"spoonful" poems
I remember,
My usual nonchalant demeanor going completely bananas in my cubicle of a room
After enlisting to deliver you ice cream.
No, not just any ice cream,
Strawberry with bananas and gummy bears.
I thought it as an awkward combination
But when I got in the car,
The sparrows were flying in two adjacent v-shaped formations.
Slightly puzzled, I pondered if maybe one day I'll meet a sparrow, or anything with enough courage to brave the skies,
Soaring, knowing in time, their wings will tire, and locating a perch is then of importance.
Because life's goal, humans and creatures alike,
Is to find a whisper of a nightingale's song,
Or, possibly, the eccentric taste of a spoonful of their favorite ice cream.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
I come from sunlight,
The sweeping of leaves,
South London streets,
Lurburnum seeds;
Hot semolina,
A spoonful of jam,
Hands full of gooseberries,
That's who I am.
I come from rose petals,
The sound of the fairs,
The smell of candyfloss
Mist in the air;
I come from warmth,
My parents hands,
Outings to parks,
Both small and grand.
I come from knowledge,
True and false,
From nursery rhymes,
And stories and pictures of God;
I come from gentleness,
A quiet afternoon,
From visions of loveliness,
Sewn on a spool.
I come from two worlds,
With different ways,
A threaded pearl necklace,
And sensible soles
A mother and father,
I think I knew,
I came and I wandered,
I looked at the view.
By Mary **
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
i like strawberry ice cream.
it makes me feel like my tummy is smiling
even when my mouth can't.
it makes me feel ok
for the ten minutes i take
to eat a spoonful
it makes me feel
like these ten minutes that i have
aren't going to be spent
wasting something
even though
that will never be
true.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.
Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.
Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.
1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.
I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter
You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother
So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Jellyfish stew,
I'm loony for you,
I dearly adore you,
Oh,truly I do,
You are creepy to see,
Revolting to chew,
You slide down inside
With. Hullabaloo.
You're soggy,you're smelly,
Ou taste like shampoo,
You bog own my belly
With oodles of goo,
Yet I would glue noodles
And punes to m shoe,
For one oozy spoonful
Of jellyfish stew
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Come,
have a seat here
Join my picnic
by the hills of despair
Watch the gentle waves of tragedy
slowly
silently
roll onto the sea of tranquility
Would you like a cup of sadness?
you can add a spoonful of hope
that might carry all that bitterness
down the slippery slope
Or would you rather a sip of ignorance
this time hope
you should cheat
Pass along the seasoning of confidence
which is just as saccharine sweet
May I offer you a plate of loneliness?
But make sure to drown that in time
’cause we all know that time can heal
everything, oh yes how divine!
If you find loneliness becoming tasteless
Here, try some soft-baked sarcasm
infused with aged enthusiasm
with a heavy dose of doubt
If the flavour isn’t enough
than try a new diversion
maybe a pinch of hostility
or a light dressing of suspicion?
Whichever you prefer
you better make your decision
When you really need a change
try some passive aggressive conceit
then add fate into the mix
Of course!
We know how it tends to dismiss
the pungent smell of amusement
the fragrant taste of love
Oh how
it reminds you of innocence
or even the lack thereof
Do you really have to go?
Please do join me again
this solitary life gets tedious So
promise me you’ll come visit when
you need someone to wake you
from the beautiful lies they spin
when they almost seem to convince you
that's when you’ll come again
I insist.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Looks like you need a drink...
What'll it be, let me think...
One thing you should know, Little Miss,
I'm not a bartender... I'm just winging this...
Hmm...
Arc in a cocktail shaker
Filled halfway up
Throw Melz in the mix
Just a dollop
Let's see now...
Spoonful of rhymes
Make that a table
Few drops of Conor
If he's up and able
Almost ready...
A touch of Tea
Maybe a tad more
A dose of Frank
In a little pour
Just about done...
Cap it up
Shake that shaker
Pour it out
Top with Silver
Ahh...
In a cocktail glass
Now sprinkle with Dani
Let's not stinge
Sprinkle aplenty
There you go, Hon... Take a full swig
When you see the bottom, your pain wouldn't seem so big...
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Some days I think I need nothing
more in life than a spoon.
With a spoon I can eat oatmeal,
or take the medicine doctors prescribe.
I can swat a fly sleeping on the sill
or pound the table to get attention.
I can point accusingly at God
or stab the empty air repeatedly.
