Best Metabolism Poems
In the beginning was the word
Before that, no noun, no thing
Then no sound was ever heard
And no passing bell would ring
So therefore no adjective was needed to describe it or deplore it
No preposition required to be positioned right before it
No verb to do something to it or say what act it was pursuing
No need for an adverb to describe how well or badly it was doing
Since not even one noun existed, conjunctions would have been redundant
There were no things to act on and to move across the face of the fundament
So the first word there had to be - was BE, and that was the very first in existence
And from Genesis and Eden to Elsinore, it has had a remarkable degree of persistence
Now, in the Oxford English Dictionary which is venerable institution
There are 171476 full entries of words (2nd edition) all capable of elocution
Of these, about one seventh are verbs, therefore there must be around 24497 give or take, to enumerate all action
And that should be enough for even the most garrulous to get some satisfaction
This is a limited calculation and I wouldn't want to be tied down to it
We can be more free in our estimates so while we are about it, we might as well do it
It seems that once BE had been exercised, the dam broke and words poured out as from a cornucopia.
And verbs would soon exist in an abundance enough to carry you from here to Ethiopia
Except in the culture of youth where it appears this multitude has been reduced to the deplorable "was like"
To them I am tempted to say: "Learn some real verbs"; OR I would employ a phrasal such as
'On-your-bike!'
The possibilities are now endless particularly if you include the phrasal
Giving us enough elan vital to at least maintain a metabolism basal
So to whoever first said BE, whether God or someone with similar propensities
though another name or description:
I say Well done! I couldn't in my wildest dreams with a wish to create a rich life and culture,
have produced a better prescription
It was not that she was the only woman in the group, when mingling precariously beneath the bronze figure of William Booth, or her classic stance, when placing saintly, the newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly breached, but her opulent style, her contrast of attire, and as yet her hair unruffled. Although sparse of jewelry a gold ring dangles on a chain, catching the light as it shines in the noon day sun, a tinge of blood trickles down her neck. Her recently pierce ear lobe, bearing signs of some street wise ritual? Evidence of suave sophistication, exists with movements of grace and elegance, fingers more use to the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of a bottle of brown ale.
a fork in the lane
no signpost to guide one home
a need or a deed
Her head begins to lift higher and higher with every mouthful of distinct courage, every courteous act. Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle is released from her reluctant deep red lips, a senseless shake only proved her greatest fear. Suddenly to her aid came a wayward chap, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge. He commences to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit, with a mucus soiled cuffless sleeve, before passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly awaiting its return.
a lane to despair
not alone but in the palm
existence or life
After the corrosive day is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley park bench will be her abode with printed tabloids to cover her chilled exterior, her metabolism accelerating, to become one of so many, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will options for her begin to diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction rapid along the highway of completion!
first rays of sunshine
a trial or tribulation
the signpost renewed.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
The first word there had to be - was BE, and that was the very first in existence
And from Genesis and Eden to Elsinore, it has had a remarkable degree of persistence
It seems that once BE had been exercised, the dam broke and words poured out as from a cornucopia.
And verbs would soon exist in an abundance enough to carry you from here to Ethiopia
Except in the culture of youth where it appears this multitude has been reduced to the deplorable "was like"
To them I am tempted to say: "Learn some real verbs"; OR I would employ a phrasal such as
'On-your-bike!'
The possibilities are now endless particularly if you include the phrasal
Giving us enough elan vital to at least maintain a metabolism basal
So to whoever first said BE, whether God or someone with similar propensities
though another name or description:
I say Well done! I couldn't in my wildest dreams with a wish to create a rich life and culture,
have produced a better prescription
20 August 2019
When I was a teen, I would munch
My way through the whole Sunday brunch.
I'd destroy that buffet,
Then as we walked away,
I would ask my poor mother, "When's lunch?"
Born Doris, named for our grandmother Doris Owens,
she is nothing much like grandma.
If anything, I am more like grandma
for my thrifty ways and down-to-earth practicality.
Doris, nicnamed Dorie, how we tease her when we hear
her name like the name of the spaced-out fish on “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who we teased as a child because she always dawdled,
always losing track of time; we never could guess why!
In that way, she never was like me, but was more like Dory
from “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who like me, is long-nosed and full-bosomed
and of all my sisters, has the most in common with myself.
Dorie, who got confused for me, particularly by our grandma,
the woman after whom Dorie had been named!
Dorie, who got to be the cheerleader I failed to be
but who majored in my field and never got to work as a teacher.
Instead she works today in a place for special needs adults,
working many hours now that she is divorced.
Dedicated, hard-working, studious and conscientious -
in those ways Dorie is the most like me
of all my other sisters.
Who else but Dorie would write me back 40 to 50-page letters
back in the day when all we had was snail mail!
My letters to Dorie I copied off each month as a record
of my hectic life when I was young in college and
also when I was dealing with my new role as a mother.
Dorie, my writing soul mate sister, who probably
does not write much any more and I doubt that she writes poetry!
She is busy working up to 60 hours a week!
But when she writes, her emails are long and detailed
just like mine.
Dorie, in whom I gradually saw differences from me.
More emotional, more hormonal, more maternal -
this is Dorie. More religious and in politics,
the opposite of me.
Despite all that, we love to chat.
We laugh and laugh, as I do with all my other sisters.
Dorie, who like our youngest sister Theadora,
shares with me a fascination for things such as nutrition,
all three of us sharing with each other our recipes
fitness hints, and special ways to boost metabolism!
Dorie, the sister who Mom says "leapt with joy"
inside our mother’s womb right before Mom went into labor
just for hearing the voice of me, her oldest sister.
I love all my sisters equally, but for many reasons,
Dorie is the sister most like me!
March 6, 2019 for the "What's In a Name" Contest of Kim Rodrigues
My neck is stiff; my hair has strands of white.
I exercise . . . . . metabolism slows.
yet still I have my teen-aged appetite!
Bad eyes (beneath them sometimes tiredness shows).
But worse, there’s crept upon me something new.
Degeneration of the disc I’ve got.
I’m much too young for this to happen to!
My shoulder hurts; my back’s begun to rot.
No more should I wear heels or jump or run.
I have to take more care and shouldn’t moan.
Perhaps in time some healing may be done.
Such fun! My hope’s for bone to fuse to bone!
So now I’ll shun tough work with good excuse,
and soak in bubbles my old sore caboose.
April 21, 2017
Exaggerated version of problems I began facing back when I was 50!
Other things since then have made my early 50's issues mild by comparison!
New year, new goal.
Laughter,
a goal that provides
many benefits.
A wellness challenge.
It makes the brain
swim in dopamine.
Is mood-lifting
and removes stress.
Increases metabolism,
and burns my calorie consumption
(I love chocolate)
Stronger abdominal muscles
and a well-shaped butt
The face becomes softer
- highlights the glow in the skin
All this without plastic surgery
- Goal's outcome
- a win-win situation.
Just trying to stand out instead
Of fitting in. I despise
Dishonesty. I'm a part-time dreamer.
I'm a full-time legend (well, full-time mother).
Everything I do, is in consideration of others.
Wish I'd never fallen in love. Wish
I wasn't an emotional haemophilliac.
Luck has nothing to do with all I've achieved.
Loving you made me this strong, this weak.
I wish I had a slower metabolism,
Afterall, being size zero aint all that.
Melancholic, nostalgic, psychadelic.
Sometimes I get tired of living up to other people's expectations.
21 July 2011
Cold winds, the assassins of startled vegetation,
blow in with late autumn. Snow arrives
to cover the terrain with blankets
of white, pristine feathery snow; meanwhile,
some bodies of water turn into ice.
As the sun hangs low in vales of shadows,
December silently creeps in.
Skunks, raccoons, squirrels and other small mammals
also have crept in silence . . .
to hide inside secluded spaces against the cold’s encroachment.
Their breathing, heart rate, and metabolism slow down.
Waking periodically from their torpor,
they feed and then go back to sleep.
As cold-blooded as the enveloping snow,
snakes slither instinctively into crevices of rocks
as turtles and frogs burrow into mud.
Bears, having feasted in the fall,
now hide in their dens in a state of deep slumber.
How silent and tranquil is the realm of nature’s creatures
hidden from the prying eyes of us humans.
Some of us become almost as sluggish as the animals
squirreled away in their nests of twigs and leaves.
We feast like the pre-hibernating bears.
In a festive mood or perhaps feeling sadly forlorn,
we are more likely than in any of the other seasons
to hide away inside our own abodes,
especially when soft pearls twirl from twilight’s sky
and winter lays down a thick quilt of snow
beneath a canopy of sparkling stars.
We waken, at times like this, to our world abloom with snow,
grumbling at times about having to shovel our driveways
or to travel on roads slick with ice or snow.
Like the hibernating bear, I prefer in winter
the tranquility of comfortable slumber.
Nights in winter stay dark longer.
Our heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure drop low
as drifting into the deep of dreamy sleep we go.
Ah, winter, let me sleep in your quietude
as though I were being buried in the wondrous snow
of your slumber land.
It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
Last night I met an old boxer in an alley of cardboard; he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight, I told him ‘Hey mate, I’m not in your league’
‘Young man.’ He said with glint of victory in his solid brown eyes. ‘That’s alright,
I suppose you’re going to leave cos the forecast is for rain, you in your fine mansion, mine here, just a bloody pain. But then I guess, that’s okay for a foolish old tramp.’
lonesome sadness blues
through the lips of the city…
the eyes are windows
He told me ‘What’s the price of glory if one is shackled to the past. Even my wife left me, took my purse in pursuit of another man. To think I really loved her, gave her all that I could, the witch hankered for the final count, then left me where I stood’ He rambles on discursively ‘One day I’ll roam within my native Devon, where I’ll chase those illusive dreams back into heaven. Its years of abusing whisky years of perpetual hoar frosts that hones this savage beast.’
this fight on its knees
many blind eyes a mismatch…
all have a story
‘How do you think I feel in these chains of formal sorrow, replaying each vintage year each round like no tomorrow, each morning still, I count the homeless, watch the van collect the corpse. Man, I need a second chance to come out gamely fighting, repay life’s referee, society the uninviting.’
incompatible
metabolism a stray…
unfriendly advice
His bottle runs dry, his words begin to wound. Here, In God’s own country left high wide and marooned. Yet like the mortal flame he submits to the desolate night, the municipal van empowered to administer the ultimate rite. No dawn able to invigorate leaves this empty feeling in me, only the morning dew edulcorates while a soul in hell is set free.
careful where you tread
mats to wipe one’s feet upon…
look down you may see
Entered sponsor Mark Toney's 2022 Marathon 19
poem converted from free verse to haibun 2022
3/11/2022
Before the metabolism slows and
With the decline in food and water and
Before the dehydration and lack of energy, before I lose my appetite,
I'm on a quest to find what life is before my soul escapes my flesh
I'm tired of breathing like an intermittent moment, premiering death in a flash,
Before the angels carry me to heaven, hoping to make it past purgatory into a Godly territory.
I envision better days before my final days
My therapy did not require chemotherapy but the toxic in my veins requires cytotoxic
I need spiritual intervention more than a jihadist
I am possessed by evil spirits and ceasing to deal with the ordeal,
I know it's hard for your mental to grasp this fatal reality but I'm rapidly fading,
Inconceivable I know, I'm running out more rampant than a matchstick
I'm holding a matchstick standing next to a gas tank,
My body is feeling numb, my soul so void, I don't see tomorrow
It's blank!
It's confirmed I've got 6months to live
It's confirmed I've got 6months to leave!
Before my body gives in,
I wanna give my all to the world, a final penmanship anniversary
Write some of my greatest pieces and give them away for free,
Do some good before I squeeze and let the bullet flee,
release it and shelter it in my skull.
Before I let my wings spread
Before I ascend with the angels
I forgive myself for all whom I did wrong
Before I die!
Freedom is my medicine.
My sugar topped with cinnamon.
My my metabolism to my
adrenaline.
Being locked up is impure,
So, my strength, I endure.
"I embrace it with my arms,
through the struggles,
through the storms".
I'll take a dose of freedom
when I'm feeling down and out.
Freedom is my cure
when my soul is in a drought.
"When I close my eyes,
I dream, dreams of freedom.
"Freedom is my "Paradise",
my "Heavenly Kingdom".
"It holds me so tight
never letting me go".
"Some
me people say I'm crazy".
"All I have to say is, so"!
"I carry my freedom,
like a child in my womb,
and when I die,
freedom will live.
it won't follow me to my tomb"!
" FREEDOM"
while figuratively hunting
and pecking around me noggin
force hum theme to write about
lo and behold, the solution
stared me right in front
of my little knob nub nose with gentle clout
cuz, as an avid bookworm, the dictionary,
I enjoy expending hours
to drink up etymological history
relating to the origin and
historical development of words
and their meanings.
with no shadow of a doubt
and most times, this animatronic,
the technique of making and operating
lifelike robots, typically for use
in film or other entertainment
dogmatic, enigmatic fugee dooby
brother beastie boy
(actually a mwm) dislikes to flout
his abilities, hobbies, interests,
as aches hike kant imagine being treated for gout
a disease in which defective metabolism
of uric acid causes arthritis, especially
in smaller bones of the feet, deposition
of chalkstones, and episodes of acute pain.
Boot lemme return full circle
to thematic core curriculum aye started to aim
and express gratitude
to the ghost of Noah Webster,
who gets credit yet also blame
if some snide haughty guttersnipe,
some slovenly individual feels snubbed,
and hence, living personage, said descendent(s)
of oblivion, whatever unknown
man or woman to living persons
stake a valid claim
that his/her many generations removed
heir (Harris), and or heiress ancestor (proven
with tangible researched reportage,
then cited with countless
prestigious explorers of English language),
that a daunting scrivener perhaps
even a courtesan or rich dame
rightfully ought to receive the fame,
thus such living relative might
upend the huck cult personality be game
to dare challenge secure historical niche
ambitiously held by Mark Roget (1779–1869),
British physician, natural theologian
and lexicographer. It was released
to the public on 29 April 1852.
The original edition had 15,000 words,
and each new matured edition
of the Thesaurus grew larger.
With intention, I walk into the laundry room to get what was it now,
Let’s see, looking around ~ I know it will come to me somehow.
I’ll resolve this, so back to the kitchen, I carefully retrace my path,
It strikes me, I need some bleach, its like solving a problem in math.
Every morning I gather the newspaper and sit down to have a read,
Eagerly I open the paper, now where are the reading glasses I need.
After searching countertops, tables and finally deep inside my purse
I find my multi-coloured magnifying glasses as I give out a quiet curse.
I seem to be tired all the time but when I hit the bed I just can’t sleep,
Finally I drift off after a soothing bath, sipping hot milk and counting sheep.
No sooner I’m asleep when the pain becomes so intense, again I’m awake,
My hip hurts, my shoulder aches ~ oh someone shoot me for pity’s sake.
My conversations don’t include the word old any more because that’s me,
Feeling young but according to Denny’s I am a senior, in the upper category!
Caught in limbo with age, it seems somewhere between heaven and hell,
Pay full price for the bus and a movie, but I can eat for less at Taco Bell.
My knowledge and skills lose their relevance to my ever independent kids,
Along the way we’ve switched from teacher to student, we’ve changed grids.
Now retired I have time to walk and exercise but my joints limit the amount,
My metabolism has really changed, seems all food has a triple caloric count.
Are there benefits to being a senior, having to take drugs, I don’t condone,
Maybe being able to watch my family grow and mature with lives of their own
Because now, I am the storyteller, keeping the traditions of our family alive,
The elder who outlines what we stand for, guiding our history as we thrive.
Written July 28, 2012
For Nancy Jones’ contest
This is how life feels when you get to be my age