Long Cabbages Poems
Long Cabbages Poems. Below are the most popular long Cabbages by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cabbages poems by poem length and keyword.
Would you go swimming or fishing with an eighty foot strong hook, flippers, a basket hat, and a toothbrush tail? Bullfrog wants to. He wants to consistently visit the waters to engage in the flow and ebb and weave of the stylish currents. Duty bound so duty is and all flotation tanks that arrive on a ceiling are to be thus acknowledged. Carrier pigeons make very dramatic circling loops but circling a pair of pans is akin to dripping a sauce heavily over a tissue. Ok then. Perhaps it is the formality that is the formal but not the formerly formed first. And beware of baked rations of cabbages at this time. Fir they can rise and rise and rise and rise. So all you sea urchins, emeralds, garnets of tree clusters, and ilk hypothesise this scenario. In under one word. Or in a sentence of six characters. Here is the title to ponder. 'If nine elephants ate a cake with no icing would the rhino still be envious'. Scores will be given to any emblematic and meaningful answers. The rule is not to swear and curse for both are insufficient to a language lean. So don't lean heavily upon amplifiers, pool tables, breasts, sea horses, tails, or any related articles resting in fires and bins. Surplus to requirements is a large wad of mismatched print that portrays fresh cream and butter like lards and fats. Critical caressing creating crossing chaos. Chat chat chat and then cut chop. No chip shop in their right mind would sell multi corroded mouldy non sparkling potatoes in a fryer. So leap then. Longitude latitude is neither an attitude nor a mystified contemplation of a sausage roll on a shelf. Ok then. Tell it to the feathers, mystic beak in realm, tell it to the cloven hooves trotting in the towns, tell it to a block of frozen ice, soon to break and thaw, and don't forget the number two waiting at the door. And now go bake a cake using a lorry, a car and a huge seventy acre highway. Hahaha bread is giggling to the toaster. Hahaha postures of pigs parading and paragliding too. Hahaha missionary muscle mass musical effect. Passing. Xxxxx hypnotherapy Z. That was a bulletin from 9905829405.0 from the p Y Q REPORTING ON A NEW NOTE FLICK, z
Form:
frankly zapped after wildly oscillating
in tandem with seven bobble heads and ten French horns)
a devilish trumpeting event
by pre-Christian Celtic festival standards
with a “proto” Don twick or tweeting
like a Taj Mahal wonder of webbed, wide world scout
Samhain celebrated on nightfall of October 31
for bachanalia, candy corn, dreaded locks tot tout.
Now, the Celts I met lived 2,000 years ago
in the area now Ireland,
the United Kingdom and northern France,
believed that the dead,
cuz the underworld could not tolerate nor find stand
ding room, thus returned to earth on Samhain –
accessing a outdated map drawn by Rand McNally.
Though all roads leading to Rome,
would be millenniums as future did advance
but (mentioned for no particular rhyme nor reason)
only for discordant anachronism
Lewis Carroll took a tumble,
and neither fat nor slim chance,
would never find him completing Alice in Wonderland,
cuz quite an expanse
of centuries extant between his accidental slip
somewhere back in time at a glance
hence, he befell the same fate,
how Alice would never en hance
her life, yet the first stanza hailed
as powerful punch from grunting naked tribesman
with armstrong brandishing big lance
which phallic symbol extolled bare necessity,
and no need to wear seer sucker pants
even when inaugurating the ritual, including the verse
..."The time has come," the Walrus said
"To talk of ma ny things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."...
set the listeners in a trance
emptying coffers of bipedal feral simians to add vance
this yearly practice filling rucksacks
with berries, carrion and twigs.
Whether ya favor Golem, Hobgoblins, or Dybyk,
take pause buffer ja pour out massed goodies heck
enjoy satiating yar sweet tooth while still able to lick
every morsel of junk food afterwards a tooth pick
might be necessary to remove gobs that didst stick
analogous to tallow melted from candle wick.
The Scene:
An explosion!
From those picking.. limbs tear
cabbages and cucumbers
combing children's hair
mixing with the backseat
of a zealot's Mercedes Benz
the gunpowder, smells of lamb,
and cotton, all blend
into a bitter, woolen,
prayerful smoldering
the faces, each one,
a sorrowful gurgling..
God sniffs, looking puzzled..
as usual, murmuring
'Why is this happening?
All this crumbling and burning!
Am I the god of Job,
of the savior foretold,
of the maiden unrobed,
of the crocodile's fold?'
'I created them all,
the most beautiful of races,
with a worn, savage love
for me in dry places,
I gave them this desert,
the Sirocco, sand dunes
where they hopelessly
struggle above catacombs
amid these car bombings,
and gun strapping martyrs
that blowup in my face
and all reason in shatters..'
'Stop it! stop!'
God moans, and he chatters
but a look in his face
tells you it doesn't matter..
I ask, 'Lord, why can't you
let good people live?
The fools we elected
can you ever forgive?
We all watch in horror,
and while your adored
the people in Dar fur
are swept up by warlords..'
(God's reply)
"Did you create pyramids,
were you Ramses slave,
do you think I look forward
to another small grave?
Have you fought in wars
when you didn't agree,
Who decides who wins
when they all pray to me?
It takes a whole village
to pull just one trigger
Womens wages are set by
Walmart's sale sticker
your planet is warming,
no snow packs for farming
bringing unwelcome guests
like mosquito borne pests,
greenhouse unrest, protecting
your own, consuming the rest.
I have eyes, I see everything
you never did, I have ears,
I hear empty words,
all things unsaid.. today's living,
may be tomorrows dead.."
(these are really my words, not God's, who I fear
is considering a reprise of the flood this year..)
It was a party, but so much more.
Each participant came directly from
their origins; not from the community
store. There was no alcohol and all the
beverages were Fruit and Vegetable based.
None but healthy fruits and veggies were
allowed to enter the main door. This affair
was to be something special and different;
a pool of greenery fresh from God's brown
earth; colors of orange and yellow were also
among the colors present. One would have thought
to have arrived at the United Nations of Fruits
and Vegetables. Everyone, invitees as well as
passers-by would stop and stare with puzzled eyes
at such a dare. It was a Pickle Party hosted by the
best Pickles ever grown or seen. Mr. Pickle himself, wanted to
share with 'his world' the need to develop a plan to change
mankind's attitude about food. Tomatoes, the reddest
kind, was placed on center stage. The best-looking tomatoes
was the lead singer, surrounded by Peppers red, orange, and
green. Her theme song was, "Pick your Pickle and Pull your Peach".
And embraced in a sea of green were all kinds of Greens, an abundance
of Avocadoes, Cabbages, Lettuce, Celeries, Water Melons, green and red Apples, Peaches, yellow Bananas, and Nectarines. There were even a bunch
of nuts there, the brown variety like Almons, Pecans, and Walnuts. I'm not the partying kind, but I really wanted to be a part of this Pickle Party. I knew that my chances of getting in were remote, but I made the attempt anyway. I knew that lots of Pickles would be present, but I never dreamed that Mr. Pickle himself would be at the door. Mr. Pickle was greeting every fruit, nut, and vegetable with a smile as they entered. It was very clear that I was neither nut, fruit, nor vegetable, but Mr. Pickle gave me the biggest smile and said, "Thanks for coming; enjoy the party".
090722PSCtest, It's A Pickle Party, Mystic Rose Rose
Hilly lent me his post hole digger ‘cause I’m putting up a fence
around me veggie garden, so I could give it some defence
from marauding sheep and cattle that some keep on their block,
and forget about their fences, so I feed their wandering stock.
They eat all my silver beet and give me cabbages all hell,
and what the mongrels don’t prefer they trample in as well,
but I suppose there is one upside with growing what they eat,
for now and then the neighbours stock have saved us buying meat.
That post hole digger made life easy where it twisted in the ground,
instead of digging with a shovel that near breaks me back I found.
