Coffee House Slam Poetry Night.

I have no life.

While working on an assignment for school and a write-up for a new article for the paper, I lack the extra creativity to post my normal sassy blog tonight.

But since the response lately has been so wonderful, I thought I'd share some personal poetry with you all this evening from my archives. & as all those who write poetry know, poems are always a work in progress and never quite finished.

Poems Written by Me, Isn't that neat? 1,2,3. Look, I'm rhyming.

#4 , Hold the Onions

Greasy aroma filled the air,

as waded up dollar bills

and change filled the pockets

of the impatient herd of wildebeests

waiting to order their #4 no onions,

super-sized with a diet coke.

Sitting in a wobbly chair

I took a bite from my unsatisfying salad.

That’s when I first noticed the king beast.

Eyes on the prize,

Vividly starring down at its prey.

Drip, drop, drip drop.

Slobber dribbled from the beast's chin.

As it licked his lips,

its hands moved to

pick up the delicacy.

A pickle plopped on the dirty table,

as the beast slowly pried its chin open.

The food moving closer each second

to the bottomless cave of decay.

The beast devoured its prey,

Ripping into the imitation carcass as

ketchup began to cover its chin.

In disgust, I quickly got up

and put away my dirtied tray,

leaving the restaurant pondering

the important lesson learned that day.

Never come between a fast food fiend
and their greasy double cheeseburger.

A poem about Grilled Cheese

Is a grilled cheese a paradox? I really want to know.

Technically you don't grill the cheese, you grill the bread you know?

Unless you put the bread in between two slices of cheese, it never touches the pan.

That is if you made it properly and it doesn't overflow.

In fact the bread doesn't even touch the pan, until the butter melts into its core.

Would it better be entitled grilled butter with cheese and toast?

Or bread fried in a pan, with cheese inside, encompassed by butter.

Outlandish or not, the question is asked,

Is grilled cheese a paradox? If only we could know.

 

Rupert

The french are much

smaller than the English

you know?

But the pudginess

comes with

both breeds.

Carved in cast iron

or a metal of some sort,

Rupert sits, waiting.

His collar is tarnishing,

while his eyes are reddened,

like that of a town drunkard.

He has been the protector and

guard dog of living rooms

since the late 1800's.

His nose and paws are quite

scratched up from one too

many fights with vacuum cleaners.

Always sitting, staring,

and unlike other bulldogs,

he never drools.

That is what is great

about a guard dog

made of cast iron.

Rupert is always ready to pounce.

& So She Began

She was nothing but,
a broken soul.
Full of high hopes and,
a half emptied flask.

The world was,
cruel.
But the whispers were,
worse.

She gave herself one last listen,
& so she stopped.

At first the silence was,
comforting.
But over thinking tendencies,
distressed her.

She gave herself one last thought,
& so she stopped.

Emotionless she wandered,
lost.
With one last swig of,
rum.

She dropped the flask,
& so she stopped.

As her hands,
trembled.
She ran towards,
the light.

She felt her soul slowly returning,

& so she began

& as a bonus, here is a poem written in less than 5-minutes before my composition class:

 

Classtime Mediation

There's a strange serenity

in the silence before class.

Looking past the noisy zips
and slams of notebooks
as students pile into desks.
A click of a pen and
a rip of a notebook's paper
flesh. All encompassed by
the beige and white walls as
the clock ticks.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

& so class begins.

Well hopefully tonight's blog does not disappoint. Look forward to a new sassy blog soon.

& for now, I'm just

Simply Shelby Sue

P.s. Feel free to leave your thoughts in comments section below or don't. It is really whatever you'd like to do. Until next time...