Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
Delicious and such melt in your mouth fun
I'm not really addicted I can stop any time
If I'm held back at the point of a gun
Each night I bolt out of my bed screaming
“Where did you hide my Buttery Corn Puffs”
It's one of the few pleasures I have left in life
They'll soon have to take me away in cuffs
I dream of floating way up high on a cloud
Looking down on a soft yellow landscape
Corn Puffs stretching from horizon to horizon
With fairies and me wearing lampshades
Such a happy scenario of joy and frivolity
Those yellow Buttery Corn Puffs do evoke
To feel the great joy and total contentment
Before that final sad moment when I croak
If Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
I'll cross over to that great unknown
Totally surrounded from horizon to horizon
Much better than a land of buttered scones
Lampshades of beauty come in every shade
everyone should have one in their home
for when the moon refuses to cascade
inside your darkened room, then you alone
can light your inner world with glow and shine;
Bruise of night, ecchymosis of the soul
each fearful child of God should have their own
for when the stars refuse to spark, extol
within your living space, then you alone
can light your inner world with glow and shine;
Expensive trinkets I don't need my friend
for dearer still is inner light of heart
a lampshade is a blessing, a godsend
inside a darkened room, yes you alone
can light your inner world and make it shine.
She wore her art in socks and mittens at first
But then she began designing her t-shirts, and even worse…
She decorated her lampshades, or maybe, even better
No one’s house looked like hers, Mable P.T. Fetter
She is odd some said, but they were not friends of mine.
I thought her colorful things were mighty and fine.
Spent time with her, listening to stories that were colorful too.
She was not the norm, so now, wouldn’t you?
The cabin is a lumber store of snores
Sawing and hacking while lying on our backs
Filling the day’s orders of dreams and chores
I’m the only one up this early
Alert to the prophecies
With checklists of nails and hammers in hand
The uncontained forest fires north of Superior
Have painted the blue skies over Torch Lake
Opaque with smoke
Twine in the pine trees buckling with birds
The sun does not rise
But burns like a candle
Hazy and orange sweeping the hills
Lighting and fanning the kindling
Of our curtains and walls lampshades and sofas
Our jack-o-lantern cabin
Set aglow
Burning down from the inside out
Its scowling face spitting flames
To the Azaleas wheat fields and faces of deer
Holes in my bucket as I run to the lake
Too late
Too late
Yawns and stretches what’s for breakfast?
Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
Delicious and such melt in your mouth fun
I'm not really addicted I can stop any time
If I'm held back at the point of a gun
Each night I bolt out of my bed screaming
“Where'd you hide my Buttery Corn Puffs”
It's one of the few pleasures I have left in life
They'll soon have to take me away in cuffs
I dream of floating way up high on a cloud
Looking down on a soft yellow landscape
Corn Puffs stretching from horizon to horizon
With fairies and me wearing lampshades
Such a happy scenario of joy and frivolity
Those yellow Buttery Corn Puffs do evoke
To feel the great joy and total contentment
Before that final sad moment when I croak
If Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
I'll cross over to that great unknown
Totally surrounded from horizon to horizon
Mixed in with trees of buttered scones
There was once a windowpane oyster
in the deep of an ocean's depth
wherein dwelt a treasured secret kept
An opaline sphere of salmon colored pink
born of a single grain of sand
a charm unseen within the oysters hand
Fish when you are at bottom's blue sea
and seek this lonely little shell
those times when heaven feels like hell
And when something gets 'neath the skin
and festers and sorely shows
remember the pearl an oyster grows
For from one tiny irritating grain of sand
(like that pebble in your shoe)
beauty can be fished from your troubles too
(April 8 2016)
* Windowpane, an oyster that is especially common in the Philippines and has a large flat somewhat pearly paper-thin shell prized for it's pearls and used for thousands of years especially by the Chinese as a substitute for glass windowpanes and in later times for lampshades and chandeliers.
Wearing a LAMPSHADE when I woke from this bed
All sorts of pounding still in my head
Need some grease
A HANGOVER release
Oh how I think I'd be better off dead
Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
Delicious and such melt in your mouth fun
I'm not really addicted I can stop any time
But must be held back at the point of a gun
Each night I bolt out of my bed screaming
“Where did you hide my Buttery Corn Puffs”
It's one of the few pleasures I have left in life
They'll soon have to take me away in cuffs
I dream of floating way up high on a cloud
Looking down on a soft yellow landscape
Corn Puffs stretching from horizon to horizon
With fairies and me wearing lampshades
Such a happy scenario of joy and frivolity
Those yellow Buttery Corn Puffs do evoke
To feel the great joy and total contentment
Before that final sad moment when I croak
If Buttery Corn Puffs are made up in heaven
When I cross over to that great unknown
Totally surrounded from horizon to horizon
Much better than a land of buttered scones
© Jack Ellison 2015
a trail of scurry
as if martins
had flown through the house
voices
thatpushallthewordstogether
you swing
lampshades
and make it all
film noir
shouts from a
mouth of cloth
so when you are as
empty as grail
but have no space
ypu understand
there is no sense without passion
We are the-
Unattainable
Lampshades--flickering
On and off-
In-and-out
With
And without.