Looking into the spoon's mirror,
I can study my small face in its shiny bowl,
or cover one eye to make half the world
disappear. With a spoon
I can dig a tunnel to freedom,
spoonful by spoonful of dirt,
or waste life catching moonlight
and flinging it into the blackest night.
6.4k
I’m just trying to eat my french toast and drink my coffee but you keep cutting me off as I’m about to take a sip take a bite asking why I like it with sugar i add a spoonful of creamer and you’re laughing
but not in a loving way
talking about my schoolwork and my plans for the garden
and you skip over the congratulations and mention your ex girlfriend
going on about your ex girlfriend and my face has hardened
i drink my coffee and try not to listen
i eat my french toast and i don’t pay attention
i’m looking at the man with the book eating alone
i’m looking at the waitress wishing she were home
excuse me and i’m up
the bathroom is empty and nobody saw me
the mirror is clean and i am *****
the lights are brighter than i want them to be
and the soap dispenser is empty
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC
Glass ticking like cold plastic
My fingers thrum hopelessly in the hopes of drumming up a solution to a problem with an issue of loss.
This dilemma has found me at the end of my rope and I fear the knots in my stomach are only getting tighter as I squeeze you closer to me now.
Why can't I help me?
I won't let you do it for me.
But must I force feed you the truth?
I'm not hungry for this day any more. Fighting this sickness, I choke back another spoonful of medicine...
--And what am I supposed to do now then?!
Frustration consumes me.
I am bile. The emptiness inside, that fills me with rot.
I'm hollow!!
Somebody save me from myself! I want to self-destruct and not be okay anymore.
I want to fly a Subaru into the sun on fire.
*I'm just so ******
Just leave me behind and maybe I can decompose into something useful and that actually wants to be here and maybe after that I can finally float away from here...
Wouldn't that be okay?
Why should I have to stay.
I never belonged here any way.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
As the laser rays from Science City lit up the night sky in a resplendent rush of colours, I watched on, quietly , from the balcony; my mind racing back to the class 9 Basics of Economics book and to that class.
Utility. A major concept in economics.
I had understood it so well then.
I had paid full attention to the teacher when she had explained that once I had had a spoonful of Biriyani, a little bit of my hunger was satiated and I would enjoy the next spoonful a little bit less than the first.
That was how utility operated, marginal utility diminishing with every spoonful.
Today, as the rays light up the sky, I think of him, and of the principle of utility.
Does the principle apply to first love as well, as it does to the first taste of Biriyani?
As love's bittersweet concoction explodes, does it render the following loves as only marginally utilitarian then?
As the first rush, first blush fades, as love's faces change, do we begin to get satiated a little less than the first time?
And is it really because we are already a bit full, a little satiated?
Or is it because the hunger gnaws on, craving that first rush, once again?
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
Heaven and Hell: The Parable of the Long Spoons
Post written by Sofo
*What is heaven? What is hell? The parable of the Long Spoons explains very well what heaven and hell truly are.
One day a man said to God, “God, I would like to know what Heaven and Hell are like.”*
God showed the man two doors. Inside the first one, in the middle of the room, was a large round table with a large *** of stew. It smelled delicious and made the man’s mouth water, but the people sitting around the table were thin and sickly. They appeared to be famished. They were holding spoons with very long handles and each found it possible to reach into the *** of stew and take a spoonful, but because the handle was longer than their arms, they could not get the spoons back into their mouths.
The man shuddered at the sight of their misery and suffering. God said, “You have seen Hell.”
Behind the second door, the room appeared exactly the same. There was the large round table with the large *** of wonderful stew that made the man’s mouth water. The people had the same long-handled spoons, but they were well nourished and plump, laughing and talking.
The man said, “I don’t understand.”
God smiled. It is simple, he said. Love only requires one skill.
These people learned early on to share and feed one another. While the greedy only think of themselves… [Author unknown]
*Sometimes, thinking of our personal gratification, we tend to forget our interdependence with everyone and everything around us. Not to help our fellow human beings simply means harming our very selves, since we are all connected on a very deep level.
If you want others to be happy, practise compassion. If you want to be happy, practise compassion.* ~Dalai Lama
by Sofo
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
A little pinch of guilt
A sprinkle of passion
A touch of desire
And a heaping spoonful of desperation
For good measure
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
clanking clank slurp, ka-boom
the slop runs down a throat
merrily merrily terribly chilled
the gunk rolls down a throat.
the
forks spoons knives
plates salts salads
and wines
ding and echo like
soft butterfly tea parties
all gone rabid.
throughout the walls of pictures of food
and the butterfly echos echo
and dinging cups splash
and forks click and clock
(and and,..and!)
hold my breath.
clanking cubes of ice
bing against one another
Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with
a spoonful of spicy French soup
Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of
his piggy chops.
he stares at my forehead
they see my odd selection
she's laughing insanely at a joke
I'm holding my eyes inside my head
while
all on my plate sit the legs
of baby spiders
all on my dish are darting
sow eyeballs
pitcher plant garnish
and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant)
I gag outloud
the Fat Pigman scoffs at this
my heart pops inside its cage
and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
Cut me open, cover yourself in a blanket of skin.
It won't make I difference. I don't inhabit it anyway.
It is a shell.
It is a lifeless thing.
It is not me. It makes no decisions.
Split the differences in your own mind and do anything you wish.
Take away every doubt.
Leave it on the edge of a cliff. The rain will wash it down our throats.
A spoonful of sugar.
It is laced. Silk laces, pretty underthings ruined.
They were taken off.
Too many flowers to water with the fluids running from open wounds.
They will not grow. They are made of the plastic from leftover
Glass from a broken window. Portal to the soul
My eyes are not there anymore. Blindly
Stuttering, I cannot speak.
These arms lack bones.
They were buried long ago, burned to blackened
Charcoal. Draw a masterpiece, dear.
Stab my physical canvas with toothpicks and see visions.
Crystal trees growing from my ears, reaching into your voice box.
Sing for me.
Make me dance over the salt, gives me rashes on my legs, blue flame licking what is yours.
Turn the key in my bleeding back. Twist my spine and laugh, watch as I writhe in
Lust?
How am I supposed to know. My brain is nonexistent, just gears and crushed light bulbs.
There is no light.
I took a step two nights past, I didn't see.
A tusk ****** through my foot, breaking bones.
I admire the animals caged at the zoo. They were stronger than I was, before they were
Eliminated. They are dying, wilting.
I drew flowers on my nails to represent them. A memorial to the horrid truth of knowing about the robotics of life.
This is just a computer, ringing a high. No going backwards. The button doesn't work, the transformer blew, we have no power.
My data was deleted.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
*Apple pie is a wonderful treat, one of my favorite desserts.
With a warm, flaky crust, a scoop to make it à la mode,
Sweet with a spoonful of whipped cream.
But the pie by itself, doesn't make it my favorite treat.
It's where it takes my mind whenever I see it,
Smell it,
Taste it...
It was not your beauty that smote my heart, though you are beautiful.
It was not your illustrious eyes withholding a gorgeous soul.
It was not your delicate face that fills mirrors with joy when they reflect it.
All theses are parts of your magnificent, appealing body.
It was not your charm that smote my heart, though you are charming also.
It was not your gracious kindness and loving hugs as I cried into my pillow, broken by life's wicked games.
It was not your adorable bubblyness that cheered my spirits everyday.
All these are great parts of your stunning character.
It was you, only you, that stormed the keep of my frail and dying heart.
Seeing me as I was - broken like glass on a marbled floor - you gathered the shards and mended them with your own.
I sometimes wonder if there's something that reminds you of me, the way this apple pie reminds me of you.
Does a smile cross your beautiful face when I first say hello to you?
Do you stay awake tossing and turning because I won't leave your head or your heart?
Does your stomach tingle when we're separated from each other's company?
Did you cry alone at night when you and I thought we would never speak to each other again?
Do you love me?
Do you know I love you?
These are my thoughts, my questions,
After a slice of,
Apple pie.*
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Brandy,
has been her
drink of choice
for as long as I can recall.
It is again tonight.
And as she scolds me, for my
ungratefulness,
she pours another glass.
I made her feel terrible,
about walking through the living room,
with a spoonful of hot chili.
It was ridiculous,
but she couldn't tell.
So I'll sip my wine upstairs,
and hope that my mom doesn't leave.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
If laughter is the best medicine
then this explains why there are so many unhealthy people.
Too many people got the SAD's Condition;
**It arrives usually within 2-4 weeks of compromising one's inner child after crushing up
some sparkly dreams and flushing them in the *******
Symptoms include:
*1) A black-hole bitter disposition
2) Snapping at little things like having to wait 5 in a checkout line
or making dramatic sighs after repeating a question a few times.
3) Reminiscing about terrible things and never forgiving and
letting go, like having your mom sign your life away to a cult or
being told that your dear sweet Aunt who helped raise you kept
looking for you in the hospital every time your name was called
even though you never saw her because your family thought it
best you kept your distance or hearing the morose silence of a
stillborn newborn.
4) Finding your serenity at the bottom of a bar room floor inside a
gin bottle.
5) Finding your solace in a married woman who eats all kinds
of colorful shaped pills for breakfast.*
And if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
how much can you add before the medicine loses its flavor?
They say truth is bitter,
yet I find that hard to believe
considering it feels so good to say.
It's like a cinnamon peppermint flavor on the tongue
with an aftertaste of jalapeno tears.
Maybe I'm so used to the processed hydrogenated extra sugar kind
that's why I go right for the pure hard stuff,
and maybe that's why a laugh so much.
Maybe that's why people consider me a cuckoo fool....
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
one drop of fruitless satisfaction
two spoonful of unease
three teaspoons of emptiness
four quarts of loose tears
a handful of frustration,
pints of jealousy
gallons of heaviness
dozens of music,
and a sea of thoughts
but a drop is enough for me to drown
My teeth hurts...
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC
We are unlike the rest.
Yes, I know that's what the rest say.
But unlike the rest, we are not glued together.
Instead, we are stitched together.
Stitched so that every string
Is smoother than the furrow
Of bitter eyebrows.
Stitched so that if one of us wanders off,
It would only take the tug of a string
To bring us back together.
Unlike the rest, we are a medley of forgiveness.
Because with us,
Mistakes come in a handful,
Each painted a different color of disappointment.
But it only takes
Jumps into pools fully clothed,
Random trips to the museum,
Hangout on rooftops
To make it all better again
Unlike the rest, we are craziness
Well-mixed with a spoonful of loyalty.
An odd mix, enough to taste the sweet
Amidst the sour
So that insults come easy
But if one of us trips on nothing,
The rest of us will follow to help you back up.
After laughing, of course
Unlike the rest, we aren't actually friends.
There should be a word
For people who care out of understanding,
Who laugh outside things that are funny,
Who will be there even when they physically aren't
We are not like the rest because the rest call us friends.
And they say friends are forever
But we are the people who beg for much longer.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
Mix hormones, sprouting hair, and teenage angst in melting ***
Add 2 cups of Varsity Sports
Blend in at least 3 leadership positions
Sprinkle AP & Honors classes liberally
Acquire obscure talent such as playing a Theremin
Add long-term anxiety disease
Brag constantly about how you helped Jakito, a small African child, on a mission trip
Drain all traces of possible love connection
Substitute sleep for academia
Bring stress to boil
Add spoonful of “legacy”
Separately mix “White Guilt” with a cup of diversity (Native American if available)
Marinate in SAT classes
Spread 2300mg of SAT on top
Shake Well
Ice decoratively with essays about Jakito
Most batches must be rejected
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
what's difficult is that you can't tell the
difference
between
a prince
and
a toxin.
the toxin is dressed in bright blue eyes
and jet black fluffy hair.
he can sing,
write,
play drums,
and is troubled.
he drags you in with one smile.
he is everywhere
and tells you enough so you'll stay.
his words aren't followed by actions,
but you believe him anyway.
he drags you in with enough to hook you.
he makes you feel guilty
because you did something small that
one time,
yet
he has done far worse
he drags you in with your own flaws.
he says sorry like its a daily pill
and means it
as much as a used piece of gum, on the underside of a table,
means to a stranger.
he drags you in with a minimum performance
he wants your body
and your body only.
you say no for so long,
you finally give in.
he drags you in with hot breaths.
he is bad for you, and you know it.
yet you take another
spoonful
of the toxic waste he is and
you drag yourself in.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
you can jump from
swing to swing
when you know the
safety net is there
all bottled up
in highways and
happy hours
long drives through
painted lines
and exit signs
long nights spent
swinging out
as far as you can
above that safety net
picking poison
from a stainless
steel spoon
and long mornings
spent picking up the
shards of a life
that longed to be
left behind
on the road
mile markers like handholds
climbing you farther and
farther up the mountain
closed eyes keep you far from home
rolled back in escape
those painted lines
those six lanes
seventy five miles
an hour toward everything
another spoonful
another baggie
another mile
keep me from thinking
keep me from feeling
keep me from the truth
all these safety nets
saving me from myself
another night
another fight
working futiliy to
keep that hand
tighter and tighter
around my throat
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
~
I.
*Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.*
II.
*Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.*
III.
*Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
(do-si-do),
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.*
IV.
*Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.*
~
Mar 4, 2024
Mar 4, 2024 at 4:13 PM UTC
Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC