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"rhubarb" poems
spring planting, spring harvesting, spring garlic One of the great joys of having a job in agriculture is to think days, weeks, even months ahead, One of the great joys of having a job in poetry, like a fireman,  a patient planter of love, you wait to be called, then becoming by being, part of an all consuming burning come spring, take advantage of the cool, wet weather of spring to put in multiple crops of peas and lettuce, also a great time to get your perennial vegetables, like asparagus and rhubarb, started the planting cycle is not an either/or, come harvest thy labored fruits, nine crops to harvest come March, kale, pick leaves as needed, leeks, best left in the ground and harvested as needed, parsnips, purple sprouting broccoli, rhubarb, spring cabbage, spring cauliflower, and of course, my personal fav, Spring Garlic Garlic, like like love, is generally planted in the fall, before the frost and harvested the following late summer. But from March to May, once the ground has truly thawed, the young lover plants, spring garlic or green garlic, can be harvested. it’s a long bus ride to Western Canada where the garlic spring has come, ain’t complaining lots of time to write foolishness and plant a few good bus poems in northern ontario and even michigan, the window slides, and the seeds scattered, but at every bus poet stop, those that need it, planted many inches deep April 2 naught how I wish I was nineteen again
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Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
spring planting, spring harvesting, spring garlic
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Diaspora Vocation
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
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34
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts Who likes BANANA cream pie? They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's NEEPS can be mashed or left whole On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe? Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast The lady next door grows RHUBARB SPINACH gave Popeye much strength Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational UGLI is a member of the citrus family In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
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Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
ABC Poem (Fruit and Vegetables)
Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go. I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die? I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path. Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across. And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being. This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all. This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground... What is....most definately is! M. Taranaki NZ
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Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
Round and round it goes.....
What is infinite is the eating of pie, Cherry, pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, cocoanut... 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706 ways, Until there is enough pie for everyone.
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Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Eating Pi
They say I can't chase you next Can't seek out the moon over Mexico or relive the tears I shed on the plane home, I can't feel the tirelessness of our forever like the hope that dawned and set inside your eyes I memorized every stitch in the broken couch and I can still see us there You're studying, I'm sleeping, Planting rhubarb and watching our trees grow Lightning shorted out the reception tower out back As I sat on the end of our bed, mind blank, and laughed All the glitter on the stone patio and the shirt left in the rain and the socks hung to dry on a hook you Forgot We kneaded pizza dough and watched Roseanne That I jumped on you in the middle of the storm as you held me, Kissing while UMF raged In one loud, still moment You are stopping me at the towel shack Finding my legs under the restaurant table Shoving my mittened hand in your pocket Asking me to stay Messaging me and I know I'll chase you again I just can't be with you now.
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Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Eternity is a long, long time.
I Love Pie & You Sweetie Pie! I Love Pie & You Sweetie Pie Love pumpkin pie its so good Awe taste just like it should Love lemon pie with a touch of **** Love it deep down in my heart I love jello pie it's so sweet The way it wiggles it's so neat! Love pie of banana cream And chocolate is my dream I love blueberry too It's so good & blue I love BlackBerry too awe so sweet and black Pick em right off the vines and put em in a sack I love apple pie topped with cheese Oh and make that a scoop of val ice cream please Oh and also the Apple Dutch Oh how I love it so much! Custard Boston and Zesty Lime, Whip Cream Humble and Rhubarb all the time! Quick Set Frozen Cream Pie and Oreo Cookie Crust Sweet Tatter and Velvet Turtle Now that's a must! But my favorite pie of all is true That's my favorite pie "Sweetie Pie" it's you! WrittenBy:BarbieKirk 11-24-14 5:09am www.allpoetry.com/RainbowBlessings © Barbie Kirk . All rights reserved, 16 hours ago
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Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
I Love Pie & You Sweetie Pie!
Why oh why do I love pie? The ABCs of it and the LMNO-Pie of it A Apple Pie B Boston cream Pie C Cherry Pie D Dutch Apple Pie E Equation Pie 3.14 F Fruit Pie G Grandma's Gooseberry Pie H Humble Pie I Ice Cream Pie J Jell-O Pudding Pie K Kidney Pie L Lemon Meringue Pie M Moon Pie N Nutty Pecan Pie O Oreo Cookie Crust Pie P Pud'nin Pie Q Quick Set Frozen Cream Pie R Rhubarb Pie S Sweet Tater Pie T Tuxedo Pie U Upside Down Pineapple Pie V Velvet Truffle Pie W Whip Cream Pie X PIE IN THE FACE Y Yummy Pie Z Zesty Lemon/Lime Pie Now you have the XYZ of it and the PIE of it Why oh why do you love Pie?
