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Rowan Darcy Apr 2016
There was an egg who dreamed a dream,
Of life in light,
A life of flight,
Some world of sight,
The egg did shiver in delight,
And lo,
Behold,
A crack was formed,
And through the rend,
The sunlight stormed,
SCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The egg abhorred the feel,
Of air flow through the shattered seal,
It bucked and jumped,
It smashed and pumped,
Till it was no more an egg.
TERRY REEVES Mar 2016
A STITCH IN TIME SAVES NINE,
BE AHEAD OF THE GAME - WHAT A PAIN,
DON'T PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE,
NOT ANOTHER ****** HORSE - DEAD OF COURSE,

THERE'S NO FOOL LIKE AN OLD FOOL,
THAT'S ME BUT I WON'T LIE DOWN EASILY,
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND,
WHO DREAMED THAT UP - I'M STILL WAITING.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD (GOOD),
ESPECIALLY IF IT'S EUROPEAN 22 CARAT,
ALL CATS ARE GREY IN THE DARK,
THAT'S WHY I COULDN'T FIND THE *******.

DON'T PUT ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASKET,
AS IT'S EASTER - I'M GOING TO EAT THE LOT.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
The Easter Bunny is a friend of mine
He used to lay his eggs in my back yard
But once I moved, it got to be too hard.
We’ve been buddies a long, long time.
It’s all my fault he visits me no more
He had to make it from Kansas to Nome.
That is far too long a trip for him
But, that is where I bought my home.

He was a pretty good old boy, indeed
For all his reproductive strangeness.
He was sort of like a football player
In a long lavender red carpet dress.
Harder to me, to accept whole cloth
Was what he had to do with Jesus.
But as a magic rabbit, for sure
He could lay eggs as he pleases.

So, every year during springtime
Here came my friend the bunny.
He’d **** out colored eggs, he did,
And nobody thought it’s a bit funny.
That he’s six feet tall, like Harvey,
Cusses like a sailor makes me laugh.
But that he is a Christian symbol is
Not really reasonable by about half.

Still, who am I to quibble about tradition?
It is fun for everyone at this time of year.
Along comes this unscientific miracle
And the kids smile from ear to ear.
They run around collect these eggs
That to me often looked rather scary
And do not question the bunny tale
Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
Poetic T Feb 2016
He was the only one that made the yarn trees blossom,
From silken leafs to flowers grown. Then as petals tumbled
Yarn cascaded upon branches and hung. So rich in colour
Were these pieces that they glided upon gentle breezes.

So many colours flowed and creation was gathered each
Picked delicately as not to fray to keep whole. Some of wax
Were covered while others were light like a feather and felt
like air when sewn. All was plucked till blossom fell once more.

He had knitted the cows from birth they were but a yarn
Now they had grown extra stitching with each passing year,
To help them expand and grow. Upon fibered grass they did feed.
Each one was of a different fibre for milking  purest silk.

Everyday the cows would be milked, and white silk did flow
Into buckets collected and off to be designed maybe into
An elegant swan, A dove, butterfly of white did fly upon its
Creation wings so light its beauty fluttered and flowed.

But Farmer stich had other animals, others to create the
Things needed for twine is fine, but to knit we must have
Buttons to hold. And with that they were fed on pellets
Of plastic proteins and quality was a must.

Every day they laid many a egg. Farmer Stitch would
Hold them to the light to see if they had a flurry of
Buttons inside each one different when cracked open.
Some with one hole, two holes, three, rare was a four.

Farmer stitch was a man of sewn words, he would fasten
His thoughts into ideas. When yarn had flowed upon
The breeze, and eggs did buttons fall from. Many a thing
Would be made, and now this yarn is over till again sewn.
Karen Hamilton Jan 2016
I do love my little egg cup,
His brother much the same,
He holds my egg so perfectly;
Boiled eggs are not a game.

They bounce about for 4 minutes
Before they take their test,
They need a place to hold them straight;
My egg cups are the best.

When the soldiers are awaiting,
Those buttered friends of mine,
I need my little egg cups
To keep them all in line.

They come with little cosy hats
To hide their eggy heads,
I take it off and just like that;
Prepare for eggy bread!




© Karen L Hamilton, 2013
I love boiled eggs all year round but especially on Christmas morning following family tradition, so here's a playful poem showing my love for my little Egg cups!!
Karen Hamilton Nov 2015
I hit rock bottom and I
Didn't know where to start
To mend these feelings of
My achy breaky heart,
Life took a turn for worse
And all that I could see
Was pain and misery in
An empty shell of me

My outer shell had cracked
And out had seeped my yolk,
I was causing such a mess
I'd never felt as broke...
Then from out my scrambled mess
Popped a friend for me to see,
You came, scooped me up and
Pieced me back so carefully

You tried your very best 
Not to lose much of my yolk,
Said my shell had cracked
But I wasn't fully broke;
See, what I came to realise
It's ok to need a cup,
To rest your little egg in
When you fear it's boiled too much.

© Karen L Hamilton, 2012
For my little egg cup... sammi
poems come from the abyss
one always hopes to fill,
at least for me ,
no lines from heaven

behold the joy proposed of being an artist
worrying that you really did fail
in turning your soul to statements

the true nature of what we do , unknown to us
letting the decay of sanity sink in,
we hunt beauty by way of letting logic fall to abstraction

close your eyes, let the right line and word and image be a piranha
hand goes in the water, hoping for a bite, for something to
latch on so hard you can pull it away with you

the loving breast of an artist allows eggs to be planted inside
it, only for them to devour till fat and mature, to burst away
and take flight, as far from you as possible
The days are getting shorter.
We see it first
in the color of the light.
The moon is waning.
It's time to dream
other dreams.
Or maybe eat a fried egg.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
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