Poetry by Chris Bunton

I remember in poverty,
eating ramen noodles,
daily.

Beans and Weenies.
Meatless sauce
spaghetti.

Rice, Rice, Rice,
without any real
spice.

Bologna Sandwiches.
Hamburger Helper
mixes.

Fried Spam,
and all kinds of meat,
canned.

Hot Dogs on a stick,
burnt to a
crisp.

Catfish from the creek,
yellow belly
meat.

Milwaukee’s Best.
Another broken
promise.

The cheapest smokes.
Always gotta have
those.

Colon cancer, Rectal cancer,
lungs and
brain.

A hole too deep,
at least six
feet.

Same old hole,
no matter where you
grow.

— —

Bio: Chris Bunton is a Writer, Poet, Blogger from Southern Illinois.

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By Chris Bunton

It rained for a week,
then the gullywasher came

Hours of hard down pour;
in sheets it fell.
The streets were flooded,
and water gushed from everywhere.
Cars were stranded,
while homes, became islands.

The flash flood broke quick;
it flowed through the yard.
and under the house.
Everything washed away,
and the cat freaked out.

The deluge was over,
as quick as it came.
Leaving ruin behind,
but the frogs just sang.

They sang,
and they sang,
all night long,
they sang.

— — -

Bio: Chris Bunton is a writer, poet and blogger from Southern Illinois

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