Best Eaters Poems
Turmoil
God awful gut wrenching
nightmare riding
turmoil.
Throat clenching
acid rising murder of crows,
False importance on the trivial grows.
A gag reflex of learned fear
turmoil roils hurricane high
calms counterweight on the psychic scale.
Taste the bitter bile of discontent.
Far fetching fowl…
fouling the content
eating the brash bits of joy
Turmoil.
This poem was inspired by Dr. Mehta's poem on Childhood Obesity.
Our Mom made us sit and sit
Until we’d eaten every bit
She said “there’s starving kids in China
Africa and Asia Mina”
We kids said then send it to ‘em
Broccoli, spinach – we don’t do ‘em
But Mom, she would have none of that
So all us kids just sat and sat
Until our Mom just shook her head
Said “you’re finished – go to bed”
Then we all stood up one by one
Thinking all that we had won
But truth be told, we didn’t beat her
No we all are picky eaters
So many things we just won’t taste
Picky eaters – such a waist
Mdailey 5/25/11
And before you draw my attention to the spelling of waist – it was intended as most
of us picky eaters tend to go for meat and potatoes that go right to our waist. But I
guess could have used waste as well in that last line.
1.
My grapefruit tanned
toothpicks
bow above
the five-day flattened
spot
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's
blueprint,
with one encapsulated
toe –
this is the femur, this is
the head,
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
fly fetuses.
2.
Huddling behind the
corpse
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
watches
his children choke
hushed, broken
sentences
this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
holiday china…
an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
to wilt
upon the hallway
bulb.
3.
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved
dromedary.
These artifacts
plucked
from his porcelain
menagerie
that I decipher
through dust fingerprints
for
one small inheritance of
a memory.
4.
Tomorrow,
Aunt Rose
puts price
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's
plastic horse,
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an
afghan.
A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,
she says she will whittle
all of him,
from the
wooden
house
bones.
HE WEARS A COAT OF ASH
ALWAYS TALKING
TALKING FAST
LIKE A SNAKE THROUGH THE GRASS
HE SLITHERS AND CRAWLS
HE SLITEHRS AND CRAWLS
BUROWS THROUGH THE WALLS
WHATS YOUR NAME
LETS PLAY A GAME
I’M INSIDE I’M INSIDE
TRY TO HIDE
I WILL SEEK
GO AND CRY
GO AND SHRIEK
I’M INSIDE
TRY TO HIDE
NO SECRETS YOU CAN KEEP
WHERE DO I FIND THE ONE THAT SLEEPS
HE WANDERS THROUGH THE SHELL
TO FIND IT AND TAKE IT
TO SOME FAR OFF HELL
HIS TONGUE IS QUICK
HIS MIND FULL OF WIT
HIS CLAWS ARE MEAN
HIS CLAWS ARE MEAN
AND HIS MIND IS KEEN
SEARCHING FOR WEAKNESS
SEARHING FOR SECRETS
HOW MANY OF YOU ARE THERE
HOW MANY OF YOU COMPARE
WHATS YOUR NAME
IT’S A SHAME
IT’S A SHAME
I WILL BREAK YOU
I WILL TAKE YOU
FINDING FLAWS
OLD WOUNDS RAW
DIGGING DEEP
DIGGING DEEP
HE FINDS IT IN THE KEEP
HELLO LITTLE ONE
HAVING FUN
I HAVE NO NAME
I PLAY NO GAMES
ALL I HAVE ARE FANGS
AND YOU ARE HERE
TO HATCH DISPARE
I’V COME TO MAKE YOU DISAPEAR
SEE YOUR WALLS
SEE YOUR WALLS
THEY’RE CLOSING IN
THEY’RE CLOSING IN
WE WILL BE COMPRESSED
FORMING MESH
MERGING INTO ONE
LIKE ALL THE OTHERS
YOU ARE DONE
NEVER SPAWNED
TO FIGHT THE DAWN
I VE COME TO MERGE WITH YOUR SOUL
TAKE CONTROL
YOU WILL BE
JUST ANOTHER TWISTED PART OF ME
ALL YOUR NEGATIVITY
WILL SUBMERESE
WILL DISPERSE
JUST ANOTHER TWISTED PART OF ME
ALL YOU EGGS
KEEP ME FED
KEEP ME GROWING
SECRETS SHOWING
KILLING DEMONS
BEFORE THEY’RE BRED
KILLING DEMONS
TO KEEP ME FED
A FORMLESS SOUL
MADE OF MESH
A FORMLESS SOUL
MADE OF UNBORN FLESH
WINING THE WAR
ONE EGG AT A TIME
ONE EGG AT A TIME
A litany of states have we been through
and countries if one counts the past.
