Long Chew on Poems
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I like leftovers, especially when it comes to soup.
Brought back by popular demand.
They say that soup is better after it sits for a few days.
Stewing in its juices, mixing time with truths.
Reading poems by Famous Chefs
I hope one day I too become.
May we never turn to dust.
Mixing ashes with concrete
And placed under the City of Angels.
Only to be rediscovered at a later date.
Dinos of the past with something to say about avoiding
Extinction. But if we are gone by, by then,
May the next evolved lifeform translate them
With as much curiosity as when they were written.
Petrified words in stone. And if I am to reincarnate,
Perhaps as one of them, I will reread my poems once again.
Though I will have forgotten they were mine.
Just as it should be. So as to get another fresh start to be inspired.
And so, I can reread yours too.
Once again with new eyes, new taste buds and a new mind.
Don’t mind me for daydreaming
For this life is but a dream within a dream.
I even like making soup in my sleep, only to eat them
As leftovers when I awake.
Join me there, if you dare
We’ll fly over rainbows. We’ll dance in the kitchen.
Taste sunrises and chew on sunsets.
With aprons on and mixing spoons in our hands
We'll swirl the Universe into soup
That even God would enjoy to partake in.
Manna for the lost and weary soul.
For you are the Art that never ends ...
For you, who understand my meaning.
So, I thank you for your creativity.
And you’ll always be welcome to my mixed up crazy
Brave new world that never ends ...
Do Not Hold Your Tongue
8/14/2023
How oft’ have you been told, to not
rock the boat!
Just go along as an obedient, mute
billy goat.
Just chew on the green, fresh, cud,
Or smile always , be it in rain or in
thick mud.
This may be peachy keen for goats
you see.
But we are special, we are humanity.
When our brothers freedom and rights
are being stolen.
We must stand as one, for tis the God of
the Universe to which we are beholden!
In a horse life.We can play with a burlap feed
bag, an empty milk jug, or chew on the barn stall
door.Just to kill some time, or to kill some every
day bordom.In a horse life.We get names like
Black Beauty, Flicka, Seabiscuit, or Secretariat.
In a horse life.We do tricks like bowing our heads
down, or placing our shoe upon a pedastool.Picking
up the cowboy hat.While tapping our feet rata-tat-tat.
In a horse life.We like a good block of salt.With lots
of minerals, to lick upon.A wholesome bale of hay.To
start off a brand new day.Or a bucket of grain.To keep
us all healthy, fat, and sane.And a fresh bucket of water,
to wash it all down.In a horse life.I could be losing a
horseshoe.While the rider is losing his mind.In a horse
life.We can be a workhorse, a race horse, or a trick pony.
Or maybe a showhorse, or possibly a circus horse.With
out all the phoney baloney.In a horse life.We can run all
day in the open sun, or run the race trak.While the betters
place their wagers.Of course, at the horse racing track
betters window.In a horse life..
Before I ruin the view, I see…I see
as a child - the colors meld
in the sky, in the lake, at tree level.
Before I ruin the view, I chew on it,
revel in it, see God in it. I see…
Before I ruin the view, alone with myself,
alone with sights and sounds; infinity.
Before I ruin the view, by adding people,
I grip each petal, each blade, each
coniferous and fanned leaf, each bird,
each squirrel, each…each….
Before I ruin the view…before we ruined
Eden by setting our sights on low-
hanging fruit, perhaps red and delicious,
sweet, juicy like gossip and AI…don’t look -
it’s a sham. there’s a snake under the rock.
Before you and I, ruin anything, everything,
let us be awestruck, illuminated, engulfed
in the allowance of so many good things.
Not everyone sees. Some fish for pictorials.
Rising from their graves,
Breaking through the ground,
Raised by radiation waves,
They are coming to your town.
Board up all your doors,
Nail them good and tight,
Or there will be blood and gore,
By the end of the night.
They tear down your walls,
Break through your window pane,
No one can help you at all,
When they try to eat your brain.
Those dead eyes make you shiver,
You scream out with alarm,
Zombies try to eat your liver,
And, chew on your leg and arm.
There is no point to tell her,
That it is just too late,
Go hide down in your cellar,
You cannot escape your fate.
Zombies are the living dead,
They do not easily expire,
So, cause injury to their head,
Or, burn them with fire.
Hungry zombies do not give,
Oh, you better run,
Or you will not live,
To see the rising sun.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
October, 11th, 2013
For Leonora Galinta's contest -
"Halloween-Only One Theme...Zombies!"
Firstly, one has to take into account their scientific peers’ remarks,
As to the likely cause of how an Earthquake starts.
Some forums say it is caused by the shift in tectonic plates,
Others seem to doubt, seem to hesitate.
Some believe a government conspiracy of a machine that causes the devastation,
Their conspiracy being at the cost of the suffering of another nation.
The layman believe, if all the people in China, at the same time jump,
It would cause worldwide earthquakes as their feet come down with a thump.
Nevertheless, to conduct such a feat would be a difficult task
Therefore it has never been tested and is considered a farce
I have read the theories from all these schools of thought,
And collated the facts that backs my theory which is now widely taught.
Take some time to cogitate the facts
Sit back and take the time to chew on the fat
You will see the simplicity in my theory
And say to your self it’s all true how eerie
The Earthquakes are caused by, you guessed it me and you
From the sexual experiences we all go through
Example:
“I felt the Earth move, how was it for you?”
