You have to eat oatmeal or you'll dry up. Anybody knows that.
quote by Kay Thompson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Older You Get The More You Look Like Oatmeal
bronze body turns to oatmeal over time,
you'll see what I mean, unless you go blind,
why, who knows, it's just part of the wheel,
the older you get, the more you look like oatmeal.
poem by Richard Jarboe
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The world wants oatmeal. It is not my job to give the world oatmeal. It is my job not to be a hack. It is my job to try to make the world chew, lest its lazy jaw muscles atrophy and its collective mandible withers and all its teeth fall out. It is my job, as a writer, to give the world toffee and peanut brittle and tough steak and celery. I write peanut butter sandwiches, not oatmeal. And every time some dolt whines, "I'm confused" or "I don't understand" or "This doesn't make any sense," I should smile and know that I'm doing my job. Not because it is my job to be opaque, but because it is not my job to be transparent.
quote by Caitlín R. Kiernan
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Dirty Old Man
the dirty old man is eating
his favorite vanilla flavored oatmeal
he is mean and cheap
as he was in his younger days
filled with stories of his conquests
of the many women of the town
he looks at my wife his relative
he laughs and then looks back at me
and he said that it was all about a mother
growing the bones of a daughter
and a man comes along
boring a bigger hole inside her
she did not find it funny of course
something lewd is not laudable
i look at his mustache
some oatmeal got stuck somehow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Witch And The Cat
there was once a witch,
who loved to sew and stich,
with her she had a cat,
who could make all kind of hats
, once the day came,
when the cat ran away
, and the witch was to blame,
she cooked him a meal,
of rye and oatmeal
, the rye was sour,
and the oatmeal tasted like tar, s
o he galloped of,
to a fairy named heretha toff,
the witch when saw the scene,
was less than pleased,
she did a magic spell,
who cats whereabouts could tell,
she hurried towards the house,
quite as a mouse,
leave him alone you swine
that cat, yea him he's mine,
'okay'the fairy shuddered
cause the witch she dreaded,
but the cat gave out a tiny smile,
i'm gonna send you away a thousand miles,
he said something enchanted
the witch's face looked haunted'
what have you done to me'she cried
for she herself was flying
after the witch was gone
they celebrated with a songa
nd here is how it ened
no more the story bended
it ended in laughter
and a happy ever after.
poem by Kanika Varma
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Paranoid
Everybody says I'm paranoid they all think I'm crazy
They all smile to my face but they'd like to see me die
They put poison in my coffee they put ground glass in my oatmeal
They put spiders in my tennis shoes and shit in my pecan pie
It's hard to stop and figure out where did it all begin
You see my father wanted a little girl and my mother wanted twins
And my grandpa admired Hitler so everything I did was wrong
And I'm gonna stop now cause even though you're smilin' I know you hate this song
Yeah and I know you're only listenin' cause you don't wanna hurt my feelin's
And you're just waitin' for me to leave so you can laugh about my open fly
You put the poison in my coffee you put the ground glass in my oatmeal
You put the spiders in my tennis shoes and you shit in my pecan pie
I know don't deny it I know I know I know
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Oatmeal
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there
is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started
on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering
furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously
gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh
to join me.
poem by Galway Kinnell
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Cultivating literature as I do upon a little oatmeal, and driving, when in a position to be driven at all, in that humble vehicle, the 'bus, I have had, perhaps, exceptional opportunities for observing their mutual position and behaviour; and it is very peculiar.
quote by James Payn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Porridge
Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
It it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!
On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.B.E."
(By a young dog of three)
poem by Spike Milligan
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Romancing poverty
When all the women
on their way to Africa
to give oatmeal
cookies
and granola bars
to the poor
have shaved heads,
you have to wonder—
does poverty make you blind,
fail to see beauty in pomegranate lips,
the pouring of auburn curls, or sea green eyes?
Oh! what an ode it will be,
what a turn of the lock and key,
when the cover of National Geographic reads,
“Masai boys discover beauty in silken thighs.”
poem by by unknown author
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One of life's best coping mechanisms is to know the difference between an inconvenience and a problem. Life is inconvenient. Life is lumpy. A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump. One needs to learn the difference.
quote by Robert Fulghum
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Innocence of Youth
How many dawns
have I greeted?
How many more
Remain for me?
Why do I feel
the seasons
so plainly
at this hour?
The tingle
of colder air
brings with it,
a haunted mood
and half memories
of what used to be.
Waking up to
winter morns,
a child raised
on a farm.
The smell of biscuits
cooking, steam
from hot oatmeal.
I don’t remember
aching or dreaming
of you. Just the
innocence of youth.
The innocence of youth.
poem by Emma Beverage
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Mask on Mom
For Mother's Day, I took the hint
Of giving Mom a gift that would
Be green and leave no carbon print.
A facial at home would be good.
So I mixed up an oatmeal goop,
And some seaweed from the fish tank,
Then covered Mom's face, scoop by scoop.
Mom said it itched, and it sure stank.
She wanted it off. I did try.
Dad walked in, took a glance and said,
'Looks like that Jason slasher guy.'
At last unmasked, Mom went to bed.
Going green for Mom is too hard.
Next year it's back to just a card.
Sliced Bread
Sliced bread...
Whole wheat and toasted.
Buttered with jam,
And munched.
