If a man makes soup of his tears, ask him not for broth.
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Everybody Soup
everybody soup....
arms and legs,
hands and hearts....
boiled in the broth
of human experience....
seasoned by time,
and salty tears...
till fused together
with the sweet taste of life!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Soup Of The Day
Well she thinks shes looking so cool
She thinks shes great but shes just a fool
What awful lack of class makes this kind behave this way
I look and only think of one thing to say
Soup, shes just soup
Soup of the day
Shes thin around the waistline
Thin around the brain
You see this type so many times
Time and time again
How could they really think
Theyd be treated in any other way
Everybodys looking and everybody say
Soup, shes just soup
Soup of the day
Well youd think theyd know better
That behaving in this way
They think theyre being clever
But I really have to say
Youd better think it over
Youll regret it one fine day
When the circus partys over
And you were just soup of the day
Shes just soup
Soup of the day
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roasting
The seas of roasting chickens
Gang up on the mouth, to slaughter
Them is wise, more intelligent
Than themselves, who watch and listen
In ways of the Academy;
After tonight the walls of heaven collapse
For their taste and the taste buds work splendours.
Much eating occurred after me,
Most of the wasting accomplished nothing.
My boiling soup acutely spun
Under the weight of heaven and hell.
Those chances slim,
These windows thinner,
And my soup a broth for dinner.
poem by Naveed Akram
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You cook vegetable soup
You cook vegetable soup
and I look at you
while you cut green beans,
carrots, onions, celery, parsley
and tomatoes into two pots.
There are herbs, spices
and pepper that you are scattering
and two types of soup powder
that you throw in
and the pots steam and buzz
while I am washing the dishes
and the smell
makes me hungry
and I wonder
if the soup
are going to taste as good
as it smells.
We drink tee
and there’s medicine
that you give for flu
to me
and it’s great
to be with you
to read the look
in your beautiful eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Miss World 2012
Ni Hao, come into my kitchen
Boiling in the kettle is soup
This broth is about to thicken
Made from the chicken of my coop
Miss India, be seated on first
Mexican lass second chair please
But could this order be reversed
Miss china comes first like a breeze
You are all my guest, so behave
What you get is what you deserve
Once you hold the ladle, do save
The best, for your own choice to serve.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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I was wrong: So what. todays idiocy
I say that it’s impossible.
You cannot eat soup with chop sticks
Though it is highly probable.
Someone will try to prove he can.
To demonstrate his cleverness
and show he is a better man.
What will it prove should he succeed?
That I’m mistaken in my view.
I will be happy to concede
.
the victory to some buffoon.
Who can eat soup using chop sticks.
I still prefer to use a spoon.
I think soup should be eaten hot
I do not like cold soup a lot.
20/06/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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One bee makes no honey; one grain makes no rice soup.
Talk Soup
I dated siamese twins
I slept with bigfoot, too
Get me on sally jesse
Put me on donahue
cause I wanna tell the world about it
Right now
My dogs a narcoleptic
My moms a circus freak
I gotta get a spot on
Geraldos show this week
cause I wanna tell the world about it
Right now
Im just an anorexic codependant bingo addict
Stripper born without a chin
And Im only comfortable talking about it
When the whole wide world is listening in
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
My wife ran off with elvis
My boss shaved off my hair
Ive got a thing for poodles
And rubber underwear
And I wanna tell the world about it
Right now
I had a close encounter
I never chew my food
I got eleven nose jobs
I yodel in the nude
And I wanna tell the world about it
Right now
Im just a cross-dressin alcoholic neo-nazi
Porno star, as you may have guessed
And Im really gonna feel a whole lot better
If you let me get this thing off my chest
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
Im just your average schizophrenic nymphomaniac
Albino go-go dancer, you see
Nothin so bad that I cant share it
With a billion friends on national tv, whoa...
I have no genitalia
I sold my kids for cheese
I love my blow up doll, so
Bring out those cameras, please
cause I wanna tell the world about it
Right now
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
Talk soup... talk soup
Listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me, (listen to me) listen to me
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sky Seasoning
A piece of sky
Broke off and fell
Through the crack in the ceiling
Right into my soup,
KERPLOP!
I really must state
That I usually hate
Lentil soup, but I ate
Every drop!
Delicious delicious
(A bit like plaster),
But so delicious, goodness sake--
I could have eaten a lentil-soup lake.
It's amazing the difference
A bit of sky can make.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Sky Soup
The birds
Cutthrough
The blue—
Thick, azure porridge
Of the astral plane.
Steam building,
Billowing in
Cumulonimbus clouds
Blowing in thhhhecool front.
The aluminum wings
Of an airplane
Tear a ____
Through it allllllllllllllllll,
` The stew drains simmering—
A whirlpool bent around the jagged edge
Of the sunbeams emanating
From the soup
We call a sky,
It all mixes
With alphabet letters
And faces
And animals
And images
That we'd like to think we seeeeeeeee
But who knows?
It just spills from the bowl
I call my head.
Quench
My thirst throat,
Parched of nature's saliva,
The water,
Brain juice
Stream of consciousness
Pouring down my esophageal tube
Parachuting.
I'm hungry
For something soothing
To sip up with my eyes.
I'm starving
Scrawny,
So the broth of stellar noodles drips in my empty gullet,
Churning in my stomach,
Squashing and squinching
Squeezing in my mind's canteen.
The ceruleandraping
Cascades
Crush My ocular nerve,
Foam wiping my white washed, subfuse pupils
Clean. Sky soup.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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These Are (My Children)
standing in line at the mission,
they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup.
the winter wind whips down
between the buildings like a knife...
pulling tattered coats tight hunching.
and i can hear Shantideva whisper,
his hand on the ladel...
his body the meat of the soup,
his blood the broth...
'these are my children! '....
they walk in long staggered lines,
refugees from the bombing...
hungry scared children clinging,
afarid to lose sight of...
what's left of their families.
nothing behind, and nowhere to go,
not on any side...
and i can hear Jesus whisper,
His life the torch that lights the way,
His body the shelter against the night,
His blood the water, His hands stir the rice...
'these are My children! '....
the addict shivers, strung out and desperate...
the homeless family huddles in the car.
the young prisoner sleepless with the fear,
the old man going hungry feeds his bedridden wife...
the jobless young father begs to pick up trash...
and i know beyond all doubt,
my body, my soul, my spirit...
the wind that hears their cry.
'for these are my children! '...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Soup of day
She said severely:
“God have said: the soup must be warm! ”
It was a Gazpacho, a cold soup to a warm evening.
I have mixed tomatos, cucumbers,
red and green peppers,
red onions, a few garlics,
a few parsleys and coriander.
This soup had a beautiful colour: red and green! green and red!
It was cold, very cold, iced.
I have warmed up her soup
I have grilled also some scallops
with a pistachio dressing
she said:
“It is delightful mostly the orange and red parts.”
It was only a question of colours
I have dreamt at a blue gazpacho, blue scallops
Blue like the sea but the sea is never blue
and the blue is not a tasty colour.
Then we have recited some french poems
This evening was quiet and tender
despite the heat wave.
I like to remember this iced soup
and the awful warmth.
poem by Jean Francois Le Goff
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A man who touches the bottom of a soup plate with a ball of foofoo is no longer searching for soup.
One spoon of soup in need has more value than a pot of soup when we have an abundance of food.
Supper
The supper of the red soup came with love,
And Veh came along with Xeh as the next door neighbours;
But Beh was my friend on the supper of the red soup,
And i will take Beh back home on this love.
The pictures of my mind brought up wonderful colours,
And of the muse of the red soup so enjoyed last night;
But i will take Beh back home to embrace my love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The World Is Not Worth Trusting
We’re born into this realm of sorrows just like that;
sorrows, sadness and pains exactly after birth.
Nature cheats on us, we not on Nature.
We envision, we seek, we tend to have,
but have not;
we strive, we labour hard just in vain,
but Nature has multipli’d our sorrows.
Some born great gladd’n,
for Nature has made ‘em so;
oth’rs, suff’ring they all reap,
not that they’re lazy but Nature make’ so.
Some rich suppress;
some broth’rs help not broth’rs
and the world becomes and comes in vain.
poem by Eche Ononukwe
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“He makes me Cry”
He makes me cry
One day at a time
He makes me cry
As my tears dropp in a perfect straight line
He makes me cry
Like hail falling from the sky
He makes me cry
From eye to eye
He makes me cry
Every single night
He makes me cry
Every time I gaze upon his eyes
But now, it’s time for me to say my byes
For he departs on the next red-eye
So, I will cry for the very last time…
Written by
“The Raven”
poem by Gregory Upshaw
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