"roald" poems - Hello Poetry

Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl Live just down the hall From each other Somewhere in my mind 'Cause these ***** old men Are known to have penned Many favorite kid books of mine But they also worked blue And wrote more than a few Naughty songs, novels and rhymes They stayed true to their style They'd go the extra mile Their smut's guaranteed to blow minds!

0

May 18, 2021

May 18, 2021 at 8:38 PM UTC

cosmic_laughter

***** Old Men

Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl Live just down the hall From each other Somewhere in my mind 'Cause these ***** old men Are known to have penned Many favorite kid books of mine But they also worked blue And wrote more than a few Naughty songs, novels and rhymes They stayed true to their style They'd go the extra mile Their smut's guaranteed to blow minds!

13

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

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Feb 21, 2016

Feb 21, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC

littlebear

The Twits ~ by Roald Dahl

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

11

In the book Going Solo, Roald Dahl wrote about a woman Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils Knife in one hand and fork in another She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh Skill precise as a surgeon Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines I tried it on the same fruit Somehow it just didn't feel right Too refined, too silent Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made And from that same opening, tearing outwards Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice That is how an orange ought to be peeled.

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Mar 19, 2013

Mar 19, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC

waiis-su

How Do You Peel An Orange?

In the book Going Solo, Roald Dahl wrote about a woman Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils Knife in one hand and fork in another She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh Skill precise as a surgeon Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines I tried it on the same fruit Somehow it just didn't feel right Too refined, too silent Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made And from that same opening, tearing outwards Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice That is how an orange ought to be peeled.

23

mornings are better when wrapped up in strawberry kiwi paper and burned. - like gene wilder and roald dahl with lickable wallpaper cut up into skins. - a mile took more effort than i thought, and i'd rather replace the tar in my lungs with love, but no one likes to shotgun anymore, and the man i've written so much about has pulled a move more fitting me than him, -

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Apr 17, 2013

Apr 17, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC

foxsuitpoetry

so i'll take the tar over nothing.

mornings are better when wrapped up in strawberry kiwi paper and burned. - like gene wilder and roald dahl with lickable wallpaper cut up into skins. - a mile took more effort than i thought, and i'd rather replace the tar in my lungs with love, but no one likes to shotgun anymore, and the man i've written so much about has pulled a move more fitting me than him, -

23

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it." -Roald Dahl

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Mar 1, 2015

Mar 1, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC

deepmountains

Magic

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it." -Roald Dahl

3

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.

0

Feb 29, 2016

Feb 29, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC

littlebear

A quote by Roald Dahl

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.

6

I like when we are alone together. I like to be alone with you. I like to be safe and adventuring at the same time, when my head meets the mountain and my feet meet the rock. my moonbeam mountain boots fell apart the moment I left home, but I picked up my blueberry pail and I took to the fields like I always do. He picked up your knife and he stabbed a man in the stomach of his heart, where he kept his daughter’s pocket mouse nomenclature. He kept the cells in a jar next to his collection of Roald Dahl stories. Probably. Maybe not. I like when I can sleep in your bed and feel absolutely balanced. You tip my femininity when you scratch my back with your stubble before you shave in the mornings and it is so lovely to be near one who can cry.

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Jul 11, 2014

Jul 11, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC

felicia-c

Figs

I like when we are alone together. I like to be alone with you. I like to be safe and adventuring at the same time, when my head meets the mountain and my feet meet the rock. my moonbeam mountain boots fell apart the moment I left home, but I picked up my blueberry pail and I took to the fields like I always do. He picked up your knife and he stabbed a man in the stomach of his heart, where he kept his daughter’s pocket mouse nomenclature. He kept the cells in a jar next to his collection of Roald Dahl stories. Probably. Maybe not. I like when I can sleep in your bed and feel absolutely balanced. You tip my femininity when you scratch my back with your stubble before you shave in the mornings and it is so lovely to be near one who can cry.

7

Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues. I was never good at words. I still cannot convey the emotions that I want to come across. But my mouth is all I can use. Gesticulations are not enough. Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for? My love for the words, for the phrases that turns into metaphors and the sonnets which Shakespeare wrote and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much. Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things... how come I still struggle against myself? Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make? Do I have the strength to ignore grammar and punctuation for even a little while? I am so close and so far away. I want to die as a poet. In a bath tub where the walls are paper and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too. Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air? Maybe I am, maybe i'm not. But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for. I want to spit fire. But right now, all I can do is blow steam.

0

Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC

marleny

To come close

Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues. I was never good at words. I still cannot convey the emotions that I want to come across. But my mouth is all I can use. Gesticulations are not enough. Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for? My love for the words, for the phrases that turns into metaphors and the sonnets which Shakespeare wrote and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much. Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things... how come I still struggle against myself? Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make? Do I have the strength to ignore grammar and punctuation for even a little while? I am so close and so far away. I want to die as a poet. In a bath tub where the walls are paper and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too. Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air? Maybe I am, maybe i'm not. But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for. I want to spit fire. But right now, all I can do is blow steam.

25

To me love is, Mysterious like the statues in Louvre, Sweet like the chocolate factory in Roald Dahl's book, Warm like the idea of having a cup of hot chocolate in the coldest of days, Yet it is painful like the burnt marks on my toasted bread.

0

Feb 22, 2019

Feb 22, 2019 at 7:24 AM UTC

extrabi_

My definition of love,

To me love is, Mysterious like the statues in Louvre, Sweet like the chocolate factory in Roald Dahl's book, Warm like the idea of having a cup of hot chocolate in the coldest of days, Yet it is painful like the burnt marks on my toasted bread.

5