Mustard 'And' Pudding?
Climbing out the crib,
To take care of personal business...
Is taught.
And becomes a necessity.
A work ethic.
A game daily sought to play,
As a way of life to survive.
Thriving on lip does not cut the mustard.
It would be nice to have a team-mate,
To relay strategies.
But when one is taught to win,
Only those accustomed to hitting homeruns...
Get the attention.
Time is rarely given,
To those boasting of what they've done.
Action is the key to unlock doors these days.
'What do you mean by...
Thriving on lip does not cut the mustard? '
Show me your attempts of a wish to succeed.
I don't want to 'hear' about your expectations.
The proof is in the pudding.
'Mustard 'and' pudding?
Ugh!
I can see why you live alone.
That's a little too eccentric for me.'
You are not the one I am soliciting.
'Trust me...
I don't know which one of us is happier.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Margo Wants The Mustard
I watch her move up and down the beach, well
The fellows drool, but shes out of their reach, and
These are not a part of the scheme, but
Let them hope, and let them dream
So many dreams in the mind of the men, well
Come to life through a good one love
Margo walks in another place, well
Its in their minds, and its on her face
Some like it cool
Some like it hot
Some give a little
Some give a lot
Some wanna give everything that theyve got
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, she needs a little spice
Margo wants the mustard
Then shell spread it on real light
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, shell never ever stop
Margo wants the mustard
It will take her to the top
Shes only got to smile that way when
It lifts your heart, throws your troubles away, and
When she moves, well Ive got to say
This rhythm method goes a long, long way
Its in the bones, and its in the head
This precious thing has got to be fed, well
I shouldnt say, but it must be said
Its even better when its in your bed
Some like it cool
Some like it hot
Some give a little
Some give a lot
Some wanna give everything that theyve got
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, she needs a little spice
Margo wants the mustard
Then shell spread it on real light
Margo wants the mustard
Shell never ever stop
Margo wants the mustard
It will take her to the top
(a wop bop a loo mop, a lop bom bom)
[classic es solo]
I cant explain what she motivates, but
Its all around, but its hard to relate
It must be close to heavenly bliss though
How I wish I could follow this and
Splashing out all over the place
Pour it all over the human race, yeh
I may be starting another sin, but
Sit right back, watch the fun begin
Some like it cool
Some like it hot
Some give a little
Some give a lot
Some wanna give everything that theyve got
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, she needs a little spice
Margo wants the mustard
Then shell spread it on real light
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, shell never ever stop
Margo wants the mustard
It will take her to the top
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, she needs a little spice
Margo wants the mustard
Then shell spread it on real light
Margo wants the mustard
Yeh, shell never ever stop
Margo wants the mustard
It will take her to the top...
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When You Touch Me
when you touch me
something in me grows
like a mustard
and then as Jesus once said
the mustard
becomes a tree and i am here
on top of everything
flowering fruiting
blooming ripening
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ballade 2
In Antwerp, Bruges, Ostend and Ghent
I used to order food with flair,
But in every inn to which I went
They always brought me, with my fare,
With every roast and mutton dish,
With boar, with rabbit, pigeon, bustard,
With fresh and with salt-water fish,
Always, never asking, mustard.
I ordered herring, said I'd like
Carp for supper at the bar,
And called for simple boiled pike,
And two large sole, when I ate at Spa.
I ordered green sauce when in Brussels;
The waiter stared and looked disgusted;
The bus boy brought in with my mussels
As always, never asking, mustard.
I couldn't eat or drink without it.
They add it to the water they
Boil the fish in and-don't doubt it-
The drippings from the roast each day
Are tossed into a mustard vat
In which they're mixed, and then entrusted
To those who bring-they're trained at that-
Always, never asking, mustard.
Prince, it's clear a spice like clove
can drop its guard. It won't be busted.
There's just one thing these people serve:
Always, never asking, mustard.
poem by Eustache Deschamps
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Sonnet: The Mustard Seed
How great a power fills a mustard seed-
A miniscule sphere, packed with silent life!
That falls in soil right, turning tree to feed
Both beasts and human beings, in much strife.
What creative mind made the mustard seed,
That rudely wakened, sprouts to mammoth tree!
With multitude of leaves verdure indeed,
And branches which nest birds, so proud and free.
God’s Kingdom too is like a mustard seed
That grows infinitesimally big with time,
And houses righteous souls that always heed
To Maker’s code regardless of earth’s clime.
The beauty of Heaven is foretold thus:
So fathomless, that none should ever miss!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-2-2007
poem by John Celes
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The Spices
Of the spices of life,
Of the spices of love,
Of the spices of peace,
Of the spices of my mind,
Life in Africa maters to me lot.
Of Black Cumin,
Of Red Peppercorns,
Of Black Mustard,
Of Cayenne Pepper,
Of White Mustard,
Of Mixed Peppercorns,
Of Mahaleb Cherry,
Of Szechuan pepper,
Almost everybody is with a mobile phone in Africa!
But strong alcohol are consumed daily by the majority unemployed.
In Africa,
My mind sits and writes;
Because, life in Africa matters to me a lot.
Of Coriander, Ground Ginger, Fenugreek, Turmeric and Paprika!
Like the struggles daily in Africa for a survival;
But one day, we will get there.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Proof Is In The Pudding
What on Earth is going on with them over there?
'I was approached to give my opinion,
Concerning the world affairs.
And all I said was...
The proof is in the pudding.
The truth in it has been revealed.
And before I knew it,
That's what they began to do.
I'm sure the store owner is thrilled.'
But...
How is the dumping of pudding mixes,
Out into the street...
Connect to your comments made?
'Observe to witness this.
That's all I have to say.
It never ceases to amaze me,
How people re-act to what they hear.'
You don't think they took your figurative comments,
Literally...
Do you?
'Observe to witness this.
That's all I have to say.'
What do you think they are hoping to find?
'Something that reminds them of truth.
Or proof of it.
Who knows? '
I'm not going to say what they are doing is stupid.
'Don't even let that cross your mind.
Just observe it to witness.
The proof is in the pudding.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Tale of Custard The Dragon
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
poem by Ogden Nash
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A Mustard Seed Develops Exponentially?
Sometimes an apology
is aesthetically necessary.
To excuse a moment of muddled
distracted introverted preoccupation.
Even though or when inferably...
an apology is not necessary.
Sometimes an apology
is absolutely necessary.
To excuse a moment of extreme stupidity
or faux pas various social misdemeanors.
Even when we may be absolutely innocent
framed misunderstood or sadly guilty as sin.
Such socially interactive afterthought
and kind commendable consideration.
Is a character forming trait
that can appease elevate beautify.
A mere agitated mortal into
a person attaining great compassion.
These are tiny mustard seeds
of apparent insignificance.
From which the mighty
mustard tree may grow.
‘The kingdom of the heavens
is like a mustard grain, ...
and becomes a tree, so that the birds
of heaven come and find lodging...'
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Mustard Tree
Sometimes an apology
is aesthetically necessary.
To excuse a moment of muddled
distracted preoccupation.
Even though or when inferably...
an apology is not necessary.
Such socially interactive afterthought
and commendable consideration.
Is a character forming trait
that can appease elevate.
A mere agitated mortal into
a person attaining great compassion.
These are mustard tiny seeds
of apparent insignificance.
From which the mighty
mustard tree may grow.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Connected
Some folks say to me...
'Lawrence you don't 'write'
Like you are 'black'.
My handwriting 'is' bad sometimes!
I admit to that!
And I was never taught to be a 'black' writer.
But I thank God this keyboard and computer I use...
Could care less what I am.
Black, white, apricot or mustard seed!
As long as I pay the electricity!
And keep everything in my name connected!
Everything is fine...
And I don't have that as an issue!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pudding Time
You can have a lolly pop
A candy bar a jelly bean.
Ill buy you a rainbow
To hang above your door.
Its pudding time.
Laughter is a sweet
You cant put a price on.
When laughters all gone
Daddy wont buy you more.
Its pudding time.
Its pudding time children.
Money money money
To buy you things.
Daddys gonna buy you a
Diamond ring.
Humpty dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty dumpty had a great fall
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldnt put humpty together again.
San francisco bay the
Striped bass are dying.
But youre gonna get
That brand new bike
Oh joy
Its pudding time
Its pudding time children.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Valentine Chameleon
Who be my
valentine?
Even a friend'd
do, Tina
said- but how
dare i think
valentine
if C
who i thought be
my friend asked
me not to
contact her
furthermore
pudding china
rang in her
voice still yet
cold pudding
it was- imagine
cold pudding!
aye but i
glutton on
cold pudding -
hot pudding
scorches my
lips but hoo
this china
i knew not
self-changed
into chalk
ice plaster
and sour milk
hi what do
you want from
me actually?
wish no more
contact C.-
chameleon
poem by Michael Witkowski
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Choices
i prefer smooth peanut butter
to crunchy
mind you
crunchy is all right
but i prefer smooth.
i prefer strawberry jam
to raspberry
mind you
raspberry is tasty
but it's got all those seeds
and i prefer strawberry.
i prefer mustard
to mayonaisse
mind you mayonaisse has it's place
amongst condiments
but is likely to go bad
if left out to long
and poison everyone
so on the whole i prefer mustard.
i prefer cooked meat
to raw meat
for much the same reason
as i prefer mustard to mayonaisse
although it also has to do
with the fact that i don't
like my meat to bleat
or moo or make chicken noises (BAGOCK!)
when i eat
so i tend to avoid the raw
though mind you
the meat that i prefer
may at some time have been raw.
i prefer not to say
why i think so
but i do
and i suppose it's all
just a matter of taste
so if you'd prefer to think so
then crunchy is better
than smooth
even if it does interfere
with the texture of the
peanut butter
and jelly (strawberry) sandwich
which ought to be somewhat
devoid of substance
merely a sticky sweet something
to fill your stomach
put mayonaisse on it
if you like
i'd prefer not to think about it.
poem by Laura Sewell
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On The Run
On the run
From society, culture, and beliefs
Molded from our environment and the things we see
On the run
From statistics, stereotypes, and preconcieved notions of me
The root of my being and faith; Planted- A mustard seed
On the run
From poverty, crime, mistaken identity; Life taken by the gun
On the run
From racism, enemies, and the unjust
Love, hate and lust
On the run
From those I can't trust
On the run, run I must
Away from worldviews, that make no effort to soothe
The pain of it's cause
On the run away from personal flaws
On the run until my time is done
poem by Charmain Hughes
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Collection February 24,2012
yellowing marriage blanket
she wonders what
to say to him
lost virginity
every time as she sees
zip
a burst of laughter
the old pant zip works well
for her trousers
artist's new dawn
the horizon streaked with
yellow acrylic
buddha birthplace visit
the mustard fields
swirling with grace
buddha birthplace visit
the mustard fields
firing up my curiosity
infinite X - a lost Star
God and that file to help us
find the murderers
files X, XX, XXX
all the things that you
should not know
Chinese death penalty
his name on a panel
crossed with red
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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This Art Work
The love of a muse,
The pen of an artist,
This ink work will teach many yet unborn.
This art is from a realm to guide you,
This art work is like a mustard seed aroun you;
It is original!
It comes from a realm unknown;
It will inspire you.
This art is real to abstract your minds,
The innovative nature of my mind to you all;
It is the act of my dreams beyond imaginations!
This art will teach many,
It will inspire you all that love the muse.
This art work,
It is like a mustard seed;
It will grow to give you joy!
It is like the muse next door,
It will touch and influence you;
This art work ia sll that i have as an artist
This art work is never known,
It is called, 'Pen-Painting Graphics Abstracts'.
This art will teach many,
My innerself from the realm of imaginations!
This art will teach you;
But, the artist is never known.
This art is from a realm to guide you into my heart,
This art is from a realm to bring you into my world,
This is the love of a sweet muse to you all;
This art is from the pen of an artist who,
Is yet to be known.
This art is here to stay,
This art is all that i have for you all;
Cos', he who proves his skills proves his realms.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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We are Transmitters
As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Unlock That Box!
Everybody knows.
You're behind closed doors.
Wishing to live a life you hide.
But afraid to step outside.
So...
Unlock that box!
You like to peep but get on out.
Too many people keep their wishes swept away.
To have their walls upon them fall...
As they dry to rot and fade.
Unlock that box!
Get out and walk the block.
And stop playing the game with life,
Of love or love me not.
Everybody knows.
You're behind closed doors.
Wishing to live a life you hide.
But afraid to step outside.
So...
Unlock that box!
Or...
Get somebody who will prove,
That you can move and do it!
Don't be neurotic you can do something about it.
Unlock that box.
Why you choose to be neurotic.
Unlock that box.
You can do something about it.
Unlock that box.
You're like an addict on narcotics.
And everybody knows you're there behind closed doors.
Unlock that box.
Why you choose to be neurotic.
Unlock that box.
You can do something about it.
Unlock that box.
You're like an addict on narcotics.
Unlock that box.
Why you choose to be neurotic.
Unlock that box.
You're like an addict on narcotics.
Unlock that box!
You can do something about it.
Unlock that box!
You're hypnotized and neurotic.
Unlock that box.
You're like an addict on narcotics.
Unlock that box!
You're hypnotized and neurotic.
Unlock that box.
You're like an addict on narcotics.
Unlock that box!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mustard field
One day while walking in a mustard field,
I found a swing hanging on a mango tree,
mustard flowers were swirling with breeze,
birds were singing on tree,
there I found a swing on mango tree,
its ropes were long and thick,
I rode on it,
it moved up in the air like a bird,
and return back to move up there,
I saw a well from up there,
and bird nest on tree on back in the air,
the swing was moving here and there,
it was not aware of who I am,
just it was giving me feeling divine,
without any question or discrimination,
I found joy to fill my heart and I lived that moment like a bird!
poem by Hemu Gupta
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You Are Your Guard
Color white
Show your might
Color red
Be ready to fade
Color black
Be not slack
Color yellow
Nothing can swallow
Brown or purple
Wait for people
Orange and peach
Go to pitch
Violet and grey
Life is a play
Chocolate mustard
You are your guard.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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