Best Uncooked Poems
To hunger for truth,
as lies feast on perception
sitting at the table with hope and desire
Where vanity is served in a cold glass of pride
until humility becomes drunk
and left to sleep undisturbed
To understand each portion served
is uncooked speculation,
that causes truth to become ill
as you cut away the difference
between right and wrong
To be obsessed by truth
is a thirst that can only be quenched
by its partaking and knowing its taste
the full body of its scent and flavor
It is not poured out of the bottle of maybe
that comes from the store of liars
that sell their wares of confusion
for their own purpose
If my obsession with truth
as I sit at this table is naive
let it be so
so that my soul may grow
from the nourishment of its purity
7/19/17
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
He's Canadian eh! From way up north
From the land of ice and snow
He eats bowls of nails for breakfast
Wearing manly lumberjack clothes
“Good day eh! How's it goin' eh?”
Are two of his favourite greets
As he polishes off his morning brew
With a slab of uncooked meat
He's a tough old dude, that's for sure
With mush instead of brains
A grizzled good natured son of a gun
With love running through his veins
He'd give you the shirt right off his back
But it's too damn cold up here
For fear of freezing his nipples off
Instead he's just say, “Wanna beer?”
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
© Jack Ellison 2013
The eternal buzz of city anglers
brash, angry, hornets ever selling egos.
Shrieking anxiety laced, analog, syllables, idiotically.
Hoping against hope, urchins, desperations end,
strumming ancient chords in vain efforts,
praying evermore for ordained kindness's eye.
Telltale ubiquitous blighter's energetically begging on.
How on heaven's earth can anyone
begrudge absolution, hand out shackles instead.
The august city in full ultraviolet,
never ever satiated, each mouth open.
Raw as meat, uncooked, questionable, objectionable,
waiting on the angler's hook obediently.
My love for all on Poetry Soup
like a tasty broth group.
Cook and stir
* 2 pounds lean Lebanon ground
in Dutch oven over medium-high heat,
breaking the Lebanon meat up as it cooks,
until all is no longer pink and has
started to brown, about 10 minutes.
Stir in the
* 2 Canada onions, chopped
* 3 United Kingdom garlic cloves, chopped
and cook for another 1o minutes
Stir in
* 3 cups Africa water
* 2 (15 ounce) United States cans tomato sauce
* 2 (14.5 ounce) cans India diced tomatoes
* 3 tablespoons Isle Of Man soy sauce
* 2 tablespoons dried Italian herb seasoning
* 3 Philippines bay leaves
* 1 tablespoon seasoned Bangladesh salt, or to taste
and bring to a boil over medium heat.
Stir
* 2 cups uncooked elbow Australia macaroni,
cover, and simmer over low heat until the pasta is tender,
about 25 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Poets with golden ink and pens
that make us move forward as friends
with inspiration, kindness, and honesty,
encouragement and compliments.
A small act of caring, which has the potential
to turn a life around.
I thank each and everyone of you far and near.
3/14/2022
Poetry Knows
Where poet goes
when poet needs
A line of prose
Which word comes best
on top of rest
before its born
in womb of next
Where uncooked prose
in little groves
sits in wait
by little stoves
Poetry screams
in pains of birth
For now as words
it now has worth
it likes
it would
it rather be
before its time
not known to me
Where life songs sing in melody
and pollinate the what will be
Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white pillow
I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, fingering my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs
With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”
I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”
Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How erect will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as erect as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”
Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”
I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what HE-SHE desires me to be
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”
Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.
__________________
*[new form: L&N : Letters and Numbers]
The eyes fit into little holes;
The nose, ears, mouth do, too.
Of course, you have some choices
But not more than just a few.
The parts are made of plastic
Though way back in my own youth,
The body was a real potato -
That's the doggone truth.
The toy came with accoutrements -
Each pointed, like a stud,
Which you stuck with wild abandon
Into any uncooked spud.
