For the first few years we lived in a tiny rented cottage at the bottom of a friend's garden. We often joked that there was plenty of film in the fridge, but not too much food!
quote by Nigel Dennis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Livin In The Fridge
Theres something weird in the fridge today
I dont know what it is
Food I cant recognize
My roommate wont throw a thing away
I guess its probably his
It looks like its alive...
And livin in the fridge... livin in the fridge
Livin in the fridge... livin in the fridge
Theres something dross in the fridge today
Its green and growin hair
Its been there since july
If you can name the object
In that baggie over there
Then mister, youre a better man than i
Its livin in the fridge
You cant stop (dysentary) the mold from growin (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
Cant tell what (dysentary) it is at all (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
You cant stop (dysentary) the mold from growin (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
Tell me, do you think it should be carbon dated
Fumigated or creamated and buried at sea?
You try to save a little bit of youre home cookin
Couple weeks later, got a scary-lookin specimen
It always happens my friend
Again & again & again & again
Somethin stinks in the fridge today
And its been rottin there all week
It could be liver cake or wooly mammoth steak
Well, maybe I should another peek...
Livin in the fridge
You cant stop (dysentary) the mold from growin (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
Cant tell what (dysentary) it is at all (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
You cant stop (dysentary) the mold from growin (dysentary)
Livin in the fridge
Livin in the fridge
Dont know what it is, dont know what it is
Livin in the fridge
Dont know what it is, dont know what it is
Livin in the fridge
Dont know what it is at all
Livin in the fridge, yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rich Poor Man
We pitied him because
He lived alone;
His tiny cottage was
His only own.
His little garden had
A wall around;
Yet never was so glad
A bit of ground.
It seemed to fair rejoice
With flowers and fruit;
With blooms it found a voice
When ours was muts.
It smiled without a pause
In gracious glow:
I think it was because
He loved it so.
He had no news to read,
No rent to pay;
His vegetable need
He plucked each day.
His grateful garden gave
Him ample fare;
He lived without a crave,
Without a care.
His bread and milk and tea
Were all he bought;
To us he seemed to be
A sorry lot . . .
But when we're dead and gone,
With all our fuss,
I guess he'll carry on,
And laugh at us.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Fridge
My fridge has a life of it's own
It's own
Why don't I have a life of my own?
I, plug it in, [that is the fridge]
And still it has a life of it's own
As it whines and sings
It's broken sonatas
So 'postmodern' for a fridge!
I, on the other hand only moan
Sometimes I think it is haunted
Possessed by the ghost of a fridge long dead
Do fridges have souls? , they are too cold
Full of white glossed metal
How can a fridge really feel?
This is getting surreal
But at night all alone
I hear it weeping
Could it be speaking
In 'fridge morse code? '
Filling in the gaps
Between sleeping
And waking
Wondering if life is there for the taking
What it would be like to have a life of my own
yvette m smith great poetess of the uk
april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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First Encounter - Imamura Shohei
Imamura Shohei
that love of the orient
shines through his face
Imamura Shohei
our meet marked by
mutual love for the orient
The late Imamura Shohei won the Grand Prix Award for the Cannes Film Festival for the film Narayama Bushiko many years back. The film depicts the strange custom of a Japanese village where old folks were
sent to mountains to die to solve food problems. The most touching scene was that of an old woman waving to her reluctant son to go after he had brought her to the mountains. Imamura was in Malacca in the 80s to film his other film Zegen when we met up. He greeted me like a friend, an outpouring of his love for the orient. Zegen did not make it to the box office but his recognition as one of Japan best directors surivives.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Overweight with Food
Are you just a tub of lard and
Vastly overweight?
Do you think that when you die you'll
Need a piano crate
To act as coffin for your frame? -
Chosen as you die in shame, with
Only you to take the blame
For years of eating much the same:
A daily calorific fest
Gourmands of your ilk digest!
Is your heart in final fling and
Nearly set to burst?
Are your arteries bunged and clogged and
Feeling now the worst
For wear? - your aneurysm fit to blow
While blood as thick as rising dough
Cries 'Halt! ' to any hope of flow:
A dreadful state to put on show
In front of any nurse!
Best you hail a hearse.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
Oh! Food food food food food food food foooooood!
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Seans In The Sky
-daddy, when did we have no house?
-when?
-when, when did we have no house and we rented this house?
-in 1973, we didnt have this house, yet, thats when we bought this house
-oh!
-two years before you were born
-oh, and I just wasnt coming with you? to find this house?
-no, well you werent born yet. you were still in the sky.
-oh, and when I came back, was down here, what did I went in?
-a little, a little cardboard box. with a little blanket in, little teeny tiny
Teeny tiny little boy in a little tiny cardboard box. they used to have apples in it, hmm
You used to do this here.
-a apple box!
-well, a little cardboard box, you see. like they bring groceries in. and it was you instead of the groceries.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nature Trail
At the bottom of my garden
There's a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There's a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of woodlice,
All are on my nature trail.
There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always chose their time
And I've even seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.
Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I've seen bats that growl
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise old owl.
My garden is a lively place
There's always something happening,
There's this constant search for food
And then there's all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.
poem by Benjamin Zephaniah
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The Past
The Past
I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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042211I please try it
i box food i wasn't able to eat
which i usually throw it away
after watching documentaries
in far away land where food
is scarce that sometimes
riots occur just for buying
situation; sometimes i forget
in my fridge and i feel guilty
i write date on it; sometimes
i color code those boxes
most are meats and fruits
please try it, conserve food
poem by Manonton Dalan
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.
poem by David Harris
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The Dunnocks Nest
A memory from the past I still recall
In the box hedge by the old garden wall
I saw two male dunnocks and a hen
Fly out of hedge and then with food fly in.
I heard their little nestlings for food cry
And I with the curiosity of a boy
Peered in the hedge a moss built cup shaped nest I see
With pink skinned nestlings in it I counted three.
To the ways of Nature I was young and green
And I marvelled at the wonder I had seen
Three blind and pink skinned nestlings the shy dunnock's brood
Thought I too was a carer with some food.
With their tiny mouths wide open for food they did plead
And when I did not satisfy their greed
They slumped back in their nest as in a heap
And within a few minutes were asleep.
It must have been close to fifty years ago
Yet of Nature little I still seem to know
But such a precious memory bound to stay
With me until the reaper has his way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Food is My Friend
Food is my friend,
I eat it everyday.
When I'm all done,
I throw the trash away!
Food is really good;
I like chicken and pizza and fries.
I think that without it,
I just would not survive!
Food can be gross, too;
It stinks when it's gone bad.
But when it doesn't stink,
It actually tastes rad!
Food is the best;
I'm sad when it ends.
But all in all,
FOOD IS MY FRIEND! !
this was written by me and my brother
poem by Rebecca Ryan
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Second of January 2006
Drove into Moruya the pre-beach
near coastal town, place
of my parents' retirement for fifteen years.
Their rented cottage re-occupied,
the garden no doubt not as it was
no one to fight the drought
and poor soil or indulge its subjects,
The shared grave went unvisited.
"Life is with the living" she would say,
so many are consumed by the monument,
but treat the living so appallingly.
Booked into the local pub,
had a beer at the near empty bar
spoke to the barman of my parents,
he'd not heard of them, but
knew the landlord.
An unimportant life, ordinary,
dispersed without trace,
the fate of all
quiet peaceful souls.
The highway bridged the river
straight out of town,
they'd fish and drift
it's tidal runs.
poem by Danny Draper
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Tiny Steps
Muscle baby wont let go
Weekend baby wont say no
Is she an active beauty ?
I should say so
Wooden bones and pretty lashes
Iodine for your babys gashes
Little tombs for your babys ashes
If something goes wrong
Tiny steps almost real
Tiny fingers you almost feel
Make her walk or make her kneel
Oh, shes almost human beneath that cuban heel
Whos that down at the bottom of the garden ?
Whos that hiding underneath the sofa ?
Who gets blamed whenever youre in trouble ?
Shes your friend and shes your double
Tiny steps almost real
Tiny fingers you almost feel
Make her walk or make her kneel
Oh, shes almost human beneath that cuban heel
Pretty little fashion face
Pick anyone up off the shelf
Though you say its a disgrace
You know you owe it to yourself
You can even shop around
Though you wont find any cheaper
Shes your baby now
You can keep her
Tiny steps almost real
Tiny fingers you almost feel
Make her walk or make her kneel
Oh, shes almost human beneath that cuban heel
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It was in New York, and I've always wanted to film in New York. And the writer was a teenage friend of mine. We did youth theatre together when we were 16 and always had a dream of making a film together. And ten years later, we've done it. So it's great.
quote by Rosamund Pike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To A Silvereye
I see you almost every day you fly from tree to tree
And I envy you your happiness for you are wholly free
You tiny insect eating bird in olive fawn and gray
And I feel glad so very glad to see you every day.
No boss to order you around to tell you what to do
Wish you were me dear tiny bird and wish that I were you
For you have freedom in your wings the freedom of the sky
And I envy you your happiness dear tiny silvereye.
On garden tree and green hedgerow close to the homes of men
I see you almost every day you and your tiny kin
From garden tree to garden tree and to and fro you wing
And midst the leaves the sunlit leaves you preen and chirp and sing.
I see you almost every day from tree to tree you fly
And I envy you your happiness the freedom of the sky
And I've a wish a secret wish when my turn come to die
That I will come to life again a tiny silvereye.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In the Garden, With My Father
It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.
I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.
But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.
It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Nursing Home Blue
Nursing Home Blues
I sent mother to a nursing home, she didn´t want
to go but I ignored her wishes, we often do that
when concerning old people, we say it is for their
own good, but the truth is I didn´t know what
else to do. Mother became quite rebellious they
called me from the home she was throwing food
about and demanded, when she evacuated, that
an assistant come and dry her bum.
Wanted to go home, there was no home she had
lived in a rented flat and someone else lived there.
When she knew she she felt betrayed, her silence
was damning. She stopped eating, gaunt, a skeleton
before death came as a relief. Now that I´m old too
families telling me I should not ride on my scooter
in case I might fall off…like should I care.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Last Irish Christening
We christened Megan
Catholic today
just as we had,
years ago, Sean and Nora.
Afterward my wife and I,
with relatives and friends,
talked and joked as Megan slept
through drinks and barbecue
Father fixed behind the phlox
in Mother's garden.
That was Sunday.
Now, on Monday,
Sue and I begin
another week of work
and all the years
we'll have to wait
before we'll know
if Megan swings
the razor of good reason.
We need to know
because of Sean and Nora.
They slew us
at the age of treason.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Food
There's a ghost in my fridge I hear a hum
When I open the door there is no one
No matter how hard I look
There's nothing there except some food long time cooked
Happiness can come in many ways
Mine's a cold beer on the second tray.
For I daren't touch the food you see
Its got hair all over it and growls at me.
poem by JeanJacques Evendon
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