So with treated pine snug in their holes and rails upon the face,
I cleaned up the post hole digger to return to Hilly’s place.
I thought I’d leave it ‘til the morn although it has to be ‘round eight,
for that’s the latest Hilly’s sober, so nine o’clock is way too late.
But as it happened I slept in and got around there close to ten,
then for a moment I had thought that Hilly’s drunk again.
He was prowling ‘round the kitchen with a fly swat in his hand,
sneaking up to where the blighters were trying hard to land.
I asked him what he’s doing and with a mad look in his eyes,
Hilly said one got in his porridge so he’s killing all the flies.
Well I suppose sometimes we lose the plot and do get over keen,
but he would have got ‘em in one go by spraying with mortein,
so I asked him “Have you killed a few?” Then heard one of his jokes,
“Yeah, I’ve cleaned up five” he said - “Two sheila’s and three blokes”.
I could see that he’s fair dinkum ‘cause they’re splattered on the sink,
but how he knew what sex they were made me stop and think.
I asked “How do you tell the sex of flies?” Of course I should have known
when Hilly grinned - “Three were on the beer cans and two were on the phone”.
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 7
playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song
even-then the germination of the almonds
can never become the sugar-candy
made of palmyra
may be they don’t want so
until and unless any night-guard comes
and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves
within a wrinkle-free hand-glove
you do absorb all colours
from the soil of the earthworms
and thus unfold your open hair
along the air of this cloudy day
then none but the gughni-sellers
will get back their names and titles
there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum
it has rained even last night
the streets are wet
the trees are wet
there is splashing mud in the low lands
those all full-of-incidents
if you wish
you can send them
to the introduction of a proposal against war
i’ve never heard that
to take the responsibility
of the starving south-east
the rain has put down its crown
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 8
all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool
the own fountain of vraj-kishore
may be, wants to fly away in such a manner
to another afternoon
my tiffin-expenses cann’t discover that valley
till now
from where
it is said
all night-gowns begins
then i’m sitting
with my hands and legs spread
in the sun-light
filled with
the sound of chopping of cabbages
on the flowers of the sun-plant
that are in-between the wife and her mother-in-law
i exercise my intelligence very much
if the question of my security is raised
it is only a ‘for-God’s-sake’-like adjuration
the knot of a white handkerchief is so much heavy
i don’t know earlier
my knowledge of using prosody
getting amalgamated calmly
with the stamen used by the sleep
Form:
Three of my chickens are dead and they have left a hole in my heart,
I want to mark their passing, prove that they were alive and very much loved by me,
They were real, breathing and full of life from the start,
Oh they made me laugh, so hilarious and quirky; such fun hidden away on our allotment,
They did no great deeds, were not famous and hardly anyone knew they were there,
Alert and trusting, they followed my steps, looked at me with their heads to one side, wondering and seeing,
They slept in my arms and closed their tiny eyes when I stroked under their beaks,
Laid eggs and loved wholemeal bread, sometimes combining the two in to a healthy treat in their run, pecking and pinching whatever they could,
Stood on my spade when I was trying to dig, and ate the biggest worms I ever did see,
Had me running in circles to catch them, jumped out of the hutch when I thought I’d put them in,
Kicked over their food tin so I’d give them more and always hid in the shed,
Rearranged their sleeping compartments when I had just cleaned them out, kicking the neat straw all over,
Ate all of my winter cabbages and nibbled at my sprouts, sat on the compost heap and looked around, Queens of the allotment!
Were brave in the face of danger, survived against the odds,
When poorly, they slept cozily in my basement, and understood when it was time to die,
They may have only been chickens to most, but to me they were my friends,
Always pleased to see me, they needed me, and greeted me loudly every day,
Three lives have been taken, but I will not forget them,
I will look back and smile, and talk kindly of Muriel, Edith and Ethel,
For they were the three hens that taught me that all life is precious, no matter how unnoticeable and small.
Welcome to a world of imagination,
Where nothing is what it seems to be,
A world unlike any other,
A world,
Where being mad is normal.
"Come sit with me,
Care for a cup of tea,
Come, come be seated please,
We have much to discuss",
Exclaims the hatter.
"About shoes and ships; and ceiling wax,
Cabbages and kings,
And why the sea is boiling hot,
And whether pigs have wings."
"Peculiar you say?
My child; I have no idea what you mean,
What is so peculiar about me?
Do I have rat in my teeth?
Or is my hat too big for my head?"
"What do you have to say Hare?"
He looks over to the old dingy rabbit,
Whose eyes seem to droop forever,
Watering every time he blinks,
As thick drool,
Spills from his open mouth.
"I say kill her,
slice her throat,
I have the jelly knife here,
I wonder what she'll taste like in me tea",
Says the hare with an evil cackle.
The hatter speaks unto the girl,
"I'm sorry to inform you,
But the tea party is over for you,
You wandered into our garden,
And were never invited."
Out pops the door mouse,
From his cracked sugar bowl,
Running towards the girl,
With what seems to be rusty hooks,
He jumps onto her head,
And gouges her eyes out.
She screams in utter agony,
As the hatter removes the pins from his hat,
And begins to impale her heart,
In jumps the hare,
Slicing her throat over a cup of tea.
They all resume their seats,
And sip their tea.
"I say, this is a fine cup of tea",
Says the Hatter,
With tea drizzling down his lips,
"Such a lovely party,
And so glad you could have come,
With so many memories,
This is the last one of our song,
Goodbye Alice,
You were one bad child".
Form:
After the betrayal
The veggies are being chopped whole day now by me
Lady fingers, carrots, cabbages, cauliflowers and chili.
The mocking eyes of each one make me thoughtful once again
Turning back, seeing them I feel myself bare, so very empty.
Cutting those crosswords, tossing, and then steaming ironically to cook
Lady fingers with their so many chambers attract me, with magnificent look.
I forget chopping them and fancifully recall my family’s previous chronicle
Where there were so many rooms, cabinets here and there made of ivory.
I used to control the entire castle with the queenly authority
The cleaner, the cook, driver and the gardener were always on duty,
All used to serve me, to satisfy me was their prime liability.
Each dust of that palace would even ask me before parting.
Now this poor me, deal only with potatoes, tomatoes and onions,
No room to stay, no cash, no stand-by member of staff, nothing I own today,
All I lost myself for my blind love, believing the gentleman who did betray.
Just a single night, it was raining drastically outside; I was locked at work,
Returning home I found, I’ve lost everything, the entire mountain love
My love be-fooled me, played with my faith, my belief, grabbed an additional,
Since then I left all, preferred this simple new life, full of fresh air more worthy
I’m now earning my own, far far away, in an unknown town solely, alone,
No family, no love, I’m myself and working in this veggie-cutting industry.
Fake Food Anyone
Hohoho....
First it was fake food and vegetables for the house decor......
Until one day the line was crossed and food as we know before.....
Are no longer assumed to be natural to be consumed as freely as before...
The Japanese started off with decorative food replicas.....
Naturally next came the impossible Chinamen in mainland China....
Mass producing fake food products to hoodwink their billions of comrades...
Now we have fake food items you would never think possible...
Fake eggs, fake cabbages, plastic rice, fake meat floss....
Every other day, the list just grow longer on and on...
This is a new find, seasonal moon cakes with prices sky high...
Enticingly packed in highly attractive boxes so sublime....
You'll buy, thinking it is just a seasonal festive thing....
But high prices do not guarantee food items in all its originality....
As this video clip shows up ever so clearly...
Hohoho... it pays to be wise, maybe suspicious even.....
The consumer world is full of unpleasant surprises....
Especially with so many food items Made in China for her masses...
Hohoho.....
Referring to the latest video clip over whatsapp service...
Showing a princely quality looking box of mooncake delicacy...
And a voice over expressing misgivings about its actual quality...
When the greenish paste fillings of a cut mooncake ....
Looks and feels decidedly rubbery and unnatural in quality...