My gorilla wears tennis shoes
He reads the paper and sings the blues
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla, he's a sensitive guy
I took him out for a wedding, and man did he cry!
Tears all down his tie
Well, he can drive most greens from the back tees
But his putting brings him to his knees
My gorilla, my gorilla

My gorilla loves pork and beans
He rides a scooter in his cut-off jeans
My gorilla, my gorilla
He can make a mean souffle
He's great with omelets, but his specialty is flambe
So I eat one every day!
He's been working ******* a half pike
But his cannonball empties the pool
My gorilla, my gorilla

My gorilla is so much fun
He buys taquitos for everyone
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves tequila with lime
He's taking classes at a school for mime
Cracks me up every time!
Well, he's looking cool in his "white face"
And his French beret looks oh so fine
My gorilla, my gorilla
Oh yeah...

What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.

I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
your laugh
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
the deepness
of connection we have
our conversations
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your touch
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..

Just to list a few

Looking for a cheese omelet
when you a million miles from home
is a tall order,
and even if,
even if they use egg beaters
& fake slices,
is better than eating nothing at all.

Heavy Footsteps

There was no greeting;

just strangers in running shoes,

except for Kaitie.

Summer Love

A choice of a boy

or a high I can't resist.

The decision is..

Hills Beyond Hills

Miles upon miles was

a calling to a smile that

he couldn't offer.

I Have To Leave

It was just a week,

a meek test to see your love.

You chose not to pass.

Holding Hands From A Distance

You chose to hold hands.

Close, firm, and knowingly that

it wasn't with me.

Trust Is Trouble

I am a rebel,

trouble could be my calling.

That's why I went back.

School Is Calling

Back with the same friends,

same boyfriend, but now I have

a love for xc.

A Change Of Course

Leaving behind the

“friends”, and joining to run to

friends, races, and YOU.

Fate Delivers Omelets

YOU, but I have him.

Me, “I can ask my parents”.

Now I have a Max.

The Decision Is

Shin splints and you

are both problem and painful;

I can't handle both.

Goodbye For The Greater Good

Trust has to be earned.

There is none for you or my

attempts at running.

Down In A Canyon

Low point: self esteem.

I couldn't compete with her,

You won my best friend.

A Break

There will be no runs,

but I have YOU and your time.

Brothers are great friends.

Love? It Doesn't Exist.

Trial and error dates.

My zipper will stay up and

I will take you home.

Staying Home, Listening to Mom

Time will bring hassle.

There is no need for stress or

crying from your voice.

Eventually.

I can hear “maybe”.

That doesn't assure grief will

pack its bags and leave.

Sun Does Shine

Positives are here,

but they don't plan to stay long.

YOU leave in four weeks.

Appreciation To:

YOU, for many smiles.

Writing, new friends, and fresh hope.

Mix Cd’s and love.

Falling Into A:

New year, new me, only,

my heart can't take heights or cracks.

But it takes the fall.

Love

For Max, parents, and

best friends that keep me going.

I am so grateful.

Toxic:

My thoughts of myself.

My compassion towards others.

The fact that YOU leave.

Realization

I am sixteen now.

I am wild, naive, and happy.

Change is très très sweet.

When It Comes Down To It

I don't ask for much, but can I for once

get something I want?

The fact that YOU will leave

and fall drunk upon cobblestone roads

infuriates me.

I don't want YOU to forget.

Little old me has a name,

it's Mariah, your only little sister,

the one only one that cries while writing this.

The Atlantic Ocean is our barrier,

along with our other hundreds of miles.

I don't want to wake up to

omelets from anyone else.

Trusting that you will remember is the trouble.

Fate is:**

Fun, it's what brought YOU and I together.

Hopeful, my dad didn't lie about the maybes.

Moving on, I hope I can too.

Your unique omelets
Fascinate me. Like your ***
Always exotic

I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.

My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.

Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.

A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.

Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.

So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.

The rotten fruit shall be shaken* --- W. H. Auden

Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?

You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.  

I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******;
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.

The sun seemed to rise slowly, almost hesitantly, this morning - a yellow syrup pouring into a deep, dark blue sky. The air is hot and thick, like a low viscosity liquid. We’re going out on the boat this morning and when you have 9 passengers and crew, everyone’s toting something.

Kim and Bili have towels and a shoulder bag of sunscreen lotions and repellents, Charles has a cooler with everything needed to make breakfast omelets on the grill (the eggs have been pre-beaten, the veggies pre-chopped, the cheese grated, the meat diced).

Anna and Lisa are toting a cooler of sodas buried in ice. Leong has the “dry box” with phones, Nintendo switches, kindle readers and iPads. Leong’s rolling a luggage rack of textbooks, Sunny has a large coffee thermos, and Sophy has a bag with dry clothes for everyone.

The girls are practically running over each other in their eagerness to be last onboard because the first two get to towel the night’s condensation off everything.

I carried the lunch cooler full of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, but my main job is to check the indicators and disconnect the dockside water, drainage and electrical feeds as Charles takes the helm and begins his “preflight” before he fires up the Mercury 500-hp engines. I know we’re a “go” when he turns on the underwater lights - that’s my signal to cast off.

The engines roar to life and then purr as we slowly pull away from the dock, we girls greasing ourselves up with sunblock. The air conditioning begins to help but picking up speed is what finally breaks the hold of the oppressive heat.

As we exit the marina Charles opens-up on the throttle and that’s always a thrill. We usually ski first, before the lake gets crowded, and lounge later.

Sunny, Leong and Anna like to sit in the bow, refreshed by occasional lake spray and the wind-whipped cool. Leong likes to sit in the cabin, like Charles’ copilot while the rest of us recline on lounges facing rearward to watch the skiers.

Our summer mornings have passed like this, launching around 6 am, skiing, then swimming, studying and getting off the lake before the noontime “heat advisories” and afternoon thunderstorms.

Later, I’m relaxing in the shade, having just gotten out of the lake, and I’m on my iPad.

“What are you writing?” Anna asks.

“Oh, I write poetry and stories - mostly stories these days but there is some occasional poetic recidivism.” I say.

“You write poetry?” She repeats, as if shocked, “I didn’t think there were any poets left.”

“Well,” I say, “Most poets died, in the early flames of science, trying to prove the pen was mightier than the sword, but there are still poets around - they live in cities where they’ll try and wash your windshield if you stop at a traffic light, and they’re frequently mistaken for the homeless - or they may actually be homeless.”

“Can I read some of your writing?” She asks, after waiting through my long joke.

“Absolutely NOT.” I answer.

do me this solid
and keep up with the

tired and over exhilarated
won't you ask me how im

learning to dig
inside my heart for my most recent

emotions are so awful they keep me
running for more and i can't

really see exactly where I'm
going to where im supposed to be trying to

understand how i feel is like
learning Chinese upside down, underwater, while having a tea party with an octopus

i guess ill just take the stairs and maybe i
could actually finish a

great deal of me feels
like i need to buy a nice looking

man and make him cook me spicy
omelets and he'll look quite **** under

my umbrella on the purple rooftops that i
decided to jump on my way to

work has been lowsy too many
people wishing for something and here i

am trying to finish a sentence i think
i might need to go back to grade school and take

an english course.

A Problem And A Blessing

It’s a problem and a blessing;
I never do the same thing twice.
My omelets, cookies, ice cream –
Never twinned and absolutely never thrice.
My husband says, “That dish was consummate,
The best I ever ate…you must, must imitate it!
Why not write it down”.
And there’s my limit.
Always acting in the moment,
Home ingredients at hand,
Forced to recreate a dish
That will not taste of sand,
That may or may not turn out grand;
A failure or success – there’s no predicting,
But who cares!
My brain enjoys the dare,
For dare it is,
And there it is,
The blessing.

The problem?
Codes of norm, jazz (my profession), daily dressing;
Not recalled, created by improvisational necessity
Anew;
New strains, all things thought through
As if they’d never been.
What do you do?
And how?

A Problem And A Blessing 5.12.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin



A cutie.

I own a huge,
dazzlingly
blue emu egg
given me
by two lovely
young women
who used to make
omelets for lions;
beauty emerges
from even
the most unlikely
orifices.
  - mce

to crack an egg
break it apart
but remember beaten eggs
make savory omelets

It takes someone
to cut a tree
saw it down
make it fall
but remember fallen wood
makes homes for all

It takes someone
to light a candle
make it shine
brighten a room
that once was dark
like a tomb

It takes someone
to plant a seed
grow a garden
to till the soil
that once was harden

Less then
three hundred miles
and three years away,

but I can still feel
the sunlight
streaming in
from the fifth floor
window.

I can still see
the long
multi-laned streets
cluttered with cars,
trucks, and billboards.

I can still taste
the hot wings
dipped in ranch
that I ate for dinner,
and the small omelets
in cheese streaked
plastic wrap
along with
the gravy soaked
biscuits.

I can still feel
the cool blankets
that saw me safely
to sleep
after I would eat
the free breakfast.

