Best Underfed Poems
Simple Poverty
I think that I was maybe three
When memories started following me
They called us poor and, I guess, we were -
These things will tell if you concur.
Birthday cakes with not enough candles –
Coffee cups with broken handles -
Flat irons on a cast iron stove -
Mama’s button jar – a treasure trove.
Watching Daddy choppin’ wood -
Workin’ as hard as any man could -
Times were hard, but it was said -
We kids were never underfed.
Daddy was an honest, hard workin’ man -
When there was no work we lived off the land.
Seven children were spread o’er a twenty year span –
Hard work and love walked hand in hand.
Mondays were the wash days
That kept our clothes so clean
To see them drying in a summer breeze
Was such an awesome scene.
Working in the sunshine was, sometimes, a real chore
And hands that used a rub board often became sore.
Mama made all our own Lye soap
And against that stuff no germ could cope.
And Mama was a seamstress,
The best I’ve ever seen
She would fashion all our clothing
On that pedal sewing machine.
Many things were always there
With which we had to cope
But with hard work and a faith in God
There was always hope.
Mama and Daddy didn’t have much
So, when I write my song
I’ll tell of their priceless legacy –
To know what’s right and what is wrong.
Written by John Posey
10/30/13
Categories:
underfed, childhood, family, growing up,
Form:
Rhyme
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
Categories:
underfed, how i feel, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
The King dares not defend her.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the Saints will soon surrender”.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
and even less, a gender.
The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
but kneel as Chaos enters.
They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
defying life’s tormentors.
The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
when blessing doomed dissenters.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
the Stones stir, staring at her.
And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests refuse to christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
yet No One looks to listen.
The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Nighttime brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals.
Continued in Part 2
Categories:
underfed, fantasy, morning,
Form:
Rhyme
You’re skin and bones, chick.
Compassion commands me stop,
stare, on my path, where you sleep.
I see dryness, hear stillness, feel silence.
You’re skin and bones, chick.
Were your chirps for worms
silenced in unsound Mother’s ears?
Your wings, too weak,
too still, on your first, failed, flight?
Your plume-less limbs
Coverless in cold night?
Uncovered corpse, bony chick.
No shore water to wash away
your undug green grave
in a low, lonely juniper.
My eyes wash me in salt water.
I have a path; yours ends here
your bones sinking, my brain soaring.
Which frightened robin, fleeing my footsteps,
was your misguided mother? So unlike mine,
who saw her child, underfed, and said,
“You’re skin and bones, my chick.”
Categories:
underfed, analogy, bird, body, grave,
Form:
Elegy
He heard commotion, "Well Land O'Goshen!! Whatever could it be?
It stirred his notions, and came invading, to wake his fading dreams
As he raised his head, the dreaded clock had invaded peace instead
He dreaded rising, was compromising, while lying in his bed
The tick and tock, it would not stop, and sun had blocked his eyes
Shining in, there's, no denying, it was time for him to rise
He raised the shade, and saw a parade.. a throng was going by
Something wrong, long lines of folks, were joking till they cried
Laughing gawkers, down the block, were shocked, and also stunned
Poking fun, pointing fingers at his Uncle, on the run
Uncle Fred, underfed, lead the parade in red long-johns
In underwear, he had no cares...his Santa beard was long
And Auntie Fran, ran in panties, wearing bra and thong
On her head, a Santa Cap, a flapping gap, where clothes belonged!
Oh my heavens!! Such misbehavin', this day was starting wrong!
Upon the sidewalk, the jokes are starting. The folks are growing strong.
Snapping photos, shouting mottos, fame has found this pair
Clapping loudly, crowds are happy, toting cameras everywhere
Behind his uncle, (old with wrinkles), crews, were finding news
Auntie poses, picks a rose, then sticks her nose in view
TV news has quite a story, but not the gory kind
His relatives are night-time headlines, deadlines met on time
Who'd even dare, these dreadful folks to bare their hall of fame?
It is no joke, his drunk kinfolk have smeared his family name!!
_____________________________________________________
Alliteration, Assonance or Consonance Couplet Alphabet Contest
Sponsored by: Sheri Fresonke Harper 12//16/13
Categories:
underfed, funny,
Form:
Couplet
My first poem posted at Soup (it truly is one of my first poems
since I enjoyed doing parodies of Christmas lyrics long before
I began writing other kinds of poetry)
I Heard Mother
(to tune of "I Saw Mother Kissing Santa Clause")
I heard Mother scolding Santa's elf
As I prowled the house on Christmas Eve.
He'd hid in St. Nick's sleigh
And then sneaked out to play
After having waited for his boss to fly away.
Mother caught him gobbling all our snacks
After he tore open every gift.
Oh, when she glared down at his face,
He went scrambling from our place
Screaming, "Santa, stop the sleigh-
I need a lift!"
Written Sept. 28, 2015 - New Poem: The Elf’s response:
A Helper Am I
(to tune of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”)
A helper am I.
I’m so underfed.
I just want to cry;
I only get bread.
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
I see all the gifts
laid out on the floor.
All year I slave
so rich kids get more?!
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
Folks leave out milk for Santa.
He hardly seems to care!
And so I eat at every stop
the snacks that I find there!
A helper am I.
I’m so underfed.
I just want to cry;
I only get bread.
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
For the Contest of the Silent One
Categories:
underfed, christmas, parody,
Form:
Lyric
Hey blokes…do you really know what life is…?
Like living in the ghetto…any memories of Soweto…?
Maybe you can’t…make me a chant…
Yes…I know…because I grow…
In the streets…where my feet…
Would meet…the dead…and the underfed…
Where food variety was scarcity…like living is atrocity…
Where poverty…like a sin…makes u thin…wary and dreary…
Like soldiers in Iraq…on the attack…from Sunnis, and Shiites…
But have to fight…with all might…not knowing when…it will end…
The audacity of hope…or is it dope…the scope…?
The choices have limits…gods dam it…just give it…
Sufferation...infection…addiction…
Prostitutions…institutions of frustration…
Thugs…drug…bugs…some hugs…
Shoots…loots…rapes…some escapes…
Prison walls…jails calls…sleepless nights…fights…would frights…
When police…with sirens…is the signal…to stay in…
The guns…the cries…the lives lost…can you tell me the cost…?
From ashes to ashes, dust to dust…my homie…it does get foamy…
His blood…on the curve…it shatters…my nerve…
And so is my faith…will I await…my date…?
With history…which often seem like a mystery…
Is revenge the only consolation…as reflected in the penal conditions…?
What did I do mate…hate…?
My will was to kill...but still…any adrenalin fills…?
The crack…no lack…of stack…
To execute the mission…what is the decision…?
Snorts…gets torn apart…
This homie…he knows me…from birth …
The same school…the rule…from my parents…and his…
Live and let live…learn to share…and care…like boys…with toys…
Remember Slomy…he was before me…
Lock away…everyday…in handcuffs…
It’s tough…the stuff…in my hand…no contraband…
It’s a weapon…it’s loaded…it’s heavy…like my heart…
Beating…competing…a life…to take…
Whilst he dies…I awake…the stake…
It is high…why…?
He’s gone…am I a pawn…or a victim…of the system…?
What will be the gain…only hurt…and pain…?
While my memories linger…what was the real rearranger…?
Of my destiny…does it sit next to me…?
And what is your view of the danger…stranger…?
Categories:
underfed, analogy, anger, appreciation, change,
Form:
ABC
I hate this world I'm living in
I hate it to the core
I hate this world I'm living in
Can't take it anymore
The hate that sparks a genocide
Does anybody care?
The theft, the lies, the cover up
Is there much more to bear?
I hate this world I'm living in
A place where children die
Abused, neglected, underfed
The world stands idly by
I hate this world I'm living in
The constant threat of war
I hate this world I'm living in
Where is that exist door?
I hate the trafficking of souls
Who are in desperate need
I hate the leaders who are blind
By power and by greed
I hate this world I'm living in
Where animals are killed
For sport or just for appetite
My cup of wrath is filled
I hate this world I'm living in
Where sex is monitized
I hate this world I'm living in
Deceit's been digitized
And yes there are some happy times
Where sun shines through the rain
These fleeting moments are so few
The residue is pain
I hate this world I'm living in
And though I rant and rave
It will not change a single thing
I have no strength to save
And so I struggle through each day
See nightmares every each night
Please make for me a world in which
The darkness turns to light
Eileen Manassian
Categories:
underfed, anger, angst, planet, world,
Form:
Quatrain
shot down and abused
misled and used
shed blood and felt pain
lose more than i gain
turned mad green and so sad blue
i can't help myself, so how can i help you
malnourished and underfed
followed blindly and been misled
drank from the wrong cup
went down but could not get up
put on my clothes inside out and on each foot the wrong shoe
i can't help myself, so how can i help you
been called a dingbat
kicked like an alley cat
two seconds from getting laid
solo silhouette on the shade
i am considered a 'man' only by a chosen few
i can't help myself, so how can i help you
rip van winkle old
igloo eskimo cold
oblivious and forgotten
vagabond and downtrodden
i am a hundred miles away from reconstructed brand new
i can't help myself, so how can i help you
Categories:
underfed, song,
Form:
Lyric
“From now on, I’ll be good, Mom,” my son said.
This came after not too few tears for him I'd shed.
It used to be once he got out of bed,
my boy would get in trouble! He was led
by some strange drumbreat pounding in his head!
While other children liked to have books read
to them, he’d throw his to the floor instead!
He wasn’t treated cruelly or underfed,
yet often out in public, I would fill with dread
from his behavior or when he saw red.
He broke his toy cars, his bike and sled.
I felt like I was hanging by a thread;
I wondered if my boy would ever wed!
The year he started changing, my fears fled.
"From now on, I'll be good, Mom," my son said.
May 25, 2018 For the "From Now On" Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Note: This is only marginally fictionalized. Later he joined the Marines,
put himself through law school and wed!
Categories:
underfed, son,
Form:
Monorhyme
Bedraggled and grimy they hike from the tracks,
Fleeing the urban centers to the south.
Unsteady gaits and sun worn skin glow.
A young couple with a thin mutt,
Ramble towards a local store.
The lively grin of the underfed dog transfixes me.
An overweight canine in my backyard has lost its zeal.
The unshaved one asks for cash.
I hand him a dollar.
The female asks for my socks.
I decline.
The company owns them.
Besides, they are drenched in the sweat of my labors.
The pair identify themselves as stowaways.
Unticketed travelers of the iron horse,
Riders of metallic pathways,
With destinations of unknown location,
Drifting to sleep in one state,
Arising in another.
They have not occupations or debts,
Shunning instruction for adventure.
Fed by the view,
Nourished with movement,
A tent rolled in a dirty backpack serves shelter.
Canada, Mexico, Pacific, Atlantic,
These will be the varied backdrops of unbound lives.
Taking in more in a week,
Then I in a lifetime.
I will return to my mortgaged life,
Sleep in my fixed bed,
Swallow the familiar and safe routines,
Honoring my responsibilities and obligations.
I can not chase after wild dreams today.
I am ashamed to say,
To this very day,
I fight the urge to cry.
When trains meander by,
Because I know I’ll sing this same old tired song.
While the train tramps have all but left and gone.
Categories:
underfed, adventure
Form:
Free verse
Ball buster Fred wants the workers unfed,
and when his **** turns to clay,
reborn Karma says,
black in the face he will pray,
but his God wants him there underfed,
ok....Don Johnson
Categories:
underfed, adventure,
Form:
Ballad
God's organic clothes are coming unglued,
seasonal seams tearing apart,
emerging alarmingly chaotic
whatever, dissonance?
Supremely straight white noise?
Next time,
I'll recover your naked monolithic culture
in clothes of hard rooted wood
and yet how would you wear them?
Who could?
Perhaps we did
when God grew a tree
like earthy S/He.
Children of Me/We healthy trees
defectively praying for underfed worker bees
while ripping apart Earth's fertile forests
becoming undressed deserts
Unflowing river sand beds
bereaving naked tree trunks
Dead dry
senseless
sexless headstones
where future children of trees
would otherwise have grown moist fruit,
divinely dressed.
Categories:
underfed, clothes, culture, god, humanity,
Form:
Personification
The ocean now looks the rain in the eye
Swelling with ego and pride
Humming and Hissing flows with the tide
Wrestling the ships and the boats
And laying claim to some of our lands.
Even Adagun adorns himself like Agbara
The little puddle by the road side
The left over of the afternoon rain
Prides himself before our feet
Willing and waiting for the sky to open
For him to take of his share of what drop descends from the heaven.
The fishes now have their freedom
For years no sight of the fisherman's nets
They have grown beyond average
And have witnessed years of abundance.
Some have become sharks
Willing to swallow their underfed comrades.
(C) Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke
Categories:
underfed, life, nature, political, satire,
Form:
Personification
rose, alluring red,
loveliest indeed, but not to
a goat underfed.
Categories:
underfed, animals, nature, pets,
Form:
Haiku