Poem | |
Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved,
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
Where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered to flavor their tea
There's a trellis, embraced by a rose climbing vine
Places are set, for dining in jade
beneath shadows that stretch under arthritic old trees
While slivers of sunshine, squeeze through the branches
of silver leafed limbs, in magnolia bloomed shade
Tea will be served, by large knuckled hands
at several round tables dressed with Swiss lace designs
Wearing lavender silk is our proper Grand Dame'
who fits her surroundings, as vintage as wine
Voices are lilting like the birds in the trees
Laughter and chatter, mingle with soft, summer breezes
A bouquet of old friends, around a few scattered tables.
Silver coifed hairdos, to make celebration
Crepe myrtle and wrinkles, beneath ashes and maples
Water cress munchies, and triangle creations
Sweet honey-suckle, tucked over the porches.…
Rose petal blossoms, are painted on china
Bridge cards, tumble by Blue Willow dishes
Biscuits from England, crumble sublimely
Large bosoms bouncing, and big floppy hats
Gossip dished up with lemon-sliced frowns
Up in the tree is the neighbor's calico cat
who catches a glance, and a chance to crawl down
Are they ladies of leisure, from a time that is lost?
Or a painting I've seen on the wall from the past?
Inspired By the Garden Party Contest
Sponsored By Cyndi McMillan 6/6/14
Poem | |
This Valentine, my love, will be divine
I’ll whisk you off to every place and clime
In room enclosed, we’ll travel round the globe
Enchantment waits for us as we disrobe
You'll lay me down on sandy island shore
“Pretend” our game, adventure calls for more
With sweetness on your lips, mine own you'll kiss
A taste that rivals chocolate from the Swiss
I'll whisper tales of wild Arabian Nights
And plop into your mouth Turkish Delights
I'll play the part of harem girl, then maid
Then Warrior Princess come your heart to raid
I’ll shower you with kisses, sweet and wet
And make you lose your clothes on poker bet
Those Vegas lights will twinkle in my eyes
Then off to masquerade in a disguise
Our bodies fuse on our gondola dream
We skinny dip into Venetian stream
The scented candles dim and light peeks in
Your glow, my love, your scent is on my skin
The world is you; you are my every place
There is no beauty finer than your face
This very room where you've made love to me
Is paradise and where I long to be
January 22, 2015
For Mystic Rose's Valentine Contest
Poem | |
I walk above all pain
risen and relentless
floating on borrowed air oblivious
This heart is impervious fortress, like stonewall embattlements
...that lie is twisted around every bitter past and hollow present
Meandering useless, wander and watch
Romances ebbing, flowing, flying, crashing...dead
Envy circles about my head
longer away, further removed...and lonely
This heart is porous Swiss, like wine-tasting afterthoughts
...that truth is a hulking shadow looming disproportionate
engulfing any new light on unseen horizons
Only wishing she might see and understand
My hot and cold passion platters served accordingly
apprehensive only in love's pursuits
timid like bullied school children cowering in corners
Brash and outspoken otherwise...shackled when it may matter
This heart is neglected farmland, like wartorn meadows
...that reality inhibits every bright angle of my soul
suffocating the man you would love...if you knew
Poem | |
Beckon these eyes a whisper in trees
Scarlet passion in hot molten heat
With your fiery touch I will hit my knees
Fevered oscillation on warm amber sheets
This skin awaits your raw carmine kiss
Breath…indrawn from smoldering flames
Inside deep eyes of sweet chocolate Swiss
In searing red throes I call out your name
Trembling in the blazing torch of your touch
I whimper blue....a shattered disarray
A blistered journey…you are my crutch
A bursting heart pulsing crimson display
Morning awaits a crushed coral flower
Entombed......inside an ebony tower
Poem | |
Ooey, gooey, give me choc-o-lot!
If I must, I'll take it liquid hot,
But "wicked" like they fix it in Madrid,
Thick as porridge, satin sunburnt sweet.
(Not like here: sugar,milk and cocoa, mix and heat).
Give me some hot chocolate I can eat!
Drip-drop-dripping from a spoon!
Give it - give it to me in a box.
Tantalize my lips with luscious bits,
Rum and amaretto morsels dipped.
Give me it in chips or chunks or blocks.
And please not those from K-mart or the grocer.
We connoisseurs much prefer it kosher!
Give it to me Swiss or straight from France.
Hurry while I loosen up my pants!
I'll make do with anything you have.
Drizzled over ice-cream nice and smoothy.
chocolate is the universal salve.
chilled or warm, but slathered on it soothes me.
Make my ice-cream chocolate flavored too-
peanut butter swirls with fudge will do.
Be my ever sweet-tooth choco-fairy.
Finger-feed me bonbons. I'm your baby.
Feed me plump and succulent black berry.
Give me, give me, give me what I crave,
and I shall be your love-starved-choco-slave.
10/5/13 for the Rhyme Battle Contest of Juli- Michelle
It lost, so I am hoping it makes the cut in PD's
any poem written in October ---ONLY!!!Contest
Poem | |
Offended is an expensive Vintage
I recommend a less sulfuric fermentation
grapes of wrath
so much to offer
breathe and savor
see legs of the vine
tannins to taste
or we can
get wasted and offended
tick clocks fast
amidst boiling stew
issues skewed by our own jaded views
we can be peaceful
yet perceived to push hate
our temple may become damaged
via friendly fire
and as for poets...
we may be the single most egotistical, emotional, tremendously divine
individuals of all time and we know it!
we laugh when skies cry, seek solitude as joyful crowds arrive
we write and write 'till pens run dry of ink
we, the Swiss cheese...
we pretend to be bulletproof, whilst writhing inside
we jigsaw puzzle brothers and muzzle others
we control situations then
recite white lies to
all the while remaining dedicated to being offended
with loose change and pretentious
and boy we've figured out the whole Multi-Verse because
"My Deity can beat up your Deity!
yet, let me not be the last fool to promise you,
we are so miniscule, the god's will be too busy swinging sticks on the golf links
to visit you before the toil of your sore drama is through
we must pave our way, keeping heads clear and high
stamping urgency upon trusting self
Mister Bob Marley sang it best with: "EVERYTHINGS GONNA BE ALRIGHT!"
upon this short enlightening journey
exists a plethora of big aspirations
we'll fail to grasp if our hopes swirl in the vortex of black clouds
offended at misunderstandings and minute words
burning midnight oil on the spoil.
Poem | |
I have traveled the world rode
the scorching desert on horseback
Dined in Parisian cafes on the
Left Bank repulsing the poetry
of amorous French men and
toasted my toes by a roaring fire
in a chalet high in the Swiss Alps
If you repeat a story until it is absorbed
into the collective consciousness of
enough people it becomes the truth
The world watched TV to see man land
on the moon No one noticed that the space
capsule was an aluminum salt shaker
launched by a slingshot The elaborate
pyrotechnics disguised the truth in the hands
No one knows where the shaker ended up
for the matching pepper shaker was waiting
in the Australian outback resting on dusty ground
Astronauts romped around leaving footprints
that the wind later erased and spouted dialogue
scripted by Tonight Show writers I could divulge
the coordinates for the flag they left
but that would rend the illusion
I could relate the directions
to my hometown of 3,000 souls sister city
to some Swiss town with an unpronounceable name
with the French-like bakery on the corner by the park
where the town council built a sandbox for the toddlers
But people find pride in their ability to know the truth
Who am I to tell everyone that man never left Earth
I never left home
We all settled for less than we deserved
Poem | |
On a spotty, sprinkled day, at the Plott's house on the block,
A squatty Uncle Scotty had sent a polka dotted, cuckoo clock!
The family said "That's handy!", and found a spot upon a shelf
For the dandy, new Swiss timepiece,...next to toddy mix and tea pots!
While Mommy Plott washed all her pots, Daddy Plott worked in the yard
The children, too, were caught worn out, after swatting flies so hard
By the twilight of the evening, they were worn, like pennies spent
Supping lentils, corn and pintos, ...then, up stairs they gladly went
Daddy Plott turned out the lights, falling, plop, right into bed
But bolted up with such a jolt!!...loud "CUCKOOS!!" hurt his head!!
The brand-new clock, made such a noise, his nerves hung by a thread !
That yoddling bird, that could be heard, might wake the neighborhood!
It popped out every hour, and the sour house would shake
With a hollering "CUCKOO' voice....with an awful racket made!
They covered it with pillows...and took it from the room
But the "CUCKOO-CUCKOO-CUCKOO" could be heard...from even the moon!!
They would just doze off, fall fast asleep, and think that it was done....
But when the hands said Next O'Clock......it would cluck out lots more fun!!
One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock...four....!!
The poor little bird, with his voice getting sore....
Saying 'cuckoo', ....'Cuckoo'......"CUCKOO!!!" again !!!
So Daddy took out the tick...........then he took out the tock
Then he defrocked little birdy.....so that he couldn't talk
Now it sits on a shelf.....in the house at the Plott's
Even the clock's little birdy.....can sleep like a rock!
Poem | |
The moon slid far across the skies
It sparkled in her sleepy eyes
The moonbeams laughing as they danced
To keep her in their light entranced
With a brilliant rush they lift her right
Into the dotted swiss of night
And toss her high from star to star
While moonlight watches from afar
In perfect stride and harmony
Across the neon sky goes she
She waltzes on a comet's tail
Until the tides of night grow pale
And as the beckoning dawn draws nigh
Her eyes grow weary and with a sigh
She catapults from the moon's embrace
Back into bed she takes her place
Poem | |
Soda Pop Battered
Food Fight Ammunition
Parkay Vs. Country Crock
Poem | |
A true story.
Here I was,
23 or 24...
Classed an "Executive"
NYC Dept Store Chain,
"Executive" label meant
I could work overtime
For one half of my normal salary...
But a fool sees stars
Where he should see crime
Promoted "Furniture Buyer"....
Big Ticket spot....
They seemed out to prove
Smart I was not.
Big Furniture Market,
High Point, N.C.,
Invited out to dinner,
By big shot vendor....
Oh...whoop, whoop, yea!
Of course, my stuffy boss
In the next chair
At this odd restaurant...
"The Factory" it's name,
After that night,
I was never looked at the same....
Big shot, Big City....
It wasn't pretty....
The menu did start
Entrees priced more
Than my annual salary
And I'm confused
There's a boiler next to me!
So this Big City Buyer,
In his $99.00 suit
Ordered a shrimp cocktail,
Oh, what a hoot!
Like Studio 54
I had no idea
What I was in for!
Got my shrimp cocktail,
Oh, I do love my shrimp!
But the lemon wedge,
Was wrapped up
My mind now a' crimp
In this decorative yellow stuff,
All fit with a bow....
How do I open it, I wondered...
I wanted to know...
But I'm a Big Shot NYC Buyer,
Sure, I've seen it all....
How dare these dumb hicks...
Have such a gall!!
I took my fork,
I took my knike....
I started trying to open
This thing like....
It meant my very life!
I was struggling,
And frustrated and mad
Got some of the weirdest looks
I ever have had...
These Carolina Hicks...
Out to make a fool of me...
Slowly I realized
Everyone looking at me...
My boss's eyes swollen
How dumb his young buyer
Should be in a cornfield
And call himself "Town Crier"
Eventually I learned....
This stuff was called
Ridiculous I thought...
No cheddar or swiss
Like this had I ever bought...
In silence I remained
Through the rest of my meal....
To me the biggest embarrassment
To me the biggest deal....
Big City Hot Shot Buyer...
Dumb as a farm hand.....
Put in a Manhattan restaurant...
Without but a strand....
Of what was, what wasn't
Of how, and of why...
All I wanted to do
Is to crawl under a rock
(This is true!!!)
Poem | |
This is a poem in class
3rd period to be exact
Lotion smelling all good
Because it’s seaweed extract
With my red K- Swiss
Other girls envy
‘cus they wish they could taste this.
And lace this
Ladies just face it
Me myself is too complex
And y’all are too basic
I’m confident in my looks
That’s me being honest
Some say I am handsome
I say “No” to be modest
6 foot and 1 inch tall
Most haters want to test me
Blatant and/or indirectly
It makes me feel good when their girls say I’m sexy
But check me
Outside of my school
I’m a fresh young man
Even in my uniform I look cool
I am so self-confident
I am not conceited
I will remain the same
Even when my looks are depleted
Besides all the crime and drama
I love this world.
‘Cus behind every guy like myself
Is a sexy ass girl
I know a dollar worth of dimes
But only one of them is mine
And when ol’ girl step on the scene
The whole scene shine
She hot like fire
She makes other niggaz melt
‘Cus them niggaz wish they
Could feel what I felt
As my heart moves
To the beat of her drums
Her hotness gives me heartburn
Now I am taking Tums
Not the original
But extra pain relief
She has the mythical booty…I mean beauty
The goes beyond belief
I got a queen in the making
Sizzling like bacon
Every other couple compared to us
Is just faking and waiting
Waiting for their time to shine
And the chance to recover what’s mine
They are mad because
Their status in society has declined
It’s plain to see
They want to be where I be at
They will never be like us
But why can’t they see that?
Poem | |
Grill toast with corn beef
Thousand island dressing to please
Grill delicious on rye or pumpernickle tastes right.
Hot melted cheese of Swiss makes you say delicious.
Sauerkraut in the mouth makes you wish
for coleslaw and this
0 1123581313853211 0
~dedicated to my friend, can you guess who? would dare me to turn a 'fibo' up a knotchie?
lol!! That was fun. Thanks Ruben ;)
Poem | |
I am putting out a beacon on the A-M, I Am Legend morning double-dutch
Pepsi cola, paranoia, post-exilic high school drama. Stop.
Is there anybody out there, I’m hoping you can hear me
Break the door, cover down, but most of all believe me
I haven’t seen another human being in this God forsaked oasis
who wouldn’t place me in his iron-sights just to bury me with the faceless
tasteless, and all around degenerate in-animates
that beheld the new millennium and become some pickled-plastered shits.
50 milligrams of trapazene and a metric ton of ritalin
with any luck will keep me from burning down New York like a Marvel Movie villain
Like ninety percent destruction, like the news on nine-eleven
like the peter parker web net, catching mary jane to save the day
top story at eleven.
Back to you Jen! Thanks Bob.
We are on the precipice of New World Order, but not what we were promised
by the inside job, swiss bank, illuminate, and Rothschild alarmists
This is not the Black Pope signing off on Masonic acts of terror
But a voluntary waiver to exclude yourself from error
Like bubble gum “POP POP”, likes oops that wasn’t me
This is merely just an act of infallible insanity
Temporary numbing off the senses til it lingers
Let the beasts in his cage lick the cheesy powder off your fingers
In the year of 1980 there was a scientific discovery
indeed the researchers were baffled by this nihilist anomaly
They kept a scaly monster locked up, Isla Sorna penitentiary
But they didn’t tell the people what the spectacle was meant to be
The monster was a man, and the man an animal
I don’t believe I’m ever getting out of this dirt hole.
The monster was a man and the man an animal.
Poem | |
I have a mouse
in my house,
In my house
is a naughty mouse.
He scares my Mummy,
He tickles my tummy
and nibbles at my toe,
Yet he is my dear Joe!
He steals my swiss cheese,
My cake and my pie piece;
He sleeps in my bed
Wearing pajamas red.
He goes out on a date
and comes home late,
Sometimes he makes me mad,
At times happy, at times sad.
But my love for him is such
I love him more than too much,
He is dear Joe, my pet mouse,
Right here, in this very house!
Poem | |
In the sacred river.
I was born into polytheism,
Where Yemoja was the deity;
The goddess of river was the anchor
That held the village to life.
Her shrine was the sacred river
Where fortune was sought and recieved;
There fishing was forbade
Goddess’ heiresses could not be food.
The heiresses were beautiful
Appealing to eye,appealing to mouth,
But the beauty and taste of goddess
Were certainly beyond man’s hunt.
In their beauty they were sluggish
Their reverance made them so,
When you were Yemoja’s heiress
Who again shall you fear?
Then came the day of armageddon
The conflict of the titans
When guts of three children
Vowed to taste the godess’ flesh.
Two cousins and I had this agenda,
At the shadow of sun,we stole us to shrine;
With a basket we arrested five goddesses,
In a clay pot they became food.
As we were savouring the taste of the godess
A bone hung in my gut,I coughed to eject;
Mother came to help,cat let out of the bag:
Abomination,fishing in the sacred river.
Yemoja must be begged:
Twelve lashes of cudgel per child,
One hen,one cock ,one snail,
Six yards of white swiss velvet.
User’s name : Kayod5.
Contest : Gone fishin’.
Sponsor : Caleb Smith.
Poem | |
If you were to find an old
calendar, strap it to a hospital
tie it down by its weak ends,
and then sea section the belly
of it's pages, you'd find the
winding roads of my intestinal
I used to be a ballot box filled
of everyone else's opinion
except for my own. My swagger
was like watching a Walkman
trying to swallow a DVD.
When I was a little younger,
I walked as if I were concerned
about how the ground would
feel about my footsteps. And if
I could just find a way to write
a letter to myself, when I was a
sweater with itchy sleeves that
I would someday grow out of,
I would say,
"There will be days you will feel
like a peacock with no feathers.
You will feel flightless, and
undeserving of attention."
But listen, listen to me. LISTEN.
You have to stop getting out of
bed like you are an oil spill.
You're not a flat tire at 2 am,
so stop acting like an accident.
Spenser, you are an apple on a
pine tree in a room full of
lemons, and you come from a
line of authentic Swiss army
pocket knives; Men who are
rare, sharp and dangerous
when not handled carefully.
Somedays I wish my arms were
a few years longer so that I
could reach back, grab you by
the shoulders, punch you in the
chest, and say,
"Listen. You are the main
character in a movie that I
watch every time I see the
inside of my eyelids."
I told myself a million times
that I wouldn't spoil the ending,
but I will tell you this: Your
story starts off really slow, but
it does get better.
You don't have to believe me.
Someday you'll see for
I will see her again soon.
At the apex of her driveway
that I can now see in my
I will ignore the washing
machine in my stomach.
I'll tell her that she looks
I will extend my arms like a
drawbridge to a castle no one
has visited in years.
Pressure washing my fears
from my hardened heart, I will
show her how far I've come
from the hospital bed.
Poem | |
the air is scented
with swiss hazelnut coffee
a rich aroma
stimulating my senses
to drink it ... or just to breathe
Poem | |
the tyrant has left
with the Swiss System of theft
billions of theirs left
Swiss Bank get away
stealing it the legal way
a clean den of thieves
is'nt there a law
or should'nt there be one made
to make the Swiss pay
Poem | |
Limerick: Once Miss Swiss wanted to make cake with cheese
Once Miss Swiss wanted to make cake with cheese
So she bought a cow, a dog and some geese.
The dog ate the gander
Geese laid no eggs for her,
So she locked the cow up in the deep freeze.
She called up her cousin in the French Alps
Through melodious yodeling yelps.
French cousine long in bed
Kept boiling her own blood,
So she blew the long mountain horn for help(s).
Her cousine germaine, a stout dairy maid
Answered her urgent melodic raid:
“Put the dog in manger,
Let cow sup in anger!”
Eh presto! Milk turned to holed-cheese sans aid!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Poem | |
A young poet there was named McKesson
Who made cash with his poetry lesson
He'd recite at Swiss banks
Getting euros and francs
With his rhyme and a big Smith & Wesson
"Just hand over the loot and I surely won't shoot."
© Roy Jerden December 18, 2014
Poem | |
There once was a man,
Who carved him a boat.
It was out of the cheese,
That he milked from his goat.
The first one he failed,
So he made him a note.
Never use Swiss,
Because it won’t float!
Poem | |
Feathers of dust & charms of wedeling windows,
Unheard sound of wisdom,
Street with line of mellowing willows,
The cries of indefinitely breaths of sympathy tales,
Of modern days hero’s,
That fought the sight of meditation of midnight capabilities,
Structure of liberation's,
Of an anatomy figure,
The sights are so bright of lights,
Loom within time,
Swiss true lies,
That ridiculous riddle of due time,
That tangle like new moons of lunettes moods,
Of rules of tides! ....
Words fully digestion,
Containing that of words of contracting,
Pasting that of satisfaction,
Thoughts of wound that every lasting,
That will be the world I never fall from....
Could this be Heaven witness?
Within her eyes of satisfaction,
Eyes of an angel,
Riddle me this,
Riddle me that,
The view still hasn't change...
Is this true love or a dash of forbidden passion?
Open the gate for me!!!!
Is this love or something like it?
Eyes of an angel…
Poem | |
I put your heart on fire,
like a swiss watchmaker
I make it tick.
Not to slow not to
fast, the combination
to your heart is only
known by me.
The labyrinth of
your unconsuous is
where I operate,
tunnels where wise man
go mad, and mad men
Your eyes is my
mirror to your soul.
But dont ask me
to extinguish your
fire, reset your
give you the
map to your
Because I cannot
break the mirror
of your soul,
and you cannot jump from
a heart on fire.
Poem | |
You're a starship powered on Xanadu nectar;
I'm a pogo stick on coal.
You're a majestic arc of the milky way;
I'm a quark in an unsold cheese roll.
Your eyes launch songbirds and sonnets;
Come fly with me on my crackling comet.
Your hair evokes the erotic scents of perfumed night bazaars;
I exude burning tyres on torched, smashed deisel cars.
Beside you a pulsar is like a sorry matchstick spark;
As I stand in a room of moths,
I'm the dark.
You're the clearest proof if there is a God,
Their image is of your resplendent own;
I'm often asked to be the face promoting payday loans.
As you glide past men how their minds dissolve,
Their eyes kerbcrawl out their face;
I'm all Genghis Khan cologne liberally splashed over exploding beer crates.
Even when you sneeze,
You make this man go weak at the knees.
And if you had dandruff, as you brushed your hair,
Surely it would sparkle like snow through Swiss mountain air?
And that sliver of marmalade left on your cheek,
Reminds me of liquid gold encased in an amber hive of magic bees.
And when you carry rubbish to your bin,
I follow you just so I might fall right in.
Then, as you're unblocking the drain, really rocking those wellies,
I, like a smitten garden gnome,
And turn to jelly..
Verily, Grace Kelly, may I be your Shelley,
Though you gaze rapturously at a shopping channel on the telly?