Fattened Poems | Examples

overfed rooster

overfed rooster had a harem of eight little hens
they brought his feed, as he sat on his whims
fattened him up, so that he started to look like a hulk.
He demanded cranberry juice, and they brought it in bulk

It is their fault I am getting bigger he told the goat next door.
They are always bringing me tasty goodies to store.
I spend my afternoons lying around in bed with a snore.
How much more can I eat? I am as wide as a door.

Death in the New Year

Our hands are tied, Death
Since you dawned on us this New Year . . .

Shapely bottles of champagnes have shone
And have broken to fragments with the ululation
Of firecrackers that warmed cold and dark wintry skies.
Now, aphonia sets in from unending lamentations.
Headlines, buried by the chilly bones of winter,
Are barren of good tidings.
A chionophile besieges the rim of a sedulous Yuletide
Grieving by oneiric alleys . . .
I speak of the Friedhof of haunting grimness behind
The curtains of howling winds;
Chants that frequent the disease of frightened melodies, stained
With the aged banality of youthful death;
And the purlieu of cremated souls and consolidated ashes.
Daggers are drawn to paint skulls on canvas slit by the
Whispering tongues of fire
Candles burn their tallow gently on the skin of cancer,
A stinkaroo that stinks with rage.
We do not know how else to turn the calendar.
The edges brim with hostile, burning blood,
Frozen with bits of hate and servile penetralia.

New Year hangs the singed sigil of death
On the bosom of fattened scrolls.

Speed Limits

They pose with the austere stares of
Loving, friendly ghosts —tall, gaunt and lissome,
With big, rounded head.
Draped in weathered robes of care,
They are the only guardian spirits we see.
They have the calming power,
Where drunken machines run amok
Through broiling engine oils
And reckless crankshafts,
Spitting gas, and brittle axles.
Roads are unpredictable.
In winter they storm with the quiet rage of
Sods, dragging queens and whims . . .
Guide me, O limits of spirits!
Check my fattened excesses for fibrosis.
Darkness thickens —even by feast-time of the sun.

African Rain

It falls with grace.
Metallic bawls hail the strength of zinc roofs.
At the mercy of the thatch,
Drops drip from needle points of skeletal
Palm fronds.
Particles of rain descend on thresholds
Among dewed terrains.
The petrichor befriends the atmosphere,
Caressing limpid warmth with floating cold.
Lightning, a white dancing Anaconda, races with speed,
Filling the tenebrous plains with lights of hope.
Troubled skies ululate through the power of thunder.
I always recline on that liquid voice!
Rainmakers cream their palms
And roast fresh leaves of
Epochal petals
Plucked from somnolent trees.
Bubbles, green and full of life, puke,
Filling up the mouths of burning woods.
Grey darkness suggests the pleasant wars of
May through October,
When distant wayward drops
Trickle before the deafening deluge.
I hail the blandishments of July
For the society of fattened yams and the
Worthy tendrils —festooned confetti of ceremonial
Harvests.
Droughts yawn in vain when the attitude of
Wet seasons befriends the skies,
Yielding fecund grimes that grace the soil.

THE HERMIT CRAB

-Let's see Cortinario with fattened foot
If you answer me, who says
To everyone who sees him:
If my mouth opens
You'll open too.
Clytocibe: -The Flycatcher
From the Cathedral of Burgos.
-Very well Cortinario
You know what you know.
-Today are you going to take the mules to water
At the fountain in Ejido?
-Why do you say that?
-Because when you come for water
From the hermitage where I meditate
I feel the horseshoes.
-Well, you're going to feel them even more
When the crab puts you
In the cave.
-Oh no. Not that.
-What do you mean no!
You know: saying “oh no”
Is like saying *******.
-Shut up, silly boy.
Pray without sorrow
For at the foot of the altar awaits you
The Devil who watches over you
With a paschal candle
Lucent in his hands.

New Yam

New Yam 

Death brings life
New, tender and green
Earth brown, immaculate white 

The priest heralds her coming
The town crier drums it
The farmer dances to the market
It's time to celebrate

Let loose the masquerades
Celestial visitors from yonder
Let the melody of the odó
Echo the birth of the new yam
Like the birth of a newborn
The drums are rolled out

The market is flooded
With news of its coming
The homestead salivates 
The streets jubilate

Vegetables will bleed today
The fattened cock will crow no more
The slumber of the pestle is over
For what is in the yam that the knife doesn't know

The noise of pounding
Will keep the neighbours awake
Iyán funfun báláwú is on the menu today

From: Echoes from the Savannah © Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi, 2024

All glory to God

How great is thy wisdom,
That, in knowing the ones, 
Who would rule and destroy,
The lands and people to gain self pride,
Glory of man and riches that perish.
Would bring the word of God ,
To their  own destruction and fattened hearts.
In their deception they are doing God's work.
In spreading the gospel that tells of their evil works.
Some, have banned your word from their country,
But, this ban does not escape their judgement.
For, all are appointed to death,
Only, by God's living breath does one escape 
The second death.
Who can tell the  God of the Living,
That your word is not acceptable here.
But, all glory to God for getting the true word out.
That, the poor and true ones seeking God,
With a pure and contrite heart might receive,
The eternal inheritance of the promised spirit,
To mold and purify One into A Child of the Living God. As , silver going through the furnace burning out impurities to be a shining gem of God.

robin

fattened robin on fence brings excitement of coming spring

Chicks

Dawn of spring brings chickens in the family way
When humans are busy gazing at the flowers,
The chickens have got their love priorities right
Instead of lazing away life, spend lusty hours

Chicks born in springtime are active healthy and strong
A secret the wise chickens did know all along
Chicks are like cotton cheese balls so cute and cuddly
Unlike grown-up chickens that have bone beaks oblong

They need to be sent away to the meat markets
To be skinned and hung, sad, they have no right to live
Ironically, pampered, such are fluffy chicks
If only feathered two-legged friends could perceive

Beware, chicks are advised not to devour too much
Raised in farms and fattened, injected and treated
If they don't look after themselves they will end up
On the dinner table, spiced and marinated

To look after their weight, if they are to live long
Enough to enjoy life and sing the Chicken Song

SHE TOOK SANTA FOR A RIDE

 She took Santa for a ride in her red Ferrari.
He had told her he needed a pick-me-up.
She drove like the devil, was short like an elf.
He was fattened by cookies, not at all himself.

Why were reindeer just lazing about? Rubs
his eyes. Where is that red-nosed disguise?
That she-devil clattered all over the road.
Santa was used to flying high with his workload.

She talked, talked, talked, as her lips toked.
She croaked like a frog, conversation was abhorrent.
He was certain she ran over wildlife on purpose.
Bump, bump, bumping down the road made him nervous.

What would Mrs. Santa say, when he tried to explain?
How did he get into this Christmas dilemma? The milk
was sort of whiskey sour and he drained the cup.
Now he’s down on the earth instead of up, up, up.

Something overhead catches his attention. A sled!
Who holds the reins, but his wife; and she looks mad.
She’s ready to kick some red-headed Ferrari butt.
If she wasn’t North Pole nice would’ve called her more than a nut.

Turnips

What is hungry that
These turnips
Shall be fattened
With bacon. This
Spoke the troll
he gathered turnips
from Onsager s  garden.
Breadcrumbs shall
atop this au gratin
With bacon , pumpkin
from Onsager s mystery
Garden He was angry
because Ole Onsager
Put fatback in front
Of the bacon hiding it
from the Scrooges and
Mizzers. But me Jack
the Troll but mi hand
beneath all that fatback
and found this treasure trove
Of sugarcured bacon. I saw
Turnip greens atop the bulbs
Of earthy goodness. 
I remember the from the book
Of Sages, the words of
Meade's and Meanest.
The greens of this frost bit
Place is the garden of the
Mizzers. Only the leaves of
Tender fresh turnips are for
Consumption . My cassorolle
Shall aroma of garlic, onions
and carrots.the crumbled bacon
Shall nearest thee.. the cream and
Roux shall mix with the broth
And these turnips and pumpkins
Shall be loved and adorned.
Not to be looked over by the
Mizzers and Scrooges..
The ground beneath me
So happy d you
Need a pickax
To break it!