Either with tea, punch...
Or just plain water for lunch!
Sliced bread...
With cheddar cheese and tomato.
Add Romaine lettuce,
Topped with fried strips of bacon.
This too will certainly do.
Sliced bread...
Oatmeal raisin,
Oven baked and fed.
Sliced bread...
Crumbed to stuff a turkey.
And seasoned to gobble...
With an aftertaste on the tongue,
Deliciously nutmeged!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Smelt Dragons
Ghosts smell of kittens as they are dragons,
Industrial fiends that taste to the public;
Inexcusable crimes are spoken and written
From the jarring of the supreme justice.
Lets be judged, lets affirm their pride of gold
And freaky substances making roil in humans.
Oatmeal is industry, owning us and making us breakfast,
But they supply quicksand and the notebooks.
Many pails of water lock teens in water,
Quiet rainstorms hope further and let pancakes.
poem by Naveed Akram
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We Were Four Sisters
We were four sisters, four sisters were we,
All four of us loved, but had different "becauses:"
One loved because father and mother told her to,
another loved because her lover was rich,
the third loved because he was a famous artist,
and I loved because I fell in love.
We were four sisters, four sisters were we,
All four of us wished, but had different wishes:
one wished to raise children and cook oatmeal,
another wished to wear a new dress every day,
the third wished everyone would talk about her,
and I wished to love and be loved.
poem by Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
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If I Were In Charge of the World
If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel oatmeal,
Monday mornings,
Allergy shots, and also Sara Steinberg.
If I were in charge of the world
There'd be brighter nights lights,
Healthier hamsters, and
Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower.
If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn't have lonely.
You wouldn't have clean.
You wouldn't have bedtimes.
Or "Don't punch your sister."
You wouldn't even have sisters.
If I were in charge of the world
A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts would be a vegetable
All 007 movies would be G,
And a person who sometimes forgot to brush,
And sometimes forgot to flush,
Would still be allowed to be
In charge of the world.
poem by Judith Viorst
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Stretched
Your brine desire soaks the night
Golden flesh now supple and drying
You have brought the living rain
Verdant dreams where children laugh
Connected in blue bird glory
Robins prance in morning delight
Oatmeal and fruit
Coffee with real cream
Shower the notes of a sweet saxophone
Get use to a jazzy blues darling
Can we be a family?
You divorced so recently
The children are beautiful
I am old but resilient
Your thighs make me loose weight
You are a lioness in bed
She makes me paint her toenails red
Today she takes the children to a park
Love is a sparkle in the sun
Tonight we have a barbecue
The kids are starting to like me
I pray for her and them
I am being stretched
Really stretched
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Milwaukee native Aunt's Oatmeal porridge!
I remember my brother said once
While he's drunk;
'Hey! Brother hope you taste one day in America
Milwaukee beer that would be quenched
the thirst of life? '
I wrote to him that I had a dream
One of our native aunts who
lives in Milwaukee forced me to come there
and taste her oatmeal porridge
with her unmarried daughter!
It's very strange on my visit
They found my water-pistol in the haversack?
And they shouted.
It's harmless but still they're scared of weapons?
Though it's a dream
I saw their true innocence and the courtesy!
That could be changed a warrior to a lover?
[The Problem without a name: Just what was this problem that has no name? What were the words women used when they tried to express it? Sometimes a woman would say 'I feel empty somehow....incomplete.'Or she would say 'I feel as if I don't exist.'
-Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique.
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Cookie Crumbs
Cookies will save the world.
Cookies have saved the world.
Thirteen of them landed on the moon
They called them the Apollo 13 of cookies
Chocolate Chip built the pyramids
And Macadamia painted the Sistine Chapel
The Nile runs with milk
Because the sun is an Oreo
And the sun is the Nile's favorite
Favorite cookie
Superman defeated no one
Super Sugar Cookie did all that
Double Chocolate Jackie Robinson
Was the first Afro-American to play baseball in the majors
And Oatmeal Raison was the first president
Who couldn't tell a lie
Girl Scouts sell cookies
In an effort to save the world
Because that's what cookies do best
I wish I could write more
But my cookie is gone
I ate it while I wrote this poem
My inspiration is now in my tummy
I think we all could save the world
If the world ran on cookies
But now there's nothing left of mine but
Crumbs
poem by Tsunami HiroshiSu
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Illegal Smile
When I woke up this morning, things were lookin bad
Seem like total silence was the only friend I had
Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... and won
And it was twelve oclock before I realized
That I was havin .. no fun
Chorus:
But fortunately I have the key to escape reality
And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile
It dont cost very much, but it lasts a long while
Wont you please tell the man I didnt kill anyone
No Im just tryin to have me some fun
Last time I checked my bankroll,
It was gettin thin
Sometimes it seems like the bottom
Is the only place Ive been
I chased a rainbow down a one-way street... dead end
And all my friends turned out to be insurance salesmen
Repeat chorus:
Well, I sat down in my closet with all my overalls
Tryin to get away
From all the ears inside my walls
I dreamed the police heard
Everything I thought... what then?
Well I went to court
And the judges name was hoffman
Ah but fortunately I have the key to escape reality
And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile
It dont cost very much, but it lasts a long while
Wont you please tell the man I didnt kill anyone
No Im just tryin to have me some fun
Well done, hot dog bun, my sisters a nun
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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