She ardently stared at the water soaked red, burn marks on her hands. The horror of what was done hadn’t set in yet until she let out a short panicked breath and dropped the dented kettle intended for tea, on to the floor. There she towered over the lump of flesh…crying over what she had done.
“who let the kellte burn” my mom said one morning. In reply I say “thats what you get for killing my hopes”, and in reply she said ” stop being dramatic”
the kettle is black and white, like a cow. When the water starts to steam it moos. I don’t understand my aunt. She loves cows entirely too much. She even has a cow tattooed on her ankle.
Enraged she was with her words….as they settled in; searing to her soul…Her anger simmered like a steamed like a kettle, overflowing with unsatisfactory.
the kettle was as black as the wrought iron that wrung its grip around her door. it was a brass door, brass knuckle couldn’t pierce it. even if it tried.
Polly put the kettle on
Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea!
Suki take it off again
Suki take it off again
Suki take it off again they’ve all gone away! memories from childhood…
It whistles, whistles,
oh jeez, that’s loud!
what are you trying to prove?
I know you’re there, I know you exist,
you live and make me better.
I love you. Happy now?
I removed the kettle from the stove, and poured Aiden a cup of tea. “I hope that warms you up,” said quietly, and took a seat next to him at the kitchen table.
“Thanks, Violet.”
I nodded, and poured myself a cup if tea too.
The black kettle stared at all of the teacups and sighed, knowing he would never be allowed to join such small, delicate objects and would be forced to lie under the cupboard for the rest of his life.
“That’s like the pot calling the kettle black,” Tourmaline angrily whispered to Noelle. Noelle kept a steady, calm look. With some hidden bitterness. “Haha, oh Tourmaline. You do have a sense of humor.” Noelle kept smiling so outsiders would think the conversation was pleasant and harmless.
She took the kettle off the stove and threw on a shawl. The homeless man Agatha brought in was picking crumbs off the table and putting them into his pocket. He didn’t want to be any trouble, but he was hungry. Agatha excused herself and called the police to report his thievery.
the kettle just kind of sat there.. a lot actually. then just one day, was picked up and the people burned the kettle. the kettle did not like this, however, was used to this kind of treatment. end.
The kettle loudly squealed, and she ran over to turn it off before the baby woke up. The baby was beautiful, she had green eyes just like her father. She thought about the father, who was in Afghanistan, her husband who she said I do to not all that long ago. She poured the tea from the kettle and hoped to God that he would not take away the father of her baby girl.
calling the kettle black? popping the kettle corn? sneaking out at night? sneaking in at night? smelling of guilt? or butter…. or what? kettle kettle nettle bettle shettle cabettle sha whhhat
The kettle screams
like whistle in pain.
And outside the window,
plants are dripping with rain.
Where do I go?
With all the strangeness around me.
What is right?
When I am lost
and don’t know what surrounds me.
She loved kettle corn ever since she had her first sweet and salty bite at the Florida State Fair. The cook moved his big wooden paddle around and around, swirling the hot oil and corn and sugar, which exploded into deliciousness.
I stared at the kettle on the stove, noticing for the first time the chip on the patterned spout. I continued to gaze at the green kettle, willing it to turn back time.
The kettle was black. That often went without saying, but Sarah couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as she sat in Mrs. Paddington’s small apartment and stared at the kettle on her stove top. The little old lady shuffled in and gave Sarah an inquiring look. The girl managed to halt her laughter and shoot the woman a smile, shaking her head as though to assure her that yes, the young woman sitting at her kitchen table was entirely sane.
hey pot its the kettle your black ahhh dolly we miss you she was a beautiful heart felt woman not afriad to speack her mind always having some corny saying to say everyone loved her excpecialy the hobos thst moved into her house . . .
There’s something charming about a tea kettle.
The way it whistles when it’s finished, a convenient spout, a cute design in its construction, the paint or lackthereof.
It’s a helluva lot more charming than heating up your tea water in the microwave.
“You moron!” she shouted, swinging the kettle.
“Hey, watch it,” he yelped, ducking. “I’m just the messenger! Jesse sent me to tell you he’s in trouble.”