Titties in Bra!

Turnips

What is hungry that
These turnips
Shall be fattened
With bacon. This
Spoke the troll
he gathered turnips
from Onsager s  garden.
Breadcrumbs shall
atop this au gratin
With bacon , pumpkin
from Onsager s mystery
Garden He was angry
because Ole Onsager
Put fatback in front
Of the bacon hiding it
from the Scrooges and
Mizzers. But me Jack
the Troll but mi hand
beneath all that fatback
and found this treasure trove
Alas might conage , mild peppers
and rasains with grated cheeses
and meringue make souflee 
And with
 sugarcured bacon; be
delicious with the greens, I saw!

Turnip greens atop the bulbs
Of earthy goodness. 
I remember the from the book
Of Sages, the words of
Meade's and Meanest.
The greens of this frost bit
Place is the garden of the
Mizzers. Only the leaves of
Tender fresh turnips are for
Consumption . My cassorolle
Shall aroma of garlic, onions
and carrots.the crumbled bacon
Shall nearest thee.. the cream and
Roux shall mix with the broth
And these turnips and pumpkins
Shall be loved and adorned.
Not to be looked over by the
Mizzers and Scrooges..

Turnips

What is hungry that
These turnips
Shall be fattened
With bacon. This
Spoke the troll
he gathered turnips
from Onsager s  garden.
Breadcrumbs shall
atop this au gratin
With bacon , pumpkin
from Onsager s mystery
Garden He was angry
because Ole Onsager
Put fatback in front
Of the bacon hiding it
from the Scrooges and
Mizzers. But me Jack
the Troll but mi hand
beneath all that fatback
and found this treasure trove
Of sugarcured bacon. I saw
Turnip greens atop the bulbs
Of earthy goodness. 
I remember the from the book
Of Sages, the words of
Meade's and Meanest.
The greens of this frost bit
Place is the garden of the
Mizzers. Only the leaves of
Tender fresh turnips are for
Consumption . My cassorolle
Shall aroma of garlic, onions
and carrots.the crumbled bacon
Shall nearest thee.. the cream and
Roux shall mix with the broth
And these turnips and pumpkins
Shall be loved and adorned.
Not to be looked over by the
Mizzers and Scrooges..


Song's of Stessed Women
"The Stresses Of Love"
       Axiro and Orixa
The Dried Cabbage Queen"

My Reincarnation

Whatever I did last time didn’t work 
because here I am again.

Before I died I was Me
after I died I was Me
today I am Me.
But also now I am me, the spongy ego
that was fattened up on Catholic scripture
     one flavor of monotheism 
     in which three dimensional humans grasp futilely 
     at infinitely dimensional God
     [or Reality or Infinity or…].
     Anomalously an individual has the 
     universal experience of God
     and sets about to share the experience
     and followers create a religion 
     that captures the essence 
     of what they thought the anomalous individual meant.
It is stale words promoting faith as a path to salvation
on a bright polished spoon
wielded by desperate yet confident people
selling something that they do not own.
I departed so we both could be alone.

In the center of myself
there is a vastness that can be elusive
where feelings arise
knowledge becomes wisdom
and Truth is illuminated.

Snow Birds

Thus
They flee
Absconding
In guiltless flight
On fattened feathers
A pointed arrowhead
Guided by some hidden force
Returning to their beginnings
Arcing slowly over icy peaks
Circling the history of their valley

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