24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
HOUR FOURTEEN
POEM # 14
24 HOUR
POEM
MARATHON
DONUTS
Donuts need a hole,
A dozen my goal.
Favorites have glaze,
Eat four to amaze.
Pastry my down fall,
I can eat them all.
Half dozen to start,
They soon will depart.
Cream filled to try,
On my list to buy.
Better than cake,
Nothing you bake.
Breakfast or a snack,
Buy them by the sack.
Donuts without a hole,
Not donuts but a roll!
Written by Carl Mann
The kurlman
6-13-2015
Such innocent white blossoms call to children
Staining fingers, cut, scratched, swollen
Black and Red and Blue
As they wrestle Mother Nature for pie filling
by Karen Sullivan
Form: Free Verse, Color Poem
Shepherds pie into oven 2:30 am
At 3 prompt is food, must be an omen.
My culinary strategy
to eat dinner at quarter past three
in the morning has paid off for me
in ways I could never foresee.
For, as well as solid nourishment,
this pie inspiration sent.
My fuel and poetry content
in casserole dish imminent.
The pen across the page does fly
while fork makes patterns in the pie.
With this piece done maybe I’ll try
to grab a quick nap on the sly.
A Poem for Old Ladies
What do you wear
when your love takes you to dinner,
the old love you’ve been sleeping with
for decades?
Why, the prettiest thing you own!
Big Red
squeeze it,
bite it,
savor it,
cut it,
fry it,
season it
juices dripping
sticky lips, face and hands
slurp it
drink it
take it in
By: KMH 2015
Regimented robots
Being groomed for gunshots,
It wouldn’t be acceptable
To reject a less delectable
Dish if the orders were given,
And the food had been served –
Who on Earth
Did you think you were?
You’d have to learn your lesson.
And yet the revolting slop refused to obey,
It couldn’t be swallowed in any kind of way –
Stuck in the back of the throat like a lie,
Made the little robot think it was about to die
But it wouldn’t dare protest –
It would have to digest
In the preordained manner
Dictated by her captor –
The lunchtime supervisor
The gastric brutaliser.
The little robot knew exactly how many times to chew
So it didn’t get hit by the spoon
But this culinary horror
Was causing some bother
And though the robot didn’t dare comment,
It was about to vomit,
Its eyes were secreting distress
And its stomach was about to violently confess
No – it wouldn’t conform
It wouldn’t supress
Nothing would make it acquiesce
To this one request.
Then from nowhere
The jug tipped over
And the lunchtime supervisor
The gastric brutaliser
Was momentarily distracted with mopping
So the little robot’s gagging and sobbing
Could be brought to an end
By the swift swapping
Of its plate for a friend’s
Who would eat the same meal twice
And make a sacrifice
So the other little robot didn’t have to pay the price
For not finishing a meal that wasn’t nice.
Good little robots,
Groomed for gunshots.
(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15
For this prompt I want you to write about food. Literary writing with a theme has become much more popular lately and there are a surprising number of literary journals devoted to publishing creative work about food. You can tackle this theme from any angle. You can write about how much you love or hate a certain kind of food, you can rant about gluten intolerance, you can write about your favorite meal, or what food you loved as a child. The particulars are all up to you.
————————————————————————————————————-
“Hey,
do you want to go get some
food?
I hear the new pizza place is good.”
America loves pizza.
It’s a fact.
Check it out if you want.
I don’t really care.
What I do care about are
scabbing,
oozing cow tits
that are being sucked
until they bleed.
I care about
a “food” supply that is
degrading to the point
where Surgeon
General Warnings
are required on candy
for children.
I care that we throw away
more food than we ingest—
that the sheer
volume of waste from this
greedy
self-centered
ignorant
puss bucket of a society
is enough to feed tens of millions daily.
I don’t care about the new Taco Hell breakfast
doodad, or the original McShit now for a dollar!
I do care about
corporations that sabotage
the livelihood of
employees by imprisoning
them in a labor force
that looks more like
indentured servitude
than anything else.
I do care about
conniving business tactics
such as
scheduling thirty nine hours per week
to maim workers
candidacy for health benefits,
overtime—
and in effect to keep them
dependent
but in a constant state of
social immobility.
I do care that
wages are so staggeringly low
that they are debilitating.
I do care that the people who feed us are
severely underpaid
deserving
and angry
and it is our duty to help.
I don’t care that I can get bloated in fifteen minutes
or less—or my money back.
I care that gluttony grips
the fat,
triple chinned throats
of people who claim
to follow God,
to follow Jesus–
to follow whatever
religious deity they want–
as they watch reruns of
their favorite sitcoms and
sink deeper into couches—
eyes glazed over,
pure lethargy as starving children
beg for money during the commercials.
I care that
diabetes runs rampant
because a corrupted “food”
industry discovered greater profits
from using addictive syrup.
I do care that
farmers are whipped
into obedience by
threat of lawsuits from
massive
international
pirate
conglomerates
that hire swarms of legal representation until the
beaten down farmer whimpers into submission, again.
I do care about Food. Do you care about Food?