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May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
The ABCs of PIE
blueberries gasoline and prostate gland breast cancer Wonderbread and pacifier controlled experiment space travel and honey peanuts inductive reasoning and electricity tornadoes torture chamber and biscuits copyright car radio cantaloupe golden eagle lunch break tomato Romanian songbook rhubarb and barbed wire always hungry nevermind meat loaf goosefoot mango juice Ipad mosquito bite city street and broccoli Chinese cabbage female *** drive water sport pure contralto goat yogurt new year black death white light and green tea
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Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
blueberries
Crunching over the surface, the bold warriors go wave after wave of custard will not fill the men with woe rhubarb in abundance doesn't slacken their resolve any sprinkled sugar with their sweat they will dissolve though relentlessly they battle on, the end it will come soon "for heaven's sake men,mind the ****** spoon......."
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Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 2:39 PM UTC
Rhubarb Crumble
I am from too long grass that left muted green stains on my knees From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers I'm from ash grey two by fours which were all together fun to climb on but gave nasty splinter when they were mad I'm from the woodchips and sand that provided me an elaborate landscape in which to house my boundless imagination I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky and propelled my rocket to high heaven or so it seemed to my eger eyes I am from Thursdays from green and red rhubarb leaves and dirt under every fingernail I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes at the fence accross the ally and running haphazardly from angry neighbors I'm from lasagna and jell-o candels on Christmas eve and the squirt bottle of water my only defense against ants I am from obscure old families who came over like so many others and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church I'm from woodwinds and piano strings and never a silent moment From reading aloud and reading alone and from those who did the reading I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories And I've always been headed towards Where I'm from.
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Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Rhubarb
morning coco pops and silence in the low house we creep around the halls a playground, a waterpark whatever we wanted until he appears in the doorway caught rapid hand in biscuit tin wraps us in his puce embrace it is in the wind that blows across the cold north beach it is in the rain that bids hydrangea bloom it is in the golden crust that tops the rhubarb **** and in the weight that comes with "see you soon" buzzcut season in the air wooden hearts are carved with care arrows fly through misty skies watch him climb the spiral stair
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May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
john o' hanlon
a late harvest in Brigadoon plucked from good earth by strong hands hauling uphill, until a gentle slope rewards a stiff back; easing a grateful burden that levitates famine [ bushels ] now ziggarats in a root cellar a Sumerian skyline of parsnips and rhubarb with fennel minarets where Gilgamesh slept in a pantry of pagan loot underneath a corner room at the very back of a round house. where four seasons bunk with an almanac mason jars of pickled beets breathing their own blood hanging gardens from the ceiling of the Underworld like fliers of missing children on telephone poles i go outside and wander off you stay home
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Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
Migrations [ Your Agoraphobia ]
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust. Make Plans, Or Make Cookies. There Is Living To Do Here. There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch. There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste. There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held. There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath. There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon. There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open. There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”. There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets. There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families. There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted. There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins. There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls. There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos. There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays. There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands. There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life. There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick. We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune. There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart. There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away. There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills. There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills. There Is Living To Be Done Here. There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
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Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Waldosia
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust. Make Plans, Or Make Cookies. There Is Living To Do Here. There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch. There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste. There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held. There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath. There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon. There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open. There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”. There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets. There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families. There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted. There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins. There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls. There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos. There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays. There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands. There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life. There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick. We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune. There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart. There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away. There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills. There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills. There Is Living To Be Done Here. There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
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27
break the poem open like a pomegranate spill the seeds squeeze the juice and **** the flesh when we were kids we played in mother's garden: carrots, strawberries, rhubarb, tomatoes, plums, raspberries, cucumbers, pumpkins, green beans, watermelon, onions, potatoes and a goldfish named Pierre he died after my parents cleaned his tank and didn't rinse it properly done in by soap-- life can be such a fragile thing sometimes we buried him in the garden and marked his grave with a smooth river stone one summer we picked a great big watermelon from its dirt nap; heavy as a bowling ball and green as a cat's eye we heaved it onto the picnic table and carved it into smaller and smaller wedges until each one of us was holding our very own chunk of melon everyone dug in after admiring their piece for a moment; eating it with their eyes before their mouths but as I went to bite into mine I noticed a seed in the way so I peeled at it to free it and as I fingered the dripping flesh of the fruit the 'seed' revealed itself to be not a seed at all but the eye of a goldfish staring back at me lodged in the melon in its death throws gasping for breath in the open air its mouth opening and closing like it had a secret to tell I stood there in stupefaction when suddenly it slipped free of its womb and landed in the grass behind me but when I turned around to retrieve it I couldn't find it there was no goldfish anywhere in that yard I checked under my feet under the picnic table-- under other people's feet--nothing "what are you looking for?" someone asked "nothing," I said, because who would've believed it anyway?--I'm not even sure if I did-- "just thought I dropped something." I stood back up feeling different about the world-- like the mystery ran deeper than any of us realize-- looked at my hunk of fruit and discovered I wasn't hungry anymore so I put it down on the picnic table and walked over to Pierre's grave there, underneath that river stone, was a watermelon seed just beginning to sprout I smiled in bewilderment and gently covered it with fresh soil moving the stone a few centimeters off the sprouting seed 'Pierre, the watermelon fish,' I thought-- wiping the dirt from my hands-- 'I wonder what death has in store for me?'
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Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
watermelon fish
break the poem open like a pomegranate spill the seeds squeeze the juice and **** the flesh when we were kids we played in mother's garden: carrots, strawberries, rhubarb, tomatoes, plums, raspberries, cucumbers, pumpkins, green beans, watermelon, onions, potatoes and a goldfish named Pierre he died after my parents cleaned his tank and didn't rinse it properly done in by soap-- life can be such a fragile thing sometimes we buried him in the garden and marked his grave with a smooth river stone one summer we picked a great big watermelon from its dirt nap; heavy as a bowling ball and green as a cat's eye we heaved it onto the picnic table and carved it into smaller and smaller wedges until each one of us was holding our very own chunk of melon everyone dug in after admiring their piece for a moment; eating it with their eyes before their mouths but as I went to bite into mine I noticed a seed in the way so I peeled at it to free it and as I fingered the dripping flesh of the fruit the 'seed' revealed itself to be not a seed at all but the eye of a goldfish staring back at me lodged in the melon in its death throws gasping for breath in the open air its mouth opening and closing like it had a secret to tell I stood there in stupefaction when suddenly it slipped free of its womb and landed in the grass behind me but when I turned around to retrieve it I couldn't find it there was no goldfish anywhere in that yard I checked under my feet under the picnic table-- under other people's feet--nothing "what are you looking for?" someone asked "nothing," I said, because who would've believed it anyway?--I'm not even sure if I did-- "just thought I dropped something." I stood back up feeling different about the world-- like the mystery ran deeper than any of us realize-- looked at my hunk of fruit and discovered I wasn't hungry anymore so I put it down on the picnic table and walked over to Pierre's grave there, underneath that river stone, was a watermelon seed just beginning to sprout I smiled in bewilderment and gently covered it with fresh soil moving the stone a few centimeters off the sprouting seed 'Pierre, the watermelon fish,' I thought-- wiping the dirt from my hands-- 'I wonder what death has in store for me?'
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140
WHAT AM I DOING rhyming is hard just like rhubarb pie sly pie why are you sly, pie? the frog is on a log with the hard rhubarb pie I’M SO NOT DIGGING THIS i kind of just want to fling myself off a bridge this is really hard lard there is NO POINT TO THIS “POEM” NO WORDS RHYME WITH POEM have you ever noticed how teenagers are SO ******* SAD TEENAGERS ARE SO SAD THEY ARE SO SAD AND FOR WHAT SAD BECAUSE YOU WERE CALLED A **** ITS SO HARSH BUT ITS TRUE PUSH YOUR BACK AGAINST THE WALL AND BE BLUE IF YOU CHOOSE nope not happening down to the important stuff trying your luck // the strokes old yellow bricks // arctic monkeys electric feel // mgmt alone, together // the strokes stray away // the colourist games // the strokes SLY PIE rhubarb pie
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Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
WHAT AM I DOING
We doh cur fer fancy werters Bring us bangers in mashed terters Gie us pork-pie caressed wi mustard Rhubarb crumble topped wi custard If yo’ve got a full day werkin Black-pudding, eggs, beans and bercon Un doh keep saying, ‘it’ll do ya no gud!’ We wont loads o’ graerty pud If yo’me hungry jus the job A great big hondfull of suetey gob Grannies rice-puddin wi a gob o’ jam Branston pickle on hunied-ham Fish-un-chips wrapped in old newsperper Ma’s bread puddin, nah that’s the cerper Un if yo’ve got a babby-sitta Wash it daen wi Bonks’s bitta Black-Country fowk doh wont fancy starters We wont bercon wie grey farters!
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Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
Bostin Fittle
White snowflakes fall. Brown boots break the ground. Porcelain perceptions are lost and now crimson puddles seed the grounds. This is what is found when nationalistic rhetoric slowly crosses from let’s make this country great to this is who is to blame and who to hate. Till, that ill suited nuclear rage resets the atomic age and glass jars of peach preserves, rhubarb, and non-perishables in dusty cellars are the only things left of us human beings.
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Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Untitled
we have wandered to these parts (*yeah, 'these parts,' mim, that's what we call that here in kansas*) because you said this was the only place the sky could almost touch you if you stretched your fingers far enough. when we reach the top of the hill you climb up on a rock that seems impossible, shout nasty words because you don't think anyone can hear you way up here. the sun starts to slip toward the horizon and you turn to me with a pink reflection in your eyes, tell me to reach my hands up until i can't reach any further. oh, this is a good one. you feel that? you feel that? i look at you, your arms far above your head and eyes closed, your skin honey colored in this light. yeah. yeah i can.
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Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
strawberry rhubarb
The light hits your hand And my mouth hits the floor It's the way you touch my neck And your eyes that tell me "more" This is divine sublime it's a crime I'd suppose To feel so earthed And so high- Slipping down the slope of the bridge of your nose Those naked sacred puppy dog eyes Strawberry rhubarb pies and warm wool I don't know how you do it if only I knew it I feel like you know me so well
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Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
Strawberry Rhubarb Pies
*What be more grandiose than poetry,      expound at your own discretion,    bottle sunshine, save it in a jar,     tie an affectionate knot, spread it around      flood desert mirages with flowing spirits, speaks kindly and murderously about love,   can tempt winds to uncoil temptation's gist ****** upon or written asunder desperation     relentless in its seizing of human behavior, magnifying moonbeams or star's decimation     perfumed magnolias to winter's cruelty,   call of the wild midst sweetness of fresh rhubarb pie, infinitely vast in its incalculable grasp of predication,   beyond limitless infrastructures 'neath fancied significance*
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Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
More grandiose than poetry
alt. i.e.: never give a monotheism to the egyptians - those ******* pseudo Nubian camel herders know jack-shit about the value of encoding sounds (can't match the mandarin, their pictographic became extinct like the neanderthals) - or to put it for a milder palette: here's Ra's rhubarb... and here's Gengen-Wer... now match-up the rhino horn to the donkey's tail and the elephants trunk with five blindfolded men... they should be happy to have a logic named after them, happily dancing into Egyptology... you get the picture, i know the Mamluks defeated the stinking horde of Genghis... but i'd hardly think it necessary to export Islam into africa to get some sense on the matter - look what happened when christianity was exported from egypt (the nag hammadi library found by a shepherd in Osama's caves); exporting Islam into north Africa and hence further west created the Shiah schism where Islam belonged (in the east); beware the setting sun; believe me, it's personal, i'm not ******* on or burning flags for the Cairo taxi driver to mind... this is bedroom secrets' anathema.
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Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
never mess with another man's rhubarb
I learned about Oxalic Acid At seventeen When less than anxious for yet more information More notes on a chalkboard In a malodorous Sulphurous school room. Hastily copied in pencil Scribbled then and required to be transformed Later, into copperplate, almost textbook pages. To be judged as adequate; or not. Oxalic Acid; not as deadly. But in a close league, To the clear deadly liquids Held in the dusty skull marked bottles Within easy reach of any manic schoolboy. Dusty bottles in a rack In a rack on a bench On a bench where I sat Where I sat wondering why my mind My sharp juvenile mind would never grasp Molecular Valence Theory quite as well As the taste of a girls lips The smell of her hair The ring of her laugh The answer to a question in her eyes. Years later When that girl had gone I read that Oxalic Acid is found in Rhubarb leaves.
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Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Rhubarb