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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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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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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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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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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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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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It All Comes True
I stand here a black man I have no history
I was brought up in east chicago and I grew up on the streets
The chains around the playground were the chains around my heart
The brand upon my shoulder well it reminds you who you are
Chorus:
And it all comes true yes it all comes true
Like a wheel inside a wheel it turns on you
And you think, what have I done? what can I do?
What you believe about yourself
It all comes true
I was just a young girl my mother called me hon
My father was unhappy cause I should have been his son
They said, learn to be a waitress and learn to be a wife
And be thankful for a chance to live an ordinary life
Chorus:
And it all comes true yes it all comes true
Like a wheel inside a wheel it turns on you
And you think, what have I done? what can I do?
What you believe about yourself
It all comes true
My life is a contradiction of sorrow and desire
I drag my heart across the ash to throw it on the fire
Maybe theres a reason and could there be a plan
Or are we all just fools to think well understand
Chorus:
And it all comes true yes it all comes true
Like a wheel inside a wheel it turns on you
And you think, what have I done? what can I do?
What you believe about yourself
It all comes true
And it all comes true yes it all comes true
Like a wheel inside a wheel it turns on you
And you think, what have I done? what can I do?
What you believe about yourself
It all comes true
song performed by by John Mellencamp
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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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.
Life Is A Wheel
Life
Is a wheel
The heart, brain,
Lung lever, kidney
The spokes
The blood works
The same way as
The air in the tube
Of the body like tire
A small leak
Can make the tire flat
One broken spoke
Can halt the wheel
The living
Becomes dead
The present
Turns into past
Let the
Wheel of life move
Exercise a bit
Keep the spokes fit
Air full
Live as long as the
Almighty wants
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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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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Wheel
People have the right to fly
And will when it gets compromised
Their hearts say 'move along"
Their minds say 'gotcha heart'
'Let's move it along'
And airports see it all the time
Where someone's last goodbye
Blends in with someone's sigh
Cause someones coming home
In hand a single rose
And that's the way this wheel keeps working now
That's the way this wheel keeps working now
And I won't be the last
No I won't be the last
To love her
You can't build a house of leaves
And live like it's an evergreen
It's just a season thing
It's just this thing the seasons do
And that's the way this wheel keeps working now
That's the way this wheel keeps working now
And you won't be the first
No you won't be the first
To love me
You can find me
If you ever want again
I'll be around the bend
I'll be around the bend
I'll be around
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time you will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again
And that's the way this wheel keeps working now
That's the way this wheel keeps working now
You can't love too much one part of it
You can't love too much one part of it
I believe that my life's gonna see
The love I give returned to me
song performed by by John Mayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Getting Older
it's nine o'clock
i'm getting tired
i'm sick of all my records
and the clothes i bought today
am i cracking up
or just getting older?
staying in
i can't be bothered
making conversation
with the friends that i don't know
am i cracking up
or just getting older?
and i bet that this is how life
turns out when you're finally grown
and you know if this my life
sit around all day on my own
i'm halfway up to the bottom
of another bottle
of my next best favourite friend
am i cracking up
or just getting older?
you're not cracking up
you're just getting older
we're not cracking up
we're just getting older
song performed by by Oasis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Rotarians
The Symbol
The speaking at the Rotary is Praise devoid of Proof
The talking at the Rotary turns mostly on the oof
But both require an Emblem; and a Wheel is just the thing
When you argue in a circle and do business in a Ring.
At a Rotarian Lunch
Broken on another wheel than Rotary
St. Catherine's body set her spirit free
Here rests the body that the soul may squirm
In all joints broken to a jointless worm.
A Declaration of Dependence
The Jeffersonian justice which
Degenerate hucksters quote
Republicans have had by right
Rotarians by rote
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Five Images
I
A naked body
bronze as the sun
poises against the sky
to dive,
then flings his form
into the tide,
parting waters
without a splash,
like the day sliding
beneath the sky.
II
The day is sliding
beneath the sky,
slipping away soundlessly,
like a diver
parting waters without a splash.
III
The bronze that tanned his body
slips below the lip of earth,
as bit by bit blue turns to gray;
And the sea darkens as it swallows
the single diver and the sun.
IV
The day drains
beneath the sky
as the lip of earth
fuses with and enters
the blue-gray parted waters
of the eastern sky,
and stars bit by bit
find their light.
V
The sun beneath the sky
so silently sank away,
I had not noticed its descent,
until I rubbed my eyed from strain
and turned on the light.
poem by Lillian Susan Thomas
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