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Best Famous Chives Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Chives poems. This is a select list of the best famous Chives poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Chives poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of chives poems.

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The Abortion

 Somebody who should have been born 
is gone. 

Just as the earth puckered its mouth, 
each bud puffing out from its knot,
I changed my shoes, and then drove south. 

Up past the Blue Mountains, where 
Pennsylvania humps on endlessly,
wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, 

its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; 
where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, 
a dark socket from which the coal has poured,


Somebody who should have been born
is gone. 

the grass as bristly and stout as chives,
and me wondering when the ground would break, 
and me wondering how anything fragile survives; 

up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man,
not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... 
he took the fullness that love began. 

Returning north, even the sky grew thin
like a high window looking nowhere.
The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. 

Somebody who should have been born 
is gone. 

Yes, woman, such logic will lead
to loss without death. Or say what you meant, 
you coward...this baby that I bleed.

Written by Kenn Nesbitt |

When Frankenstein was just a kid

When Frankenstein was just a kid,
he ate his greens. It’s true. He did!
He ate his spinach, salads, peas,
asparagus, and foods like these,
and with each leaf and lima bean
his skin became a bit more green.
On chives and chard he loved to chew,
and Brussels sprouts and peppers too,
until he ate that fateful bean
that turned his skin completely green.
He turned all green, and stayed that way,
and now he frightens folks away.
Poor Frankenstein, his tale is sad,
but things need not have been so bad.
It’s fair to say, if only he
had eaten much less celery,
avoided cabbage, ate no kale,
why, then, we’d have a different tale.
So, mom and dad, I’m here to say
please take these vegetables away
or my fate could be just as grim.
Yes, I could end up green like him.
So, mom and dad, before we dine,
please give a thought to Frankenstein.

 --Kenn Nesbitt

Copyright © Kenn Nesbitt 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Written by Robert Herrick |

The Fairy Temple; Or Oberons Chapel

 THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL

DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD,
COUNSELLOR AT LAW

RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW,
AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW;
SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE,
WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.
THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE
THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.

THE TEMPLE

A way enchaced with glass and beads
There is, that to the Chapel leads;
Whose structure, for his holy rest,
Is here the Halcyon's curious nest;
Into the which who looks, shall see
His Temple of Idolatry;
Where he of god-heads has such store,
As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
His house of Rimmon this he calls,
Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
First in a niche, more black than jet,
His idol-cricket there is set;
Then in a polish'd oval by
There stands his idol-beetle-fly;
Next, in an arch, akin to this,
His idol-canker seated is.
Then in a round, is placed by these
His golden god, Cantharides.
So that where'er ye look, ye see
No capital, no cornice free,
Or frieze, from this fine frippery.
Now this the Fairies would have known,
Theirs is a mixt religion:
And some have heard the elves it call
Part Pagan, part Papistical.
If unto me all tongues were granted,
I could not speak the saints here painted.
Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,
Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is.
Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness,
But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS.
Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;--
Neither those other saint-ships will I
Here go about for to recite
Their number, almost infinite;
Which, one by one, here set down are
In this most curious calendar.

First, at the entrance of the gate,
A little puppet-priest doth wait,
Who squeaks to all the comers there,
'Favour your tongues, who enter here.
'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.'
A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!'
Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut,
The holy-water there is put;
A little brush of squirrels' hairs,
Composed of odd, not even pairs,
Stands in the platter, or close by,
To purge the fairy family.
Near to the altar stands the priest,
There offering up the holy-grist;
Ducking in mood and perfect tense,
With (much good do't him) reverence.
The altar is not here four-square,
Nor in a form triangular;
Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone,
But of a little transverse bone;
Which boys and bruckel'd children call
(Playing for points and pins) cockall.
Whose linen-drapery is a thin,
Sub|ile, and ductile codling's skin;
Which o'er the board is smoothly spread
With little seal-work damasked.
The fringe that circumbinds it, too,
Is spangle-work of trembling dew,
Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,
Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.
Upon this fetuous board doth stand
Something for shew-bread, and at hand
(Just in the middle of the altar)
Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter,
Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings,
Which serve for watchet ribbonings.
Now, we must know, the elves are led
Right by the Rubric, which they read:
And if report of them be true,
They have their text for what they do;
Ay, and their book of canons too.
And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,
They have their book of articles;
And if that Fairy knight not lies
They have their book of homilies;
And other Scriptures, that design
A short, but righteous discipline.
The bason stands the board upon
To take the free-oblation;
A little pin-dust, which they hold
More precious than we prize our gold;
Which charity they give to many
Poor of the parish, if there's any.
Upon the ends of these neat rails,
Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails,
The elves, in formal manner, fix
Two pure and holy candlesticks,
In either which a tall small bent
Burns for the altar's ornament.
For sanctity, they have, to these,
Their curious copes and surplices
Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by
In their religious vestery.
They have their ash-pans and their brooms,
To purge the chapel and the rooms;
Their many mumbling mass-priests here,
And many a dapper chorister.
Their ush'ring vergers here likewise,
Their canons and their chaunteries;
Of cloister-monks they have enow,
Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:--
And if their legend do not lie,
They much affect the papacy;
And since the last is dead, there's hope
Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
They have their cups and chalices,
Their pardons and indulgences,
Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax-
Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;
Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle,
Their sacred salt here, not a little.
Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones,
Beside their fumigations.
Many a trifle, too, and trinket,
And for what use, scarce man would think it.
Next then, upon the chanter's side
An apple's-core is hung up dried,
With rattling kernels, which is rung
To call to morn and even-song.
The saint, to which the most he prays
And offers incense nights and days,
The lady of the lobster is,
Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss,
And, humbly, chives of saffron brings
For his most cheerful offerings.
When, after these, he's paid his vows,
He lowly to the altar bows;
And then he dons the silk-worm's shed,
Like a Turk's turban on his head,
And reverently departeth thence,
Hid in a cloud of frankincense;
And by the glow-worm's light well guided,
Goes to the Feast that's now provided.

Written by Du Fu |

Written for Scholar Wei

Life not mutual see Act like Shen and Shang Today evening again which evening Share this candle light Young and vigorous able how long Temple hair each already grey Enquire old partly be ghosts Exclaim excited in intestines Didn't know twenty years Again at your hall Past part you not married Boys girls suddenly form a line Happy and contented respect father friend Ask I come what direction Question answer be not finish Boys girls spread out alcohol Night rain cut spring chives New cooked rice mix golden millet Host say meet hard One cup repeat ten cups Ten cups also not drunk Feel your friendship long Tomorrow separate mountain mountain Human affairs two boundless and indistinct
We've lived our lives and have not seen each other, We've been just like the stars of Shen and Shang. Oh what an evening is this evening now, Together in the light of this one lamp? Young and vigorous for so short a time, Already now we both have greying temples. We ask of old friends, half of them now dead, Your exclamation stirs up my own heart. We did not know it would be twenty years, Before we met again inside your hall. When we parted then, you were unmarried, Suddenly boys and girls come in a row. Happy and content, they respect their father's friend, Asking me from which direction I come. And even before the question has been answered, The boys and girls have gone to fetch the wine. In the rainy night, they cut spring chives, And mix the fresh cooked rice with golden millet. My host says it's been hard for us to meet, One draught's repeated, now becomes ten cups. After ten cups, still I am not drunk, It's your lasting friendship which is moving. Tomorrow we'll be sundered by the hills, Just two in a boundless world of human affairs.