"staple" poems
That which I discovered a Beat Squire
A Potential who I Trust can be Friend
As sincere as the News he respires
Giving you Updates which does make us Bend
Kaibigan, should you show the Numb Male
Which Ingredients we are truly made of
He chose you. That alone should just prevail
And Rice the Staple makes your Friendship oft
I mean this Good Thing. Being at your Best
And Youth such Buddy could ever provide
Live out this Stage well. Far from what the Least
Full-Cupped Elders think they could just Advise.
My Part is done. Decisions are your own
This Future is yours; Make it well-known.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
Thin and crispy, round and flat
A staple of the proletariat
Two for a tenner
It makes you wonder
And delivered to your door on the back of a Honda.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Dear Pickle,
You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.
Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.
Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.
Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.
And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.
That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.
I am sorry, can you bring her back now?
And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.
We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.
I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother screw-ups for you to father.
Love,
Vinegar.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Insecurity is wool blanket drenched in water
laying across my nose and mouth,
every breath i take in is a wicked reminder of everything i am not.
its sharp needle points prodding my pores
ripping apart the skin of my throat with every word i'm unable to speak.
Insecurity is facing a firing squad,
every bullet comes from the mouth, every tongue a trigger, every tooth ammunition
Your feet are nailed to the ground, an iron staple of your own making lacing through your toes.
The worst thing about it is that your hands are bulletproof shields,
and if you had the strength to raise your thousand pound arms,
you could use them to block your bruised up brain.
But you can't.
So you don't.
its being uncomfortable in your own skin, a bone shattering, helpless feeling that you
cannot change this.
no amount of compliments or beautiful words whispered in the darkness can fix it
insecurity is the building blocks of my personality,
I'm constantly tailoring everyone in my life to fit it, like a worn dress
I can't walk down the hallway, down the street, through a store
without the feeling of a thousand weighty words cutting into my skin
In every war my mind wages against my body
i stand there like marble, letting the bullets eat me alive.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
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
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Sometimes its a shame to be black
We claim we're in it together
But the unity we lack
We belittle each other
Even though we all came
From the same father
Our ancestors fought to bring us to where are now
But how we choose to separate each other is foul
Light skins and dark skins
Doesn't matter we still have black skin
We need to begin
To listen
Build our race
So that every black person is safe
Racism is still real
And I cannot begin to explain how I feel
The black race is still frowned upon
Because our values are lost and gone
Let us begin to better each other
Build each other
Help one another
To get farther
Teamwork is essential
We have to realise our potential
It is a shame
How we let each other suffer
It breaks my heart
To see hungry child lost by a mother
When we have rich people
Who are greedy
In their fast cars speeding
Having no conscience or feelings
Because they won't even give to the needy
Lord Jesus I'm screaming
Please change the world
Make everyone start believing
That africa can rise
If we stop ignoring the cries
Of the poor
Revitalise the land
Before it dies
I know we can
If we keep our eyes on the prize
We can build africa
Make africa a staple
If only we work together
Bring something bigger to the table
We were blessed to be born on this beautiful land
So let us join hands
And make africa
As big as we can
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
Touch me, I am fragile but I know I will not break. If you look at me long enough your eyes will start to water based on the saltiness of my skin because of the sea's I've swam to get to the place I'm in now. Open, closed, I've ran back and forth a hundred times, I am the weakest link and the leader of the group. If you sawed me in half you'd see three things: my barely pumping heart, a toxic amount of love, and a will to survive.
Touch me, but be gentle, because although I learnt to withstand even the deadliest of summer heat your cold heart isn't something my body is used too. Close your eyes, count to ten, am I on your mind? No. Throw me into the ocean. I'm no use to you then. It's cloudy but it doesn't rain, mid 70's but no humidity, my heart is sore, but I'm breathing. Oh god, I don't know how, but I will continue.
Touch me, be rough, ***** make it a melody and prove to me all I'm missing out on by not being enough for you. Afterward, I want a list of ten things I can change so that I will be enough for you. Make it a hundred if you have too, I just want to be enough for you. Staple it to my forehead, toss me in the ocean. I'm not here for your approval, only my own, and I don't think I'll be content in who I am until I'm something you think is worthwhile. Push me on the ground and kick me as hard as you can, make this pale skin your canvas, I want bruises and blood, six broken bones and a concussion to match. Make me hate you. Babe, all I've got is love.
Touch me, one last time, but don't let go until the end of this lifetime. This love became a competition long ago, and boy do I love to win. Tonight the universe spoke to me and it told me here is where I need to be, and I think it wants me to fight. Put on your armor, give me some weapons, I'm here for the long haul and I'm taking every prisoner I can. Touch me because I am weak and I need to learn to be strong so I can withstand this, 'cause baby this love feels like seeing a doctor coming towards you with a needle the size of your head, "oh don't worry sweetie this will only hurt a tad", ******** I still felt it a week after. But this one, **** I'll be lucky if it doesn't still sting in a year...