“Well you could have helped him,” she said accusingly. “I can’t believe you’d turn tail and leave him, if he’s in so bad he needs me.”
I like kettle corn. It tastes nice. That is all I really have to say about kettles, unless you want to bring up Salad Fingers, which absolutely disturbs me and makes me laugh.
Boiling hot and seam releasing into my palms waiting for the first cup of soothing day when the night is receding rapidly and everything unknown is waiting to vanish into air that I breathe and gulp and refuse to let go till tomorrow.
you called me as dark as you
but never saw the threat through,
you copied every style you could
understanding nothing true that stood.
can’t you see that this is where we
belong
to each other through copper lines
with guitar chords that
keep everything fine
you make hot drinks and certain foods using a kettle… it can be useful for lots og things like a home made hot water bottle since it heats water to boil which you can use.
the poor kettle knows that no one has ever respected him. he is the recipient of a myriad of jokes and unfair comparisons with that stupid racist pot that always calls him black.
“Well I don’t care what you say” the teapot shouted “you look exactly the same to me now can we get back to planning our takeover of the world? These things don’t just happen by themselves you know!”
“bitch.” the pot muttered.
“on that we can agree.” said the kettle.
The smell of kettle corn filled the whole street. The fair was full of that sweet scent, an aroma that would become a lasting childhood memory. A street vendor set up his booth in front of an old record store, and sold cheap toys with fading paint while a young country singer began to play her violin in front of the burger depot.
She ardently stared at the water soaked red, burn marks on her hands. The horror of what was done hadn’t set in yet until she let out a short panicked breath and dropped the dented kettle intended for tea, on to the floor. There she towered over the lump of flesh…crying over what she had done.
“who let the kellte burn” my mom said one morning. In reply I say “thats what you get for killing my hopes”, and in reply she said ” stop being dramatic”
the kettle is black and white, like a cow. When the water starts to steam it moos. I don’t understand my aunt. She loves cows entirely too much. She even has a cow tattooed on her ankle.
Enraged she was with her words….as they settled in; searing to her soul…Her anger simmered like a steamed like a kettle, overflowing with unsatisfactory.
Oh, hypocrisy.
Shall we watch the pot call the
Kettle black, darling?
the kettle was as black as the wrought iron that wrung its grip around her door. it was a brass door, brass knuckle couldn’t pierce it. even if it tried.
Polly put the kettle on
Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea!
Suki take it off again
Suki take it off again
Suki take it off again they’ve all gone away! memories from childhood…
The kettle is so cold. There are tiny icicles covering its yellow belly. The tea is spoiled. Someone forgot to turn the kettle on.
a pot that you boil water in that you would use to make tea and hot cocoa. it whistles when hot.
It whistles, whistles,
oh jeez, that’s loud!
what are you trying to prove?
I know you’re there, I know you exist,
you live and make me better.
I love you. Happy now?
I removed the kettle from the stove, and poured Aiden a cup of tea. “I hope that warms you up,” said quietly, and took a seat next to him at the kitchen table.
“Thanks, Violet.”
I nodded, and poured myself a cup if tea too.
The black kettle stared at all of the teacups and sighed, knowing he would never be allowed to join such small, delicate objects and would be forced to lie under the cupboard for the rest of his life.
“That’s like the pot calling the kettle black,” Tourmaline angrily whispered to Noelle. Noelle kept a steady, calm look. With some hidden bitterness. “Haha, oh Tourmaline. You do have a sense of humor.” Noelle kept smiling so outsiders would think the conversation was pleasant and harmless.
my kettle is brown. it sits on the stove. I use it for tea. I can’t think straight. I should get an electric kettle for my dorm room.
The pot was
black.
But the kettle was
lavender.
She took the kettle off the stove and threw on a shawl. The homeless man Agatha brought in was picking crumbs off the table and putting them into his pocket. He didn’t want to be any trouble, but he was hungry. Agatha excused herself and called the police to report his thievery.
the kettle just kind of sat there.. a lot actually. then just one day, was picked up and the people burned the kettle. the kettle did not like this, however, was used to this kind of treatment. end.
The kettle loudly squealed, and she ran over to turn it off before the baby woke up. The baby was beautiful, she had green eyes just like her father. She thought about the father, who was in Afghanistan, her husband who she said I do to not all that long ago. She poured the tea from the kettle and hoped to God that he would not take away the father of her baby girl.
calling the kettle black? popping the kettle corn? sneaking out at night? sneaking in at night? smelling of guilt? or butter…. or what? kettle kettle nettle bettle shettle cabettle sha whhhat
The kettle screams
like whistle in pain.
And outside the window,
plants are dripping with rain.
Where do I go?
With all the strangeness around me.
What is right?
When I am lost
and don’t know what surrounds me.
She loved kettle corn ever since she had her first sweet and salty bite at the Florida State Fair. The cook moved his big wooden paddle around and around, swirling the hot oil and corn and sugar, which exploded into deliciousness.
I stared at the kettle on the stove, noticing for the first time the chip on the patterned spout. I continued to gaze at the green kettle, willing it to turn back time.
Calling the white kettle black? Like the sheep? I never used sayings like that.
In fact.
I just want my tea.
I hear whistling.
One moment please…
kettle. tea. tea. mug. mug. winter. winter. contentedness.
The kettle was black. That often went without saying, but Sarah couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as she sat in Mrs. Paddington’s small apartment and stared at the kettle on her stove top. The little old lady shuffled in and gave Sarah an inquiring look. The girl managed to halt her laughter and shoot the woman a smile, shaking her head as though to assure her that yes, the young woman sitting at her kitchen table was entirely sane.
hey pot its the kettle your black ahhh dolly we miss you she was a beautiful heart felt woman not afriad to speack her mind always having some corny saying to say everyone loved her excpecialy the hobos thst moved into her house . . .
There’s something charming about a tea kettle.
The way it whistles when it’s finished, a convenient spout, a cute design in its construction, the paint or lackthereof.
It’s a helluva lot more charming than heating up your tea water in the microwave.
Well then I guess it’s time to put the kettle on. It’s raining outside and we all could do with a nice cup of tea.
And a biscuit.
Or two.
“You moron!” she shouted, swinging the kettle.
“Hey, watch it,” he yelped, ducking. “I’m just the messenger! Jesse sent me to tell you he’s in trouble.”
“Well you could have helped him,” she said accusingly. “I can’t believe you’d turn tail and leave him, if he’s in so bad he needs me.”
I like kettle corn. It tastes nice. That is all I really have to say about kettles, unless you want to bring up Salad Fingers, which absolutely disturbs me and makes me laugh.
Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.
-Pot
Pots always call me black. *Sigh*
Boiling hot and seam releasing into my palms waiting for the first cup of soothing day when the night is receding rapidly and everything unknown is waiting to vanish into air that I breathe and gulp and refuse to let go till tomorrow.
don’t know what that mean :) Reminds of something warm, though…
you called me as dark as you
but never saw the threat through,
you copied every style you could
understanding nothing true that stood.
can’t you see that this is where we
belong
to each other through copper lines
with guitar chords that
keep everything fine
you make hot drinks and certain foods using a kettle… it can be useful for lots og things like a home made hot water bottle since it heats water to boil which you can use.
“Well that’s a fine kettle of fish,” she said. I grinned from ear to ear and replied,
“Git out the fryin’ pan and git to cookin’, girl!”
the poor kettle knows that no one has ever respected him. he is the recipient of a myriad of jokes and unfair comparisons with that stupid racist pot that always calls him black.
“Well I don’t care what you say” the teapot shouted “you look exactly the same to me now can we get back to planning our takeover of the world? These things don’t just happen by themselves you know!”
“bitch.” the pot muttered.
“on that we can agree.” said the kettle.
The smell of kettle corn filled the whole street. The fair was full of that sweet scent, an aroma that would become a lasting childhood memory. A street vendor set up his booth in front of an old record store, and sold cheap toys with fading paint while a young country singer began to play her violin in front of the burger depot.