Digestible Poems | Examples

Epilogue

I know the ending,
But I read it anyway.
I’ll pull the blanket tight around me
As laughter fades to death,
And there are screams,
And tears
that might even be real.

We can rewrite history:
Mold it and tug at it,
Rip it apart and make it beautiful 
And digestible.

But there is only truth—
the end.

Pope Benedict Writes

I am much aware of the previous records you read
Both bearing my mark and my seal
Carried no good, stocked with vile and deceit
But I urge you brothers and sisters
To think harder, coz I’ve been penning for your good
Whatever that spooned you, whichever way you were spooked,
Am back in a new hood
With goodies deep in my cortex, ready to vortex
Complex truth into digestible pieces
Thousand papers and folders, all addressed in 
Love, sincerity and in peace
I am conversant with my said forced sense
Out of baseless and disarrayed script
I bear this title out of personal merit
Coz I waited for their approval and credit
And dismayed I was by their verdict
Thousand mistakes recalled in my name
The scandalous seat that I chose to tame
Some said by default, some by floating innuendo
But self-conclave justified my crescendo
Your commitment to my letters 
Will my critics’ faction clear
As dignity I behest, all the hiatus I’ll bridge
To just overt my intentions and loud scream my point
That my penning is not by simony
But morphing from Real to Pope Benedict

Poetry, Our Intimate Voice

Poetry is the push behind
the wave – the brilliance
sparking light – 

the poet, a wonder-er 
and wanderer...drawing 
illumination from wells 
of glistening shadows – 

never pondering 
the where and when, 

his focus always toward, 
the Almighty How...

Never seeking the there and then, 

making of complex mysteries
bite-size, digestible pieces --  
compositions of an omnipotent God's, 
ever illusive, Eternal Now...

no work of mere description
will do...

each ensuing articulation, an evolution – 
as Darwin observed his Galapagos, 
like so, all creation evolves by man's 
conscious and unconscious sensing  – 

               The poet, no predetermined
puppet; but, in fact, a Literary Diviner – 
believing his practice – man's personal
enunciation through his ever 
greater
revelation
of words – 
                        
     dipping his fanciful
quill into the ink of a 
publishing universe – dripping 
reams of infinite pages – poetry,
our intimate voice of never-ending 
possibilities...

Time

After much consideration
I have decided that, Time
is both longest and shortest
word in the dictionary...

so long, it can only be measured
in digestible fragments

so short, it takes only a careless moment
to end two lives – 

My thoughts go back to your accident:

How a second can sever like a scalpel,

terminating the lifeline connecting two hearts
with one fatal slice...

(two lives with one stroke of the clock – Tick Tock)

(Time, the infinite multiplier of joy and grief)

I know – Suck it up! Breathe the loss in and out
like Brahma! We are spiritual beings at our core;
someday to meet again on a plane of restored
bliss – where Time and Space give way to
eternal contentment and happiness – 

But,  “Have Faith” at the moment, seems hopelessly
entangled with my hourglass of other cliches: Just in
time. Out of time. In the nick of time. Time – all pasts
and the future of all presents, to be managed by
many, like myself, through their recurring lapses into
heartfelt Limbo.

Do Not Worry My Friend

Do not worry my friend
your big head that disturbs
and fails to think properly
give it away for charity

Do not worry my friend
carry that big head in your hand
if its notorious and causes tears
throw it in the dish nearby

Do not worry my friend
your big head burden head
lend it away to the poor
that for one day they are rich

I hear that big head is nice
with curry and ginger its eaten
but let no one deceive you
nothing of it is digestible

April Glowers

this endless rain
pains
like an idle
pent up *****
gnawing away at sanity
grinding nerves
into digestible bits
this
this is not
nourishment

Crunch

Crunch

"I don't want to read something I already know 
or which is going to slide down easily:
there has to be some crunch, 
a certain amount of resilience." 
Poet John Ashbery.

He wasn't the first one
to say it, but crunch
is spot on, as they say. 