I told this to my grandkids' mom
Who, when her own mom spoke
Of using a potato, she
Assumed it was a joke.
But creativity was once
So simple, we've forgotten.
The only drawback was
Our masterpiece, at times, went rotten.
Dear Self,
I'm oh so sorry I let you down, so many uncountable times
Sorry I ignored your cries and pretended I didn't hear them, though they were all
what was ringing in my ears
I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you and thought I was Ok without you
Sorry I left you crying your heart out in the rain while I had such a good time
Left you shattered at home, sealed in a closet, ashamed of yourself
Hoping to come home and not find you
All I can do is stroke this gentle pen on this paper
Stroke down my feelings,
For you
My broken words are all I have to offer
The years floated by so quickly
Like an idiot I sat there and watched, afraid to blend in
Where were my motives, my burning passions, my hunger for life?
For all those I needed Hope, a candle put out by reality a long time ago
—or was it by me?
Sorry again, for being the weak link in such a strong chain
For being the letter left not mailed, the uncooked meal
The unpainted painting, the unaccomplished plan
The loser of the battle for survival
Sorry for being a wilted petal, a worn out tree in such a strong thunderstorm
called Life
Sorry for being so scared to move
So glued to my spot, afraid to budge, face the world
I'm now paying with my crimson regret, I assure you, if it makes you feel any better
Please forgive me, I beseech you
I know I cancelled reality long ago, to float my way through fantasy, wait for
dreams to come true by themselves
Watched my heart crumble in the wind and my hope fly away like ashes
I kept wishing beneath brilliant stars, kept blowing eyelashes and looking for four-
leafed clovers
It all went in vain, and left you there watching me, pitying me, crying for me
Please find it in your heart to forgive me, and I hope we can start all over again,
working together this time…
Sealed with a kiss of everlasting love,
Me
Walking my tiger home, I now feel
happy to be alive.
Out in the sun, I’m a charmed one -
someone who learned to survive!
It wasn’t easy when I first found
myself near the jungle lost
after I’d landed on a white beach,
my ship having been storm-tossed.
I must have lain for nearly two days
unconscious on the sand,
then woke in tall grass and looked all around.
Who’d given the helping hand?
No one was there. How was it then
I’d gotten so far from shore?
As I sat thinking, there came toward me
four monkeys and then one more!
Poking at me, like humans they seemed,
chattering gaily away.
I rose to my feet. One jumped on my back.
A game he wanted to play!
Then out of nowhere, something appeared,
giving me quite a start.
A cat, but a giant, orange and with
black stripes. My pounding heart!
A tiger this was, and in his big teeth,
he held part of my clothes.
He looked at me with eyes strangely sweet
while to the spot I froze!
He crept up to me, and then what he did,
I never will forget.
He rubbed his large head right over mine.
as if he were my pet!
It took me some time, but then at last,
I came to understand.
I would be friends with many creatures
here in this jungle land.
Like Tarzan am I, talking with them,
And when I want to eat,
The monkeys bring fruits, since I can’t stomach
The tiger’s uncooked meat.
I sleep snuggled up by my sweetest friend,
and daily we walk about.
Holding his tail, I follow behind.
For me, that tiger looks out!
This jungle’s my home. And I confess
here’s the reality:
I am the pet, and it’s my tiger
actually walking ME!
July 23, 2016 for the "Walking My Tiger Home" contest of David Lindsay
New fashion Trend
There’s a new fashion trend that has my heart achin’
A scarf that looks like a raw slice of bacon
It’s made of silk crepe that looks crisp and all crinkly
Like some bacon uncooked before it’s all wrinkly
There’s a border that’s black like the bacon’s been smoked
And a lot of pale silk for the fat they evoked
And of course the top half is all pink and read
For that is the meat on which we’ve all fed
For just one-sixty Franks and a small shipping fee
You could buy this for Christmas and then give it to me
Then my inner GaGa would jump for sheer joy
No, I just changed my mind, I forgot I’m a boy!
Hey, hey, I want to dance the *KARAGAM dance
*Hey, Sham, Manu, bring pitchers from archives
Fill the pitchers with water and uncooked rice
As rice symbolizes food that sustain our lives.
With twirls bodies move free with intricate steps
*Dhotis, jackets furl and the turbaned heads unfurl
Hands holding peacock feathers of rainbow colors
While small bells in their anklets and belts swirl.
The vocalists sing and the drum bits pick motion
And with that the vocalists start singing songs divine.
As the rhythm picks up, so does audience’s emotion
To invoke the Gangai Amman, the Goddess of rain.
================================
* A form of Indian Folk dance
** Indian names
*** Indian dress
March 15, 2014
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Free Verse
First Place Win
Contest: Impress Me with Small Poems V By Giorgio V.
Motif: Religious - A religious ceremony performed to invoke Goddess of Rain
Goose and purple i saw it strung up in a window in chicago
I saw factories written in your eyelashes and hair and industrialization vomited
Limp and edible bruised and calling
Geese sing every morning and they glare through
masks
They go to venitian parties and clocks strike but i am in France a burglar
I am at the ballet and the sun is rising on my face my short eyelashes my cloth
Greek dancers hang from cyprus trees and eat helios for small prices persimmon cream they pick the sun out of groves and pull salty fish from the river grinning
tail bone in throat choking/swift passages
It’s throat is staring at me and i am called to dinner
You pull the neck off with one tug and it falls to the floor it stares carving stone and
Fish eggs
Singing knives/ brutalist still life concrete grapes
The geese flew to the meditarenian that morning but one was left behind, they are at the bacchanal but we have our own drunkenness that I almost felt wine in the tablecloth that infernal smell and people who have seen galvanization!
She talks about anatomy and veins and capillaries she cuts her bread he carves the bird he slavers at the blood our guests are dripping and apparitions
I dream of the ballet the conductor wore a suit made out of feathers that he stole from a bird
somewhere
That bird has been plucked and left
somewhere
you can see it’s parasites dance across open skin it gets sun burnt on unforgiving beaches
I can cry for something dead and hurting but i’ll gag when you stuff it’s fluffing grayed neck down my throat
It’s bill scraping my teeth
It’s pearly lesions white collar crime
Eyes like silver marbles like fish eggs bite down fish eggs this little bit of caviar
And eat this dead uncooked bird?
You’re crazy!
oh little lad
energetic and promising
hopeful and full of potential
do you stay all day long in the sea not to get hot
or eat uncooked meat just not to get burnt?
You remit heavily on the escape route
while avoiding paying your dues
keeping tabs with valuable consistency
keeps you totally amused.
Oh my boy! Responsibilities?
Just no where near your views.
The pathway to wealth,
you love, but the journey you accuse.
Discovering a new engagement
you'll still avoid, using your bank of news.
Why does fate or God's will
signify your life's fuse?
Remember that the mercy of luck
is only a temporary messeuse.
In the world of fairy tales
you'll inevitably be excused
you want to continue this
until all your options are used?
Then be ready!
You, misfortune will abuse.
I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction.
Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened.
So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist,
and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.”
So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell,
and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell.
Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks,
and never found a response in my post office box.
And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me
before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry.
I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger.
I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer.
I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers,
but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others.
You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble,
and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle.
And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive;
but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die.
And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario;
I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo.
We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper
with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.
haha...yes no laughing matter mate..."
Chicken Karma" by Peter Duggan
the fowl strikes back ,
a chook attack,
the humans slack,
might get their come uppance,
alack...
and come a crupper,
askance....
love it mate.....
Don
Reply....As ye sow, you get corny,
and reap uncooked forlorn prawnys ....
ones deed comes up to speed ,
car on the racing track,
comes around yes indeed,
next time it gives you a smack,
karma on the racetrack steed,
a hurting memory Jack
.... Don