I can still hear
the sound of
strangers
speaking in
muffled tones,
blocked by
thin walls.
I can even recall
the sound of rainfall,

and though I am
almost content
with this moment
in my life,
part of me
would like to see
that memory
in real time.

Dance with the devil with
two chicken feet,
spilled beans
pills reeking of sin,
braided veins, clenching fists,
the Lord is my shepherd when
I'm the sheep,
manifesting brethren and manifestos
of governments,
depopulation of educated slaves,
drink from the cup that
defines your worth,
***** lips, thoughts in braille,
diabetic oldies and cabbages,
dead fetuses and tomatoes,
manhood and eggplants,
sterile women eating omelets,
abandoned kids eating goat meat,
buried underneath slubs,
subscribe to the notifications
of corrupted media,
mutating phobias, the feared is
the victim.
Poets and marijuana,
writers' block and emotionless poems,
******* eating molds,
fungus and bacteria foams.
Hide righteousness in a cloak,
dangling nerves have strangled
our generation!!!

Club Controller;
Boom bap,
*** shaking,
wombs filled with ghosts of babies,
Ovaries now main ingredients for corporate omelets.
Adam and Eve,
the dominant and the submissive,
Bitten forbidden fruit on Apple logos.
Artificial intelligence,
human negligence,
mummified peasants,
death is proud of its workspace.
Institutions judging
black ops as being too rebellious for success,
stores selling tumours
and diabetes symptoms.
Atheists and theists fighting in poetry pieces.
Innocent citizens dodging bullets whilst diving into graves,
mortuary polluted with the smell of corpses with gunpowder in small spaces.
Free our souls,
stop polishing the chains that shackle us,
remove handcuffs that have extended to our throats whilst we dangle from Amarula branches.
Deceived intellectuals,
searching for Nirvana in cannabis trips,
mocking poetry,
seeing Shakespeare as a founding father.
Deception poeticized,
corruption politicized!
The truth is my artery,
wisdom is my capillary,
poetry is the hidden mos code in my fingerprints.
Poetry is the stem to
ascend truth into the human language,
use it for no social
media whilst
marketing for likes!!!

Every time I eat here,
I wonder if she’s still in the restroom.
I watch the cakes orbit
On refrigerated turntables—
a silent waltz for the ballerinas running omelets and coffee.
Back when she excused herself to the restroom,
the hostess was probably still in diapers.

I wrote a happy ending for you.
You found this girl;
she was the bees knees.
I liked her.

She wrote the end of the songs
you had already been singing.

She liked the mushrooms and the spinach
in the omelets you made.

She watched baseball
and made videos
and bought the posters to cover the walls of your apartment.
That space was not home without her touch.

I wrote your smile that opened when she walked down the aisle.
I wrote the arguments which threatened to tear you apart.
I wrote the good times that held it together.

I’ve written this, for you.

You put your trust with
people who build bombs where did
The Dodo go Here

                               Kelly McManus

She thought of you as Sunday morning
You thought of her as Friday night
You were her cup of coffee
She was your hangover delight
She wanted you every morning
You only ever wanted her at night
She wondered what she could do to make you see that
To clear your blurred vision of life
You never listened to a word she said
all you ever wanted to do was get to the bed
She exceeded your expectations
But you were too blind to see
She could've been your Sunday morning, your morning coffee and your favorite type of tune
She could've been your messy bed sheets, your comfiest pjs and your midday afternoon
She could've been that but you were too naive to notice
now she's spending Sunday morning with someone who treats her like java beans and omelets
While youre laying in a bed full of empty on Friday night

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                 Breakfast in Constantinople

The waitress greeted us in Saint Petersburg
We drank strong coffee in Alexandria
Our omelets were served in Cambridgeshire
As we gossiped in the narthex of Hagia Sophia

We briefly sat in the halls of Congress and idled
And said good morning to Shelley and Keats
We admonished die Rheintochter to behave themselves
But they ignored us and flirted with some sailors

What fun in table-talk as the day begins -
There’s nothing more joyful than breakfast with friends!

used in omelets
times one is in another
makes hens cackle, egg

Are your pans chef-tested? My what? Pans. What does that mean? Hey! Climb down off my ***! No, my pans are not tested by chefs. They are non-chef-tested. What about your spatulas? Yes, a chef came 'round yesterday and beat his boyfriend unconscious with a large spatula. Lovers' quarrel. I see. We offer omelets for 5 bucks, no returns, mustard optional. Are you gay? Not anymore. An ex-lesbian forced me to act like a normal chef for once in my life.