When life takes hold of you no mercy given
Foreclosures popular , the new age to walk ..driven
When your nerves are shattered
The home you live in seems scattered
Just breathe ~
children don't understand why you can't give money on the daily
life feels cold and The bills are unbearable to open it seems
When there is not enough food in the pantry for all
you feel you are losing as you begin to fall , loose sight of dreams
Just breathe ~
All these things are a test , every breath that counts.
It's the faith, and will to live , as anxiety mounts
In your darkest hour just call on his power
with the help of God above , you will surmount.
just breathe ~ just keep breathing
" Just another day in paradise Contest "
Lick Your Lips - Limerick
An old man chronologically aging
Ate foods quite gastronomically raging
He digested word soups
With phonetic sound groups
Which left him alphabetically phrasing
Created on 11/17/14 for -Limericks Clean and Clever – Poetry contest
Memory, oh sweet memory,
Lost in dizziness, but found.
Excite my brain to joyfulness.
Pain is sometimes lethal.
Memory loss is just one warning sign of this war.
Add to that: headaches, depression, oh, the mental pain.
Numbness, insomnia, heart palpations, and more, begin slowly.
From whence comes your sweet deception?
My bones ache and I cannot breath in life's memory.
Lost in my own fantasy with dizziness.
Imagining a chemical warfare against the masses.
Common folks like you and me but subjugated peons.
Mushy brains found among the young and innocent thin.
Excite my brain with your pondering, my muse.
To you, I owe this mysterious inkling.
A powerful infiltration, a plan concocted by the enemy.
Chemical warfare on the home front, disguised as pleasure.
Marketed among the unsuspecting –
Aspertine is thy name oh great deceiver
In the name of sweetness, mental acuity dies.
Freely given to the soldiers in Desert Storm, diet soda!
The Plan: Conquer a great nation from within.
Infiltrate every aspect of life in a well-laid plan.
Thus, food and drink may lead to a nation's folly.
Slowly slipping away our freedom to be US.
Quietly. Unobtrusively. Ingeniously. Irreversibly!
Joyfulness, visit me; remove this pain for it is great.
Chemical warfare kills.
Sometimes, we close our eyes.
But we must not.
Lest it becomes lethal to our free nation –
© March 17, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Et cetera Free Poetry
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
RELATED LINK: http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2011/11/06/aspartame-
How is it possible? Sixty years? Ouch. I shudder to remember
those first attempts in the kitchen. At that time, the kitchen was
“hands off” to men. I began cooking at age fifteen. But only
desserts and breakfast food. I could make biscuits, cornbread,
pie crust, and fried potatoes, eggs, ham, or pork chops.
But I loved everything from fish to sauerkraut and fried okra.
He is extremely allergic to fish. He loved steak. The year was
1954. A thick T-Bone steak at the grocery could be had for 60
cents. In our first year of marriage, we ate a lot of steak.
He would eat only potatoes and corn, with his steak. I still love
baked potatoes, but soon grew tired of corn, and hungered for
veggies. Time changes everything. He now eats anything but
fish. No problem. When we dine out, I order fish.
If I haven’t cooked sauerkraut recently, he will say, “I think I’ll
go get some Polish Sausage and sauerkraut. He brings it home,
then goes to work in the kitchen. His tastes almost as good as
mine. He even makes the cornbread and stewed potatoes.
Metaphorically they are
As rust to iron
In the fields of
The hunger demon
The Grace of God.
My God, i cant stay quiet,
for i took the wrong diet,
maybe i should have cooked it,
but impatience made me eat,
could not wait for lunch,
for i was hungry that much,
the dished passed across my nose,
waking up my hunger dose.
pass me the dish please,
i said with ease,
for i am hungry,
and when am hungry i get angry.
A thrust into the plate,
with great ecstasy i ate,
each spoon had a different story.
Things later went sour,
felt bad at the wrong hour,
vomiting, my stomach broken,
whats the cause: food poison.
EzyFabanatu All Rights Reserved © 28th
Gold leaf frescoes on a church wall are very lovely
Saints and angels on display at a pretty price
Just outside, mold takes over, clings to surfaces, settles
Poor people float inside like famished spirits
Transformed with tarnished shoes and souls
They see the glow of heaven at their heels
Marbled floors and altered states of grace
Collection baskets fly by, gobble up dollars
More gold leaf is needed
Walls must be fed
Outside mold clings and grows
Ivy also, on the ancient structure, very pretty
Gold leaf comes at a glowing cost
Lovely frescoes, angels and a cross
The priest promises to feed the congregation
Perhaps next season
Hunger must wait, we understand
More money is needed immediately
Gold leaf angels are more than mysteries
They are financial emergencies, for gold leaf frescoes
In a cipher of poverty
These rich words postpone hunger
Feed a famine
While a sole dies
I examine its corpse lying there
While I am elevated with the glue that killed it
History made my days ugly
Touched my pen to wrestle anger
This bread I inhale repairs my lungs as I get glued on with a smile that makes me meet my maker in person
Legalize the glue so I can sniff the truth
Legalize the glue so I can sniff the truth
"Would you like barbeque chicken,
or country steak with gravy?"
"You want both?"
Her tablemate drools, bottom lip
hanging. He stares at his menu,
waiting for someone to take his order.
An aide rolls a wheel chair to the table
for four. "Stay there!"
Her harsh tone seems inappropriate
for the tiny lady with frizzy curls.
"Mom, what would you like for dessert,
butterscotch pudding or chocolate cake?"
"You want both?"
Leftward movement draws my eye.
Frizzy curls is on the move.
She's booking out of the dining hall,
fast as her feet can peddle.
The trays arrive. I unwrap cutlery,
pour milk, place Mom's bib around her neck.
Her table-mate digs in, unassisted.
Mother stares at her plate, picks up
her fork, pokes at her food.
The fourth place at the table
God’s Kind Of Poetry Over Lunch
It starts off like a molecule but much smaller
God goes on vacation in that deep ocean there within
It takes centuries at great speeds to find the place
To locate the center of supernatural nutrition
When He arrives, lunch is prepared and waiting
He leaves scientists and artists up above with love
On Earth as His replacements
While He takes some time
Dines in high majestic fashion
Trusts us to carry on with His creation
And poets are left behind to find their lines and inspiration
Without a care in His Divine, creative intervention
Atoms are His favorite things to eat
The ones with charm and magnetic delicious emissions
He saves diamond elements for later
The small shiny ones, for forever afternoons to savor
And never needs a spoon to find positions of His food
Circling in orbit in their own electron or electric heavens
He snacks on them in a dawn song of soup and coffee
With angels in the molecules
The minuscule zone is full of holes. (Some are holy)
Moving through old, new, original particles much smaller
Where creation begins along with salted matter
When He returns, He offers poets some special crackers
And some lines, preserved over time, that they forgot
Created on 9/20/14 for God’s Kind Of Poetry Contest
What do I eat when I'm at the table.
I see lettuce, I see cheese and i see apples.
There are so many choices for me to make.
Its important for me to make the right one.
The best I can do is stop and think and realize that
I can only chew as much as my mouth can handle.
When it comes time to eat again, i will know that I
can have a little of each.
Why am I being so picky about how I see things.
I guess its time to drink some water.
Making the right choice requires time.
I know i'm missing something. Oh, its the exercise.
The most important one of all.
It only shows to see that thinking and smiling while I'm thinking is
nourishing and relaxing for me.
U lil Fgt. Little starl bashhhhhh uuuuuuuuuuuuuu fr shkul, dope hemp sheit
Wtf i have no idea what the fuck am i writing
Lol u on drugs or somthin
’the king of potatoes’
Ill take that as a yes
How high are you?
In the Middle Ages, people ate
food with wooden spoons of weird shape;
it may seem archaic
in ages less artistic...
an idea we still imitate.
Australian Ancient Depths Of Time
Under deserts rusting tides of red
Mountains once collapsed themselves into the clay
Became flat lands stilted while sun hung ornate on the humble quiet
Beauty remained unobserved, unobstructed, ageless
At this point in time my team and I, consisting of two guides
Walked gently along soft earth near a simple gorge
Mules and archaeological tools fell through to darkness
Deep in the hole one man tumbled, crippled, died
The mules too met an ugly fate as well
My other man and I survived
Crawled for hours through a narrow passage in the underworld
In the labyrinth of black, accompanied by barely breathable air
Fear and hunger took hold
Our mental faculties began to fail
With no way out, we struggled on
By quirk or chance we happened on an open chamber
To stand, to glance, to reconnoiter an unknown civilization
Covered by time, embraced by centuries safe keeping
Thick vases found in sandy walls housed oils
I had matches and some rope to light our way at last
Other vases filled with beans and herbs unearthed by us
Treasures to save us from starvation!
Olive oils tasted nasty, black beans were worse
But Australia’s hidden depths were fascinating finds
We tied ropes around our new supplies, dragged them behind
The maze, the cave, gave us many bones and pottery for exploration
We hope the ancients will forgive us for eating all their food
I think they no longer need it in the tomb
8/28/14 Contest - poem you have not entered in a past contest # 11
The revolt of Self
Against unnamed masses
On what do we depend?
Support systems amend
Our style of life
Personal possession over collective
Is no comparison
To the radical plight
Of a world majority without money
Barely a dime
They are still alive
No reason to accumulate
But am figuring the best way to give
To live, thrive, and create