--And her skin
Is all I can breathe.
I write in cartilage
Memoirs just to feel
Unfeeling.
But we love unfairly
Until digging nails
Into walls--
Becomes beautiful
We-the-unreachable.
Think of me as the eyes of late nightfall
crawl through a wafting sill
where lone moon cuddles dimmed glow
before she quietly slowly lays
herself on a cradle of clouds
as whistle of barn owl and incantations groans.
When dusk explodes into ash
upon fairways that lap,
think of me
mysteriously walking on the ledge
of our winding grassland
picking bluebells in wanderlust.
And when candles snuff the lampshades
think of me,
like the velvet skin of dusk fall
circling in a world of marbled thoughts
until you etch the back of my spine
to lullaby the sourness of truant dreams.
The stars play game-spy with the wind
rowing into a wave of dewy cruise;
I enter into your own lenses, a search light
that becomes the harbour of some peace
while echoes of unknown voices speak...
It is at this juncture when you, perhaps,
might think of me
lending a gentle taste of assurance
that the next hours will stir a brightened sun.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
contest 259 Brian Strand
When Harry met Sally
He thought her just a friend
She drove him so so crazy
The car drive to begin
Over the hills and through the woods
They ventured on their way
It started off a lovely trip
With lots of things to say
Back then it might sense
Girl and boy do meet
Friends only nothing more
Isn't it so sweet?
I can't imagine now
Living in LA
Meeting a man one night
Next to hear him say....
You know my dear you must know
Your beautiful no doubt
I love you for your brains also
So why must you pout?
Let's just keep things friendly
I don't want to take you home
I haven't even thought of it
Let's stay in friendship zone.
Is this an alcoholic dream?
Did he really just drop that?
Oh I'm so glad I met you
Maybe I am fat?
What's wrong with me?
Am in a darkened sleep?
I start to panic then slap myself
Guess faith will take a leap.
Sally wouldn't dare
Bring those thoughts to mind
Harry , well he knew
He wasn't that blind.
Men and women can be friends
For real or fantasy
But breaking lampshades all while screaming
Is much more beneficial and carefree.
By Kristen Bruni
Hunger comes back like a dagger
on face. With iris and fingerprints.
Live, fluttering butterflies, stuck
on lampshades. Wrecked, frozen, the ending
of seeming. Men in cages.
They were diluting the culture.
Chlorophyll siphoned off. No color,
no sprouts. The roads were dirty
with the ultimate truth, quarreling with the
water, insanity and vertebrae.
The creamy stuff, shouts and pants,
shunting the definitions. People come
and go from the paintings. There is no age bar.
Spring will be released from the impulses
of flesh in naked zones.
Ideas become pacemaker, for the ailing
heart of polity.
SATISH VERMA
The Seasons heaven inspired Summer
Jousting feasting + dancing diversions
Love exquisite reflection in the mirror
Tinned soup shelves in the village store
wicked chocolate sauce nutty ice-cream
Crimson berries golden mountains blue
shadows unhinged white double doors
wide stairs tall fellow with a strong chin.
She came up to him and cleverly kissed
Fifties beatnik style polo necks corduroy
Feline supermodels prowl the catwalk
where fun and happiness are the rule.
Colorful passion ,friendship + intimacy.
Sharing wonderfully warm magical elixir
See roomfuls of naked women bathing.
A tribute to your beauty be immortalized
feel fantastically alive Queen Goddess.
Permission to kiss every inch of the body
Girlfriends dancing , whirling + stomping.
Plush velvet sofas lead light lampshades
Playing pieces of music body of a cello.
Tea-pots doilies darling babies parties
Fix the favorite feeling fabulous pleasure
Keep the juice alive flavour rhapsody.
Remember your gloriousness leisure.
Angelfish pillows, enjoy the nice things.
Up from the floorboards
Creeps green heat.
It seeps under my head
Through a hole in the sheets.
It blankets the windows
And shadows the ceiling.
It licks at the lampshades
And spawned my skin peeling.
Into the cupboards
Comes a noise.
It mangled the marshes
With three lecherous ploys.
It danced with the Devil,
A bystanding Lasher.
It curdled the saintly
And dubbed the dead masters.
Down from the spiderwebs
Slide warm hands
That pull at the fabric
That had once been their bands.
They fondle the willing
To dawn a dim future,
To center sensation,
And parent new squalor.
Out of the fire
Sickness calls.
It drips to facade me
Thoughout winters and falls.
In through the Underpass
In a sick, silent prose
Two magistrates and I
With my eyes half way closed.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.