"wheats" poems
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
They say
She says
He says
Some say “it“ but are do not mean well.
You say “whatever“
And call yourself a bread
A sandwich.
You joke, you giggle.
I make it real.
Taking things serious,
Taking things literal,
Is a talent of mine.
But the idea of identity
It is a story of yours
These pronouns
Fresh like bread
Wholesome like wheat
Savory like heat
They are just like you
When nothing works
When all feels wrong
Sandwich will put a smile on you
And you
Might give a sandwich
to sandwir
A sandwich
is sandwirs
It is meant to be
Sandwich
Sandwir
Sandwir
Sandwirs
And sandwichself
The mania of grain and wheats
Will never be gone
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 5:07 AM UTC
My Beloved,
Let's meet in meadows of yellow shiny buttercups,
dandelions,daises,lilacs and coloured butterflies,
Let's run till dusk in threaded fields of hundred golden wheats,
lay down under the little lantern light of million fire flies.
Let's hold hands and walk in parks,sit on a wooden bench,
and make a rainbow wish upon the destined shooting stars,
Let's dance cheek to cheek,bathe naked beneath water falls,
and watch enchanting faries use their magic glittered wands,
As feathered silk white swans pirhouette in sparkling streams,
as we get lost in secret casting spells of everlasting melodies.
Let's wake up to the music of a golden harped string fire ball,
warming our blue skies ,with every early rooster's dawn.
Lets run to open fields,to the shade of old mulberry trees,
Make a picnic on a carpet made of crispy bronzing leaves,
share a velvet peach,and eat pulped ripe strawberries,
taste red satin cherries, as woodpeckers drum their beats.
Let's write the sweetest verse and many loving words,
listen to the sound of waltzing crickets and chirping little birds.
and when the sun go sleeping,the crescent moon starts peeping,
in the ebony black sky,Its then we realise there are billion miles
of distance between the 'You and 'i',It is there I find your heart,
as your heart searches for mine,in the place of never ending time.
It is our special place,where whispered thoughts join in one space,
where my blood pumps your ardent name, deeply in my veins.
It is the cherished place, where we travel, in many many ways,
It is the place we live and love as one,yet not seeing face to face.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 4:34 AM UTC
The epitome of inequality.
Frosting is distributed unevenly;
caked gloriously on some,
depressingly absent on others.
Anger and frustration mount
each time a claw raises
uncoated multi-grains to my mouth.
But each time my grasp
manages to find
a sterling white mini-wheat,
I remember why
I put up with all the ****
But the question beckons,
whether or not
the absence of imperfections
would lessen the resonance
of the frosty treats
to my oral senses.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
I am learning to appreciate the little things
Like waking up every morning and pouring a bowl of frosted mini wheats.
As my fat-free milk soaks every fiber of that shredded wheat; I am grateful to sit at the table where I can eat by the plateful.
I'm learning to appreciate the little things
Like when small drops of rain fall from the sky and land on the inside lenses of my glasses
and I have to take them off so I can wipe them clean. I look to see what remains to be seen but everything is just a blur, so I am thankful for those small drops of rain to remind me again that these things on my face I choose to ignore help me to see the beauty of life's ongoing shore.
I'm learning to appreciate the little things
Like coffee grounds and the water molecules that pass through them to brew me the perfect cup.
Or light switches, picture frames,
and carpet, batteries, paint,
and the local farmers market.
I appreciate sunshine and wind
and the small town in Oregon
called Bend (though I've only been there once, I appreciate its wonder).
I am learning to recognize the little things
The things that pass us by...the things that don't really need an explanation and are behind the motivation in our daily rotation.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
The little ladys name was ramy she did not eat for 89 days. She would always pick fruit, and think of girls carrying cabbage. She would stand tall and always feel the air of the nearby mountains. She would race with the girls every morning for five days. She would stare into the sunflower, she would touch the wheats, she would zone out into her child hood thoughts. The little lady ramy, was her name. She had a brain malfunction, she would take corn and sway them all the time. She fell into a hypnosis and didnt come out alive. She quivered into a black machine. The lady was now in a dangerous scene. The little children would say hi misses. They would hold their knees. They would run away into the air surprisingly. The little lady would picker. She was a good lady but she forgot to hang up her white sheets. Every evening she would feel the laughs of the five girls. They would sleep orange, they would twirl in delight. The little lady was mesmorized.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
*Whippoorwills and high flying airplanes
Church bells and eastbound trains
Cattle moving throughout the night
Killdeer songs in the morning light
A Postman waves while making his round
A buck at the hedgerow , a diesel plow
Shimmering fields , dancing oaks
Burning hickory , field smoke
Black coffee , a stack o' wheats
Frosted windows and strick-o-lean* ...
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC