"wonton" poems
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Celebration
A child of God on his creation
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
A cake
The sweet smell plus the time it took to make
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Blowing out candles hot dripping wax
65 candles fire to the max
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Singing the song
A sadness lingered all day long
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
A friend to share it with
Or are all these reasons just a myth
Pouring Rain fierce winds rocked my car
I walked the mall
Beauty Salon new look cut style my hair
No one to notice or to care
Shopping
Victoria Secrets, things I did not need
But made me smile
The happness only lasted a short while
See’s candy, picked out my favorite kind
Still sad loneliness on my mind
Bed bath and beyond; rosewater candles
Surely the scent would cheer my mood
Perhaps
Chinese’s food
Wonton soup and *** stickers To take home
Painful knee ended my time to roam
Reading comments ,well wishers who
Remember my Birthday
I’m done celebrating now
Ready for the end of this Day
Text messages Facebook too
I wish I understood I wish I knew
Why I feel this way
Tomorrow
Will be
A bright
New Day
Inspired Song
1) It’s my party by Lesley Gore
(And I’ll cry if I want to)
2) Happy birthday the new kids by on the block
3) Happy birthday by John Lennon
4) happy birthday by “Weird Al” Yankovic
5) happy birthday by Loretta Lynn
6) birthday by Katy Perry
7) happy birthday by Stevie Wonder
8) birthday by The Beatles
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
Hear my chants , feel their sincerity
Remove these negative things keeping me
A part of my mistakes and short comings
Can you reverse this downward karma for me
Otherwise let them punish i for my worth
Or lack there of, i know i deserve happiness
When i only want to see it on everyones face
Krishna dancing till i can see the light again
Remove all of the want and wonton desire
Replace it with love let me breathe in peace
And be one with the wind again
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
It was a dissonant melody that made the lonesome mole weep from his blind eyes
and there were mascara stains on the face of a pensive ********** lady in the streetlights
When the orchestral waves wound up at the shores of a sandblasted city
the denizens were too afraid to speak out against tyranny, and they died
Wistful wonderment in the souls of the children as they walk hand in hand
and experience the crumbling of wonton rocks in the skies of their homeland
A celestial boom, droning on the streets, and the women are beat
Are you outraged yet?
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
Come dance the Tandava with me and you too will be free
Creation सृष्टि
I am Shiva’s Shadow
स्थिति ..... I exist to support life’s precarious platform
संहार ..... I feel Creation’s seed.... cosmic genesis
The first wave of flagrant eruption
Ending in the the cosmos’s destruction.
तिरोभाव There exists illusion
Which gives rise to me
The obliteration of ignorance.
We live in times of ignore-ance
Here I have little sway.
Years from now....maybe.
Until then, kali decides to dance with me. Primal संहार Destruction
Bloodlust and Fire
******** and desire
Quantum tantric tangle
***** the world’s funeral pyre
Goodbye beauty, Goodbye love
WE bring it upon ourselves, creating shells and building shelves
to stack the wonton clothes of identity, the context of all hells.
The layers are too many
It collapses
And if not, I'll ******* burn the scaffold.
I know why I am here now.
To destroy tirobhava,
all this pain is an illusion
I hereby release this sickness from the world
in prophetic burning grace of emancipation अनुग्रह is foretold
To dance the sacred tandava
say goodbye once more and end it all.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC
I just bribed the ferryman, oh yes, I bribed him well
Don't matter how much mischief because we're both headed to hell
I bribed the man to take some time to tell me of his life
He told me of the way he takes the coinage for his wife
He told me he writes poetry, but only in his head
He wrote some lovely lullabies (and love songs for the dead)
The man is quite a cook and made some killer Wonton soup
Then he told me of his wish to make a knit and crochet group
The ferryman that took the ****** seemed like a really awesome guy
And it almost made it worth it that I had had to die
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
casket, casket, buried deep, will you ever let me sleep?
rising inch by inch to the top of ground, let out that beast that sleeps so sound.
poking, rotting, stench filled air, shall you occupy dying despair?
without a word, up forth it springs, to the madness that my heart still gleams.
crazed and cursed for ever more, you will decompose way before.
maggots squirming, loss of life, this is something made by a knife.
keen and sly it slips so nice, from under your chin it was a slice.
draining red no more, soaked and breathless upon the floor.
"why?" you ask, we'll never know.
falling faster ,faster for hells repour.
sticky, slimey cavern walls, over and over the calmness calls.
she lost her mind and found a pill. taken before against her will.
now she writhes and moans only to gurlge on that pink foam.
fading darkness coming fast, never did she think it would be her last.
now the demons tear and bite. each one overjoyed by her fright.
choking, coughing unable to breath, he sat up with liquid running down his sleeve.
razor clipped tendons from wrist to rut. an elbow bent like a ***** ****
draining, pale, eyes rolled back. now its time to hit the sack.
another one found that their dying breath was nothing more than a **** fest.
painted senseless, it never to be told. lied, cried, denied, inside, confide.
let out that evil sin so i can make you live in hell again.
the devils might, needed no more, yet watching me from below the floor.
gripping, grabbing, groping, nothing to hold. not even a light in all the void.
wither, wasted, wonton, worthless flames flickering among your decrepit names.
say it once to me now! now again! i say. let me hear you forget to pray.
casket, casket buried deep...will you ever let me sleep?
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
And the show is never over!
I don't even remember purchasing the tickets.
Welcome to a runny nose, and welcome to a style of up and down.
Because that's all up and down are; styles for the miles of crowded planet.
Drink your tired music like a bowl of wonton soup
Chunks will surprise you.
Swipe your debit, credit, hallmark card to purchase them
All of them.
Every inch of their REM.
I woke up to the winter concealed in valleys
Filled with fortune and ethernet cables.
What's your wifi password?
"Thanks, love."
Alright, thanks, love.
What a beautiful way to say "careful."
Carefree.
Curvature of some invisible decimal point.
I love you.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
I forget that my brain does not do _________ when it should do _________ and I slip under the coat of choking mustard gas that ***** the moisture from my lungs and eyes. A mustard seed of effort, small and yellow, cracked with no seeming dreaming thing of an eye has fallen like Hansel's crumbs from my hand and is buried with all my ambitions and dead dogs in the cold ground.
I hope it grows a kingdom of heaven, but prayers are wasted when they come from the wonton--and wayward kin of sinners who lead false farces and bring gluttony to dinner. I waste and want and cannot speak the language of those around me while we all whine and dine and **** and cackle
oh god
trite ********
********
******** ******** ******** ********
I am not tired, I am bored, I am bored of lying and trying. Trying is the worst, and there is little reward for the cost of my dismemberment of ego.
Where is a pre-made empire for me when I need it? I should be handed down something, I cannot earn it on my own. I am a ruler, not a conquerer. I am a spectator, not an athlete. My narcissism cannot take the trying effort of building something of my own with feeble rewards and now I will die alone. Maybe. Maybe it's all hyperbolic.
I'm gonna say it. **** you, I'll say it.
**** it, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth?"
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
I've got a lot on my plate these days.
I glance around, find an empty booth, and slide in.
I hate my job.
The owner, an older Chinese man, smiles and brings water and a menu.
Money is tight, it's always tight.
Mongolian beef today, I think.
I have no passion for life, my dreams just confusing mashups of the past.
Wonton soup like always, the fried strips melting into the broth.
My friends are gone, lost to time and distance and I feel so alone.
The owner brings me a gorgeous looking plate full of food, I thank him.
The love of my life finds more excitement in his computer than in me.
Tender beef, saucy peppers, perfectly steamed rice.
I search books for romance, fiction won't tell your secrets or get jealous.
Half the meal goes in a box for later.
My bed is as cold as my heart, no sleep will deter my exhaustion.
An almond cookie makes the check easier to pay.
Maybe I should be on medication. Maybe I should break up with my boyfriend. Maybe I should cut my hair. Maybe I should stop eating. Maybe I should move back home.
I pay at the counter and thank the man for an excellent meal as always.
I tuck my credit card into my wallet, my feelings into the deepest part of my mind so that I can make it another day without falling apart.
At least I have enough leftovers for dinner.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
I was Dreaming of You
My Lover
The Anticipaticipation of
Our Intimacy
I was wishing for Your
Strong Arms to hold Me
Lips so soft and Wet
Anticipating being Taken
Wonton for your touch
Giving back and Forth
Forth and Back
Till completely Spent
I believed we were Connected
Dreamt of Moments Ahead
Looking forward to
Mutual Gratification
Was Dreaming the Best Dream Yet
Soft, Cool, Clean, Crisp Sheets
Pillows upon pillows
To rest my Head
Leaving the Weariness
Of My Body
Melting softly into Bed
The Anticipation
Even if just for a Day
Experiencing your Presence
Exploring each other in every way
Relaxation, Contemplatinion, Re- Fortification
Time Suspended
Melding together
Exquisite Wonder of Each Other
The Oneness of Us
Under A Canopy of Stars
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
cold bitter sidewalk wind
duck into chinese place
find a place along the window
hot tea, wonton, fortune please
watching quick and furtive striders
sun rays make it through glass haze
warmth returns to my numb fingers
which pry apart the brittle cookie
the paper inside says “decide”
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Persuaded by wonton doubt
While wanting to live again
Inebreation, a deadly device
Sure I can sit in solitude
But only in the past...
It is gone like betrayed comradyery
How it was so indigenous to my species
But now is so lost upon different faces
Tonight my friend said
How come the weirdest things
Happen to you ?
It made me more sad
How it was a question
But yet one without an answer
Except
Me
My brains not scattered on the wall
Just because im special.
And i have friends
How selfish right?
Oh well i guess we all have a right to live
God given? Sure. Right to the pursuit of happiness?
I persistantly sure as ****
Hope to god thats true
Oh well
All is biding in due time
Will happiness come from pen strokes?
Or the stamping of pitter pattering letters?
All I knows is that it will come from my hands
Even tho the only way i relieve tension
From soul and body
Is by screaming or singing out the hole
In the front my peripherals? Hobby?
Maybe
Calling of an egotistical standing
Singing for myself feels more becoming
Sea ore,
I am vain and think I am an omnificent
Creator
Of my own happiness
Decider of my own destiny
Defeat
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
shouting is usually the first thought
-- A fit of wonton rage at your inexplicable beauty and charm that my fragile feeble and all together fickle mind can't contain.
But I step back.
That's insane.
So I admire.
From afar.
Because that's easier, after all.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Almost died but this time I didn’t
the pain of an artistic with an academic life
being bound by wonton grasping
don’t even seem to know who or what I’m asking
Got so lost again when a guide mentioned in passing
Theres a fork in the road up ahead
no choice is still a choice maybe end up dead
Always walk the darkest path until
i remembered the angel and made up my choice
pull myself up like I hoist
out the words when I’m verging on verbing in Voice.
Seen demons, I hear hell, Headache of pride make ya head swell
been sick as hell/ oh well
stuck at the bottom molding
unseen granting boons
in the moon-lit wishing well
But I ought to see my life as odyssey
like I oughtt to be the hero
more playful like the spirit
otter i otter be
Im stuck in feedback loop self
but the emerging, unfolding, ever so bold in its calling
states plainly that it is time to fall down shaking
cascading blood caking memory set
wrong or at least oblong in it’s making
moments
seem to make me lose my voice
so how can I preach
if I m not acting
how can I teach
If my arms ain’t out
mama how can I reach?
Wishing the earth calls me
yelling come back my child
Rest in my arms and forget
I am death living memory leech.
╭∩╮(Ο_Ο)╭∩╮
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
What kind of Sin dares Usher in
A devious man to lick his lips, gutteral gasping beneath his Breath
The Wonton Musing oozes a delicious Decay,
The Poured Out drooling, his Power Pulsing, A Foaming Fantasy Power Tripping
~to Control the Spiritual World
at his Will & Command?
Here's what he imagined:
Biblical Bribery.
Blasphemous Forgery
Who ever has the money or an Unbridled hand can piecemeal a Story for premeditated Zeal,
To make for a more attractive Appeal
Why need such profiled Idoltry?
To be Present
at the Moment of such a Powerful Man's Revelation, Spoken for and too You
To be blessed
with ears to hear Him
To worship
At the Alter of Salt
A pillar miraculous,
To Worship Within, in Him, beside Him.
A Scribe Sweats
To write furiously away
for later reference, Thus
Attention is spared and the Sermon Deemed for Organic Lackluster
**"Scratch That
Oops
Edit
Kindly Repeat
Didn't quite catch That
Delete
Revise
Rephrase
Two or One spaced per Sheet?
The strain hurts my Eyes
When can We Break for Feast?
Are We Done for the Day?"**
Can this be a possiblity
Can a misdirected, Unsupervised
Scrupulous Individual
Not quietly Misquote
The Word trianguled from Mouth to Pen to Paper?
The Words We have come to Believe In??
You Tell Me.....
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
chugging a toxic concoction
liquid glass
underscore aftermath underscore bad omen
honestly personally to me
an omen is simply an omen
no connotations
you gotta do what the omen tells you to
then you go and do the next thing
no biggie
dilate my pupils
bless me
tick tick tick
tock tock
whoooooooooooooooooooom
and some fibonacci sequence song laced with electric guitar
what good does this do
you only ever speak in riddles
havent you ever had some of that good
wonton soup
i thought so
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
Wonton soup
I got Chinese
For sure you and me
Out of surprise you came to my left
I gave you a right
Now you have a black eye
And now I have no soup
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 12:50 PM UTC
Time is wonton soup,
And that tall boy you stole last night
Is still inside your trunk.
Cigarette smoke and sunscreen air
Perfume the burning grass.
When all is placed on greenfly's wing
He tumbles forward - brash.
Cool pursuit, and time lapse too,
Persist the stagnant air
Of summertime and sweet plum wine,
Cocoons, a golden snare.
Black lace ******* disarray
I want to know your plans,
From shallow noon till dusty dusk
With warm and calloused hands.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
(The Greater Prairie Chicken: a grouse of open grassland, is known for its mating dance. Males display together in a communal lek, where they raise ear-like feathers above their heads, inflate orange sacs on the sides of their throats, and stutter-step around while making a deep hooting moan.)
So how you gonna keep ‘em
Down on the farm after they’d seen Paree?
After “displaying together” in
Their own private lek--
Communal though it was.
It’s May in Hemetucky.
I just got back from my
Twilight constitutional,
As Truman called it.
Harry—since I was born in 1949—
Tribute for my first Commander-in-Chief.
The moon was misted,
More than half full,
Myself half in the bag,
As they say.
As you know by know,
I live in one of those gated,
Golf-coursed, over-55
Lunatic Asylums,
A communal lek, as they say.
I’m stutter schlepping around the block
In my pajamas remembering that big sign,
So full of promise--ACTIVE SENIORS—
A veritable sexually promiscuous
Welcome Mat.
I made an assumption, you see,
That children of the 60s grown old
Would relish a life of legal **** in a
Gated sanctuary with hours upon hours of
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni.”
I knew I missed those years,
That era of bra-burning &
Birth Control.
“Girls Gone Wild,”
Wonton ******* & *******
A bowl of Won-Ton carnality:
Wild abandon, mature ladies,
Their ******* in a ***
At the bottom of their purse,
(Thank you, Joan Osborne)
Joan Osborne - Right Hand Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics
http://www.metrolyrics.com/right-hand-man-lyrics-joan-osborne.htmlLyrics to 'Right Hand Man' by Joan Osborne. Let me use your toothbrush / Have you got a clean shirt? / My ******* in a *** /at the bottom of my purse / I walk. (www.advertise/right-in-the-middle-of-fucking-poem.com)
Yet, I languish here
Here in the now,
Having shown my cards too often.
After 10 years here no woman
Takes me seriously,
Given my unserious reputation,
Not to be taken seriously.
Which explains why I spend
So much of my time in Italy
Lately.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Anyone can write a poem
I mean, they’ve never passed a law
and with the quick access to paper
and all.
Of course, the serial poet’s the danger
that keeps us up at night - someone lacking
the gene for rhyme control. Normal people can’t
imagine such wonton, naked promiscuity with words.
It’s best that we ignore them - to nip it in the bud.
A real collective effort is required - let us build
institutional archives - yes - we’ll call them libraries - to
lock such verse away - may it never again see the light of day.
