Ambrosia
for the soul
are clocks
chiming
in the shop
downtown~
big clocks
little clocks
cuckoo clocks
mantle clocks
grandfather
grandmother
carriage clocks
and country clocks~
hundreds
of clocks
chiming the hour,
reminding
the young
the old
the rich
the poor
fathers
mothers
newlyweds
and spinsters
that mortal time
is finite.
A mid life's tasty morsels, there'll be problems
M ost will be a mix coming in threes
B asically the sweetness is mother's
R ecipe, fresh from the orchard
O ranges scalded and peeled, sliced
S weetner added if there's any tartness
I nteresting how life's tasty morsels need
A dditions like sweet coconut that nullify sour
.
In the sub jove frigido land of fire’s
bellezza mångata, the mysteriarch’s
mamihlapinatapai wrapped around
his wonderwall much in the way
wrabbed cats pr-ove their ataraxia by
wrapping their oneiric atara
around foilsick ailurophiles as nepenthe
for their companion’s bereaved love,
henotic ambrosia for the sonder of star-
eyed lovers with silent soliloquies
i never wanted to be a god—
just someone you cried in front of.
that was enough divinity for me.
your grief tasted like pomegranate seeds,
sweet and bitter
and buried in the soft ruin of you.
i held your sobs in my palms
like something holy.
like juice from a fruit
i didn’t deserve.
i didn’t cause your sadness.
but i didn’t stop it either.
sometimes,
i fed it slow
just to watch it bloom—
a bruise unfolding beneath your skin
like pressed violets.
they say love is patient,
but i was ravenous.
i drank from your breakdowns
like they were wine
offered by trembling hands.
i told myself
i was comforting you,
but i think
i just loved the way
you needed me most
when you were breaking.
your tears were my ambrosia—
your pain,
a feast
i never earned.
and now that you’ve stopped crying,
now that your eyes have turned to stone
and your voice no longer quivers,
i sit at an empty table
with shaking hands
and no more hunger.
i miss your ache
the way gods miss prayer—
not because they deserve it,
but because silence
is a kind of death
when you’re used to worship.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself."
~ Khalil Gibran
If words of my fortune cookie were by Confucius written,
he must have been deeply in love and completely smitten
to know the taste of it is as sweet as pollen to the bees
and as beautiful as Springtime buds blooming on trees.
Each happy tear that falls is ambrosia upon my tongue
The suckle of his lips is worthy of a love song to be sung
Honeyed kisses, more succulent than a flower's nectar
and I am the fortunate one for being his chosen collector.
The good fortune in life is beyond all means of measure
As a musician's inspiration brings him a source of pleasure,
so does the heart find its nourishment in the revelation
that passion is the drink that fills love's need for libation.
Fruit of the vine is not the only choice in which lovers imbibe.
The taste of honeyed kisses is the ale that I would prescribe.
Ambrosia
Ambrosia floral scents emitted from plants
Reveal intentions with a presentation
Of heady fragrances arousing the senses:
Ragweed genus, beautiful and romantic.
Pleasurable moments of imagination
Express countenance in their acceptance
By extending forgiveness for irritation,
Colourful blooms with allergenic pollen.
Weigh in the sea with balmy, breeze made waves,
Silhouetted by mountains in the distance,
Freshens the face with appreciative thoughts
Of love received and returned quickly.
On wayward ivy
calyx in woodlands
a spruce-blue butterfly
sparkling rustles
of
sweet wind chant
swings in the ethereal morning light
legato lilts silken waves
in
sequined ambrosia shades
crimson undertones
on
oyster weaves
moonstone
&
damask
mist hummed melodies
a list of nostalgic queries
collude to bind
metamorphosis of spirit
and
personality
through social awareness
referred
to self and to you
harbinger
of
love and light
sparkling
through tonight's sky
Written: December 21, 2021
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
No 55 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Ambrosia
Black tulip Shrek
Green envy demonstrative
Butter wouldn't melt whence churned
Into something other than itself
With chicken arms and pigeon chest
Which inside to hide
The ashes of a loved one
Departed
In the desolate domain of eerie milieu
under the ebony opaque sky,
on the murky hideous landscape
the nocturnal creatures prowl and try
to stalk those who can’t see
the nightriders slither in the sly
from the sinister forlornness of the wild,
the unwary they craftily descry.
With the arcane acumen concealed
as ominous feral creatures they lurk,
like sordid silhouettes of evil menace
they stealthily sneak in the dark
into the quintessence of your life,
crumbling it down going berserk,
they sip from the chalice of night
your soul’s ambrosia in darkness stark.
__________________
January 21, 2022
Contest : The Chalice Of Night
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
fall's cool breeze tip-toes
jasmine oozes ambrosia
amber dusk descends
September 2, 2021
For " Favourite Nature Haiku" Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllables (5-7-5) checked by HMS.com
SECOND PLACE
Padraig was a talented man
stroked the harp in sack-cloth kaftan
blew tin whistles sweetly
sang harmony completely
now immortalised on a Guinness can
24th February 2021
**Christmas Ambrosia**
Christmas tree lights
of velvety hues and blends
on walls, do flashdance
11-23-2020
Waking up to the sounds of chirping birds in the trees
Is the sweetest wake up call nature gives me
Beckoning softly from dreamland to life
The cool breeze wafting through my window panes
Reminds me of the sweetness in freshness every morning.
Oxygen from photosynthesis, undiluted
This is just enough ambrosia to start my day
I long to remain wrapped in the arms of mother nature
Held captive by the wondrous sights and stillness
But the blaring horns of the train would not let me be
Jolting me out of nature’s harmony
Into the reality of the struggle for survival…
©Joy Adesola2020
Surging storm splitting apart the falling sky
blows with harrowing fury through static mind,
flaring wrath burns akin to blazing badland bush,
scorching dry soul to a stack of still ash.
Sky would go up high again, construct clouds,
adrift from fading ruins of missing horizon,
dissolving painful mind constantly dripping
slant drops of pouring rain of dismal sorrow.
In squally gust clumps of cloud drift away far,
as shining stars glow bright in moonlit glossy sky,
through radiant air satin surf of stardust wafts,
making in my mind an aura of astral glow.
On topography of soul brook of jubilation flows,
satiating my thirsty spirit, and I would want it
to always drink ambrosia of joy without hiatus,
and sail on winds of rhapsody to bay of bliss.
(Letter E has not been used in the poem)
July 14, 2020
Received N/A in Contest : Lipogram Poem (Judged July 27, 2020)
August 10, 2020
Contest : N-A Rerun 10
Sponsor : John Hamilton
Like a newborn babe
Girdled by
A colony of ants,
Like a bird in
A wooden cage,
Like a prisoner
In the Bastille,
Each human life
Is ensnared with
A great number
Of hurdles:
The path of life
Is never laden with
Silk and blossoms.
If we endeavour indeed,
We’ll attain life’s ambrosia.
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