Best Oatmeal Poems
I feigned taking a bite
attempting, of course, to convince her
oatmeal was yummy, "good for her"
necessary etc.
I made rhymes of moons
and spoons
oats and boats,
little girls wearing coats
She smiled, but refused to take a bite
as she had nearly every day now
for months
I turned to reach a paper towel
to mop up the inevitable drips caught in the palm of my hand
spoons and cupped hands
they are the same thing, right?
I never heard a death rattle
of course, these old ears of mine...
The hospice nurse gently closed her eyes.
I said, "Goodbye Mother,"
and wondered how it had happened so quickly,
those sixty-nine years we shared.
oatmeal cookies melt
in my mouth along with milk
recalling childhood
Oatrageious Oatmeal Cookies
Best cookies baking
Magnificently making
Breath away taking.
Greatest, simplest
Horn Haiku ever written
And cookies bitten.
Ho Ho Jim Horn
My fortunes drop from my hands with despair.
Pearls that plop on the sand are the rest of me that's left to bare.
Juggling gorillas and dinosaur tea parties swirl in discordant dance,
While my aimless mind presses spring in Hamburg 'gainst a wintry France.
All lives re-awake each morning with a choice to laugh or cry,
Since there is no door for the key you hold, no pan for the egg to fry.
So with oatmeal in your hands you run from house to house,
"Is this sad or is this funny?" You add you use to be a mouse.
And when even the flag of writing is held against a vacant wind
You meet metal with wood and not as wood and your heart you feel has sinned,
For not to laugh at the madness of sternness is to lose our only magic power.
To fall from branches that were never there is to star in the saddest movie of the hour.
Grieve not if your gift seems little now where once you shot rockets.
Remember: you were once a mouse, and now your have oatmeal in your pockets.
Life’s not always peachy keen
or cherries in a bowl
Often, just the stems and fuzz
are left to heal your soul
Yes, perhaps a lemon tart
has puckered up your lips
Perhaps, the apple of your eye
just ate your bag of chips
None-the-less, it’s worth the work
No sour grapes to spoon
Even when you’re getting old
your plum can be a prune
And so your shrunken raisins
are now filling up your plate
Make some cookies, have some fun
Remember “it’s a date”!
It was 45 degrees in the mountains this morning…I did a temperature check
but I wouldn’t let that stop me from having my breakfast on the deck.
For a chance to eat outdoors….a little cold weather I wouldn’t let my resolve dent
so I bundled up…grabbed my piping hot bowl of oatmeal and out the door I went.
And there I sat watching and listening as the morning came alive…for it didn’t take too long…
before the birds began to gather and sing their morning songs.
Soon the leaves began to softly sway…back and forth among the trees…
laughing at a joke, perhaps, whispered by the breeze.
With the blue sky of the morning acting as it’s canvas…it’s backdrop…
the sun began it leisurely journey across the mountain tops.
It was such a wonderful feeling…so many sights and sounds to savor…to behold…
That it didn’t matter at all to me…my oatmeal was getting cold.
In fact in the cold of the mountain morning…I felt I was the lucky one…
because even cold oatmeal tastes better
when you share it with the birds,
the breeze…
the sun.
I look to heaven no vision appears
I see no pearly gates, no golden stairs.
Close my eyes a deep breath pulls back the past,
So that I can tell you how heaven smells.
Heaven's kitchen my mother is cooking
(With love and care) cooking her sweet oatmeal.
I've tried many a bowl since she been gone,
So that if the truth be for me to tell,
Their's tasted poor not like my mother made.
Those oats she cooked no longer do they sell.
I remember the love cooked in her mush.
How warm and loved her sweet oats made me feel.
A cold north wind could bite at my thin skin
Definitely she threw in face of cold,
A bowl of oatmeal and warm winter coat.
Twirl scarves around my neck, gave me a pat-
A pat on bottom and a kiss on top
"Careful -I love you" then to school I'd trot.
She would pull down my cap over my ears,
Run her slender fingers in my trim hair.
I miss it -how? I was standing right there,
My mother's sweet love, my sweet mother's care.
How sharp the memories how deep they cut,
Neither shelved by time, distance nor touch.
I did not suspect. How I could not know?
There was much more than oats in her sweet bowls.
For the warmth I felt came from deep within.
A mother's warm love could insulate more
Than cold, cold wind. Someday my time will come
For me there will be no burden or fear.
At her table I will sit with the Angels
We will feast on my mother's sweet oatmeal.
My oatmeal is not like yours
Unless you stir in a tablespoon of peanut butter
Add a little chocolate syrup
And three giant spoons full of brown sugar.
Then it is exactly like yours
Except I sneak in more sugar.
Caught in the rain
Lost keys
Man left
Faucet broke
Phone off
Stuck in traffic
Lines long
Got fired
Difficult past
Rent due
Didn't go to church
No reason to smile
Home alone
So, I decided to Eat the Oatmeal
Then, the sun began shining
Found keys
Husband home
Faucet fixed
Call me later
Green light
Next in line
Work today
Future bright
Mortgage paid
Church was awesome
Every reason to smile
Having breakfast with God
So no matter what happens or whatever may be the deal
If you want a positive change... Eat the Oatmeal
Olivia offered oatmeal to her obstinate dragon Oscar Lee.
He stared at her, wondering “is she trying to kill me?”
“Do not want it,” he told her. “it does not look tasty.”
“I put maple syrup on it, she said, very pleasantly.
So oatmeal was imbibed by the dragon Oscar Lee.
Who now asks for it with syrup almost daily.
Moral of the story is to taste new foods pleasantly.
You also might find a new favorite that is pretty tasty.
The egret was poking along thorough the brush
A bull name of King began to get a giant crush
The last love interest he had was a tiny blue thrush
He offered the egret a bite of his oatmeal mush
She declined politely, as had that blue thrush
My father placed it in a bowl,
in a bowl, before me.
It made me sorry to my soul.
'Twas then that I could see...
that I became aware...
the oatmeal sitting there
was not oatmeal I could eat -
I'd asked for cream of wheat,
and the cereal of my father,
my own dear uncle's brother,
sat uneaten, and grew cold,
as both of us grew old.
I like oatmeal and he eats veal.
Neither of us consume seal or eel.
We both like to keep things real.
Laughter from us is a hearty peel.
His ideas are hard as steel.
Mine are more imaginary and surreal.
I sometimes pray after a hearty kneel.
Thanks that God sent me the real deal.
I like orange and red, he likes gray and teal.
But together we are an even keel.
In no way is he ever a cad or a heel.
I love the way he makes me feel.
We do disagree on almost every meal.
I like oatmeal and he eats veal.
Teacher left a wrapped soft oatmeal cookie on her desk.
I could touch it with my right hand if I wanted to.
I think about opening it up and devouring it.
But it might be her lunch.
I leave it unbothered.
Annoyed she dumps it in the garbage upon her return.