Long Overfed Poems
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Once upon a time in the square shaped woods
There lived a square shaped thing
He liked to watch the square shaped birds
He liked to hear them sing
A shadow moved behind a mound,
A mound all square and flat
The square shaped thing then took a look
Oh my, it’s oddly fat
The odd fat thing said that’s not fair
It’s just that I’m not square,
In my world everyone is round
There are no corners there
The Square shaped thing just thought a while
And this is what he said
Could it be that where you’re from
You’re simply overfed
The round shaped thing spoke firmly
As he came out from the mound
We are not fat, it’s just the shape
Where everything is round
They talked about their different worlds
One square, the other round
could they ever get along
And find some middle ground
What if we got together
The problems we could solve
Like when we sing about the bus
Who’s wheels cannot revolve
And so they sat and talked about all things
Both round and square,
Until the round thing jumped up, startled,
What's that over there?
Confused, the square thing looked around,
What's what over where?
Something moved, the round thing stammered,
Then he said a prayer.
What is it that you're frightened of,
Why don't we take a peek?
I think it’s just some square shaped children
Playing hide and seek.
What they found was trapped inside
A prickly bramble tangle,
It asked them if they'd care to help
A rather stuck triangle.
7 December 2020
Word Count: 280
For: Fantasy with Fictional Beings contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
The evil Christmas elf snuck out of bed
Gave me a swift kick on the side of my head
I said what the heck? Now he was biting my neck.
My husband was snoring away while I was a wreck.
I screamed so loudly, I should have woken up the dead.
But not my snoring husband, for he was well overfed.
The elf gave me a look of hatred that made me feel scared.
I was pretty much alone with her, fighting for my life and no one cared.
We began a battle, that evil devil of a Christmas elf and I.
He was slamming me in the head with a brick, yelling “DIE!”
I ran to the kitchen and got a piece of pumpkin pie.
Popped him into it, and shoved him in the freezer way up high.
The next day the kids looked all over for that diabolical elf.
I did not show them the freezer or point out the shelf.
Believe it or not, that creepy devil had climbed out the back.
Unplugged the electronics, and stole our baby Jack.
Where could he be? The kids asked, not seeing the note.
I found it and could not believe he had cartooned a goat.
And a picture of him throwing Jack in the river.
I knew he’d do it too, so I started to quiver.
I am just kidding, elf yelled from the top of the tree.
He threw baby Jack down. I caught him at my left knee.
I am the boss, the elf told me, and I have my own coven.
Double cross me, and you will wake up tomorrow in your own oven.
Two dwellings in one single block
(the peasants at the back).
One market garden, orchard, flock:
No asphalt road. Just track.
The men were in the bottom field
to get the barley in.
“It’s looking like a bumper yield:
don’t lose it. That’s a sin.”
The Master’s doing ‘market day’ –
four bottles. Pinot noir.
The peasants joke: “He’s making hay!
He’ll wreck another car!”
Maria looked up from her paste –
that pasta needs a tweak –
it’s never good, if done in haste –
no meat or fish this week.
She felt the window drawing her:
Where’s Salva? On the grass?
The Lady, in her Sunday fur!
Tomorrow’s Martinmas!
This was the day, with harvest picked,
when bosses, ‘cleaning house’,
by ancient custom could evict,
could tell their staff, “Heraus!”
But Salva wasn’t in the sand,
or playing near the cellar:
the Lady, clutching by the hand
her daughter, Arabella,
called out “Maria! Come to me!
And don’t you dare refuse!
This yard is filthy. Can’t you see
what’s happened to my shoes?
Your boy was playing ‘gallows bird’
with Bella, in this mess!
And what if something had occurred
to Bella’s yellow dress?
The first thought in Maria’s head
was, “So – we’re not evicted!”
The second, “That girl’s overfed –
her midriff is constricted.”
Signora, with her other arm,
held Salva by the scruff.
“You peasants,” sneered the farmyard marm,
“are naturally rough.”
“They’re getting to a certain age,
and well, I mean to say …”
Maria swallowed down her rage.
“Fine. Far apart they’ll stay.”
I always thought I'd never get intoxicated,
But when I met you, things got complicated.
African queen you took away my every breath,
Caught me in the web of your romantic net;
"Awelewa" melanin slim and sexy,
Because of you I shunned all of them including Lexi
For I'm drunk having drank from your pot of wine,
Having fed fat with love like an overfed swine;
I never knew "Ife" could be this mysterious
For I set my eyes on you and got delirious.
"She must be a goddess of a kind", I thought
Like "Yeye Oshun" goddess with the purest clothe;
Now I'm yours and you're mine my chewing gum,
Cos when we're together our hearts beat like a talking drum.
Let's safari together, You and I in the plains of Serengeti,
And voyage on the beaches of "O ba je ti" ;
I always believed I couldn't get intoxicated,
But now I'm your captive cos things got complicated.
#Niggyraslife #AfricanChild #AfricaToTheWorld!
Ugbutter Jones had an oversized head
It was enormous, and totally overfed.
His magnephelant shoulders could barely hold it up.
His ears came out like petals on a giant buttercup.
It was chopsqurirelly dangerous to mention his head.
Ugbutter Jones had an anger about it and a pocket of lead.
So we kept our diligent mouths busy, seeing his ugly as beauty.
He was our grandson, so we felt it was kind of our duty.
Grandpa! He would yell when he looked in the tiny regular mirror
Why can’t I see my face? Can you come right in here?
We always had to remind him to squat, next to the pot.
But he did not remember, he truly did not.
His head was quite ugly, and his brains were uglified too.
We named him correctly, Ugbutter, perfect name for this foo.
His magnephelant brain did not hold much information inside.
He was chopsquirrelly silly, his ugliness not easy to hide.
Hungry cry of waking baby
challenging the staccato
of small arms fire.
School bus honking
over the droning hum
of I-phone ear-buds.
Wood fire banked against
searing desert winds
rattling glassless windows.
Pop tart in microwaves,
nutritional nuance
of the overfed
undernourished.
Dogs barking in the distance,
squeaking well wheels
bare feet padding
to distant comfort.
Beeping, one eyed tyrants,
demanding attention
“whatuwearin’”,
Rooster’s inane need
to alert everyone
“SUN’S UP! – SUN’S UP!”
Children squabbling
over much – or little.
Pots and pans and decisions,
“who likes what” vs
“who needs it more”.
Mother’s spreading love
on fragile hearts,
singing songs
long forgotten
by the fathers.
Prayers said
in the hope
of golden morrows
tears shed
in the depth
of poverty’s sorrows.
The cry of a waking baby,
the hungry sound of an empty tin,
choking angry words:
“Please sir, could you help, again”.
Sounds of a day
blowing across a hardened consciousness
aching to be heard.
6/18/2016
submitted to – Sounds of the Day – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron
My husband, John and I have been busy preparing for the festive season, wrapping up numerous presents and bottles of wine etc. My mind goes out to the people of Ukraine and others in troubled Countries worldwide, and I have been thinking about how I could put this in poetry form.
I can't think of a better way of expressing how this makes me feel. When reading the paper this morning, an 89-year-old lady who lives in the Adelaide Hills wrote this in the paper:
It's sunny today, and I am watching a number of sparrows eating scraps that I put out for them in the sunshine. But all I can think of is Ukraine, and their lack of warmth, food, safety, care, love, kindness, etc. Even a dash of goodwill would be something. Do we just try to forget their plight, feed the overfed, and have ourselves a Merry, Merry you-know-what?
This is the letter written by an old lady named Helen who I will never meet.
At 89, she took time out to show how this tragic invasion has saddened her and many others and we are helpless to do anything about it.
I felt a need to share this with all P. Supers (Soupers )
Take care, Old Duck.
Every time I piss on that little plastic stick I lose something.
An archer struck down on a battlement, a coin from a rich mans pocket, not enough to really feel it but enough to know it's gone. Something is.
Every time I let him cum in me I’m waving my white flag. Even if i ask him to, beg him to, I admit defeat.
To be a mother is to lose. From the point of conception to your last breath, you lose.
Your body is theirs to live in and reap for all they need.
Your thoughts are theirs, on them, or their thoughts.
Your health is in those tiny hands of theirs
.
And your love, your careful, gentle love, now raging red like an overfed hearth, will be theirs.
Whether they want it or not. Whether they take it or not.
It will rip from you and follow them like a curse.
And still, I ask him to, beg him to and admit my defeat. I piss on that plastic stick and hope, deep down, it will be my undoing.
Form:
Dearest Santa, this is for you I write,
To enlighten you about our own plight,
Isn't it Christmas all about peace?
If so, you must listen to our pleas.
We are the turkeys, Grown for the Christmas
Selected, genetically, fattened for meatiness
Suffer from pain due to hip degeneration
Heavy body restrain our locomotion
When in our natural world, we often fly
Roost on trees and watch the night sky
But in the factory, swollen and overfed
We shuffle along in a dimly-lit shed.
Lack of respect for their fellow creatures,
Humans ignore the kind old scriptures.
Profits have compromised animals’ freedom
The world now disregards Nature’s wisdom
Brutally manhandled poor male birds,
Forced to partially clip their beaks.
Mother turkeys are inhumanely violated,
Yet, they never see their eggs hatched.
The babies never know the mother's touch,
How can the man be as cruel as such?
The eggs are taken, when they are laid,
To be hatched in a machine, man-made.
When hatched, packed in crowded units
Motherless chicks, make many mega profits
Dearest Santa, kind and charming,
There’s much cruelty in factory farming.
Humane slaughter is a big fat lie,
Who are the animals that want to die?
Now you’ve heard our story of woe
Dearest Santa, please may I ask you?
Point a way forward to the humankind
To show some compassion in their mind.
Peace is not just a spoken word,
But, an act of kindness to uphold
Christmas time when the world, at ease
The children sing with joy and peace
When you visit with gifts and greetings
Whisper to them about our own grievings
Though it is late now for my generation
Children may stand up for our liberation
Rummaging through my overfed desk
of retired rubble a powerless and
defenseless button bounced soundless
to the floor to tread on the brown
ocean of shag safely surrounding it.
It had no immediate individuality,
just rigid and round as if carved
from hard bone. Almost art-like, opaque,
in just the right light. Its size, less than a quarter,
but more than a dime, focused on me with
four unashamed eyes, like the hunter
targeting his prize. A button looks so naked
without its clothing.
I rushed to seek a needle and some thread.
The button both competent and able
for the working class.
But where are the jobs?
None of my shirts require your application.
My daughter’s ragdolls still retain all
their eyeballs. I even checked the
checker set, no pieces on strike,
no need for a scab.
I pinched you in my fingers and placed
you on the newspaper by my bed.
The front page read:
“CAN AMERICA CURE THE UNEMPLOYMENT RATE?”
If you can believe it,
it still hovers ‘round 9.8.