Best Rye Poems
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
My Grandpa used to dance and sing,
Joy to my heart he always would bring;
Just a few bars, not the whole song,
Pretty soon I’d be singing along;
“Rye whiskey, rye whiskey” you’d hear us both say,
Or “Red River Valley”, if it was a good day;
All the old westerns, when I hear them I cry,
I don’t hear them often since Grandpa died;
No one sings “Old Faithful” no more,
It’s just an old song that people ignore;
He used to say “now that was art”,
I have to agree, I know them by heart;
I catch myself humming an old melody,
And I smile, hoping he’s thinking of me;
And to prove that I know it, I burst out in song,
And maybe in heaven, he’s singing along;
“If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck,
I’d swim to the bottom and never come up”;
My Grandpa was so special you see,
And by having his songs, he lives on through me!
I'm not no Picasso, and I'm not no Poe.
The only thing I need, is a late night woman.
And a whole lot of dough.
Apple and pumpkin, they're a cool kind of pie.
Preferred by me, is ham on rye.
There she was, so sexy and nice.
My late night woman.After striking out twice.
I met her in the bleachers, at a Friday night game.
My apple and pumpkin didn't taste the same.
And my late night woman, wouldn't take the blame.
Then we saw the kicker.Kick the ball so high.
It made us so unhappy.We were about to cry.
Anyways, the whole damn thing, made me drop my
ham on rye..
Humorous Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1992,2014..
ALL rights reserved..
What?
Bomb Palestinian women and children
Because Hamas and Cheese are hiding
In people’s basements like a sack of potatoes,
Moldy boxes, and dirt?
Wait!
Hamas is down there
They’re everywhere,
In the water
In the air
In the people’s underwear
So bomb, bomb, bomb we go
Gently down the street
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life’s now blasted meat
That’s called proportionality!
Why?
The U.S. dollar needs a war,
To grow, to grow.
Blowing things up is also for,
All the do-dollar day.
Blow things up at night,
Print more bucks all day.
The U.S. dollar needs a war,
And they’re going to get their way.
Who?
If Hamas hides in
Diapers and brassieres,
When they’re all blown up
We’ll hear no tears.
I’ll have a slab of Hamas and Cheese on Rye
With a bag of burnt innocents to go.
When?
Now, now, now, now, now…now, now
Now, now, now, now, now…now, now
Blood Acres is the place to be,
Bomb living is the life for me,
I just adore that rubble view,
Darling I love you but
They blew off my foot and shoe.
How Dare You!
Fake news, fake news, fake news!
Or is it real; fake, real, fake, real, fake
We all know the truth.
No one knows the truth.
We’re all knowing.
We know nothing.
Truth is the first casualty.
But people will die
So that the dollar won’t.
And it’s true, the dead can’t lie,
But the winner will.
Went to a deli
And piled way up high
Was the sandwich I ordered –
Pastrami on rye.
I slathered on mustard
And savored each bite
Along with a pickle,
The sour just right.
If you’re feeling hungry
I’d urge you to try
(In a real New York deli)
Pastrami on rye.
Whole wheat and pita.
French, white, rye, and tortilla.
And pumpernickel.
Like a patchwork quilt
Congregation of golden
Yellows and ochres
My entry into Brian's " Hymn Of Harvest " contest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature4.php
Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
Fire in his belly, a cork in his eye;
And wordlessly sleeping, a-snooze in his bed,
His words, when awakened, go straight to your head.
Alluring to look at, golden is he,
There when you need him as sure as can be;
And anxious to aid you, he doesn't think twice,
The cost of his concert, your soul is the price.
Then, tell him to go now, bid him goodbye;
Leave him to slumber, let sleeping dogs lie!
Tell him his concord you are shooing away,
The lad with the nostrum may no longer stay.
Well! time he was leaving so, show him the door!
A flagon of whiskey a-smash on the floor.
School was crummy. Classmates mean.
Holden Caulfield, aged sixteen
dropped out to the New York City scene.
There he wandered, Sorrow's Son,
overgrown but underdone.
Seared by girls, it wasn't fun.
Broke, disheartened, home he slid.
Sister Phoebe, a perky kid
boosted him up. She really did,
but only for a moment though.
Down the skids alas he'll go
landing in a shrink chateau.
Oh what torment must be his
who God damns yet feels. Gee whiz!
Youth is ruff. It really is.
by Mark Miller © 08/17/2016
Sable of night repeals our
Hidden mirrored abuse
Puzzle pieces draw out
Fancy flights made bliss
Can't you hear as fear
Drowns the solar rain gray
Shapely holes alone stray
Grasping for future hour riffs
In hybrid blue the blood wrap clause
Selling ink stains historic loss
Under lanterns light we gather
Stoic streets of concrete keep
It's a myths devise that slip
Our distaste with violent disgust
Sleeping conscious stealth margin
Delivered delights of texts sent
Of playtime children like kindred
When growing up my twin
brother and I would get
up early for breakfast while
our mom was trying to get
some sleep from her graveyard
shift at the hospital as a nurse.
We would meet in our kitchen
on Saturday mornings and
sprinkle sugar over rye bread
which was our version of a
hearty meal while watching
cartoons and wild west shows
on the black and white Philco
television for entertainment.
Enjoyed eating several pieces of bread,
sweetening our tastebuds and filling
our bellies full which satisfied us
until we woke our mom as we ran
around the apartment full-steam
ahead from all the sugar high,
pretending we were chased by a
posse on horseback for eating
too many slices of rye bread with sugar.
Horny
Corny
Kinky
Stinky
Stoned
Boned
Holden
Folding
His biz
Takes wizz
Hit can
Effed man...
Found hoe
No dough
Name sun
Big buns
No clothes
Touch toes
She roared
She sore
More dough
Said no
Pimp slap
Got jacked
(If you have read the Catcher in the Rye you would understand).
Gray sky on rye bread
Seasoned to taste, rain or snow
~ Bites when the wind blows
I live in a "Mean Peoplez Zone"
soou
leave me alone: I'll introduce
to you to my dad Miezzer.
So stringy is he
and I'll let you see: he's
so
cheap he waits for clothes to go
on sale at goodwill. he told a story
of aman who used a elk, deer and
moose to stem cell meat for cheep.
They only asked me was it gamey
he said. " Nah: Nah, the fella spoke
real quality meat!
Now course you gotta put alotta
garlic onions
and horseradish and stuff
on it not to taste the
woods and grasseyness
other than that it's real quality meats,
gamey no, no i
Wouldn't play around with
something a foolish as that "
niw myself I like the straps from the leather
it's a savings bonanza.
Son of the Scarecrow
the shadow doesn't entirely make sense
watching you change from mr superstar to a fly
the bait and switch of oldest tricks
four winds to ride on
heartbroken i will try
to catch you in the rye
Building blocks to talk about
intuition of sickness
the obsession with dirt
becoming the one disguised
take you inside
we eventually might have to see eye to eye
the cold heart of mankinds good intentions
fisher twins
exposing your syndicate
in the gutter
should i stay
and leave you blind
should i go
nevermind
ressurrected lie of what you did
brick by brick
slander the poet