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About Beets

~A VERY TRUE STORY~

I’d rather eat snails with some raw lizard tails!
I’d rather eat soap scum and witch’s toenails!
I’d rather eat fungus, black and humungous,
In fact I’m sure I would rather eat fungus!
I’d rather eat bugs and the shells of three crabs,
Sticky alien brains all covered in scabs!
I’d rather eat rocks in a giant brown box!
I’d rather eat chickens that have chicken pox!
I’d rather eat cacti that make me scream 'OUCH! '
I’d rather eat hair-balls from under the couch!
I’d rather eat bread that has turned grossly green,
Or the biggest earth worm that you’ve ever seen!
I’d rather eat ear wax and slimy eel skin,
I wish that the church would say 'BEETS are a SIN! '
I’d rather eat garbage, a cockroach or TEN…

Than to EVER-EVER eat BEETS Again!

[...] Read more

poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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Ballade: Legacy

Within a stalk of fennel hid,
Prometheus took fire for
some poor ancestral hominid,
infuriating Zeus in lore.
Our forbears lived by nature's law
and myth to truth is paradox,
yet when they cooked their food from raw,
they travelled paths unorthodox.

Zeus fashioned clay in counterbid,
first woman, cursed with moral flaw.
Pandora batted sweet eyelid,
Prometheus refused, wherefore
Zeus chained him, while an eagle tore
his liver flayed upon the rocks.
When Titan sought mankind's rapport,
he travelled paths unorthodox.

Zeus gave a jar and then forbid,
Pandora look into it's maw.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Full Breakfast

Fried bread, Lord, who's still not; been fed.
Not me a little voice said…
Who said that? A park duck!
Or some hard luck Indian fatherless kid.
Eggs and bacon, God, is there, no!
Red ketchup or bake beans,
Hey kid get-up off your soiled knees.
After collecting that plastic garbage
With an iron-hook in a cardboard box
Whilst your mothers out selling her body,
With some pox-up jocks
Hey can we have some grilled tomatoes,
And black pudding and mushrooms on the side.
I'll have a coffee over here! It's rainy outside.
Hey child - you'll soon be a bride!
A suitor for you, shouldn't be hard to find…?
Let's tip the waitress boys, she so looks suppressed
Depressed - but at least she's got a uniform
And a collection-fund and a counsel house
And at the weekend she's pissed and jocund.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Away, Melancholy

Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away melancholy.

The ant is busy
He carrieth his meat,
All things hurry
To be eaten or eat.
Away, melancholy.

Man, too, hurries,
Eats, couples, buries,
He is an animal also
With a hey ho melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

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poem by Stevie Smith
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Turned Out As A Wind

it was not known when,
but a gentle wind was blown here
puffed up with a lot of care
that would reflect someone's pain.
catching the hands of feet-burnt shadows
brought them back to the spread of shades.
a tree with fits of anger
was given a pat on the shoulder

buzzed and howled a swarm of flies
in the reddened eyes of a baby-cow.
they had made a meal of eyes
ere the flies were driven off by the wind.

the wind has fanned a mother who stews some tar
and an half-burnt baby too.
a blind man
who had scratched and scratched
and turned out insane,
stoned at the wind too.

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poem by Chayamsu V R
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Sick

Sick 'I cannot go to school today,'
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
'I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue -
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke -
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.

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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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It's a sick day off

It's Monday,
I said, ' I can't go to school today.'
Mom asked, ' Why can't you go son? '
' Well I have the flu and chicken pox. I need a warm cinnamon bun.'
'Eat a cinnamon bun, rest, and be ready for school tomorrow while rising with the sun.'

It's Tuesday,
I said, ' I can't go to school like yesterday.'
Mom asked, ' Why not Nate? '
' I have the mumps and measles and I think it is because of what I ate.'
' Well you're going to miss you school debate.'
Mom said back, ' Go to rest and hopefully you can go to school tomorrow with your sister Kate.'

It's Wednesday,
I said to Mom, ' I can't go to school like Tuesday.'
Mom asked, ' Why not my sweet boy? '
' I'm coughing and I got a headache also say I can't play today to my best friend Roy.'
' Go to bed dear child so you can go to school tomorrow with joy.'

It's Thursday,

[...] Read more

poem by Saimun Shahee
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On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.

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poem by Billy Collins
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On Turning Ten (For Edgar Andrade Baguio who thinks that Poetry should not narrate)

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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True Love

It is true love because
I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day
Even when there's no one here but him,
And because
I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packer
Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,
And because
When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
I always hope he's dead.

It's true love because
If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed,
He wouldn't tell me he told me,
And because
He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing,
And because
If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save,
He says he'd save me.

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poem by Judith Viorst
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