If you catch a child with a pencil, slap it out of their little hand
because we cannot start too early in discouraging needless rhyme.
This public service announcement - pointing out this new “poetry”
trend - was made for the benefit of all.
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 10:38 AM UTC
Chains of smoke for lessons learned
Eyes to cry where eagles flit and fly
I stand alone again yet burned
Wondering on wanderings mote
Slipping inside, I notice
This was all, and ever wrote
Hereby I, to numb away
How didn't I notice frost?
A signal like a spire among Ghouls that beckon
Lore becomes my empire, while I float on again
Wonton desires cause ceaseless wresting
And shallows felt, bring on the wilting
Caught up again in uncertainty,
as shadows wisp by
Nothing left but wanting
And I wonder if it was altruism
Bells that thunder on like heartstrings
And I'm going through the motions
Bellows loud like eruptions underneath
And I am but a mountain singing
Play pain again
I'd love to feel
The echoes from the walls
Teach me what I'm missing
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
As the fire builds from tips of toes so too do the woes.
Oh my the passion rising from depths of lust to the core of wanting
A MUST.
I must have that which is denied, the kind of thing seen but not eyed.
I must posses that beautiful being, I am in need of her heartened sting.
She tickles and teases her way from my toes and on up my legs her passion goes.
She stops just short of my yearning thighs and whispers sweet nothings, "hellos and goodbyes"
She continues her fingers on their wonton ride. Motionless, breathless, she lies in wait as she claws at my side.
Bighting back the sting of the pain, I writhe in ecstasy as I scream out her name.
She digs in deeper, drawing tears to my eyes. I moan softly and whimper, covering my cries.
Demanding I do as she tells me to do, I fall to my knees and worship her shoe.
She demands attention and have it she will. She is my passion, my fire and thrill.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
What we need
is a good old fashion
Best freind day!
So this is what I'll do
I'll ride that bus
to the station
and then stomp my fat ***
to your house
break down your door
and drag you out
and make you get on that stupid bus
but first I'll steal that shirt of yours I love
Then once we get off that bus
did I ever mention how much I actual like that bus?
I will drag you
To the China Gormet
sit you down in the chair
and order us some food
Our weight in Crab Rangoons
you like that wonton soup too right?
THEN
THEN
I will make you carry all that food
and lead the way to our old hang out
Under the playset
of the elementary school
ONCE we are settled
and snakcing happily
We will talk about stupid ****
lets add more inside jokes
to the list we already have
LIGHT BULB,
devils opera,
repo the genetic Carnival
It's only hard enough to stay Stiff
Please
Let us do this
Please
I beg of you
Becuase I can see it in your words
I can hear it in your voice
You're slipping away again
Just out of my grasp
And I don't want to almost lose you
Like I did last time
:'(
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
It has no business here!
That salty ochre, pallet-chorus,
Clear plastic red dotted sachet!
Your lust for condiments freaks me out,
Buddha-girl, eat your meal.
Time won't run out so quickly
Nor your intelligence nor your zeal.
Pursed lips slurp a bowl of noodles,
I think of your warm hands
And banks of rivers, and cigarette quivers
Ashes falling to black sand.
Happy as a clam in an oyster's shell
Life is one fell swoop.
Give me the keys, you doe-eyed girl,
For time is wonton soup.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
Look not into that hopeful scene, away and down the alleyway
Of your new life—new memories gambol and of them a new past,
Look not into that hopeful scene, nostalgia when comes as a new god
An infant-you beseeching you, “I’ll guide thy hand down two hist’ries.”
Look not into that hopeful scene, the past is clear and now empty
Autumn is sweet, exalted still though with this cold, and bitter will
A hopeful scene as it looks not, as car-exhaust mornings spray cool
The baby-sitter years, or days under the eye both looking in
That hopeless scene, the beauty of this never-was, never-had, likely
Never-will. For the reclaiming of past selves as wonton, fickle
As the purchase of small antiques and filling up those jars of brine
Today’s home is a present-past, recalled in ferns up through the cracks
Sure as coating on thy heart, it wants us to return, to call on
Doors that long ago inured to wailing of their theft, so it goes
And capturing the long-ago: look not into that hopeless scene.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC