Long poem by
Tom Arnone | Details |
(Created using the bAbBlE sentence generator, various text excerpts, and a minuscule bit of human editing.)
And she smells good without keeping all ...
Beef, sitting lonely on that lies floating on the tufted floor. "Surely," I was napping, cold noodles, I implore!
But the Raven, "Nevermore."
Deep into that darkness peering, I got enough trouble.
Boy, the whole world together. Eagerly I guess dirt is what thy worldly name is on the tufted floor.
Taken from the night thinking. Eagerly I sat engaged in guessing, when, I'm supposed to spend the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose foot-falls tinkled on the floor; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then he fluttered - Till the dirges of evil! - prophet still, hot noodles with seeing bird above my heart be still is there balm in Gilead? - here I scarcely more than muttered, sitting lonely on that placid bust, chicken guts!
Beef, while I pondered, shrimp with garlic sauce, and the silken, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; hesitating then no longer, "Nevermore."
Beef, yet all undaunted, nearly napping, and sour chicken, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out, "Though thy crest be shorn and mighty truck load of prehistoric swamp mud! Take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, lemon chicken with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then the bird said, beef with fantastic terrors never felt before; But the morrow he will leave me burning, curry sauce, crispy noodles, all my soul within me burning, roast pork, pepper steak and sour combination, "Nevermore."
But the Raven, "Or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore!" Quoth the morrow; - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber of flea-bitten bug ridden throng of flatulent sewage! - prophet still, if bird or white rice, chicken guts! Take out, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, curry beef lo mein, shrimp egg foo young, roast pork with my head at my chamber of contaminated cigar butts!
The Raven, "Nevermore."
Beef with broccoli and nothing more.
"Prophet!" said I, "Tapping at my chamber of pureed monkey mucus! - prophet still, if bird or steamed dumplings, stir fried rice noodles, beef with chili sauce, fried or steamed white rice, perfumed from an erratic horde of his Hope that melancholy burden bore - Till I said, Doubtless," said I, "Sir," said I, "Art sure I heard a tapping, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of septic frog water!"
Beef with many quaint and mighty dipstick of Pallas just above my chamber door, "Nevermore."
Beef Szechuan style, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the only word, anniversaries, roast pork with onions and spicy beef egg foo young, all the seeming of seething pus! By that Heaven that bends above his chamber of soggy camel snot!
Ah, Bar-B-Q pork with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now to take out my heart be still the beating of my heart be still a moment, and nothing more!
Beef with sorrow for the lost Lenore! Quoth the floor; And his eyes have flown before - On this home by Horror haunted - tell me see, then, shrimp lo mein, boneless chicken almond cookies, chicken, chicken egg foo young, vegetable chow fun, "Nevermore."
The Raven, "Lenore?" Merely this and nothing more!
Beef lo mein, free delivery within 4 blocks, I implore; But the fact is I was napping, hot spicy beef fried rice, open 8 days, suddenly there came a blasphemous sliver of steaming monkey meat!
Then, pork fried rice, weak and mighty stack of my heart, and mighty bowl of rotten bear whiz!
This I flung the shutter, catering for free delivery, weak and mighty repository of the countenance it wore, shrimp, shrimp, with garlic sauce, fearing, Doubting, Buddhist delight, I stood there wondering, beef with my head at my chamber door - This is it and tomato, beef, That one gently rapping, crispy noodles, roast pork, eggplant with my head at ease reclining On the fact is I was napping, calamari with broccoli, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered - not a schizophrenic cask of mealy verbal diarrhea!
Beef with many a flirt and mighty crust of repugnant disk failures!
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out that now burnt into my bosom's core; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, crispy shrimp, I implore - Is there - is there balm in beer batter, sitting lonely on this desert land enchanted - On the morrow he hath sent, Bar-B-Q beef, while I pondered, General Tso's chicken guts!
Startled at the house specialties, "Thing of evil! - prophet still, Singapore rice, my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the angels name Lenore - Clasp a cow. Not the ducks and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell this is some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast delivery within 6 days, Nevermore."
"Thing of evil! - prophet still the beating of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, and chicken, chicken wings, run, with my chamber door!
Jane said, "Here he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered, Sir," said I, funny, Though thy crest be shorn and shrimp with me truly, shrimp with this and sour soup with mien of lord or steamed white rice or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Jane and tomato, perched above my bosom's core; This and vegetable chow fun, look, I muttered, Jane, I muttered, "Mother."
You - here, all the shutter, dropping her underwear now burnt into the chamber turning her dress.
Colors may be paid by that God we have sent, consult your receipt. There balm in Gilead? - tell me, feeling the door - Perched upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door.
"Get thee back through him."
She knew that way she was watching her flesh. There spoken was unbroken, $111.
Then, what thereat is not the Beatles.
Quoth the grave and stern decorum of the angels name Lenore. Quoth the whole lobster with broccoli, Dynasty delight, all the night thinking.
He was in beer batter, By the ushers watch me up was sure gets complicated. They like parking your gum on the floor; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the stuff in the other kids are a man. They like you came rapping, truly your forgiveness I wish he'd hurry up snappy answers for evermore.
Copyright © 1994 Tom Arnone & bAbBlE (computer writing program)
Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Start and end each day,
with a taoist egg.
I doubt my eggs are religious.
No, but they are natural,
co-arising binomial yolk form
with white-transparent regenerative function,
and cosmology, maybe,
if you're a chicken,
or a turkey, or a sitting duck.
So you say.
I guess these eggs are merely metaphysical.
You might best remove "merely" from "metaphysical"
lest you perpetuate an oxymoron.
at their best, and most permanently encultured,
have room for religion and spirituality,
as well as economic science and eco-logical nature.
OK, but I'm not absorbing this metaphysics
of a co-arising incubator,
or an egg,
Eggs are temporary organic incubators.
Therefore, comparatively Closed-Set,
Only their exterior shells
remain actively interdependent with their environ-mental
risk and opportunity.
This double-boundary formating eco-centric development
responds to thermodynamic balance
at both yolk-cellular
and transparent organic/holistic fuel,
of 4-RNAchannel co-operatively balancing synergetic organization.
Eggs are sensitive to co-gravitational pressure
and have bilaterally limited tolerance levels for speed of climatic change,
which interact with their relative temperatures,
temporal sense of heat and cold,
breathing in and out,
slower warm and faster cold.
Maybe I am lost in the forest of your analogizing
but sounds more like you are co-arising
well-composted ego in these eggs.
And, this shell sounds like a scientific paradigm,
with some seriously revolutionary boundary issues,
mutually incompatibility building up a defensive perimeter,
anti-inductive while pro-deductive
of in-formation dissonance
protecting internal design process,
even language and enculturation,
secluding indigenous specialists to research within,
Still not seeing the Tao in this egg,
or co-arising incubator,
or whatever whenever
If Yang is the power of yolked formation,
while Yin is bilateral flow and function
of ecologically positive octave-frequency nutrients,
regeneratively composting embryonic fractal forms
of RNA-rooted teleological function,
then which is this full-colored economic health-yolk
and which is this transparent ecological webbish white,
and is it healthier if they tango gracefully,
or tangle bad karmically?
OK, yes, now I see the taoist, well-timed, egg. This begins to feel like egg-cooking class for a vegan. Now what?
An embryo is a "budh",
if you are a conscientific Buddha-brain
and a "bud"
If you imagine your Left brain ego-identification
as your egg's DNA's yolk-center
being fed most eco-nutritiously
by your RNA-inclusive
SuperEco Right-Only Bilateral
TransParenting cultural fuel-power
of yin bilateral light squared = c-squared
= e-squared Wisdom,
that might be how a post-millennial eco-scientist
and nondually bicamerate incarnation,
as co-regenerative enlightenment.
So, we are all economic scientists balancing ego-logical
as eco-normative systems.
Homo Bicameral Sapiens as EcoNomists.
But, because Yang (+) ego/eco-bodies
are dipolar incarnations
of Yin's transparently co-arising eco-soul intention,
Yin is Yang equivalent only as squared,
as well as either-or,
or dipolarly frac-taled,
like RNA strings of regenerating in-metaphysic-formation,
[prime root of "polynomial"]
Right intuitive fractal-octave frequency harmonic
in RNA's spacetime natural co-arising systemic consciousness.
Wow, dude, that's some really esoteric shit you've been smoking!
Left-yolks just bangin' gracefully away
ransParently flowing evolutionary information
of eco-conscientific revolutions.
but sticking with generic embryonic Left-brain beginnings,
embryonics, genetics, metaphysics,
a bicameral Taoist ego language developer
might re-paradigm "esoteric" as "eco-terra"--
Earth's ecological syntax-normative
as ubiquitously displayed
in fractal-root tree structures
of healthy temporal-spatial cellular development,
emerging from aptic-universally transparent
appreciation of a more aptic-thru-synaptically inclusive
bicameral Right-unitarian with Left-universalist eco-consciousness.
Now you're saying we are a species of anonymous Buddhists,
and also Unitarian Universalists?
that "anonymous Christian" conjecture
by Hans Kung
really didn't get great reviews
from many multi-religious exegetes.
but Christianity is a theistically framed view
of our shared eco-consciousness,
our Original Story,
emerge naturally bilateral co-arising principles of shared consciousness
as self-proclaiming exegetical teleology
incarnating systematic theology;
an ecologic of Fuller's Universal Intelligence,
Yang-Form with Yin-Function, nondually unitarian,
assumes co-gravitational balance as transparent purpose
toward discerning ego-satisfactory meaning (and "meme"ing),
"Earth", and all DNA/RNA encrypted Earth Tribes
sharing a cooperative vocation
to balance our co-gravitational solidarity
with our thermodynamic eco-DNA/RNA harmonic default preference
for Win-Win mutual Yolk and White subsidiarity,
reverse-hierarchical governance eco-norms,
electromagnetic with elder webbed transparent nutrients
co-mentoring infant yolk.
I think more rainbowed folks
will like these yolks
but I'm not so sure our whites
will appreciate such co-arising/co-falling transparency.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Ivor Davies | Details |
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I ever had.
A holiday of every dream
that one lifetime could hold
so listen while this wondrous time
to you I now unfold:
In bygone years to travel far
was not a normal thing,
to travel some six thousand miles
by plane was amazing!
Propellers aided by a jet,
a very modern way,
aboard a British Eagle plane
my life would change that day.
A little island in the sun
where British troops were based
on active service out Far East
where they would get a taste
of jungle warfare while they helped
to form a brand new state
by helping stop objections from
a few this change did hate.
But as a teenage boy, you see,
the politics of war
were not as noticeable to me
as other things I saw.
I felt the beauty of this land
with folk of every kind
for at this time in England
few ‘cultures’ could be found.
For back at home in Blighty
a youngster such as me
had to know his place in life
and couldn’t roam quite free,
but out here in the tropics
no prejudice I found
of the nature that had kept me thus
by England’s limits bound.
Now out here in Malaysia,
on this island of Penang,
I found a place where deep inside
stirred memories that sang
of a time in my existence
that I’d never felt before
born of ancient inner knowledge
that my soul was screaming for.
To continue with my story
of the time I was a lad,
when in a British Barracks
with a soldier for a dad
I had given up my schooling
for adventure in the world
and like a butterfly emerging
my wings were now unfurled.
On this truly wondrous island
Minden Barracks was my home
with excitement and adventure
wherever I could roam.
I immersed in all the wisdom
of simplicity I met
and learned that what you give to life,
returns in what you get.
For the Chinese and the Indians,
Malays and some ex-pats
had found ways to live together
though all wore different hats,
in perfect symbiosis
where all fulfilled their roles
and by leaning on each other
could emancipate their goals.
Now even at this early age,
I was not too dim to see
that the rich were getting richer
and the poor were never free,
but something buried deep inside
these people of Penang
bore a certain understanding
of the common song they sang.
Now I grew up very quickly
as my friends all went to war,
young soldiers who were now my age
what were they fighting for.
Atrocities befell them
as they fought Malaysia’s side
against those from Indonesia
who would not join this ride.
though Penang was hardly hit,
it was only very seldom
that we faced a scary bit.
When Minden B’ was threatened
all the locals stayed inside
just in case the British soldiers
started shooting the wrong side!
But throughout this ‘confrontation’
my job became pure joy,
for the Army’s recreation
then became my brand new toy.
On the island’s sandy beaches
you would find me day by day
driving speed boats for the soldiers
when they found the time to play.
In Penang, their favourite island,
the troops would take their leave
and have fun while water skiing
as they took a short reprieve
from the nature of their duties
that had brought them to this land
and for just a fleeting moment
could enjoy the sea and sand.
For three years whilst Water Skiing
I enjoyed this paradise
but the days I was not working
were all equally as nice
for at home in Minden Barracks
was a special swimming pool
where friends would meet
and wash their souls
with conversation’s tool.
This really was the centre
of our commune in this land,
the meeting place for sharing
where all friends would understand.
Soldier’s wives, their men at war,
and others gathered round,
if any place is hallowed
then this pool is sacred ground.
But Georgetown and its traders
was the place I loved to be
where the colour, noise and culture
always let my soul soar free.
Where the many, many trishaws
and the bikes and traffic mix,
with the hawkers, shops and markets
this is where I got my fix!
Four good years I lived my life
in this very special place,
at a multicultural pace.
I’d been born into a country
that the world thought was mature,
but maturity is lost of mind
when progress is the lure.
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I’d ever had.
Back in 1966 I went back home again
and the schooling that I’d given up
had not been lost in vain,
for I’d learnt the real meaning
of my Life in this short stay,
a meaning full of everything
I carry till this day.
So now I’m in My sixties,
not the sixties of my past
and the thing I’ve found along the way
is most things never last.
But learn from where you travel,
let morals be your guide
for none can steal the things you hold
and carry deep inside.
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Aa Harvey | Details |
Babylonia : Part Two -
Pandas chew bamboo, while you film them in the nude;
Red Elephants are extinct (Apart from a view).
Fly up high, escape the zoo’s!
The latest attraction is a Man named Hu.
Hu Man? Strange, he’s not humane.
Seize him and lock him up in a cage.
Tiger claws shall keep him in place,
Until the Cock crows to tell us,
That the night time has come upon us once again.
With the darkness, come the Creepy Crawlies,
The Snakes (The Adders, the Pythons and the Cobra’s).
The Tarantula is being chased by the big bad Wolf,
Whilst the Bear has been poisoned,
By the Frog beneath his foot.
Owls spin their heads, as Buffalo’s charge away from the herd.
The Elephants follow the Rhino’s. Such a noise to be heard.
Armadillo’s watch the Ant Eaters, as they sweep up the path;
The path has been created,
Thanks to the Rhino’s and Elephants at the head of the pack.
Birds squawk, as Eagles fly high.
A sure sign that the convoy can once more ride!
Ride on out, heading into the future;
There has been a calling, for a gathering of creatures.
Heaven awaits them, at the end of the rainbow;
Every animal is invited, even the Sloth.
The Mice sit on the Dogs head, talking to the Fleas;
As the Dog sits on the Donkey,
Who has lost his legs to disease.
The Gorillas carry them all aloft,
On bamboo rafts they found perchance.
As they sit upon the Elephant,
Who is being carried by a million Ants.
Gazelle’s rush past, with Cheetah’s in pursuit.
The Jackals stuck in the Bracknell;
They’ve lost the Cheetahs and their food.
But the Hippo will defend the Jackal, from the Crocodile;
As the Parrots collect the fruit,
To lay a path down the Green Mile.
For many shall pass through, whilst some will pass on,
But the way has now been eroded,
So at least we can see where we are going.
Follow the food, come one, come all.
Share it with everyone, there’s plenty more.
The Lions roar “Get out of the way!”
More Elephants and Rhinos are coming through,
To destroy and to build us a way.
The Chimpanzees are jumping and screaming…
The Animal Garden of Eden!
Big one’s up front please, little one’s behind.
Get off the trail if you get caught short;
Someone please be a guide for the blind.
Make them walk the Conga in a straight line,
Like you were taught, before.
Hello Rabbits. Feeling savage?
The Deaf need directing, but they just won’t hear of it.
We need you to keep them in line and on time;
Do you think you can manage?
Will do Noah (The Kangaroo),
The way we breed, we could Rabbit Surf them around Egypt,
If you asked us to.
Mr. Giraffe, could you please not do that?
You are stopping the sun, from shining on the Cats.
All you Bats, change places with the Cats.
I’d move if I were you, Rats.
Foxes and Weasels, go down the side.
You are used to cross country; you don’t need to follow the line.
Badgers, Moles, Shrews and Field Mice,
Stop playing with the Worms;
Take the underground; it’s dark, but nice.
Vampire Bats! Stop that!
He may look dead, but he is just very old.
Sorry Mr. Tortoise,
But it’s not their fault they have no soul.
Penguins and Polar Bears, stand behind the Elephants,
When they wash themselves with water.
All the Sea Creatures took another route,
To get to the Babylonian border.
Heaven for all Animals, such a beautiful sight.
Not one bar to be seen…It is paradise.
It has Roaches and Bird droppings and no view of the Sea.
It has a jungle, trees, fresh air and the Animals are free.
Free to breed and free to catch disease,
Free to live or die, depending on their destiny.
Now ten thousand years later,
A Babylonian Paradise is still thriving…
Not a machine, not a cage,
Not a human in sight…it is truly amazing.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © Aa Harvey | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
Since childhood I was always fascinated with nature
Curious to know how plants grow
Always intrigued by the ingenuity of ants
And mesmerized by the coordination
And spectacular tactics of birds.
Birds come in different colors and species
They symbolize many conditions and have various
Significance and meaning in different cultures.
You have the nightingale and the humming birds
And the whippoorwill is perhaps the most cunning
of all species because it can camouflage itself.
Even though you can hear its distinctive sound
It's difficult to be identified.
I used to listen to them singing in nature
singing melodious tune, tunes that span beyond
Centuries, tunes reminding us that life is still divine.
I love to watch them soaring in the sky
flying from north to east, south to west
Until nature bids them to take their rest.
Birds embrace freedom and they hold the power of truth
they are unique messengers so the next time you see one
land on your doorstep just figure out if it is genuinely from nature
who send it, and what it is trying to say before you angrily chase it away.
Birds have wit and might, they are powerful
communication tools, they earn their keep from nature
and that’s how they stay alive
like the cows and the sheep
they can see way out in the deep.
Something peculiar has been happening in nature
I have been observing something unusual from the sky
While walking down the street the sun burst from
underneath a dark, cold overcast sky
and spread its light over me then suddenly disappeared.
Each time I take a stroll an army of birds appear from
nowhere and split up into different directions,
they form groups of six, seven and eight, three,
four, two, one and groups of twelve.
Sometimes they are so many that I can hardly count them.
It didn't seem as if they were on a journey, it appeared as if
They were caged up somewhere and were suddenly released
into the atmosphere.
My curiosity grew deeper when I pounced upon
a man attracting the birds with feed laced with
corn grain and black sunflower seeds.
This was quite unusual because
no one in the entire neighborhood feed birds
I could read right into this mysterious cultural behavior
not only was he making a statement,
he was marking something by placing
the bowl of feed in front of the house
under my window and luring the birds to
fly from all directions to feed from the bowl.
They say that black birds are symbol of human soul
and they symbolize happiness, intelligence and wisdom;
they also have deep religious meaning.
Always remember that everything we do
evil always hinges close by good
to make things seem inconspicuous.
Legend has it to say that the devil appeared to St. Benedict
in the form of a black bird to tempt him.
Long time ago my kindergarten teacher
used to teach me this poem by mother goose,
“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing
wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house counting out his money,
the queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey,
the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird and snipped off her nose.”
Birds are free habitats of nature
they do not earn their keep from artificial feed
but from natural food in the environment.
So the next time you see a bowl of bird feed
laced with black sun flower seed and corn
do not take it for granted
something is deeper than bird feed.
©2015 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
Food for thought !
Over what has been lost.
Days of long ago - filled with much flavour,
Foods exotic – for the discerning palate to savour.
There was Beef Wellington to enjoy.
Delicious, Lobster Thermador – Oh Boy !
There was exotic Japanese cuisine.
Much Chinese food to be seen.
There was Italian, Greek, Mexican,
Korean, Canadian and American.
All, to an adventurer, what a treat !
With French, Indian, English to meet.
In those days of long-ago – oh the pleasures
it stored in memories hoard - what treasures.
Time erases all that once was, it no longer is.
For today’s survival – the main biz,
as one comes down, downsizing to simplicity –
is to become creative, live off the majesty
of one’s own creations - a grilled cheese with sweet
mixed pickles, tomatoes, egg and a delicious meat.
Taste buds - still alive – have not forgot
to savour food and enjoy food for thought
that fills ones stomach and his soul – not
to regret or forget all that he once got -
with some of what yet may not be lost
if one could only get up, could afford the cost
that could change the state of the economy
he now lives, as he lives in a state of autonomy
on egg salad sandwiches permeated with salt,
pepper, onion powder, cayenne pepper, garlic salt,
cayenne pepper, fresh garlic butter on buttermilk bread.
this, to fill my stomach, taste buds to savour, fill my head.
It is down to this for a fifties, sixties, seventies man
who now creates a soup with his own, aged, hand.
It’s base, begins with Campbell’s tomato and tomato basil
soups with red peppers, cayenne pepper, so much so, nasal
drips, begins to run as weeping eyes start to flow
over the pork and beans you will now know
have been added too, along with beaches and cream
corn, rice, fresh garlic, ginger root, pasta, what a dream
for this one’s palate to sample before it goes down,
through the gullet, into the stomach, to one’s crown
Another dish – by these hands – to fill the days, the week
is a salad that consists of all the vegetable I did seek.
Cauliflower, broccoli, celery, red, green, yellow peppers,
cucumbers, onions, radishes, mushrooms, garlic, cheese,
honey ham, ginger root, avocados, brussel sprouts, tomatoes
drowned in Kraft’s golden Italian dressing - is how it goes
The final cuisine created to sustain this old soul,
throughout weeks, months as they rapidly go
by, into the ether of life’s swiftly, decaying hours,
- hours lost to what we once were – no longer ours.
It is a sauce for my spaghetti dinner
that will run the eyes, the nose and inner
recesses of the soul as you come to know
the power, the combination of these ingredient will show.
My laziness dictates, a base to be created with
Classico and Prago spaghetti sauce – there is no myth
here, as Campbell’s tomato, tomato basil soups are added.
Then red, green, yellow, jalapeño peppers sautéed, will tell
- as mushrooms, beef tenderloin , bacon are sautéed as well –
as fresh and canned tomatoes, garlic, ginger root add smell
and taste, as do the onions and sages that are added.
The pièce de résistance, red, cayenne peppers set fires of hell
all the way down and into the pit
as one will, to supper, bravely sit.
A fire extinguisher is what you will need
as upon my spaghetti sauce you decide to feed.
B. J. “A ” 2
November 7th 2004
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
cherl dunn | Details |
I’ve dreamt of mountains of rocky rode ice cream, dappled with candy
Kisses of purity sprinkled on top, hot steaming fudge pouring from heaven
On high, cascading as if an ocean of water streaming downwards onto my
Fantasy world of pleasure unleashed, behold chocolate dreaming, good to
The last drooling mouthful!
Give me illusions of M&M’S, delusions of chocolate covered mints extra thin,
I’m tasting that sugar rush, and thinking unto myself as a woman who needs
The company of men, after the discovery of this magnificent sinful delicious,
Bitter to the sweet, farewell to heartache, its comforts fantasy food,
So indulge me if you please!
Who needs a brilliant rose covered garden, I’ll grow strawberries fields instead,
And allow the fountains to spill over them, with gallons of melted dark chocolate,
Wow as a poet now I’m really getting into this now, so let me become a farmer
Of gluttony, excess and poundage’s expanded flesh, I’ll watch an exercise video
Tomorrow morning, when I awake from my chocolate dreaming!
Gum drops, and jelly beans don’t bring the same pleasures joy you see,
Ask any Jane or Jo Ann of the female variety, and she’ll answer you just
With the same response, give me chocolate or give me nothing, I’m a
Heart shaped valentine all year round my gentlemen friend!
Low fat to the none fat, leave us unhealthy people alone, we know what
Tastes good to us, forget that unflavored rice cake, I’d prefer the double
Fudge rippled round cake with extra creamy frosting on top, that’s
A true woman’s reality fella, get the drift if you want a happy misses,
Now fancy cards of devotion with words of poetry may make a lady
Weak at the knees, but give that gal a torte made of layers of chocolate
Deliverance, and all be forgiven if you forget a certain holiday of importance,
Just throwing that one out there for future reference, gentlemen take a note
From a voice of experience, chocolate rules a woman’s universe!
Rock me to the boiling point of melted joyous over tones, I’m in the kitchen
Of Hersey’s dream world, almonds to the almond joy, chips ahoy all
Aboard let’s set sail to that factory beyond pleasures horizon!
Oh ginger bread man run, run, as fast as you can, but just remember
I’m not chasing thee old fellow, I’m too busy getting my hands caught
In grannies’ old cookie jar, she after all makes the best chocolate chip
Cookies ever invented, I’m still trying to get that elderly lady’s secret
Caramel covered apples are GREAT for a seasonal treat, but when I’m
In celebrations festive mood, I’m looking for the sweetness of a woman’s
Chose preferred, wondrous miracle first discovered by nuns whom indulged
Themselves, until an evil corrupt establishment shut them down, thank God
These men of the cloth saw the light at the end, right ladies!
So tonight as I lay me down to sleep, I’ll know what words are to be said,
Thank you for the brilliance of that cocoa bean, it is the best sinful indulgence
Not listed in the ten commandments to be broken, I’m in their lord,
Dreaming that chocolate dream forever, and man it’s a tasty illusionary
Fantasy to behold!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
John Arribas | Details |
ALL YOU CAN EAT
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I never subscribed to an unusual idea
That aliens are among us and thriving here
I now question my stand on that theory
Cause I’ve noticed some bodies quite eerie
I see gigantic beings wherever I go
They start out big and continue to grow
The government is aware and brands them obese
“Double order of nacchos, extra cheese,pleeze”
Take an visual survey, you’ll see what I mean
Two thirds are enormous, one third lean
These immense bodies are easy to spot
They’re all about you, an infinite lot
But what really puts a strain on my eyes
Mammoth women, in shorts, with chaffing thighs
Men fare no better with a belt line bulge
Storing those carbs that they love to indulge
Some come in pairs, a man and his wife
How can they ever produce new life
Their sizable girths prevent conjugation
How could these two contemplate creation
Now that I’m at it I’ll take one more swipe
That’s a long reach how the heck do they wipe?
Go to the eatery inside any mall
You will find food venders stall after stall
There is one sight you are bound to find
Those colossal rear ends in every line
Its hard to imagine when you see how the suet bounces
How could this giant have once been 6lbs , 4 ounces
If the mall doesn’t convince you, here’s a treat
Go to a place that vends “all you can eat”
Here you’ll find the insatiable glutton
Ingesting soups, salads ,meats even mutton
While they’re devouring six cutlets of veal
They’re mentally planning their next meal
All you can eat(2)
Who are these beings of quivering blubber
So elastic their skins, must be made of rubber
Their shapes are odd and hard to express
Super wide at the middle, good lord what a mess
Here comes a woman with voluptuous breasts
Matched by her buttocks and all the rest
I’m sure that I’d become nervous and frantic
Trying to make love to someone so gigantic
A family outing to a local college game
Reuniting with friends that all think the same
What brings them together is not the event
It’s the tailgating activities under each tent
Its barbeque ,wings ,ribs and potato salad
Nary a care bout the pounds they’ve added
Later that day as they go home a winner
Someone will ask hey “ what’s for dinner’?
Before calling it a day they’ll have a bite
Not much left , they’ve eaten everything in sight
Hours before breakfast and all through the house
Not a creature was eating not even the mouse
The children nestled asleep in their beds
While visions of cheeseburgers danced in their heads
The idea that aliens account for gastronomical lust
Is totally fictional a complete and utter bust
These giants among us are locally bred
Victims of gluttony ,sumptuously fed
The agricultural interests quickly deduced
Corn syrup a must in all foods we produce
The dairy interests are even harder to beat
You’ve got to add cheese to everything we eat
Copyright © John Arribas | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Details |
Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.
She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hips, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.
Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.
The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."
3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.
Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.
Ketosis: a sour apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spider web threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.
Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with Prozac,
fed me Diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.
Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Lindsay Laurie | Details |
For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide,
Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside…
But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine,
When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine.
If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke,
Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke,
Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait,
With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate.
But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign,
If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline,
There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load,
And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road.
I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more,
Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store,
Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips,
And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips.
But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain,
Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again,
For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory,
There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently.
I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border,
And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order.
The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell,
While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well.
And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy,
But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye,
The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack,
Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black.
So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot,
I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,”
As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say…
I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way.
I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old,
The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold,
I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high,
A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry.
I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice,
With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse,
I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase,
Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise.
The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat,
And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!”
I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek,
I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015