Best Digestible Poems
1000 miles per hour scientists have calculated the Earth’s rotation
And 25000 miles in 24 hours according to their quotation
They say it is the distance from the sun qualifies their concession
But it is the facts that they failed to mention
The fact in the matter is, it is not gravity, the sun or the moon
So I thought I will break it down so you can see the big picture soon
And those scientific theories are fallible and can be popped like a balloon
Then you can stop watching the Discovery channel and watch a Disney cartoon
In order to deliver the facts I will change from monorhyme
This will give you the information in digestible nuggets in time
Here we go:
Fact: we know that love makes the world go round
Just enough to stop you flying off the ground
According to my calculations, there are 380000 people making love every second
Wait a minute, just in case I am beckoned
22800000 in a minute, 1368000000 in an hour and 32832000000 in a day.
That’s a lot of people indulging in naughty play
Therefore each person generates 3045808967 gigawatts of negative energy
Calculate it yourself and if I’m wrong I’ll change my name to Cenergy.
The negative energy is what repels us from the sun
This is not generated from the up and down of underwear of everyone
If we quit the Earth will stop spinning
And this may mean we’ll come out winning
For we won’t die or age in years
We’ll never be made redundant due to someone younger taking our careers
You can borrow money and go in debt
And never pay it off if you take it over a year I guarantee the bet.
For if we stop love, time will stand still
And to get it moving again would need the love pill
So from me and Captain Morgan, we say good night
Tomorrow how the earth got it’s crust we will write.
So say good night to this drunken plumber
And by the way, if we stop the sun will suck us in and that’s a bummer
Good night
I think, and you speak my thoughts completely.
Wherein lies truth, if when I die, I lose myself.
My thought and deed lying fallow in decaying tissue.
So I write to save me.
You are in every thought, every deed,
every movement that I make.
You complete me.
When I awake, the first breath that
I take is to exhale a sigh of relief.
You are still by my side.
My soul belongs to God, but my essence
lies in the intangible.
In a form acutely digestible----
to be cussed and discussed.
In discourse, to be thoroughly scrutinized,
labeled and passed on.
The song is rewrit time and time again
and the note of passion sounds
as now within me seething----flowing over.
It dances on the grass
as nymphs in springtime forests.
I close one eye and look at truth
as the side of a coin standing mute.
I look at life spinning, good—bad—good.
But who decides bad- - - good?
The spinning coin has a solid center
which we perceive as real.
The spinning word has the same illusion- - -
we have but to interpret as we see.
Life goes on, after the thrill is gone, but
the thrill goes on as long as we are not alone.
Poet don’t feel right
Poet struggles sleeping at night
POETS NEVER SLEEP
At least…that’s what other poets keep telling me
But this lackluster slumbering just might be
From the unwavering weight of all responsibility
Poet only seems awake while walking through daydreams
Only wants to live life lavished in imagination
Painting alternate universes in which the stars guide me
An alternate universe in which i am happy
The moon and its tides constantly aligned
An alternate universe in which my artistry arrives unagonized
An alternate universe already constructed by someone else
An alternate universe in which contains an atmosphere in which I can breathe in which should be the one I’m in now
But my nervous system glitches,
Spine tinges spitting gibberish
Jittering shaky legs racing while staying stationary
Amazed at the way
A stage shakes me
In vibrations
At least its safe to say I said something today
Shared a story shoved, cornered in a junk drawer
At least I keep poetry in motion
only productive when my mind’s flowing
But I know my audience
I know they’re only hearing my poet voice
They only see my tragedies rehashed in romantics
There's only so many ways to manipulate the pain staked
in my chest in my throat in my head
So I choke on my raw truth
so it’s more digestible
for everybody else in the room
If not on the page,
Where is a tortured artists’ pain safe?
Paper scrapes
Psalms
Poems
Cutting deep enough
For me to bleed enough
For you to envision the misery
I’m in
Some alternate universe in which I am not a poet
Instead,
I am illiterate at the expense of my own pen and tongue
Instead, I await the unarriving;
Bleeding out without any sign of rescue
Instead, I plagiarize my inhabitance to a world
constructed by everyone except myself
Instead,
I am here
Earth rotates
Everything else still
I am still
Here.
In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door
She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes.
A comedy of errors that harried her homewards.
The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.
So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Schooltime over;
Lessons now born from living.
- But that's all right,
Because biting down, holding fast
Is what she does -
She's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust
She'll make it all her own
The while she works it.
An', as [music] blowed an' blowed,
I often looked up at the sky
an' assed meself the question--
what is the stars,
what is the stars?
Juno and the Paycock
Sean O'Casey
Our sacred choir
prepares a new anthem
which, in summary, goes:
I have the deep soul blues today,
so Give Me Music.
This troubles me
because Music erupts from within,
more primal than a commodity
to be delivered on command.
What is wrapped and presented from outside
we may hear only as voices with rhythm
and harmony
and unresolved dissonance--
but all these together
are not yet our enchanting music muse
fully investing
infesting
musing through us.
Choral inside resounded music,
resonate through all four voices,
sharing our deep-rooted muse,
blues soul longing to speak and dance
music of the stars,
To come home again
where we have always shared soul belonged
inducing peace.
Sacred choirs
do not usually demand of matriarchal Earth,
Give Me Music!
More likely we invite experience
of more resilient inside dancing muses
healing like anciently redundant starlight.
I feel angst in soulful mourning
that cannot be healed through commanding
Give Me Music
or anything else, for that matter.
But, loss does invite deeper experience of resonance
and small bits of creatively digestible resolving dissonance
to feel better
about absence of remembering
What is our starlight soul
but well-sung dance
enlightening solidarity?
If we are asking Earth
to heal us with the Muse of starlight mystery,
then, indeed,
Give Us Music's full harvest
blowed an' blowed.
senators seeing stapled starkers
Loopholes. Lanky long. Llama Klamath llama please do not lean on those bent gables. For gables are gargling and gargling sounds very eerily similar to a gaggle of geese. Mission endeavour is a plane in a prism. A pram. Circling. But not a curdled crisp. Boot not a rebooted tooting train. For trains are teams and team is neither a steam locomotive nor a mystified heron on a penny farthing. Part board part hoard and a collapsing crash of hands. Figure a fakery is an idiomatic meaning of a didactic form of unilaterally placed flowers. And the beak says hi. But not before the fire arrives in a bowl of plankton. At noon. In a square. If travelling in a circular ship travel light and only carry one tray, one mug, a beaker, a wheel, and a supernaturally charged frog. Interesting to note how the enhanced forms of wit is involved in intergalactic war games. Playing on a two ton tea towel. Very very heavy. Heavy rock and heavy metal is in a school eating cereal at the back of a classroom. Haha. And the deafening boom of bell brings balls to halls and hallowed singing in a line. Youth yawn yearly. And a little micro dot of a hedgehog plays the bass guitar with a sparrow, a nine foot semi eroded dustbin, a mentally disturbed earwig, a corrupted cucumber, and a non digestible house brick. Wow. Such enlightenment from a factory of frozen peas. Hahaha the wine is in the winds. Hahaha message board secret speaking to a pen. Hahaha number of stolen goods dancing with the police. How apolitical and jar of gold coasting coats. Xxxxx Palladian ponies. Xxxxx geometrical gnome. Xxxxx synchronous swanky swans. X uncharacteristically z z z z z. At 689% of a slice of pear cider. Personified x
I'm not your tearstained dishrag.
Will you end your suicide note with a hashtag?
Just lock me in the metaphysical gulag.
The real world's too much a drag
for a ***.
I am not digestible.
I am a hunk of pyrite lodged in the
jejunum of bureaucracy.
I am a precious and coveted
artifact hidden at the bottom
of a recycling bin, underneath
empty milk gallon bottles.
Their pungent swill is a grimy
filter for my blind beauty.
this endless rain
pains
like an idle
pent up *****
gnawing away at sanity
grinding nerves
into digestible bits
this
this is not
nourishment
Time being colossal,
a spin had to be found,
two covers, a book we call
it a beginning and an end.
In time we tick off a digestible
portion;
calling it our own,
walking between the covers
hoping never to get lost again,
Time being just that;
A definition,
always as slippery as an heel
each eureka, an inflated sense
of discovery.
But time never allowing itself to
be touched,
but rather a brief feel,
living among each tick of the
clock,
close enough but still a mystery,
and as time becomes another
space in time,
we are out of words in trying to
tell the others,
about this other demention,
where the sun never sets,
where it all revolve's into wonders
and signs,
a world balancing on a super natural
precision,
out-pacing thoughts,
leaving behind paper and pen.
The story about time running
around,
catching at the wind like children.
in{-ane, -sipid, -gestible, -digestible, -satiable}
just kidding!
not !!
not, not.
who dere?
aw, go {expletive never inserted} myself.
{oh joy, almond joy, enjoy, killjoy}
go back to the start where i am
Crunch
"I don't want to read something I already know
or which is going to slide down easily:
there has to be some crunch,
a certain amount of resilience."
Poet John Ashbery.
He wasn't the first one
to say it, but crunch
is spot on, as they say.
Life could be soft
and easily digestible, I guess – –
if that's your preference.
Actually, it might be mine, but I was blessed
when you get right down to it,
to have crunch enter in without my
asking or even foreknowing.
But it's one thing
to receive our days as crunch,
quite another to dish it out
to others.
I would rather not
go down as cream of wheat,
pablum to my peers.
And when I'm laid away for good,
there will be many a mastication--an
eternity of earth chewing away,
crushing the strongest box
or urn. Whether worms or beetles
or the heaving and moaning of
my loamy home--
May my final sound be
a cosmic crunch.
Phil Hefner.
Do not worry my friend
your big head that disturbs
and fails to think properly
give it away for charity
Do not worry my friend
carry that big head in your hand
if its notorious and causes tears
throw it in the dish nearby
Do not worry my friend
your big head burden head
lend it away to the poor
that for one day they are rich
I hear that big head is nice
with curry and ginger its eaten
but let no one deceive you
nothing of it is digestible
Poetry is the push behind
the wave – the brilliance
sparking light –
the poet, a wonder-er
and wanderer...drawing
illumination from wells
of glistening shadows –
never pondering
the where and when,
his focus always toward,
the Almighty How...
Never seeking the there and then,
making of complex mysteries
bite-size, digestible pieces --
compositions of an omnipotent God's,
ever illusive, Eternal Now...
no work of mere description
will do...
each ensuing articulation, an evolution –
as Darwin observed his Galapagos,
like so, all creation evolves by man's
conscious and unconscious sensing –
The poet, no predetermined
puppet; but, in fact, a Literary Diviner –
believing his practice – man's personal
enunciation through his ever
greater
revelation
of words –
dipping his fanciful
quill into the ink of a
publishing universe – dripping
reams of infinite pages – poetry,
our intimate voice of never-ending
possibilities...
I start off being optimistic
With my big saucepan
Only as a last resort will I ever
Eat soup from a can.
I assemble all the ingredients
From a list I’ve not written down
Caremelise the onions.
Until they’re nice and brown.
Slice up some items
Dice all the rest
Cut the mushroom small
I think that’s best.
I slow cooked a Ham to
Provide a liquid base
Carefully and slowly
I stir this into place.
I crumble in a cube, flavour
Depending on what I’ve got
Bring it slowly to the boil and
Keep it simmer hot.
I use a hand held blender
To get rid of all the lumps
Get it smooth and even
Get rid of all the clumps.
I taste it in anticipation.
Always a potential waste
It’s hot smooth and digestible
But has such a bland taste.
indeterminate and indefinable
And no matter how I’ve tried
The supposed soup’s variety
Just can’t be identified
So it’s down to my reviver
I alway need to use to fix it
Worcester, Soy, and Balsamic,
And then I liberally mic it.
Sling in some lazy garlic
Just for good measure
Amazingly these Ingredients
Just add to the palate’s pleasure
It’s a hotchpotch of flavours
With a lot of spicy heat
Not the sort of thing a gourmet
Would willingly choose to eat
But we consume every last drop
We just can’t stand any waste
And hope springs eternal one day
It will conform to conventional taste.
worth of wage
a mercenary/ organised
land based force ready for
commands/ spotters observers
and carriers ,to share the warmth
of bed/ orphans from violence and war
invisible many/ sick blood diamonds recru-
ited by ments while theirs go to school an
church to learn of values and virtues
what is the law--
where is the value---
i am throwing up the un digestible con-
cept of child soldiers