Life could be soft
and easily digestible, I guess – –
if that's your preference.
Actually, it might be mine, but I was blessed
when you get right down to it,
to have crunch enter in without my
asking or even foreknowing.

But it's one thing 
to receive our days as crunch,
quite another to dish it out
to others.

I would rather not
go down as cream of wheat,
pablum to my peers.

And when I'm laid away for good,
there will be many a mastication--an 
eternity of earth chewing away,
crushing the strongest box 
or urn. Whether worms or beetles
or the heaving and moaning of
my loamy home--

May my final sound be
a cosmic crunch. 


Phil Hefner.

Child Soldiers

worth of wage
a mercenary/ organised 
land based force ready for
commands/ spotters observers 
and carriers ,to share the warmth
of bed/ orphans from violence and war
invisible many/ sick blood diamonds recru-
ited by ments while theirs go to school an
church to learn of values and virtues
what is the law--
where is the value---
i am throwing up the un digestible con-
cept of child soldiers

After the Act

My mind is like a nice set of
teeth.
It crushes things up, and
makes them digestible.
Too much sugar, like you,
sweetie
rots my brain.
I better stick with these dull
grey blocks of knowledge,
and brush daily with some
good pornos

Hashtaggetfckd

I'm not your tearstained dishrag. 
Will you end your suicide note with a hashtag? 
Just lock me in the metaphysical gulag. 
The real world's too much a drag 
for a ***. 

I am not digestible. 
I am a hunk of pyrite lodged in the 
jejunum of bureaucracy. 

I am a precious and coveted 
artifact hidden at the bottom 
of a recycling bin, underneath 
empty milk gallon bottles. 
Their pungent swill is a grimy 
filter for my blind beauty.

Two Who Are One

I think, and you speak my thoughts completely.
Wherein lies truth, if when I die, I lose myself.
My thought and deed lying fallow in decaying tissue.
So I write to save me.
You are in every thought, every deed,
every movement that I make.
You complete me.
When I awake, the first breath that 
I take is to exhale a sigh of relief.
You are still by my side.
My soul belongs to God, but my essence
lies in the intangible.
In a form acutely digestible----
to be cussed and discussed.
In discourse, to be thoroughly scrutinized,
labeled and passed on. 
The song is rewrit time and time again
and the note of passion sounds
as now within me seething----flowing over.
It dances on the grass
as nymphs in springtime forests. 
I close one eye and look at truth 
as the side of a coin standing mute. 
I look at life spinning, good—bad—good.
But who decides bad- - - good?
The spinning coin has a solid center
which we perceive as real.
The spinning word has the same illusion- - -
we have but to interpret as we see.
Life goes on, after the thrill is gone, but 
the thrill goes on as long as we are not alone.

Up From Alabama - the Young Professional Bulldog Visits

In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door 
She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes.
The comedy of errors that harried her homewards.


The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.

So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Schooltime's over; 
Lessons are now born from living.

- But that's all right,
Because biting down, holding fast
Is what she does -
She's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust

 
She'll make it all her own
The while she works it.

Time

Time being colossal, 
a spin had to be found,
two covers, a book we call
it a beginning and an end.
In time we tick off a digestible
portion;
calling it our own,
walking between the covers
hoping never to get lost again,
Time being just that;
A definition,
always as slippery as an heel
each eureka, an inflated sense
of discovery.
But time never allowing itself to
be touched,
but rather a brief feel,
living among each tick of the
clock,
close enough but still a mystery,
and as time becomes another
space in time,
we are out of words in trying to
tell the others,
about this other demention,
where the sun never sets,
where it all revolve's into wonders
and signs,
a world balancing on a super natural
precision,
out-pacing thoughts,
leaving behind paper and pen.
The story about time running
around,
catching at the wind like children.

In Circular Round

in{-ane, -sipid, -gestible, -digestible, -satiable}
just kidding!
not !!
not, not.
who dere?
aw, go {expletive never inserted} myself.
{oh joy, almond joy, enjoy, killjoy}
go back to the start where i am

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