Bone's Patterns Popping Ribs
By Ombuge M moses
Bones an' ribs goes Popping
Popping by
Ribs form patterns, skeletons alike
Meat goes hiding,
dry and bony
Ribs patterns goes forming
Forming by
Energy goes weak
Weakens by
Sickness comes calling
Calling by
No food persisting
Persists by
Children goes unconscious
Dead dry
Death carry them weary
In coma dead asleep
Children wake up in spirits dry
Dead dry no food for termites
No energy in spirits dead
To convince termite why dry
Termites convene weak
No food for termite colony
Bones an' ribs goes on popping
In life death and spirit
Popping by
poem by Ombuge M Moses
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Sexually Twisted
like a dog so deprived
of food
my handsome friend
while asleep
dreams of bones
and ribs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Lugubrious Whing-Whang
The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best
Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,--
'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest,
An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed,
An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.--
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
I don't know what in the world it means--
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans
Like he was a-grindin' on some machines
An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans!_
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail in the sand,
And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?--
Crouching low by the winding creeks
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings
And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,--
Tickle me, Dear,
Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The New Ezekiel
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried
By twenty scorching centuries of wrong?
Is this the House of Israel, whose pride
Is as a tale that's told, an ancient song?
Are these ignoble relics all that live
Of psalmist, priest, and prophet? Can the breath
Of very heaven bid these bones revive,
Open the graves and clothe the ribs of death?
Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said. Again
Say to the wind, Come forth and breathe afresh,
Even that they may live upon these slain,
And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to flesh.
The Spirit is not dead, proclaim the word,
Where lay dead bones, a host of armed men stand!
I ope your graves, my people, saith the Lord,
And I shall place you living in your land.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Stopping Shopping
Aren’t we ever satisfied by shopping?
Just the thought of popping
Or, as some do, bopping
To the supermarket gets me hopping
Mad. Since my bag burst, popping,
When I was struggling, clopping
Home with the shopping
And distinctly dropping
And predictably plopping
Food on floors, with milk slopping
And smashed eggs dropping,
Making everywhere sopping
So it needed mopping
For, if I didn’t, they’d be stopping
There, where they’d be copping
Some unprintable whopping
Rude words that were popping
Out of my mouth. I’m lopping
Some out of this, not to offend topping,
Polite folk like you. And I’m chopping
And also quickly cropping
This poem short ’cos I’m flopping
With exhaustion. And I need propping
Up. So now I’m stopping -
Stupid shopping.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Dead Or Alive
There in the shadows, looks like a hand
Without its owner, to give it a command
Its got a purpose but I dont know what it is
Im in trouble
There in the streets, looks like a man
But something wrong that I dont understand
His eyes are open but he dont see a thing
His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out
Im getting scared
Oh my God (is it dead? )
Is it living? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
(is it dead? ), is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
Hiding in the cupboards, like little mice
Hiding in the frigerator, that isnt nice
Its not an animal, it dont have legs
No one else can see it
It moves so fast, corner of my eye
Look again its gone, its hiding
Wont somebody help me, doesnt anybody care?
It waits so patiently, for me to lose my guard
Im getting scared
Is it dead, is it
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead or alive
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead, is it
I remember there was a time
When dead and buried meant just that
Underneath the cold dark ground
Things stay put!
Oh them bones they make them bodies walk
Them bones, them bones
If they could only talk!
Is it dead (fade)
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Cry for Food and They Give Us Bullets
Food! Food! Food!
It is all that we need
It is all that we need
to calm down our spirits!
It is food that fills
that fills the empty pangs
of our stomachs,
pangs that make us yawn
but cannot sleep
that make us gulp
but cannot vomit,
that make our saliva
taste sour and acidic!
We cry for food
like the helpless little children
with the art to attract attention
by our street demonstrations.
Yes, we cry for food like little children
to calm down our spirits,
that the cry cannot at all be neglected
for it is food,
it is food that soothes our spirits.
But you give us bullets
on the streets where we stage
our cry for food
You give us bullets
instead of food.
But even bullets cannot silence
our cry for food
for as long as we`re hungry
we shall be like little children
that will ever cry for food.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Syrup Sponge
Pour a pint of cream
Upon my spongy bulge!
Scoop me with a
Hefty spoon;
Taste my essence -
Do you swoon?
Feed your self-esteem; indulge
In me until you burst -
Death by syrup sponge - you're cursed!
And as the count in inches gain
Upon your weary waist, the strain
Will tell, but you'll not care -
Steeped in sponge, you're unaware!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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food food food food food food
food food food food food food
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Because Nothing Taste As Good As Skinny Feels
ice cream tastes good
but being able to see my ribs sounds better
a big bag of candy sounds good
but feeling my hip bones tastes better
fast food taste good
but a gap between my thighs sounds better
food is good
but being skinny is better
poem by Kathryn Briones
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Tis Breath, Then...
tis breath, then...
wrought with infinite longing,
that called light from darkness,
and being from non-being.
that, spent as wind,
calling forth waves from oceans,
calling forth land from water,
blowing dry and forming.
tis breath, then...
calling male and female to join.
calling trees and mountains to tangle.
defining hill and valley,
both far and near.
calling forth fire from imagination,
calling thought from inertness.
calling music from stillness.
tis breath, then...
calling tribe unto tribe.
creating gods from reflection.
calling souls from dead bones,
naming names, defining eternity,
calling forth desire, hunger, and wonder.
calling forth construction and ambition...
calling forth ego!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Quest
My tears for hunger continues.
My quest for water is running short.
The joy of shelter I could only dream of,
With no shirt on my back, not even a sole of a shore on my feet.
The great quest continues.
Don't no the taste of food because I hardly have any..
Never had a recreation
Nor any form of entertainment.
All I could think of whats my next meal.
Searching the vast desert for food is brutal, days of walking with no success,
Am in pain need food
My tiny stomach hurts, my legs weak, my hands dead, I can't breathe.
My life less body is damaged.dead from hunger.....
poem by Donavan Avril
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A Food For Everything!
Meals are the food for the body;
Knowledge is the food for the mind;
Meditation is the food for the spirit;
Music is the food for the love of heart;
Dreams are the food for the consciousness;
Prayer is the food for the Almighty;
Love is the food for the living heart;
Thoughts are the food for the brain;
Colourful ink is the food for the pen;
Ideas are the food for the stories;
Truth is the food for the will;
Sun’s energy is the food for the plants;
Plants are the food for the living beings;
But one man’s food is another man’s poison!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Home-Cooked Meal
Most poets will lie to you at some point
they serve up side dishes of lyrical fibs
so rarely do they serve home-cooked meals
of poetry that sticks to your ribs
forgive my honesty
but when it comes to soul food scripture one on one
I take the cake
from under the baker's thumb
most straddle the fence
and avoid their own heart
but trying to convince you to feel every word
and open up old scars
the kitchen seems a little hot for their liking
so, fast is the food of choice
but preservatives eventually wear away
and all that remains is the voice
the meal
the rage
don't let your pen fall asleep
on the page.
poem by Harlequin Rose
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To Seek Food
Hunger is to seek food,
Food has one eye and one ear.
The food we abstain from are the heads,
The food is caring over us, and we maintain
Our lives with the food of the day.
Liquors are taken as food,
With a brain too bright,
A table and a cook is required,
Forming my life as a whole.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A cracked ground
By Ombuge Moses
Mama!
You sleep on a crack ground
Empty is the stomach
Hot is the sun
Nothing to quench the crack
The thirst is killing
Cracked is my throat
Helplessly you lay
You sleep on a crack ground
Baba!
Your cry is echoing
My ears cannot stop
My tears cool my cheeks
My face is running dry
You sleep in a crack ground
Forever never to see you again
Mama has followed you
Death has come
It’s so helpless
Who to run to
They promised food
They brought food
They promised water
They brought water
We need food
We need water
We are dying of hunger, of thirst
Who will take care of me the orphan?
Will I die before the next food come?
Will I die before the next water come?
Will I die like Baba?
Will I lay helpless to death like Mama?
Heavenly GOD
Your mercy
I cry indeed
In need
Not In want
When they saw us dying
They brought canned food
When they saw us dying
They brought bottled water
This is a customary issue, problem
Death of hunger
Thirst to death
The solution is death, for me
For you, solution- canned food, bottled water
We need a source
Give us a water source
To plant the seed
To eat from our labor
Weeding, Oh! How is it done?
Irrigating the plant
Nurturing the crop
To live to see a generation
A healthy life
An ordinary way to live
To this
Mama!
You sleep on a cracked ground
Baba!
You sleep in a cracked ground
Dead, you are gone
I your son,
Tonight, I sleep on a cracked ground
If I see tomorrow, I will bury you Mama
I will water your grave Baba
If they give me a water source
Bottled one, I will quench
The thirst that killed you Mama
Use the source to irrigate
Plant a seed, to grow food
A generation
A future
A healthy mind
Never to sleep
On,
In,
A cracked ground
God, to guide
A Kenyan, for a generation
poem by Ombuge M Moses
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Our Children!
those brown skinned babies...
starving in Haiti, Africa,
and around the world.
laying dead victims
of bombing and gunfire...
are our children.
those white skinned,
black skinned babies,
born into the housing developments
and trailer parks,
into crackhead pill popping
poverty... those,
are our children too!
those blood stained babies,
found in desperate dumpsters,
our children, again.
those unborn babies,
born into hopeless situations,
or never to be born
into a world cold and hard...
our children too!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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One-On-One Skirmish in War
Lend me a crushed ear,
A juicy smear of dermis, and
I shall blast ye of your world
Upon a barrel furnace
Flaring orange of an instant!
Now first, please rip apart my being:
Sunder me, O! plunder please the
Writhing flesh upon my bones and
Leave it naught of
Living life - kill to
Bleeding cinders, embers of an ex.
Recuperation? Never! no!
Otherwise to suffer minds -
Bowels and all to wither
Aren't on offer -
Only desperate tears to flee! Now
Let me in and I'll remove
Your rhythmic timer - the
Pumping tinderbox to feed
A vox humana pleading for its life;
The reaper's chimer
Sees you burn,
Hears you spurn your soul -
Your screaming head - top flesh;
Dead mesh - mesh of death! No
Breath from breast! No
Beat or heat from rising ribs -
How neat, the meat in
Death together!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
All rights reserved
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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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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Hiroshima Child
I come and stand at every door
But none can hear my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
I'm only seven though I died
In Hiroshima long ago
I'm seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow
My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind
I need no fruit I need no rice
I need no sweets nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead for I am dead
All that I need is that for peace
You fight today you fight today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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A Dry and Thirsty Land
Parched and barren,
A dry and thirsty land
Filled with the haze of death
The forgotten bones of man
The tongue swells in the mouth
The sweat pours out his brow
Weary traveller falling down
Weary traveller dying now
The white bleached bones
The bones of those before
Lie about him spinning round
Bleached bones on the desert floor
His brown shrivelled skin
Turns black under the sun
He is lost and doomed
What is done is done
Thou are cruel, Dry thirsty land,
Slowly killing those who flee
Drying them from the inside
A miserable gutted tragedy
Weary traveller, there is rest
There is rest for you head
There is a place where you can rest
Where you can drink and be fed
Don’t push on any longer
For the dry thirsty land
Will eventually be stronger
Than thy inner man
Come to the one oasis
That inhabits this world
Find the well of water
From which life doth unfurl
Come thou weary and faint
Sojourners in a dry weary place
Come thou empty and dead
Come with all due haste
Come to the well
Strength and energy it gives
Come to the well
If you want to live
Come if you feel tired
Come if you need a refresh
Come if you need life
Come if you want energy afresh
A well for all who wish
A dry and thirsty land
Come thou faint
Come thou weary man
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Spirits?
Though I've never seen one exactly
I've encountered some evil presence
The very sense of it overwhelms me
But with God, Fear lurks in absence.
Spirits of dead are mere wanderers
Some are evil and utterly vicious
Some are more harmful than the others
And some possess humans for their use.
The spirits who protect us are angels
And the spirits who harm us are vile
Some in realms of government control
And some enthroned in fake piety's style.
Spirits of the dead they call 'ghosts'
They seem to avoid me and hide
They're the ones I would like to ask most
What they felt at the moment they died.
For you see, I am quite prepared
To meet that old man with the sickle
For Death is the one Jesus dared
Over which He proved He was able.
That Jesus Who now lives in me
Has power over all of these spirits
At the mention on His Name they flee
For they know there's just One Holy Spirit.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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