Touch me, please. I'm begging you. I need to feel alive, but you've been suffocating me and my heavy heart. How am I supposed to survive when loving you feels like death?
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
I've had my breakfast,
Still I'm so much hungry,
Only 'cause of her, I guess!
I've not talked to her,
She's the only hunger I've,
Both in my days & my nights.
I've liked her flavour,
Flavoured it is like olives,
Her voice is my final dessert.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
Alligator! Alligator! Alligator! Alligator!
Bite me whole and take me to space.
Staple my **** and spaz my face,
Plaice defrosting in the refrigerator.
These things all seem to come together,
Throw them far apart will be for the better.
I hate this ******* verse,
‘cos it all rhymed from Alligator!
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 3:57 PM UTC
My sister is a beauty,
A photographer, an artist
And the best subject imaginable.
She is the main attraction of my coffee shop,
She’s the mainstay of Main Street.
Unlike every other woman I know,
She only carries her camera and her dignity.
And the gaze of a mirror;
Her plaid shirt, oversized even when it was mine.
A pair of tights earning their title
And sky-high leather boots, a rocker’s staple.
A cheesy beret, our mother’s bracelet.
Blonde locks like there are teardrops on her guitar.
And to complete the classic ensemble, Satan’s prized pearls:
The Cheshire Cat smile.
All tucked behind her expensive-as-hell camera.
And her phone, case with white box and black bow.
Just like my baby sister,
A photograph with a black bow.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
Desires feeding our souls
Gnawing and eating our flesh, until we're a vulnerable flush red
Our pores exude the confident strife
A conflict that should have never arrived
To resurface our skin, bring back the childhood mind
I still see the eight-year-old awkwardness,
holding a staple makeshift poetry book and pen
The young struggling mind, when dying was simple to find
Daily I walk into the aroma of the sunlight
Intricately snipping roses off their vines, soaking in their beauty as my fingers sting and bleed
A decade incomplete
She never stopped being a victim long enough to realize her heart was revitalized, made into an equal whole
A rose petals thirst satisfied
No insignificant being
She was now a family
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
There are coffee stains on my notebook.
soft brown plots colonize the corners,
Smearing the ink into almost unreadable scratches.
I love my daily coffee so much that I let it ruin my note book.
And like my morning coffee you have become a staple in my life.
A part of my routine,
Coffee, class, and then you.
And I do not write love poems.
The words never fit into my mouth right,
talking about love always felt like tossing marbles in my mouth,
blurry and unbalanced.
They never came out how I wanted.
But for you I'm willing to try,
I will fight my own tongue until I can tell you what I mean.
Until I can say that I haven't gone a day without coffee since the sixth grade,
and that the idea of going a day without you makes me sick.
Until you know that I will hold your hand like the handle of my favorite mug,
that I'll love any chip or crack you have.
And if you ever feel bitter,
Please know that I will be right here,
because I take my coffee black
And I'm not scared of being burned
But like my morning coffee you’ve started to leave stains on my sleeves,
my hands are tinted from all the times I’ve held yours,
and when I look down and see the small blotches,
I smile,
Because I think of you.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 10:13 PM UTC
"I", said the apple, "am the body of temptation."
Blood red poison, source of expulsion!
"Oh", the strawberry cried,"And I, infatuation."
Bright ***** pink, I am compulsion.
And so every food clamored to make a claim.
All but the quiet brown staple stone.
The little potato wept in his bitter, cold shame.
"I am useless, unloved, quite alone..."
Ah, but fear not, although you are quite plain,
You are durability, crucial, the go-to.
You are esteemed, and rather good for the brain,
So don't worry, I love you, little potato.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
Oh you saviour, of the rags and riches alike
The favourite of students, labourers, executives and wise
The in between of a mattress like loaf
Easy on the teeth, pocket, and hope
The staple of Bombay, the vada pav stop
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
You can never look more beautiful
Than you do through a poet's eyes
Especially if that poet only looks for you
A poet's eyes see the truth
We see what the rest of the world ignores
Every seemingly insignificant detail we turn into a whole other world
A broken piano
A speck of dust
A missing sock
A single staple
A shrunken sweater
A fallen feather
The world is full of wonder
But none like they are
To a poet who takes in all that is offered
You will never see how beautiful you are through a poet's eyes
You will find it in their words as they try to describe
The indescribable perfection they see before them
A speck of gold hidden by coal
The kind of magic that tears your soul
Released from the fingertips of someone bold
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
wreaths:
hand in my lap
back to the precious fears we thought we stored so far from here
grit my teeth punch the wreath
it falls and leaves scatter across the floor
i wonder if this is a metaphor
i smirk and slam the door as more begins to fall, it is leaves galore
get a broom to sweep the mess when suddenly i must confess
its too much of a hassle to rearrange the disengaged
let it fend for itself, not much to do for such state of health
not even a reboot could contribute
gems and jewels, they too shall be tools
for the wealthy doesn't feel such grief as do these cheap wreaths attached upon a staple-piece that was never meant to be combined, we all will know it in time.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
in the hours of circulating darkness
meandering the streets of my mind
inside the walls of a staple
sadly not built in the realm of
satisfying fantasies.
believing that more remains
under the stars that house
infallible creatures determining the
lackluster era in which they
dwell cannot be all there is
in this undiscovered,
newly founded land of
gallant nonconformity
forever dancing a brilliant quiver
orbiting the undeniable
refuge devised if only
to be safe from the world for a
single day more
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 6:55 AM UTC
Considered the staple of life
Is nothing more than ground up
Grain from
The ground.
Bread,
What so many peasants fought for in
France and Russia
Is nothing more than
Carbohydrates smushed together
Bread,
What everyone eats today,
Is nothing more than gluten free,
Wheat or multigrain.
But could some thing so simple
Be so important?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
Banked up against a terraced mountainside
photogenic pristine rows
of blasting green
rows of manicured waterways
with two buffaloes treading ballet-like
between squelching mud and green shoots
the paddy fields stayed buoyant
all season through.
Come harvesting time
and thrashing the sunburied ripe
tendrils of husk and seed
along threshing traffic wheels
the husk sought divorce from
the long tongued long grained
wives -and parted ways.
Soon the pudding spent its silky smooth sexiness
on a plate of punchy aromatic costumes
that invaded the senses and palate
in sensual smoothness. Oh my!
Ricebowl pudding
of the worlds staple.
Author Notes
Gluttony beckons just now!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
peach cobbler, that's what you remind of
the sweet, southern staple that everyone loves
but when the pom-poms fell from your hands
you told the girls in the van on the way to fun mountain
"I can't do those stunts anymore."
I still laugh at myself for my inappropriate and abrupt,
"WHAT!?!?"
but your collected calmness collected me
until i saw in the back of your eyes the collected fear
and realized the daunting fact,
that even though you were nearly 9 months my younger
in 9 months
you were going to have to be years older than me
we were raised to plan
but planning doesn't determine how life occurs
cause you never really plan to fall down
i know there were those who showed you love
but i'm sure being named "pastor's daughter" and labeled "cliche"
didn't do you any favors in the judgement days
and i'm sorry i only made you a dress to hide the bump
when you deserved a cape
to soar over that injustice
that no one has the right to serve
what its like to inhabit a body that is growing beauty
i don't know, but watching you
i have seen it can be ... a change
which, i'm sure, that doesn't even remotely explain ... does it?
no it's ... a Life Alteration of Volcanic Proportions
cause I'm sure, at times, you feel as if standing in the wake of an explosion
and sometimes the earth spews fiery filth at you
but i believe mothers are fire proof
cause they know they have beauty that grew inside
and when you look at that doe eyed, preschooler son
remember that love strengthens you
heaven is powerful
and you are both beautiful
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
Summer ice box, bolted to the block like a hustler’s ambition.
King of the corner. Hand to hand to every family man or,
A fiends fever dream. Metal mattress for the meek.
Chill spot on the streets,
For a late-night congregation of labeled freaks;
To people passing by at least.
Neighborhood staple. A practicing painters graffiti canvas.
Crowned with empty coffee cups turned bank accounts for the beggar.
Bent from stray bullets, but never broken.
Stalwart, abandoned bodegas
But the ice box remains.
The signature of a city that speeds away, but
Will never change.
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 2:27 PM UTC
Shards of sail staple sky to sea as fingernail-thin boats lean in to the horizon.
The surge of surf converses constantly with the silent shore, urging its message upon the oblivious beach.
My children scramble on the man-made groyne, a facsimile of wild rock, in which they find caves 'with a proper rock on top' (Bea) and 'a hundred miles deep' (Willem).
We are here on bikes, salt wind in our hair, and my *** slowly absorbing moisture from the almost-dry sand as they unburden their youth upon the rocky playground.
And then come the treasures.
A flat shell the size of my palm and worn pearlescent smooth.
A fossil pebble of concentric ingrained ripples.
'Something amazing Mummy,' comes the cry. 'You have to see this stone; the colour of Coca Cola,' shouts my boy.
More treasures emerge and are grafted on to the sandy pile.
Quartz-like lumps and a mussel entangled with tiny seaweed strands and miniature white shells, like micro leaves and hints of feta in a fancy restaurant.
The boy wears welly boots, no socks, and a plastic medal around his neck. 'Batman, Batman, Batman,' comes the cry, while Bea determinedly scans heaven and Earth for jewels to stud her imagination.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC