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Best Chicken Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Chicken poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of chicken poems written by PoetrySoup members

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The Best Chicken Poems

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A man with a quiet demeanor was cursed with a miniscule wiener. He tried lotions and pills But not one cured his ills. Now he's a silent nail hole cleaner. BY DALE GREGORY COZART His todger though tiny still worked. When he went for a wee it jerked. He could still have full sex. It was rather complex, but when it was over he smirked. BY JAN ALLISON His wee-wee was indeed very wee to the extent that no one could see. When asked, “Are you a man?” He replied, “Yes, I am. You can follow up stream when I pee.” BY DALE GREGORY COZART Went out for a night with a hooker Blonde but thick and no looker When she saw his todger Said my dog is bigger You're taking me for a sucker BY SEREN ROBERTS A silent curse shrunk his wee to a teeny thing I swear it is no bigger than a lil chicken wing For sex a useless reject Can't tell when its erect We make jokes about his miniature ding a ling BY MARTI Wait a minute please, I won't tell a lie isn't always small, it's big as apple pie the winds were mighty chilly affecting my poor old Willie now you hurt my feelings, think I'm gonna cry BY TIM SMITH Big Bertha said, "It ain't the cubic inches nope, the part for me what clinches is strokes per minute while they's in it not a tool needs movin' with winches." BY LIM'RICK FLATS if you want join in the fun!

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017

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Food Inglorious Food

Be it known as convenience food, junk food or munchies; whether spicy, melt-in-your-mouth soft, or crunchy, food, inglorious food, seduces with ease and ensnares with the emptiest of calories. Disguised as a comfort food comes macaroni with creamy Alfredo and kin, Fettucini, To not be outdone, spaghetti entices with large fattening meatballs and sauce rich in spices. “Deep fried” knows our weakness for fat, which gives pleasure and saturates fast foods, it seems, in great measure: KFC (finger-licking), batter-fried fishes and chicken fried steaks -high cholesterol dishes. Even fruits will attack with enjoyment unhealthy as tarts, pies or pastries. That apple is stealthy! Veggies can also be treacherous things in guise of corn fritters and gold onion rings. Too much of a good thing is pizza (so cunning, so meaty, so cheesy), which no one is shunning. The taco, burrito, and big burger too in great numbers descend on us. What can we do? Those delectable luscious desserts that we eat have only to sit there; we cannot retreat! Candies and chocolate, our decadent sin, sweetly defeat us. We simply give in. Ice cream, a smooth foe, knows when we are blue. On a cone or a spoon, it drips, waiting for you. As a milkshake, a frosty, a sundae or float, or between split bananas, it sure floats MY boat! Buttered popcorn is one salty foe, and we love it! The hot dog implores in our mouths that we shove it. Baked bread, so alluring, entraps with its scent, which wafts through the air as if heaven sent! The standards of junk food -America’s pride - crisp bacon and nachos, chips and foods fried, invade our malls’ food courts and lurk high and low. Their smells overwhelm us wherever we go! We might try but we can’t make our junk food desist. for only the health nuts can dare to resist. In the war with inglorious food I adore, I say, Bring it on! Here’s my plate; I want more. For the The Synathroesmic Cat Contest Poetry contest of Suzanne Delaney *So now you can all know why I try to get to the gym a lot. hahaha

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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Necromancer (The Haunting Continues...)

In the cemetery I walk, so dark it is this night.
 Hoping that the Ghouls won't start to bite.
I feel the tug of the dead, as each grave I pass.
 Thankful this nervous tension won't last.

Armed with my Animation supplies,
 I stare out at all the green glowing eyes.
A chicken for my blood sacrifice,
 Raising the dead, there's always a price.

The salt keeps the dead inside.
 Using the machete our magic, we'll ride.
Salt is for everybody's protection.
 Cold steal seals out any deception.

To prime the earth so the dead will rise,
 cast the blood and create our ties.
Focus my energy and the ground starts to shake.
 Winds whip through the area and the on-lookers quake.

I command all that is at least 3 days dead.
 Just enough time for the soul to move ahead.
Born with this power as a Necromancer,
 When I will my power all the dead have to answer.

I look to Sandra Hudson, who hired me,
 to raise the dead and hear their screams.
I call Illyanna De La Keur from her deep, dark grave.
 Her words are scary so be very, very brave.

For John Loving III's "Haunted Poets Society"

Copyright © Aleera De La Keur | Year Posted 2009

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A country walk

A babbling stream, a peaceful lane
These are the things that I enjoy
As I walk on a summers day
With a warm gentle breeze upon my face

A cottage in a field, with swirling smoke
A family sitting round ready to eat
Rich chicken soup and freshly baked bread
Then five little children all snug in their bed

A flitting bird upon the nest
Protecting her brood from unknown harm
A cow chewing cud all gentle and calm
Then sheep and one dog in one accord

Oh what a beautiful land we have
If we would take the time to see
Instead of rushing through the day
Let’s sit for a while and take it all in

Copyright © julie clark | Year Posted 2014

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The Soup is On

If finding good times is your wish
And poetry your favorite dish,
Then visit us. The soup is on!
It’s piping hot and never gone.

And with so much to see and do,
This place is hopping!  Rabbit stew
Has got to be our specialty
Because we move so rapidly.

I recommend a cup of Joe.
To keep up here, you can’t move slow,
for this is such a lively group,
you won’t be seeing turtle soup! 

So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!

No turtle soup, but plenty of
All kinds of soup you’re sure to love -
Like vegetable hot in the pot;
Of healthy soup we have a lot!

If psychedelic is your thing,
Try special mushroom with a zing!
There’s spicy enchilada too
If Latin passion flows through you.

Some soup is salty; some is sweet,
And many soups are filled with meat.
There’s chicken noodle for the soul.
I guarantee that you’ll get full.

So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of  poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!

Learn how to post, and don’t be shy.
Most poets love when you reply,
Especially if you read their work.
New friendships are an added perk!

New poems appear on lists. Beware!
They vanish soon into thin air.
So many contests to get in.
You’ll feel your head begin to spin.

To learn the ropes, just ask around.
Quick! Like a bunny, leave the ground.
Hop to it! Ready, set, now GO.
Remember turtles are too slow……

So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of  poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!

'for Cindi Rockwell's "My Poetry Soup Recipe Contest"

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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My Most Embarrassing Moment

A trip to a very large
and far away hospital. 
I was visiting a sick member
from church, there belittled

For a wet place I felt on my pants
I sat on a drenched seat
You bet I wasn't very composed
With coffee stains to greet

My husband had sat a cuppa
down recklessly on the seat.
It had spilled~ soaked fabric cushion
Also brown chicken white meat

My face was red walking the halls.
I wasn't a debutante
Embarrassed totally
But wouldn't let it me daunt

Written: July 12, 2016
Inspired by the contest

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2016

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Hey mum, could we have roast chicken for dinner?
You know your roast potatoes really are a winner.
Mum, remember you promised to help with my homework later?
I have to hand it in tomorrow, your help would not be greater.

Hi mum, my doctors appointment today is around ten.
Your picking me up, just wanted to know when.
Hello mum, is it ok for you to look after the kids around noon?
I have to get my hair done, will drop them over soon.

Yes mum.  I texted you but you didn't reply.
Anyway did you get all those things I asked you to buy?
Well mum, the thing is, we've been really busy this week.
Could you have the kids overnight now?  We really need some sleep.

Hi mum, how are you today?  My car wont go!
Can you drive me to work?  I really need your help you know.
Mum, when you go to the post office can you grab a parcel for me?
I'd go there myself but I don't like to wait in line you see.

Mums are really angels of God, sent from up above.
To look after children and fill there lives with love.
Happy Mothers Day to all the mums out there.
You may sometimes feel unnoticed but dads are well aware.

Copyright © old man emu | Year Posted 2016

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The Mad Hatters

Madness, the Hatter blinks. 
Madness, Oz's link. 
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's complaint**, 

Madness must reciprocate!

Hallucinations filter by....
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on Dorothy's thighs...
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer. 
Madness splices genes with fear. 
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer. 
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.

"Are you the ***? Or is it me? 
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.

Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Lenore's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink. 
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.

Reference Poem Knock Knock by The Archaic Poet - topic madness

* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
   if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to 
   all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome a type of 
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist who autism. 
   extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2009

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Rose Colored Memories

It’s easy to remember the good times
Never thinking about the pain
Rose colored memories of sunshine
We forgot about the rain
Times were so much harder then
Sometimes not a penny to our name
Fighting just to make ends meet
But I’d go back there just the same
It seems we were much poorer
No luxuries I recollect
But we worked for what we wanted
We had a sense of self-respect
There was an old coal stove in the living room
That would heat our home at winter’s start
But the real warmth was generated
By the love within our heart
Sometimes the car wouldn’t start
It had a manual choke
We’d push it to catch it in gear
If we had a dime we weren’t broke
If you had chicken pox or measles
They’d put a sign on your front door
We had hand me downs to wear
And credit at the grocery store
Everyone worked somewhere
Most of them at the mine
Mom did the wash with a wringer washer
And hung the clothes out on the line
So I’ll take those rose colored memories
As though they were a priceless work of art
And put them where they will be safe
Deep inside my heart. 

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

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If eyes are mirrors of the soul
My soul is red and saggin'
I think my brain went on a stroll
And for sure my tails a draggin'

I'm a chicken that's out of clucks
An old wall missing its mortar
Some might feel like a million bucks
I'm more like a buck and a quarter!

Soon sweet slumber I will embrace
As I quietly drift to dream land
Rejuvenating, I keep this place
In the palm of my wrinkled hand!

Copyright © PAT Adams | Year Posted 2018

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The Meaning of Bread and Tortillas

"Mi primo" means my cousin in Spanish.
He calls me his "primita"- little cousin.
This is the story of how mi primo
Taught me about the meaning of bread;
Of the meaning of tortillas...
He and I are exchanging languages 
Over Dairy Queen chicken strips;
I repeat the words he teaches me
Back to him in my all-american 
White girl accent,
Trying to learn how to Salsa 
With a tongue that only knows
How to stumble over the trills
And rapid-fire hot-sauce syllables-
He makes me say them again and
Again until I sound like a distorted 
Calle 13 track on repeat...
Mi primo offers me the bread
That came with his meal;
I ask him why he doesn't want it.
He says he doesn't eat bread;
He is Hispanic; he eats tortillas-
Do I know tortillas?-
He gestures, indicates the 
Flat, full moon-shaped
Circle of a torilla with his hands.
Si, I know tortillas.
What I want to know is-
What the heck do tortillas have to do
With whether you eat bread or not?
So mi primo tells me una historia
About a guy he knows,
20-something and something else...
All his family came from Guatemala;
He was brought up going to a church 
With a pastor that preached sermons
That trilled like heavenly trumpets;
He has skin that was colored warm 
As if he had grown up kissed by 
The sun of his family's homeland;
He knew how to speak English but
His mother tongue was always Spanish-
His cousins were his best friends
Because being "un Guate" means
Knowing the meaning of "la familia"...
He learned at age 21
That he was born in America.
Eagerly, he shed his Hispanicness like
A snake skin that had grown too tight,
Clutching at the revelation of his birthplace
Like a get-out-of-jail free card,
Hides the color of his face behind
The red, white, and blue of his
Irrevocable Americanness... 
He doesn't go to church anymore,
Because American guys don't 
Have time for God;
He buys big, fancy cars he doesn't have 
A prayer of paying off because
American girls are supposed to like
That kind of thing;
He tries not to remember 
The meaning of la familia...
And he always eats bread-
His tongue has suddenly turned
Too American to abide the taste,
The flatness, of las tortillas...
He is the reason that mi primo cannot 
Abide the taste of bread, too thick
With the flavor of betrayed heritage
To sit easy in his stomach...
Mi primo offers me,
His little blonde all-American cousin,
The bread he doesn't want.
I wonder if one day he'll
Mean the word "primita" enough
To offer me a tortilla.

Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014

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The Bucket in the Sky

Oh, take me to the bucket in the sky,
where smells of fast food cooking tantalize -
a poultry paradise where no birds fly,
but come instead with biscuits, slaw, or fries . . .
where mashed potatoes may not be homemade,
but people seem to like them anyway.
They scarf them down with coke or lemonade
or mugs of root beer sometimes if they stay,
for you can order in or carry out.
You get your pick of many things to eat.
And if you don't  like breasts, no need to pout!
Just thank the Colonel. Now they've got REAL meat,
for beef and chicken reign in harmony
since A & W met K.F.C.!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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Teenage Mutant * Ninja Turtles!!


One day I came home with the flu.
My mother gave me a bowl of stew

All I can say is that the stew was thick like goo.
I still ate it thinking it was chicken stew.
Saturday morning I woke up watching Winnie The Pooh.
Mother made me a sandwich that was hard to chew

In the kitchen I saw 2 strange looking shells
Once I saw them I started getting dizzy spells

Eating turtle soup with out having a clue.
Made my face turn green and blue.

Walked into the living room.
My stomach still felt kind of doom.

My mother was watching the tube and singing along
Singing along to the,"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" song!

          NOW THAT WAS WRONG!!!!!!
              TWO TURTLE DOVES

During Christmas, I always go hunting in the woods
I set out traps to catch me some goods

I caught two turtle in my first trap
Poor little things where full of crap.

I was singing "On the first day of Christmas" on my way back.
All I could think of was my Two Turtle (Doves), snack!

I took them inside and dipped them in water
They had no idea they where soon to be slaughter 

My dad told me that turtle soup hits the right spot.
Silly turtles where already in the boiling pot

Looking at the pot one  turtles was swimming around
I can't believe in the hot water he didn't even drown

I had to pull him out, and set him on the rebound.
I'll just cook him on my second round.

I am ready to eat my turtle stew.
Praising this soup with an mm mm thank you!

DARN!! Salt and Pepper was the main thing I forgot
Realizing napkins was the only thing I bought 

I put the napkins on my lap.
I was about to have me some turtle snap.

I started singing my favorite Christmas song.
Suddenly the "Two Turtle Dove" part did not belong.

Singing softly to my favorite line
Eating the stew didn't feel fine.

""On The Second day of Christmas


With out having the jolly to sing along.
I had to put the stew to a side and be strong.

     (now)  THAT WAS WRONG!!!!!


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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Taco Shells

Taco shells are made of yellow corn meal. They are tasty and crunchy, and usually a good deal. You can stuff them with ground beef, chicken, or even fish. Fill them up with plenty of whatever you wish. Tacos are something folks north of the Rio Grande adore. However, they break too easily and spill their contents on the floor.

Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2014

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Chloee and Reginald The Stand Down Dachshund Comedians


Chloee? Yes Reginald! 
Why do they call us Dachshunds, Wiener Dogs?
Maybe they call you a Wiener Reginald!
You cut me off at the legs with that one Chloee!


Chloee? Yes Reginald! Have you ever smelled mothballs.
No Reginald it's too difficult to spread their tiny legs.
My that was a low blow Chloee. You wish Reginald, you wish!


Reginald? Yes Chloee! I was at the park with my owner playing
Frisbee. As I watched the Frisbee I wondered why it was getting 
bigger and bigger as it came towards me than it hit me.


Chloee? Yes Reginald!
I was just lying down in the park the other day watching a Labrador 
chasing his tail an' I thought ain't that amazing how easily amused 
Labradors are! Then I realized I was watching the Labrador chase his tail.


Reginald? Yes Chloee! I've written a poem it goes like this.
"Roses are red. Violets are blue. Some poems rhyme. And some don't!"


Chloee? Yes Reginald! I was at a restaurant, I ordered a chicken sandwich, 
but I don’t think the waitress understood me. Because she said,
“How would you like your eggs?” So I tried to answer her anyhow. I said, 
“Incubated! And then raised, and then beheaded, and then plucked, 
and then cut up, and then put onto a grill, and then put onto a bun. 
Damn! It’s gonna take a while. I don’t have time. Scrambled!”

The Finale

A Dachshund walks under a bar. I mean walks into a bar. Goes to the
bar and sits down. Asks the bartender "can I have a Budweiser Light 
Beer" the bartender serves him and informs him "that will be seven dollars".
The Dachshund pays. The bartender keeps looking at the Dachshund. 
Finally the Dachshund yells "What?" The bartender explains "no I'm 
sorry we just never get Dachshunds in this bar." The Dachshund replies 
"I'm not seven dollars for a beer..."

The Encore

Reginald? Yes Chloee! When you cut your nails, do you file them?
Yes Chloee as a matter of fact I do! Pity! I just throw mine out!

Sponsor: rob carmack
Contest: Daschunds

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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Pin Fishing

I remember fondly the summer when I was nine
Catching minnows in the creek was my favorite pastime
Except I called then pin fish, I had quirky names for things
As well as bizarre behaviour, year before, obsessed with swings

Decked out in my rubber boots with a bucket in each hand
My desire to capture them day after day, I did not understand
For hours upon hours I catch as many I could, then set them free
To the top of the hill I trudge to a natural spring nestled under a tree

After taking a drink from the purest water I ever sprung from this earth
I overturn the bucket, maybe in my young mind, I was giving them rebirth
For these little minnows, it must have been a harrowing event
Or an adventure of a lifetime, for to harm was never my intent

Then off to home I go to have a bowl of long strokes aka chicken noodle soup
Giving my pin fish time to travel down hill and once again regroup
The next day I would wake up eager and a pin fishing I would go
I bet those minnows were happy when them I finally did outgrow

Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane | Year Posted 2013

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Dinner on the Redneck Riviera

Cuter than a June bug was Blossom
Bubba's hound had a nose for possum
   Bush moved and they watched it shake
   Not a possum, dadgum snake
Bubba took aim, results were awesome

Tweren’t the end of Blossom’s era
Sucked out venom; used Aloe Vera
   Dinner was finger lickin’
   Snake tasted just like chicken
Felt like a Redneck Riviera

*Entry for John Freeman’s limerick contest

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

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My Radiator Leaks Or My Exhaust Backfires

Every time I sneeze or cough Either my radiator leaks or my exhaust backfires! Shouldn't be a big surprise It's a definite sign we ain't no young chicken no more When you grunt just putting on your socks It's the ninth inning with two men out If you have to turn up the volume on TV Till it shatters the wine glasses in your dining room credenza You are not far from the end Another sign that you ain't no spring chicken Is when you repeat the same sentence twice in a row Is when you repeat the same sentence twice in a row Also when you forget to zip up after you pee What's worse though is when you forget to zip down When everything hurts and what doesn't hurt doesn't work It feels like the morning after and you haven't been anywhere Your knees buckle but your belt won't You sink your teeth into a steak and they stay there You sing along with elevator music You have a dream about prunes Your nose and ears are hairier than your head In dog years you're dead Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional And finally... inside every old person is a young person Wondering what the hell happened! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

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What if I told you things aren't
what they used to be.

What if I told you clichés
are not always "for the birds"

That the Clichés cling for
a reason and have clung long.

Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?

Smoked lunch meat and cheese
Did you eat that, digest that?

What if I told you cheese is plastic
And ain't what it used to be?

And chicken feed ain't, flies and grain 
But Plastic and GMO corn instead.

Don't feed the pigeons, says the sign.
But we don't eat the pigeons here.

So we feed them, and they eat 
bits of truth that we now turn down, 

Pigeons fly around downtown, 
Without true food, without the truth.

Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Peanut butter and Bananas?

Pigeons spread disease in excrement
With bits of nontruth, splattered all over;

Making a point about the truth the whole truth 
and nothing but the moot truth “So help you, Hanna"?

Cliché' may be our only reality, because little truths 
matter, relevance should never be Obsolete.

Big or small, the truth must massively
Combust into big explosions of honesty.

If you should turn your back on truth
You will be face to face with a lie.

The truth needs to matter again
Or nothing else will.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2015

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The Poet Rambles

the truth never told me a lie; if one writes a thousand poems one has a thousand poems written; everyone sees the sky as blue; Chicken Little is the only one the poet knows to see the sky as falling, therefore, the poet can imagine what it must be like to wonder if the sky will fall on her too.  Oh, and by the way it can happen because of you know that law (No, not Murphy's Law ((gotcha)) ), Godel's law.  Well, time for a dictionary hey?!  And even funnier, the poet doesn't have any screws loosw since the nuts and bolts of the poet are adjusted quite well anyways.  Well, scrap that concept, the poet doesn't actually exist except for in some macabre, abstract, poetic, humanistic, peaceful way that for sure will cease within the next one hundred years.  Therefore, the poet so shall choose to be the Biggest frickin', flippin' "Dreamer Be" in such a Divine sense as to ponder all things and mark the poet's fingerprints on life in sizzlin' accordance with the poet's law which is as follows: "Skip your mundane penchant for life and live a new existence-- exchange a size small life for a ginormous size dream life!"  Skip to the beats with fervid heat.  Off my soap box now, the poet puts her words into action-- Lights, Action, Creation.  Dreamer Girl gives way to her Big Heart!

Copyright © Susan Mills | Year Posted 2011

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The Chocolate Cake

“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.

But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.

“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”

“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.

My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.

There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.

I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.

The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.

The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015

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Royal Crap

King Pin and Needle Queen
Sitting  in their court
The jester tosses coloured eggs
To amuse them with his sport
The king will catch a red one
The queen, she grabs a blue
But when they crack them open
They’re filled with chicken poo.

Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2012

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Man in Kitchen

Man in Kitchen

So this is it, this place I’ve never been
I wander in and find it’s kept pristine
So this is where she disappears
And later on the food appears

Ah well! I’ll have to do my best
I think I’ll try that chicken breast
All I have to do right now
Is figure out the where and how

Unsuccessful, heaven knows
Why these things come all froze
But of one thing now I’m sure
There’s nothing for me in that drawer

Boiled potatoes, that sounds nice
Maybe with a pan of rice
Doors are banging, pans are flying
She can’t say that I’m not trying, hah

How much rice should I whack in
Sod it, shove the whole pack in
In the pan the waters pouring
This cookery I’m am so exploring

Pans are bubbling, all seems well
I’m creating such sweet smell
Now I see the rice exploding
And potatoes are imploding

This is harder than I thought
An easy meal I tried to sort
All my efforts are now gloop
So think I’ll fill on poetrysoup

Later on that night she says
Lets move the earth in many ways
Sorry dear, tonight no quakes
I have one of your headaches

Richard D Seal

11 March 2013

Copyright © Richard D Seal | Year Posted 2013

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The Obeah Woman

The Obeah Woman
Heavy musty air reeks with the Obeah Woman’s pungent perfume, sweat, burnt incense, bitter roots, and swirling black smoke, dim light from a waning moon streams into the shadowy room; and mirrors crack as restless spirits appear that she has evoked.
Thick, tall beeswax candles darkest black and blood red, dried aromatic herbs, pincushion effigies, and chicken feet, glistening gold crosses and machetes hang from rafters overhead, as she fervently chants mystical spells to complete.
Swinging Chango’s double-headed axe, she dances by her hearth, with a bottle of Barcadí Rum and expensive Cuban cigars that she smokes, unearthly voice passionately invoking the Orisha’s vengeful wrath, she gyrates hypnotically as the crackling red-hot embers she pokes.
A force to reckon with, she is reviled and made an outcast by some, as many fear the mesmerizing icy stare of the Obeah Woman, believing she is possessed by dark spirits and belongs in an asylum; she is damned for her mystifying gifts that are truly uncommon.
But her magical arts are sought after by all even the bigots, rich as well as poor visit her hut in secret, braving the dead of night and taking risky shortcuts, paying for her services with food, money, and gold trinkets.
Many rely on her uncanny supernatural skills, to predict the future with her divine gift of divination, using her potent potions to heal their ailments and other ills; or warding off demons with her spiritual charms and incantations.
Her powerful amulets and herbal brews are always in demand, with clients pleading for protection from every evil, the Obeah Woman’s forceful spells keep their fates in her hand, as she decides who to reward, or who to haunt with a devil.
The High Priestess of Obeah can bestow either happiness or grief, richly rewarding the faithful or punishing an offender with dire misery and pain; but whatever may be one's considered belief, curses or blessings - her mysterious powers are difficult to explain.
08-13-2014 Contest: Screwed IX Sponsor: John Hamilton Placement: 5th Note: Obeah is used in the Caribbean to refer to folk magic, sorcery, and religious practices similar to Palo, Vodou, Santería, rootwork, and hoodoo. In the Yuruba religion, Chango is the Orisha of fire, lightening, thunder, and war.

Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014

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Awful Dreams

    In a small café, customers stream through the door. I jot down orders that pile up as I wonder what’s happening in the back kitchen. The patrons are looking more and  more displeased. I scurry table to table filling glasses running endlessly dry and simultaneously noticing the increasing number of empty napkin holders.  Where’s the manager? Why is there nobody here but me? The order slips are almost gone. And now plates of food begin appearing in the back so quickly that I cannot recall to which table each one goes. I’m running and running, the proverbial dumb chicken but with its head still attached and throbbing! I hear the clamor of “Where’s our meal?” and more people keep entering through the door.
    Now I find myself in a plain white-walled classroom of my school. The clock on the wall ticks on and on as students trickle through the door.  Students sit staring as I search a pile of papers for the attendance sheet. The papers fall and I just know my lesson plan is lost among the scattered sheets. I bend to pick them up and my brain is a fog. What am I to teach? I sift through the disarray as ticking seconds become minutes, and a silence pierces me as I view the stony faces before me. I try to mouth words, but they simply won’t come. I can almost feel the fidgeting of the students as my upper lip begins to twitch. I know they are thinking me an imbecile. As I stand dumb stricken, time is fleeing, and more students are entering the room. . . . . 
    I awaken to the loud incessant ticking of the clock beside my bed. I’ll rise to greet my day, get into my car and meld with a stream of other people driving to their everyday jobs. There will be days that I encounter the cheerless or dissatisfied faces of strangers or even of family and friends. There will be times that I hasten frantically, feeling all is futile as bills pile up or work overwhelms me, and there are sure to be times when I will feel at an utter loss as I live vicariously the nightmarish woes which sometimes my husband must confront.  How grateful I am for ordinary days whose hours of normalcy are heaven compared to the mind boggling misery endured throughout this world.  And how thankful I am for ordinary days that greatly outnumber a few awful dreams!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015