"whey" poems
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs
stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise
bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said
whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong
cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;
and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive
just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in
(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey
coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed
with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day
cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
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Little Miss Muffet
Sits not on a tuffet
But on a Le Corbusier chair.
Curds and whey
Are not for her
As she is a vegan
And rarely eats between meals.
Along comes Spiderman,
Sits down on a sedan
And questions her
On all things entomological
And graphic novels.
And do you know what?
She is not afraid at all!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Pure whey protein tub.
Lets make boys body builders.
Gym memberships rise.
The mating dance changed
My testicles move a train.
Will you be my wife?
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
she hovers over the handwritten letter
with maniacal grin gripping her face
as she devours his texted words
with weeping eyes
and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some
forgotten french dialect
delightful reflections in song of the garden gate
leaning broken onto the rough hewn path
where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed
in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears
and labour at the desires never felt and
the dark soils never fertile
seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon
which decorates the far wall of the tomb
the cherubs brief delighted laughters
soon sputter and fail
as in the dying light of day
reveals that they must labour yet another day
to no useful end
she lives in this place
a cottage of straw with dark windows
and a wood stained door
she sits on its porch with knitting in hand
weaving futures for her beloved cherubs
weaving pasts for her own
she devoured him like she did his words
and came home to roost
like her innocent faced dragoons
she will someday march forth with this army of doom
but today she is content to be contrite
knitting porridge and whey wall hangings
from the tables of the
steampunk princess
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
This is an ode for chicks who tough it,
About an empowered Little Miss Muffet,
Sitting alone there on her tuffet,
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her,
Or was he a predator?
What was he after her for?
So, she said to the spider,
Who sat down beside her,
"Rak off, hairy legs!
Don't even beg!
Less is more, less is more,
P.O.Q. , you naughty predator!"
And she ate her own curds and whey!
Empowering Miss Muffets these days,
Hopefully, us old bags do say......
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.
Rose White's grey eyes
look into the dark forest.
Rose Red's cheeks are burning,
sign of her ardent, joyful
compassionate heart.
Rose White is pale,
turning away when she hears
the bear's paw on the latch.
When he enters, there is
frost on his fur,
he draws near to the fire
giving off sparks.
Rose Red catches the scent of the forest,
of mushrooms, of rosin.
Together Rose Red and Rose White
sing to the bear;
it is a cradle song, a loom song,
a song about marriage, about
a pilgrimage to the mountains
long ago.
Raised on an elbow,
the bear stretched on the hearth
nods and hums; soon he sighs
and puts down his head.
He sleeps; the Roses
bank the fire.
Sunk in the clouds of their feather bed
they prepare to dream.
Rose Red in a cave that smells of honey
dreams she is combing the fur of her cubs
with a golden comb.
Rose White is lying awake.
Rose White shall marry the bear's brother.
Shall he too
when the time is ripe,
step from the bear's hide?
Is that other, her bridegroom,
here in the room?
3.1k
Their truth was really a lie
Those three words that shaped your life
But when candor came to light
it was that one sprawl that broke you down
Whey you thought you would crumble and fall
For the first time in your existence
you smiled with your eyes
and they lit up the sky,
all of that happened
from a single lie
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Each has meaning to one or all of us
personally
all i learned of these
i read as i grew
these fun loving rhymes
have some meaning or other
so i put these up
to bring out the childish side!!
:) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When the nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveller in the dark.
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
How I wonder what you are.
Jack be Nimble
Jack be Nimble
Jack, be nimble,
Jack, be quick,
Jack, jump over
The candlestick. Jack jumped high
Jack jumped low
Jack jumped over
and burned his toe.
Do You Know The Muffin Man
Do you know the Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man?
Do you know the Muffin Man
Who lives in Drury Lane?
Yes, I know the Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man.
Yes, I know the Muffin Man
Who lives in Drury Lane.
Humpty Dumpty
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
Hush Little Baby
Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's going to buy you
a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mama's going to buy you
a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's going to buy you
a looking glass.
