner will buy
Double the amount of food

Might not look as pretty
Might not be as ‘posh’
But at least it’s value for money
Not like detonating your dosh

Middey’s by name
****** by nature
The tiniest of fry ups
Leaves me cold by temperature

A sprinkling of rocket
Is an utter abomination
On a British institution
I can’t afford at this rate of inflation

So b*ocks to the balsamic
You sprinkled on those leaves
That didn’t belong there in the first place
Desist in future, please!

Dispense with the vegetation
The slab that should be a plate
And reinstate the greasy spoon
In my beautiful N8.
Yenson Feb 2021
Cloaked in malignant evaporation
hiding in stricken minds
emitting the purchased belches of perditions
shamed rashers squirm in rinds
casting their woes of mined trepidations
naysayers betrothed to finks
in the acidic mire of damning exasperations
cloudy dullards minus imponderable sine
impervious to the notion
that
the first condition for Happiness
is a clear conscience
One is happy once one knows the necessary ingredients of happiness: simple tastes, a certain degree of courage, self denial to a point, love of work, and above all, a clear conscience.

-George Sand
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2023
We hardly ever eat red meat now

And we only have the television

For news and sport, we’re almost

Vegetarian except for a bit of fish

Now and again, as for bacon we

Only ever have rashers and that

Is very seldom, less and less.

We could easily go without meat,

To be honest, we never miss it.

I was a vegetarian once, for six

Months and I had no problem

With it, “ You never mentioned

That before “ Oh: it was when

I was a teenager rebelling like

Everyone was doing back then!

And why did you go back eating

Meat ? Because the doctor told

My mother that human beings

Can’t survive without eating meat.

                  “Really"

— The End —