Short Kernels Poems
Short Kernels Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Kernels by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Kernels by length and keyword.
MISS POPCORN
sprouted kernels pop
all over the living room
missing her mouth
11/21/2017
peel away green outer husk
sweet yellow plump kernels found
boil first eat with butter
P.R.Deremer
wild eyed pancakes
invented by grandma
two kernels of corn for eyes
delighting her grandchildren
sometimes a mistake makes the best memory
Kernels in the dark,
Most trusted food in the world,
Eaten sight unseen.
Kernels popped in olive oil,
Butter-drizzled and
tossed with salt or Parmesan
or candied as balls!
Versatile delight
in puffs of
white!
Perry was a popcorn-popping pro
He himself announced it was so.
He dipped kernels in a potion
Which started stomachs in motion.
Now the whole town is on the go.
The two Cobs at the beach made a stop
Each then laid out their blanket to plop!
But they somehow forgot
That day's sun was too hot-
Quickly, Madam Cob's kernels did pop!
Corn couple lies in beach with bodies bare,
smooth skin soaks in midday sun’s scorching glare.
His lewd stare makes Miss Cob groan,
heat bakes anger in her bone,
kernels of sizzling words pop up in air.
#1
corny valentine, you are my favorite said hawk.
lend me an ear, honey, but do not stalk
shuck on down to Iowegian town
give me a wave, a smile, not a frown
corny valentine, you are so neat
with your rounded kernels, ever so sweet.
Juicy, plump rings of summer.
Spinning round and round -
While bedecked with kernels of dawn.
What luck I have found!
Unique in your venture-
Riding with the whirls of sweetness.
Please take me with you!
As we radiate in our greenness.
Creep, oh centipede!
A malady to my cornea.
Like kernels a decoy
In my Eden realm.
I'm infuriate to civility
Just us serenity intervene.
Serendipity smock my bones
In solitude.
Here it is, your servitude
Of search.
Work.
Toil.
The pain I put in the ground.
For such a precious thing.
Corn.
The family enjoys their meal.
They plant their leftover kernels.
And wait for me to tend to them.
Work.
An endless cycle in which happiness is born.
©Demand4poetry
21 February 2013
Wanted from the world,
The debt of responsibility
Preys on her mind
And weighs down her soul,
Clinging sticky
Like a spot of amber tree sap,
Cavalierly touched,
And afterwards offensive.
The grinding stone of expectations
Moves stolidly round and
About the kernels of
Vanishing freedom,
Ground into the grit
Of everyday existence.
There once was an old geezer named Bob
who loved to munch on corn on the cob.
But since he wore false teeth
kernels got underneath:
and so he'd turn them down with a sob.
Sitting on the can, he read an ad
touting a brand new fancy doodad:
So he pulled up his pants
got some dental implants,
and chomps more corn than he ever had.
Nebraska has turned herself gray early this year
A desolate cornfield stands torn and disheveled
A cold front comes in from the north
She whips a few strands from the stalks
An anticipatory shiver goes through the field
An empty feeling of winter saturates the ground
Deer have decimated the last few corn kernels
Nebraska winters rival those in Michigan
Crumbling crinkly, cracker crumbs
into salty, seafood stew,
Mother made our midday meal.
Fast for favorite food we flew.
Gluttony Glenda gulped a glass
of Linda's lovely, lemon tea.
While Will wolfed down whole walnut meats,
carefully crunching kernels free.
"Savages", sister Susan said.
"Politeness, please," our papa pled.
7/4/14
For Dr. Mehta's contest
They dipped our being in dirty grease
Added a fistful of kernels.
Life turned up the heat.
One by one we're popping out
little puffy hatchlings
sweet songs filling our beaks.
Growing feathers and talons
ready to fly now
on updrafts
of silent song.
Ready to ignite the world
that spit fire on our nest
one by one we'll pluck the rubies
from all of their arrogant chests.
metal beads dropped in
a great jar of liquid glass
will anything grow—
from inorganic kernels
tucked within a sunless hall?
rainbow branches rise
as brittle flames pierce the seas
crystal cores blooming
art and science harmonize
in a forest made of glass
this everyone knows:
plants grow green under the sun
nature teaches still
primordial elements
are mysteries yet unearthed
Whom could it be, this professional Poet
selling his blood for a few kernels of grain
Whom could it be, this professional Poet
pandering to others in search of a name
Whom could it be, this professional Poet
drunken talk-show appearance, stumbling again
Whom could it be, this professional Poet
the strongest of liars—the weakest of men
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)
Whom could it be, this professional Poet,
selling his blood for a few kernels of grain
Whom could it be, this professional Poet,
pandering to others in search of a name
Whom could it be, this professional Poet,
drunken talk-show appearance, stumbling again
Whom could it be, this professional Poet,
the strongest of liars—the weakest of men
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)
Lounging on the beach supine
With Rayban sunglasses on.
At last, summertime is here;
A hot one at that!
The heat could roast a chicken;
A sun too hot to handle!
I am a corn on a cob;
My kernels popping!
Hey, friend, aren't you feeling this?
You're a corn on the cob, too.
I don't see you popping off!
What's going on here?
The corn is sweeping low;
her tasseled head is bent,
as dying souls lament
about the waning glow.
This life too quickly fades,
thin mists that pale the glade.
In furrows dark and dry,
the kernels, hard, that fall
beneath the autumn squall,
now lie alone. Awry
the seed the wind propelled
to propagate the veld.
So life reflects the corn
that dies to bloom reborn.
Copyright, August 16, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
The woods have been gathering here
for long generations,
they have their own arboreal language,
a nocturnal patois
ground out by layers of ligneous skins.
The language is arcane,
it arrives from deep ancestral roots
incantations that turn slowly
into the kernels of long seeded words.
Deep into the night I listen,
then listen yet more
to the garrulous gossiping
of a creaky wooden bed
chatting to a talky timbered floor.
The kernels desires to expand and pop.
If you make it in too much water, it gets cooked and boggy.
In too much sticky butter, it gets grounded to the bottom of the pan.
In too much flame, it gets the undesired smokey flavor.
In too much spray of oil, it becomes an unhealthy snack.
So pop well and rise and transform to a beautify popcorn.
Then again I see you acting as a co-star in a song.
Shall I call it touché or well-done?
Nine rivers you swam
Bang, into the marathon
Now six rivers you row
Into the eternal riddle.
Thunder frog-jumps out of mouths
Rain splutters from pale sockets
...yestersay.
Now I adjust my backpack
In memory's frigate.
I try to smile
For I am not alone-nor ever will be-
You answer me in the tree-tops
And in the cowrie-dance:
I peep into tomorrow today
I crack the kernels
In the barns of years and years and years to come.