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's going to buy you a billy goat.
And if that billy goat won't pull,
Mama's going to buy you
a cart and bull.
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mama's going to buy you
a dog named Rover.
And if that dog named Rover
won't bark,
Mama's going to buy you
a horse and cart.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest
little baby in town.
Little Miss Muffet
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
CREOLE PIDGIN ENGLISH
wetin de call dis, wetin you go call dis
oyinbo com tiffy tiffy from ma yard
I no trouble yam, I no go knock on dem fer notin
but oyinbo an dem pally com de burglarise ma hice
you hear me so!
I say oyinbo com de steal from me home
Dem be thieves tiffing all over de compound
an when I go say why you tiff about the place
oyinbo tiffs them tell me I go be the *** whey go suffer
See palava see how dem de treat black people
in dem country.
If I go steal from oyinbos, na ma *** dem go trow in jail
yet for dem town, dem com steal your property
and when you go talk they slap you down
Dem go make me loose ma bread, loose ma woman
Dem spoil ma name, them abuse me
Dem tell al kinna lies against me
Dem make nonsense stories and fabu abot me
Dem harass me, discredit and disprofit me oh!
Dem become tomenters, dem say dem go drive me crazy
dem go ruin ma life, dem go make me sik in da head
And heavens know i never trouble any persons
I never put ma feet in anybody house to steal
I never see this kin ting before
where you go do wrong and destroy him whey he do no wrong
Dis is what dem do here now, make you people know
I no fit work, I no fit go anywhere without oyinbo and him
pally dem follow and harass ma *** dem say dem want me dead
Dead for stealing from me, dead for me doing notin wrong
an them feel proud for all dem de do, dem feel right for wrong
De kin wickedness whey devil himself no fit do, dem don do
And I swear before man an God, dem go get their retributions
Every single one of dem whey involve
God go punish dem
God go bring the chaos of hell on dem
God go mash dem up like dem mash ma life
Except God no be God an tru an real
Dem are evil people and evil will claim every single one of dem
who do dis to ma innocence.
Peoples wherefer you be, wherefef you go, make you know
That in london der are evil oyinbo thiffs dere
an them go steal and destroy your life if you talk
I beg jus pray for me, dem want me dead
Dem want blood.
De blood of an inoncent man who never trouble anybody
dem de make mockery of me now
Dem de call me Modern day Jesus....
An by de Grace of de real Jesus Christ
Each an every one of dem who hav made me suffa
Will get dem just reward, I wait on the Lord
He is a tru an just God and Him say
Vengeance is mine...
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
Will you stay in the Plains till September—my passion as warm as the day?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay “thirteen-two”;
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild ***** foreswearing the swearing of oaths ;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn ’mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow—as of old on Mars Hill whey they raised
To the God that they knew not an altar—so I, a young Pagan, have praised
The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true,
You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you.
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i’m fighting with gravity
to the death- until my head rests,
empty as my belly
on this false-porcelain floor-
skin waxy as laminate over
these heavy hollow bones
waiting for freedom-
liberation from this sullen casing.
i shake, manic-
blood pressure in the basement,
nauseous from diet pills and anxiety.
jittery, stare at the ceiling-
a spider, stick-limbed, teases me,
but here’s the silver lining:
no curds or whey coating
my shining insides.
i am stronger and brighter than ever
as black swims in my vision-
light-headed from malnutrition,
i wrap fingers around my wrists
to make sure i haven’t escaped my limits.