From eras gone we came as people who
could turn the soil and make a life at last.
We sailed from bankrupt English mines
and Irish tubers rotting in the ground,
to Ellis Island like human vines
imaging that we had found
a clement life of fruit—rock and blight
could not feed the hungry ones--
and taste the bud of ended plight,
absent ourselves from absent funds.
We knelt in fields of withered grain
and left for other nameless towns,
then westward to the siren plains
of Kansas and Dakota to put down
stakes. The Homestead Act would give us land
to raise a crop and fill the dearth
begot from living mouth-to-hand.
But as we tended rows of earth
through war and fever, Great Depression
and still birth, the land was never ours to keep;
sold off here and there as a lesson
that the suffering shall always weep
in shacks where floors are made of dirt.
But on Judgment Day we'd come to rest
with Jesus. He would vanquish all the hurt
of young disciples grown old with pain
from years of thankless labor on the land
where fathers passed the lot to sons again,
and take us up to heaven as He planned.
But as we lowered bodies in the ground
adorning graves of loved ones dead and gone
with plastic flowers we the living found
that our reward was farther on.
There’s a universe in my universe
And it’s making me very mad.
You’ll have to excuse me for sounding terse,
But the meaning of this is bad.
If everyone that has ever been known
Exists in a parallel plane,
It only makes sense that some have a clone.
It’s too logical to explain.
And if each of their clones has a twin,
Then they might have a triplet too.
Instead of just one original sin,
There might have been quite a few.
Adams and Eves are all climbing high,
To the tops of the apple trees.
About eating apples most will lie,
Still others will just eat cheese.
The apple eaters will assume a pose,
So their nakedness can’t get viewed.
When walking around without any clothes,
Like the cheese eaters in the nude.
The naked cheese eaters will stroll on by,
Displayed in all their glory.
To avoid Hell’s flames they don’t even try,
But that’s a different story.
There’s a secret that they don’t get to know,
But from the Lord’s grace they’ll never fall.
But we sinners can all rest easy below,
Knowing death comes from cholesterol.
Noses all upturned
the potato eaters sit
beneath a lamp suspended
from out of the gloom.
Van Gogh's search for inner light
began with the Dutch peasants.
~~~~~~~~ for Abe Lopez contest ~~~~~~~~
Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters"
a choka in 5-7-7-5-7-7
SHOUT OUT TO THE YAM EATERS
I listened to their melody
Which for me is a malady
Still I listen to their rhapsody
Which is nothing but fallacy
They tell us they make law
But they're thieves to the core
They fight one another so raw
Even their suits they tore
I thought they stood for the poor
But they are crooks on the floor
Pulling up chairs to fight war
Supremacy is spilling blood
When it starts, the lazy ones crawl
The oil will soon stop
And the agitation will drop
Now that the price is fall
Won't we go back to the crop
Before all the budget flop
They've stolen the money
Now we wake up to a dry morning
Leaving us to mourning
When we recall the sweet old memory.
May the cankerworms of this country
Are eating us to our grave in a hurry.
( FM CONCEPTUAL)
Devours
Flowers
© Apr 05 2010
The Lotus Eaters page 1 of 2
(This is an original fiction by Earl based on the fiction by Homer. Part 2 of this is in a 2nd. posting)
Northern unkind gales forced, with no care to man or nature
The cunning, the brave, the great King Odysseus and his crew to draw off course
From Ithica, their home and one true destination
A strange land happened upon them by fate and chance
Appeared from nowhere, but did enchant them one and all
We’ve come to learn this is the Isle Lotophagi.
Glorious scented lotus fields rolled up, waving against moving vast hills
Winds gave them life over flowing there
With majestic summer’s heated wilds
Holding the world intact
Boulders lined up as giants against the ancient unencumbered breathing skies
Virgins in yellow and pink silk, filled in the silence of morn with vigilance
While gathering sweet cold water in fragile jugs along the foreign stream
Within the golden landscape scene the lotus eaters lived
In tender innocence, no cares in the world, or of their fate awaiting
Hectic red steadfast on earth this day as sun rose stronger than venues of time
But not too late
To mold the landscape in its style in brightness that takes the sight of man to shelter
The cunning Odysseus, and his men are hungry, tired, worn of war and lust for water from that shore
Before they sail to Ithica with furor to their missions end
Determined one and all
They must rest, take in splendors of this world and learn their love and lore
The king and sailors did much more. The lotus eaters, as they’re called
The Lotus Eaters - page 2 of 2
Fed them the one food they adored. In fact the only food they had in store. Lotus blossoms, lotus leaves and lotus wine from lotus trees. Lotus plants grew everywhere and made men’s heads dance and forget their own land, friends, families and reasons for being there
Their cares were covered by the lotus spell
Great Odysseus knew this well and had to pry his sailors loose from their hypnotic grasp
Day and night his men passed in merriment lost at the mercy of the lotus power
Life became a dream and Lotophagi their Island paradise
In Ithica there’s poverty and war where battles bathed those days in blood
Reminiscing and memories disappeared in the narcotic mist or never was and never missed
Under the influence of this magical lotus flower as the hours draw on and on
No more reminders of love or lore on their own home shores
Brave and cunning Odysseus tricked his men with promises of virgins boarding their ship for a day’s trip at sea for pleasures and picnics.
The men were weak and hypnotized, fell as easy prey, victims to his lies.
Still, he had to tie them down (for their own safety.)
At sea they all got sick, wakened quickly from the captive hold of lotus girls and lotus ways.
“This rock is not ours!” The great Odysseus yelled. “The spell has ended!” “Let us leave and let the withdrawal begin!”
Ithica is a long way down but luck and fate is on our side. South winds will guide our way.
Cape Malea is in sight. The Peloponnesus is at hand. A fresh breath of life headed westwards, a course that’s true and steady sailing for Ithica again.
Odysseus by any other name is Ulysses. The lotus by any other name is narcotic and a rose by any other name could not smell sweeter…. Nor can freedom.
The fury of suspense
Neither dare mention
Once the moment presents
It's clear their intention
Day in and day out
Both trying to achieve
With the same know how
And allotted leave
Bearing obligations
That fade by day
When both imaginations
Discretely play
That fragment of time
The flock divides
The last two in line
For a thrill seeking ride
The shape of two virgins
A deceitful mirage
Sinfully splurging
An innocent massage
She pulls away
But only a little
The game, in play
Her bow, his fiddle
Her eyes of wonder
Add gas to his fire
Rainbow induced thunder
Of lustful desire
The inevitable irony
Is such a shame
Once finished, they see
They are to blame
The excitement vanished
The mystery, no more
He's no longer famished
And she, now a whore
I made peanut butter and jelly
for Jane whose feet were very smelly,
because they stunk sooo bad
I got darn piping mad...
my lunch stayed away from my belly!
Those over 50's holidays
that they advertise on TV
must really do people a power of good,
at least that's how it seems to me.
Their smiles are all truly dazzling,
soft-focus smooth is their skin,
their trim, sun tanned bodies really do suit
the wonderful clothes they're filmed in.
They sit eating salads, al fresco,
a glass of white wine at their lips,
and nobody suffers lumbago
or limps from their arthritic hips.
Disembarking from liners for shore leave,
or boarding an exotic train,
there's never a sign of an arthritic spine
or a bad case of varicose veins.
I've not met these people in Derby,
so maybe they all live abroad,
all sunning their bits over in San Moritz
which is something I cannot afford.
So when I at last claim my pension,
and have lots of more time to kill,
it won't be a sun deck in Paphos,
but more like a caravan in Rhyll.
hands bony and coarse
honestly earned bread
labour on earth
no crime no corruption
elementary
fingers knuckle out to obtain
large platter of boiled potatoes
pouring the cold brew
intense faces rapt attention/
/ vibrancy layered with dark-
ness /soft gentle lines windows spread to eternity
weathered table rafter boards rectangular columns
oiled lamp throwing light on the expressive faces
failed in its life time adored now
poor artist rest in peace