Best Corns Poems
Sir ! say something funny , the little boy said .
'Cause Mom is now dying and Daddy is dead .
Grandad has piles and he can't sit down .
Gran's on a bender , somewhere on the town .
The dog just had kittens , and the hen , she wont lay .
The toilet is flooded and the rent we can't pay .
My brother has acne ; picking pimples all week .
The goldfish can't swim and the budgie wont speak .
My best funny friend , just sits with a frown .
My frog has just croaked it , my last duck just drowned .
My Y~fronts need changing after 3 months or more .
I've got ire on my thighs from the skidmarks galore .
My red nose is running and my sleeve is green blue .
There's a hole in my sock and 2 more in my shoe .
Sister Sue's on the game and she's got a bad rash .
She's making the bucks , but spending the cash .
My invisable friend , disappeared late last night .
Saying , he must see a Shrink , I have made him uptight .
Our Priest got the last rites ; the new Vicar just sinned .
She breaks with tradition and also breaks wind !
But apart from all that , things aint so bad .
My corns still flake and happyhour aint so sad .
So please Sir ! say something funny to unmask this frown .......
" GET LOST , you bad penny !! . I need a good ... long ... liedown ."
Devil horns and candy corns,
It must be Halloween!
Black cats and witch's hats,
It must be Halloween!
Trick or treats and ghosts in sheets,
It must be the night of Halloween!
Dark nights and scary frights,
It must be Halloween!
Werewolves cry as bats fly,
It must be Halloween!
Autumn leaves blow and pumpkins glow,
It must be the night of Halloween!
Monsters roar and owls soar,
It must be Halloween!
Spirits haunt and demons jaunt,
It must be Halloween!
Skeletons walk as vampires stalk,
It must be the night of Halloween!
Written - August, 28th, 2013
For - Russell Sivey's contest - Everything Halloween
.PADDY FIELD
HARVEST PADDY FIELD ON MUD AT MORN.
BUTTERFLY SITS ON EAR OF CORN.
BEES MAKE HUMMING SOUND.
ONLY SEE PLENTY OF PADDY FIELDS AROUND.
PEASANTS TOUCHED THE EAR OF GOLDEN CORNS.
EACH OTHER WATCHED AND WHISPERS.
NO JOY, WITHOUT ALLEY.
TOUCHES EAR OF CORNS GLADLY.
IT'S TO BE BOILED TO SERVES US.
PEASANTS GLAD, COWS OUTSIDE WATCHES WHEREAS.
PEASANTS DRIVE OUT COWS.
DOG BARKS.
PEASANTS RETURN FROM FIELD.
REMEMBERS ONLY PADDY WHERE EAR OF GOLDEN CORNS ENGRAVED
SAROJ KHAN [SAKHA].
I have grown old and twisted with all my living;
my limbs gnarled and arthritic,
my skin rough, sometimes peeling,
turning dark beneath the sun.
Bunions and corns decorate my feet.
What a life I have lived!
In my youth, young natives sat on tender grasses at my feet;
i sheltered them in coolness,
i listened to their vows of love.
Months later, they returned to me holding the joy of new life.
I rocked their papoose in my arms,
the wind sighing lullabies through my evergreen hair
making the silver moss, hanging on my tresses, sway.
I saw them leave before the growing strength of new settlers,
weeping as they walked away from this beloved land.
A wealthy man settled the grounds where I spread my roots;
I grew and wrapped my arms around the home he built.
I was young then, strong and full of vigor;
I was the watchman at the door.
I enjoyed many years with the family,
playing with the children,
giving shade and shelter.
Early one morning, the sounds of war disturbed my sleep;
all day the battle raged.
Cannon balls ripped through my flesh;
I heard the anguished screams.
When the sun set,
the ground beneath my feet was littered
with the broken bodies of men,
dead and dying,
soldiers uniformed in both blue and gray.
Our beautiful home was nearly destroyed,
our land ravaged.
If men could only learn, as I know,
to respect and care for one another.
As time passed, my limbs healed,
through scarred, just as my heart is scarred.
Generations have come and gone,
each one passing close to my heart in fleeting succession,
but I live on.
Age shows on my body, yet I cling more tightly,
stretching deep into the ground, sucking the earth's sweet nourishment.
My arms droop low, hanging heavy with sad and happy memories.
I do not want to leave this dear, fair earth,
the tears of heaven fall,
trickling down,
bathing me in dewy sadness.
A thousand years is not enough.
Copyright, August 22, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
I live in a city of a Indian state
where you can discern refreshing greeneries, that accommodate
the kingfishers,Rollers,peacocks,snakes and white cranes
Although rice is the major crop,black lentils,sugar canes
corns,sunflowers and groundnuts are the seasonal crops
Since it is a rainfed area,the agriculture rely on rain drops
Pongal,the three days festival is celebrated in mid-January
for the year harvest,as a thank giving ceremony
The Brihadeeswara temple,inscribed on list of world heritage
along with airavateswara temple,surviving 1000 ages
have convoluted stone carvings and intricate sculptures
reveal our ancient cultures and they are our treasures
I am talking about the beautiful city
Even though it is a city,people's behavior
pretend you to feel like an unrivaled village
The people are more generous and obliging
No religious gap among us,Christians go to mosques
Hindus to churches,Muslims to temples,we are unique
People came from different regions and communities
Nayaks,sauarashtras,marathas savvy the value of unity
and we are living examples of unity in diversity
we follow all the traditions without ambiguity
Tamil is our official language,the name
of city reveals the unvarnished fame
The Truth about Narwhals
The truth about narwhals, is that they're just bags.
Majestic bags, filled up with swag.
And bags filled with swag, well, they aren't a drag.
The truth about narwhals, is that they're just unicorns.
They dress up like dolphins, but still show off their horns.
And dolphins with horns, they love to eat corns.
The truth about narwhals, is they love shish-kebabs.
They make them all day, to worship their gods.
But narwhals themselves are gods, gods of kebabs.
A day with Sleeping Sorry no face...
Saying i'm Sorry is just not me!
For nothing risked is nothing gained,
A game I just have to play,
To win your maiden heart,
Or lose and try somewhere else,
Life goes on,
They always say,
To that I toast,
And be on my way.
I pass downtown of the city,
Along the blocks and city streets,
I cross the shops and a small town,
Through the lanes that is going all
the way down.
I make it across the ravine and
valley,
Into open spaces of bluegrass
county,
And in the middle of nowhere,
In the field of corns I think I am lost.
The scarecrow is there to keep me
company,
For how long till the day is gone...
Not a soul beside me and I am
shaking to the bones,
The chill has settle and here to
stay.
As night approaches my eyes are
amazed,
By the glory of heavean above
dancing,
This is the land on which the sky sit,
And my mind and body is ready to
sleep,
Tomorrow will bring a better fortune,
Life goes on,
They always say,
Today has been an adventure for me,
So far I face no known danger,
Like a sly seeking twister,
Or even worst still ...Count
Dracula's sister!
My imagination is running free
again,
Sleep tight under the stars and an
Owl's lullaby....
A new world opens to me when
dreams are roaming free.....Zzz...
Oh by the way...
If you're reading this tale of
Sleeping Sorry no face,
I'm sorry this is the End,
Good night and sweet scary
dream...Zzzz...
Hiding in the trench in the French sand,
Indian Singh fights like a British soldier.
It seems it is the ending of the universe.
Dark curls of smoke rise up - cradles are
shattered, and buildings collapsed. Roar
of the war planes gobble all the shrieks
by the mothers and their mothers in a jiff.
Wounds play a sad raga on the strings in
the throats of some fallen military men.
Indian Singh seeks his sweet lady among
the golden corns in a Punjabi wheat field
during the horrible silent interval. A red
salwar kameez flutters in the day dream.
A sudden roar makes him raise his rifle.
Though he is Britain’s adopted son, he
fights for his new mother with true love.
She opens with a smile the creaking gate
to the ecstasy of reunion- soon this smile
is scattered like a phial in an explosion.
She waited for him with the same verve
for years and years in vain, until the earth
worms claimed her wrinkled body one day.
Thousands of memorial stones were erupted
here and there after the First World War, but
not a single stone remains to honor his valor.
(Winner poem on exhibition in Liverpool University, U K. It was also presented on Anzac Day at Auckland Museum,New Zealand. It also appeared in 'Selected Poems Anthology 2014 by Pendle War Poetry, U K)
Take the bull by the horns
You may find blisters corns
But man be brave
You'll surely pave
The way to your new morns
F all is almost here.
A corns and pumpkins to roast.
R ed and gold leaves will soon cover the yard.
E ating the last watermelon, oh my.
W ater sports will be tucked away.
E veryone getting ready for school.
L oved learning to swim at camp.
L ong days now turning short.
T ogether next year at the lake.
O n our way home for the winter.
S ay goodbye to the hot days.
U se time to reflect.
M emories will last forever.
M y summer love is back at school.
E ating BBQ has ended for the year.
R ain will soon turn into snow.
Date Written: 9/25/2020
1. Farewell To Summer
Pick-A-Title, Vol 23 - Seasonal Acrostic - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Is it fair that youth is beauty
That the best we can ever be
Is before we are twenty three
Why can't a wrinkle be sexy
Who says grey hairs are icky
Contact lenses are too tricky
Comfort and ease of eyeglasses
Tri focal eyeglasses
But why, but how, when
Did youth escape and old fogey begin
The burden of life's responsibilities
The worry of offspring indeed
The need for success
The desire to impress
That weather our smooth silky skin
Into worn leather feel rough and thin
Tooth loss and baldness
Nose hairs and body aches
Disease and numbness
Hot flashes and body shakes
Dimming of senses
Enlargement of ears
Shrinking by inches
New things are fears
Tired blood and blue veins
Forgetting whats her name
Corns and bunions
Yelling at them youngins
Jello instead of steak
Maalox replaces milkshakes
Eat dinner at four asleep by nine
Can't believe the speed of time
Is it fair that youth is beauty
Why can't being old be better
Then aches from change of weather
To using a cain instead of raising it
Gumming a steak until you can't spit
Just think how sexy you will be
If you finally reach forty three
Lets change our perspective
Not be so narrowly selective
Enough of the smooth shapely firm
Cute bouncing buns we had and yearn
Let's hear it for the pale faded
Wrinkled saggy way nature made it
Posteriors of the more mature crowd
On second thought without my glasses
Youth is beauty
Enjoy while its yours
Everything is creased & kept
In right place & order
To avoid even a particle of dust.
But all worms
Are not devised to
Die before a naphthalene.
The dead narcissus,
The spittle of wind on windowpane,
The half-empty dish of rice
Beside the folded mattress
Make me return & recall
The days of nursery school,
The lesson of my favorite farmer.
His corns would come & store themselves magically !
Flying out of ancient hearth
Gods & dogs
Gift me
The vessel of ashes.
It's thought quite excellent for humankind
eyes closed, to pause and stretch the mind;
The seahorse gambols off into the skies
and disappears. The scholar sighs,
then smiles, picks up his book and pen
and turns to the mundane affairs of men,
still wondering which moment is
the wiser use of time.
Ohho! I'll rove where unicorns
will flash their horns, while jaded ones
retreat to nurse their joints and corns,
to dream of wonder sophistry may lack.
It teaches me to prize the wisdom,
the necessity of frequent visits back
to childhood--there where chimera cavort,
where monsters sport monstrosities
and dragons spew their fire.
There I may exercise my memory,
homemade cape to take the air
behind my head, while
I upon my speeding bike again
as Captain Braverider declare
destruction to the dastardly
who dare to venture from their evil den
and flaunt their vile intent.
I think we need it all,
even the ridicule we may incur.
We need, at times, a shaking
of our pride of intellect,
a rest, a relaxation from the pedestal
of triumph that we leap upon,
usually to assure ourselves
that we are most important;
we need to know how false
that really is.
I'll join the unicorns once more,
rush through sandtraps on my bike,
if only in my mind. I'll draw the lagline,
risk again the marbles in my stash,
look up with love to see that girl
(my fourth-grade crush) pass by
along the sidewalk--yes, it is
the sustenance of manhood
that I feed upon
and cannot do without--nor can we all.
Preserve the fantasy;
hug it to your breast
lest you then find yourself
among the breathless ones on pedestals
who closed their eyes to dreams.
~
Once upon a time, there lived a curious boy who lived in the land of corns.
He always adored the work his parents did – his father was an astronaut,
while his mother was a doctor.
“What should I do to be great like you?” one day he asked his parents.
“Follow your dream,” his father replied.
“How will I follow my dream?!” he curiously asked.
“Follow the voice in your heart!” his mother replied.
In the middle of the night, he heard the voice tell him to pick some of his clothes,
a sandwich, pack all of them in the bag, and head to the nearest bus station. He
did all his heart told him that night.
At sunrise, he had reached a bus station. The voice whispered “choose any bus”.
And he did! He chose the first half vacant bus that came right beside him, and sat
next to an old man.
The journey seemed boring for him. The bus was moving slowly, and there were
no planes, cars or buildings to see.
The road they were traveling by seemed deserted, as though the other people
outside the bus had mysteriously disappeared.
“Where are you heading young man?” the old man asked the boy.
“I’m heading to my dream!” the boy replied. His eyes glittered with excitement.
“What about you? Where are you going?” the boy asked.
“To meet Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“My dog.”
The boy was very happy for the old man, only to realize later that he was heading to Charlie’s grave , at a pet cemetery.
Tears rolled on his cheeks, as he mourned Charlie’s death.
As he comforted him, the old man told him that life was like a dream,
and death was like waking up in another world. A better world.
The boy felt better.
An hour later, the bus came to a halt. The stop looked like a semi-desert, unlike
his home, where everything was green.
His heart was silent throughout the journey.
“Where is the dream you were to meet?” the old man asked.
“My heart hasn't showed me yet…” came the innocent reply.
The old man laughed to tears.
“Son, your dream is not here yet. It is in the future!
“You’ll arrive at your dream when you become obedient, hardworking,
and fill your heart with wonders of any possibilities.”
Let’s spend the night in a hotel, then tomorrow you’ll pick a bus to head back
home.”
Little did he know that the old man was an angel!
I.
In the full light of a warriors plight,
Sometimes it becomes a case of being slighted and being Aright,
Its a case of solemn thinkings to soothe this anguish and its deeprooted pain,
Do see things from the Warrior's point of view,
He sees Life as a kaleidoscopic dreamy paraphrase,
Roasting Angernuts and storing them aways as Groundnuts stored in airtight
jars,
For when his flesh is pricked his thunderous clap resounds for eight villages and
beyond,
His most favorite son supplies his fill-ins of heavily spiced and stuffed roasted
Bushmeat,
His most loving and caring daughter never allows his fresh kicking "House and
Bush fly saluted" Palmwine to cease its awesome flow,
His youngest and most active wife sits at his left side to wrap his "wisdom
fumes" in its tobacco sheath...Marijuana never tasted more spiritual from her very
fingertips,
He loves the looks on his strongheaded sons' face as they sit in gossip to roast
his yellow sweet corns,
The feel of roasted corn blended with the "wise fumes" arising from this
Marijuana spliff all wetted down with the Imperial fluidity of palmwine.
II.
Drinking this two mouthfuls of the enemy chief's blood at battle never felt any
soulwarming,
For you it would be constant anguished Bed tossing,
Draping my palace in Human skulls and rare animal skins,
Writing for Kings, Knights and their Monks,
Writing for Spliffs, Chieves and their Drunks,
Writing for Owls, Dragons, Angels and their Wings,
Knowing full well your brain might learn to take its rightful Literary place,
We must have moved with this much a-blaze,
We will slow down for you to sip in this page's full intake,
Not a case of primitive battle acclaims,
Just a feel of the Martial spirit though,
The warrior's many many songs yet unsung,
His life and times,Do keep within your salient confines.