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it won’t snitch.
we’ll keep this surreptitious.
spilling my bloodred guts, my blood,
won’t make me wither,
and confessing won't save me either.
this red ribbon stays tied around my wrist.
secrets kept keep me stable
clinging to my only success,
self-confidence cellophane-wrapped
in my absence, my transparence.
the whispers don’t mean a thing.
i am frantic on a wire frame,
white noise on parade.
the ground can only hold me for so long.
i'll sprout wings from my ribcage
and float away.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
The sun is hiding away from the Moon
The dish found the courage to divorce the spoon
Little Bo Peep is left alone with her sheep
But doesn't know if they are going to stay
Little Miss Muffet is crying into her curds and whey
Jack cheated on Jill
So she pushed him down the hill
The grand old duke heard the news
and locked her up in jail
Humpty Dumpty was having a snooze
Fell off the wall, now can't afford to pay the bail
The Poor old egg is yet to be mended
So the fairytale has ended
Goldylocks accused the bears of being violent
But she's a trespassing theive so the town stayed silent
The wolf got tired of knocking the pigs houses down
So they go to the pub and it's always his round
Some have broken hearts and some are befriended
One things for sure, the fairytale has ended
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
Evil Tales
So you think, you know who I am,
I killed Mary, and ate her little lamb.
I killed Goldilocks and ate the three bears,
then dumped the porridge down the stairs.
I pushed Humpty Dumpty off that wall,
I'm the reason for his great fall.
I'm the one who killed Bambi's mother,
that deer tasted like no other.
I put the poison in Snow White's apple,
the blood from the seven dwarfs,
I put in every red Snapple.
I chopped off all of Rapunzel's hair,
yes I know that wasn't fair.
I'm the father of Cinderella's step sisters,
after midnight I gave her some cold sore blisters.
I put Sleeping Beauty fast asleep,
then ran her over in my new Jeep.
Georgie Porgie kissed the girls and made them cry,
that is the reason, he had to die.
Little Miss Muffet ate her curds and whey,
it was my spider who had a Muffet buffet.
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
I pushed Jack down and gave Jill a thrill.
Little Red Riding Hood went to Grandma's house,
then the big bad Allen pulled up her red blouse.
The Three Little Pigs never had a chance,
I huffed and puffed and ate pork til I **** my pants.
This old man, he played one,
knick, knack, paddy whack,
then my dog ate his thumb,
There was an Old Woman who lived in a shoe,
then one day, I filled it with crazy glue.
I killed Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy,
inside my head is very, very scary.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Oh, I love so many peoples' words
They make me feel like I'm not alone
But my own feel like whey and curds
Sometimes good, but usually just fine
To be saved for a sucky nursery rhyme
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey.
The little dog laughed,
"Jack, jump over the candlestick."
Along came a spider,
the cat and the fiddle,
who sat down beside her
and frightened Miss Muffet away.
"Hey, ****** ******
"Yes sir, yes sir."
Jack be nimble
Who lives down the lane.
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring,
and one for the little boy
who lives in Drury Lane.
All the king's horses and all the king's men;
To see such sport,
don't say a word.
"Have you any wool?"
"Do you know the Muffin Man?"
"Three bags full."
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Jack, be quick,
Mama's going to buy you a looking glass.
One for the master,
Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.
One for the dame,
Mama's going to buy you a billy goat.
Jack jumped high
The cow jumped over the moon.
Jack jumped low
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Jack be nimble,
Mama's going to buy you a cart and bull.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Jack jumped over and burned his toe.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
Hush, little baby,
one little Indian boy
couldn't put Humpty together again.
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
ring a ring o' roses,
and if that looking glass gets broke,
you'll still be the sweetest.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
did you ever see such a sight in your life,
as three blind mice
stole a pig, and away did run.
And if that billy goat won't pull
a dog named Rover,
see how they run,
they all ran after the farmer's wife,
and Tom was beat.
And if that cart and bull turn over,
and the pig was eat,
and Tom went crying,
Mama's going to buy you
A pocketful of posies.
And if that dog named Rover won't bark
down the street,
One little, two little, three little Indians,
Mama's going to buy you a horse and cart.
Much wants more, and loses all,
little baby in town.
Three blind mice,
who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
see how they run.
We all fall down.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away
A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way
Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.
Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away
A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.
A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.
Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way
Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Cheese
Simply fermented
Curds and whey, minus the whey
Fantastic with meat
And fruit
And bread
Creamy, sweet, and soft
Or
Sharp , hard, and strong
Fancy, or plain
Expensive, artisan, specialised
Cheap, processed, conformed
Cheesey, cheesey, cheese
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC
There was a street of crocodiles
Somewhere far away
The floor was made of dark blue tiles
And everyone ate curd of whey
The plastic palm trees and electric sun
Made everything seem fake
Like in a second rate movie set
Where props would always break
The crocodiles cried a lot
They sold their tears in jars
Their tears were put in copper pots
And used as fueling for the cars
The crocodiles were all peace and love
They wore velvet on their legs
Spending the days singing Jethro Tull
Eating organic cage-free eggs
Miraculously in a day
They smoked ten pounds of ****
And soon enough they were pretty broke
Living on the street
This was the street of crocodiles
Somewhere far away
The floor was made of dark blue tiles
And everyone ate curd of whey
The plastic palm trees and electric sun
Made everything seem Fake
Like in a second rate movie set
Where props would always break
The crocodiles cried a lot
They sold their tears in jars
Their tears were put in copper pots
And used as fueling for the cars
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
About that starting lineup,
well I think I missed the gun
but just as well
took off for other places~
I longed for mountains majesty
and all those things I hoped to see,
while others stayed
and loved familiar faces.
Some married and they bore their young,
or college-bound for work and fun
or tragedy,
well sometimes God just loses me~
The question of my failure
to connect with just one sailor,
what the heck, but strangely so,
it still amuses me.
I ponder of a hope,
that it's still possible,
within your scope,
and grateful for eleventh hour breakthroughs~
Still don't get what you wrote to me,
I bungled at the spelling bee,
you say the thing I'll get, is what I choose?
My mind it travels to and fro,
the world it feeds the input though,
and we must press the whey out from the curds~
And so I speak in vagaries,
of things to come which I can't see
but speak into reality,
if only by my words.
The power of the word,
to mezmerize and heal the hurt,
your eyes are beautiful
they've looked into my soul~
The wonder of your gaze,
it touches places, Dear,
I'd rather not be writing of,
our love, like epic poetry,
too much to share in whole.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
Oh, give to me the freshest drink,—
A draught as smooth as silk
And whiter than the kitchen sink,—
A pail full of milk!
Pour it with love, and watch it flow,
(Nor spill a drop, for dread!)
Pour it precisely, enjoy the show,
And give it a foamy head!
I drink it ere the morning sun
Hath waked the early bird:
I wake and make a midnight run
To taste the lazy herd.
I rise at dawn and drink again,
And drink throughout the day;
Then drink a nightcap (or nine or ten)
And dream of curds and whey.
I've heard it said I drink too much,
And this is understood;
But man has never died from such,
And oh! it's just so good!