And she would say “I felt it tremble and saw fireworks too”
Or:
I saw Jane today, you know, the one that makes me go weak by the knees
She’s a real knee trembler a real sex tease
Now imagine these experiences on a grand scale,
No think bigger than me misses; I know she’s bigger than a whale
They say there is a couple having naughties every second of the day
That’s many earth moving experiences I have to say
These minor trembles are absorbed by the earths crust from these sensations
That occur in every town, country, and among diverse nations
So when you lie in bed savouring the tasty aftermath
Before you decide to take a bath
When you think how he or she made you feel the earth move
You have contributed to the making of earthquakes and there’s the proof.
Good night
I left my memory in the hallway, like a forgotten raincoat,
With feelings shattered in plates, an alphabet of cold shards,
The soul left, a small coin, slips into the palm of evening,
A tip for a waitress with a smile of burnt lace.
Her eyes, shiny marbles on the green table of chance,
Her upright torso, an icon impaled on the world’s panel,
My fingers counted on the chipped keys of the piano,
Learning a dark symphony, long as a tunnel.
The sheet music rains on handkerchiefs, litanies piercing silence,
Tears are needles, extracting old oaths from the skin,
From above descends a god of mixed pronouns,
With so many "you" and "I" that the sky becomes a landlord.
Truths flow dry, like fishless rivers,
My lies, plump, chew on neuron branches,
I froth them on my lips, chalices of vapor and bitter salt,
To carry extinguished mornings on my back, stamps on the calendar.
My dreams undress memories, leaving their skin wet,
A present past, drowned in muck of broken clocks,
Whispers composed from the panic of shadows, with rebellious lips,
That bite the night and spit out empty constellations.
I return on the corridor of fog, with my alphabet steps,
To take my memory home, to pour it a cup of stars,
But the key doesn’t fit the lock: I am the lock, I am the key,
And my home is a song that sings without end.
What in heaven's name would we ever do, oft' I wonder,
If not for the humble pencil eraser to correct our every blunder!
Plaudits to Mr. Hyman Lipman for his inventive intellect,
For patenting this mundane gizmo for our errors to correct!
A pencil eraser is also useful for musing bards to chew on,
While striving to concoct verse when their cleverness is nearly gone!
I've even observed folks surreptitiously cleaning both of their ears
With a pencil eraser that would cause alarm to an otic doc and his peers!
A weekend golfer's pencil is sans an eraser and for good reason I suppose,
Otherwise, with certain "adjustments" to their scores they would all be pros!
In this enlightened and technological age, correcting mistakes is much neater.
No eraser needed - just click a button on the computer called a "deleter!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Honorable Mention in the "Rub It Out" Contest - June 2010
It's insane how much has changed.
From never talking-
to talking every single day.
I am more attached to you than I am my phone
My 2 addictions combined
Infused with my blood
It is a good thing that you would never lie, right?
My heart has stopped.
Frozen in it’s tracks
When I am down in the dirt, it is your hand that pulls me back
The hand is made of arsenic, little did I know
Slowly poisoning me, while I beg you not to let go
You’re my 2nd addiction.
The only other thing I couldn’t live without
The weight of my phone in my pocket and the weight on my chest when you are away.
I want to break the glass prison that you hide in,
The one that surrounds your heart.
The shards from the glass would shed my skin and I would keep the blood in a bottle,
One that I would keep on your altar while I pray at my knees.
I would use my hair as a rope, one forever attached,
I would tie it around your heart so that you could never leave me again
I would use my tears to boil my eyes so no one would ever question if i have eyes for anyone else
My skin as the carpet of the room I furnish for you with my bone.
But now there is nothing left of me.
Just the pieces I gave to you.
The ones I hoped you would treasure
But you really dyed them blue.
You took the parts of me that I let your arsenic hands touch,
You boiled them blue until I was exactly the kind you liked
You left me there,
Blue on the corner-
Begging you not to drive away.
Not to let a stranger pick up the pieces that you tossed in the waste
Those letters and poems, i filled my notebooks for you
I would have written until my fingers fell from my hands.
One-By-One. Use them as fuel for a fire to keep you warm.
Pick my nails until they bleed.
My blood, all for you.
I would let you drink my soul
And chew on my bones
My heart was left dry-
Thrown out with your junk
Left to rot and cry
I thought we were tied.
Mine heart to yours
But you cut my hair and used it to climb the wall
The one of the room I built and furnished with my bones.
You used my hair and my veins as means for escape
To get away from all I gave away
Now I burn.
My exposed muscle and organs
They thrust for oxygen
But I could only get my oxygen from you.
It was a different kind of love
To say the very least
We kept our secrets in a glove
The Devil's kind of feast
Long sleeves in the heat of July
I became a makeup artist
No one questioned why
I guess I was the smartest
A toothache from his sweetness
When he began feeling guilt
His love was my weakness
I couldn't bear to watch it wilt
Before long I would chew on my leash
I needed consequences
I once tried calling the police
So he barb wired my fences
Despite my efforts to stay out of trouble
I maintained a black and blue
One day I went and popped his bubble
It was the last thing I would do
I wasn't afraid of dying
I was going to a better place
Nope, that's not why I was crying
Who would do my face???
As crazy as it sounds
I didn't want anyone to know
I know he was out of bounds
But my job was to put on a show