*
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
It took,
one of the most beautiful sunsets,
I’ve ever seen in my life,
to get me to write again,
I’ve been taking a sabbatical from personal periodicals,
not that it was premeditated,
it was or rather is,
that I hadn’t felt motivated,
still don’t really feel inspired,
even after such a beautiful sunset,
which I watched from seat 1A,
in the front row of an aircraft,
another First Class flight,
this one shorter than most,
SFO to LAX,
been around the world but still I rep Westcoast,
the girl next to me missed the whole thing,
she was and is still fast asleep,
but the guy across from me saw it,
probably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen,
see he’s a Navy Seal,
so I guess I don’t really know,
the Lord and He,
are the only ones that know what he’s seen,
at any rate the sunset was beautiful,
like I said one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,
missed the first half because my view was blocked,
by a gay couple and their cell phone screens,
jeez,
can’t we ever just have a moment with Beauty,
without having to feel like we have to capture it,
why is it the first thing most people think when they see something beautifull,
is “Oh yeah I should take a picture of this!”,
and then their interest usually only last,
as long as it takes to take that photo,
then they go back to doing whatever they were doing,
before they were interrupted with something so beautiful,
but I’ll take a Beautiful Interruption before a Mundane Day any day,
I’ve always been one for the inspiration that comes with impromptu moments,
I’ve learned to Love unconditionally Beauty in the instantaneous moments Beauty exists,
I’ve learned to be able to appreciate something without having to have the urge to own it,
lost a lat of Love before I learned that lesson,
but better late than never,
so now I write these memoirs,
to help us all act better,
because there’s always room to improve,
and that’s whey I stretch out in my yoga practice,
take moments to meditate and put it all in perspective,
because that’s the only way to stay balanced in a world off it’s axis,
see the US government shutdown today,
January 20th 2018,
and here I am on plane flying 1st class,
from San Francisco to Los Angeles,
and even though,
it’s only an hour long flight,
it was day when we took off,
and now we’re about to land and it’s night,
amazing how much can change in an hour,
sometimes an hour can change a whole life,
and I’m reminded of all of this on this airplane,
as I gaze amazed at an amazing site,
that of one of,
the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life,
it took,
one of the most beautiful sunsets,
I’ve ever seen in my life,
to get me to write again,
I’ve been taking a sabbatical from personal periodicals,
not that it was premeditated,
it was or rather is,
that I hadn’t felt motivated,
still don’t really feel inspired,
even after such a beautiful sunset,
which I watched from seat 1A,
in the front row of an aircraft,
another First Class flight,
this one shorter than most,
SFO to LAX,
been around the world but still I rep Westcoast…
∆ LaLux ∆
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
It is a night where I must craft my words
or try to weave lines on a broken loom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.
Stillborn inspiration can't be stirred,
emotions drained away. I must assume
it is a night where I must craft my words.
My prayers to Muse fell back to earth, unheard.
All artistry has booked a separate room.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.
Striving merely churns my brain to curds,
its thin gray whey runs down some gutter's flume.
It is a night where I must craft my words.
A cadenced resolution's been deferred,
the last two lines will surely be my doom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.
A peaceful flow of writing is deterred
until my buried spirit is exhumed.
It is a night where I must craft my words,
to think a poem will spring forth is absurd.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
Fractured Fairies
the stalk was tall but Jack climbed high
they said he was looking for a golden goose
but the giant wasn't keen on him getting by
he caught the little brat and kicked his caboose
old mother Hubbard lived in a shoe
she had lots of sole and a rather large tongue
her old man was proficient in kung foo
when she bent over he kung foo'd her ****
Alice lived in wonderland she was constantly high
her and that crazy rabbit eating mushrooms wild
they looked into the looking glass and my oh my
they both had golden locks so neatly styled
once upon a time there were three bears
they couldn't eat the pourage on their first attempt
they shaved their bodys except for their ***** hairs
found out they were Jewish and now verklempt
little Miss Muffet sat on tuffet eating her curds and whey
along came a spider and sat down beside her
and she stomped him good put a crimp in his day
Mary had a little lamb what a big surprise
the doctor's scratched their heads in disbelief
they just couldn't even believe their eyes
but when old McDonald had a farm good grief
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC
Bedtime stories we tell ourselves
Are actually quite funny if you really think about them
They all seem a little dark in their own way
Kind of like humpty dumpty
Who is this egg and why would be sitting
On a wall in the first place
And they always show the picture of him
Sitting with a pained grimace on his face
As his eggy innards are flowing on the ground
Or even the story of old mother hubbard
We sat in her cupboard eating her curds and whey
Who actually swallows a spider when they are eating
And if they did would they really die
Sometimes I wonder about the people who write these bedtime stories
And nursery rhymes
And wonder why parents keep telling their kids these stories
That seem to make little sense
But still seem to be very popular
Maybe we are just so used to telling them
That we don't actually sit and wonder
About what they really mean
Or how ridiculous a lot of them are
Maybe I just think too much about the little things
But I can't be the only one who thinks this way
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC