Best Balsamic Poems
When the
seaside sepulchre
of a kingdom,
without its queen,
is smeared with
screams of lighting,
I wish to crackle
these slivers
of silver shakle,
and devour
that consoling
taste of balsamic
twilight, which
drapes every
ritual of woe with
maleficent vows.
I wonder, if
the thievery of
of my soul, will
enhance the
crawling of
raven sun
or, bestow power
upon the baptised
mannequin,
by slaying those
jealous lilies,
floating in
summery
estuaries of
my stolen destiny.
As these sage flames
fly across the
chambers of
my castle,
petrifying those
puerile promises
of life, I seak to
be an amaranth,
rising beyond
oak skies as
I engulf those
taunting meteors that
enshroud my
solitude and
dethrone every
essence of
false light, that
consumed those
waltzing scents
of my sangria spring.
Has my heart
become a
fickle thorn,
who will keep
bleeding guidance
in moonlight or
shall this
fortnight be
traced by the last
streak of treacherous
bloodline?
Perhaps,
'The Goddess
of Thunder'
is unfurling
those flaming
rose' maidens,
who wish
to splash ebons
of roaring wreath,
across the
woeful vaults of
my ribcage,
which concealed
their silence
in sentinels of
sacrifice.
I don't assert
the want of
swathing myself
in the perfumed
petrichor of
heinous healing,
as I don't want to
quench this
rage that
is carving a
strife to
refuse my
surrender towards
this succumbing
darkness.
" I wish to be
the soul of a marionette's
pearly pupa,
satiated by fiery halo
of chrysalis,
and slowly weaving
silken hymns of
desperate hope,
desiring to emerge
from the emeralds,
that betray every eye... "
Oh Goddess Moon, you induce painters to paint,
the crazed to rave and poets to praise your grace.
How many love affairs have you helped to consummate?
With a woman’s many wiles, you change your shape.
How you beguile, yet never do you vacillate.
You stay your course and never stray!
Like yin to yang, you are to sun a cool and pallid pool,
changing, yet constant in your rule
as you steadfastly move from New to Quarter To Gibbous to Full,
and then you wane . . .
till in Crescent Balsamic you reign -
there to shortly contemplate the wisdom you have gained.
Your fortnight ended, you journey back again.
We all beneath you are an ocean mystically pulled,
heirs to the gifts you weave at the time we are born.
Like our predecessors who learned to heed
your rhythmic sounds as they planted seed,
it would behoove us, with our vast technology,
to stop and study the sky, your teachings there to see!
I smell something so beautiful!
Many different fragrances are drifting toward me.
So many sachets of poetry are prettily displayed.
Such visual delights!
I stoop to relish one - a citrus blend
with sweet anise and cinnamon.
Ah! How fun this poem is with its taste of licorice!
And here’s one that is rather sensuous.
Its aroma is the clove,
clary sage, bergamot, and rose.
How luscious! I linger at this one for a while. . .
Now I lean in toward the scent of chamomile.
This poem soothes the spirit
with its lavender and jasmine blooms in it.
Oh, here is one not only sweet but spicy!
Coriander wafts my way
with cinnamon and ginger. Such a treat to savor!
Next I view a bowl
filled with myrrh and frankincense.
And what else?
Why, it’s the earthy scent of sandalwood
with a touch of patchouli for good measure.
My, this is an epic poem to treasure.
Right next to it I spy a tiny one -
a packet of herbs and other little things,
But oh, how sweet its fragrance
of nutmeg, citrus and vanilla. Indeed, I’ve found a gem.
And here is one completely fresh - a most creative blend
of lemon, lavender and pine. It is divine!
Now a strong scent of sweetness comes to me,
This time from lavender laced
with small petals Of germaniums, and again,
the wondrous cinnamon
that takes my mind far back
to sentimental scenes of childhood.
Balsamic and earthy is the final poem that tempts me
with cedar wood, spruce and fir -
another one with thoughts of life and nature
to ponder as I linger one last time. . .
Then I must leave this sanctuary.
Day after day -
how I love to fill my senses
with poetry potpourri!
May 1, 2016 for Linda's Poetry _______ (fill in the blank) Poetry Contest
(hope I did it right this time!)
Nestled with the glittering elements,
I ponder the immortality of the senses—
my lucidity twirls,
as pirouetting flakes through
sapphire mist amidst cyanic windstorms,
drifting like arctic embers,
towards cerulean twilight skies,
beyond frost covered pains,
littered across glacial clouds that linger,
swirling upon an indigo iced cluster of
topaz teal stars,
enveloping my cobalt soul beneath your
cashmere caress—
we behold the wonder of an
opulent crescent moon,
cradling our kismet love, in
vows of our balsamic destiny, ever
sanctioning icebound purgatories
buried deep in our bones, in
flurry feathered snowfields,
guiding our
souls back home to our halcyon hereafters,
where I’ll sit throned as the
queen of blizzards,
wearing a crown of bleeding splinters.
By morning, I could feel the first hints of warm air,
Relieved I took my bath and dressed for work.
There was no music in the block of flats,
But in my head rumbled a hundred old time songs
That tantalized me into a stupor of great expectancy.
Down stairs, near the elevator, was an old woman.
I was shocked to see her on a wheelchair, eyes vacant.
The landlord smiled at me and told me not to worry.
Seems Angelique was to be taken to some rest home.
Her mother just wanted to see that the upstairs
Apartment was in perfect state for the living.
Disappointed at the name I left for work later for my groceries.
Back home I concocted some pasta and cooked the sauce,
Opened my favourite bottle of red wine to drown my sorrows.
Silence reigned supreme and I felt rather annoyed.
So I betook myself to sleep hoping at least to dream.
The phone rang and a dulcet voice asked for me.
She had arrived late and had got nothing prepared for her meal.
Could I take something good for her to eat?
So I put on my track suit and with little or no enthusiasm
Went upstairs with some pasta left over and some wine.
That would be enough I thought, but the mother
Was old enough and should have known better.
Mother? The girl that opened the door was young enough.
A nymph that beckoned me in, in the warm atmosphere,
Balsamic perfume that inundated the cosy apartment,
Low magic music swirled and vibrated everywhere.
My name is Angel she tenderly smiled, shall we dance?
I felt the warmth of her; felt her arms and the dance began.
It did not take long to become lost in her euphoric bliss.
And our lips met, again and again as our hearts beat as one……….
You want to know the end?
We lived happily ever after…….
As all fairy tales should…..
baked beetroot in balsamic
carrots with cummin
sizzling prawns in mayonaise
lettuce and radishes
cold rasberryade
Olive oli
Press!
Yellow chard stain index finger smears my logic puzzle,
Sour cream cilantro splatter quite the quaint “addition”
juicy brain pump lemon zest solution that I guzzle,
number crunching sea salt a spur to intuition
Roasted sweet potato has me snapping at the grid
toting up those lettuce layer 3 by 3 cells
carrot colour pencil point to “whisk” the sums I did
geometric square outside a salad bowl that gels
With mango stone eraser I can sculpt another route
Imagine all those French bean digits driving me insane
kidney bean ensemble sighs “give that row the boot.”
I sniff balsamic vinegar to make quick fixes plain
Sudoku trail incumbent has fresh basil hint in mind
while churning sumptuous avocado neuron cell alert
feasting off that figure fetish nutrient aligned
“You’ll crack this with some bamboo shoot” an Einstein voice might blurt
Basic rule of algorithm leads to Asian aniseed
Check online for symbolic totals, those grains that raise the stakes
rabbit food as tummy loaded “combo” itching to succeed
but one should pause awhile on computation,
for cayenne flavour breaks
Heuristically I dribble walnut fractions on a page
footnote to some taco leaf conundrum
Interlocking data cuts the mustard as we age
Another beetroot slice and cryptic teaser warding
off the boredom
NB I have an acquired expertise with regard to Sudoku
logic puzzles. But I also like to cook.
The nutrients sustain my Sudoku efforts.
When I talk to my duncan
Yes, when the harsh vagaries of life,
Afflict me with despair ,
I need his words,
His prayers, his outstretched hand ...
In those days I only write and erase,
When I did not concentrate on what I do;
When all I think brings embarrassment,
Only solution to meet your touch.
It was God that put it in my way,
Came to cover a gap in my life,
Replace those who never came in line
With rules of solidarity and affection.
When I talk with him feel strong,
His voice sounds odd to my ear,
In moments it makes me life make sense
And fast foolproof shows my north.
When he assumes the role of confidant,
Enters the body and soul in my problems,
Makes my goals their badges
And unfolds to see me happy.
When I talk with him is a lesson of optimism,
Calls from the past to serve me a lesson
And if in this regales me your heart,
He sees a future of our own, full of romanticism.
His words balsamic are me from
Restores your voice to the flavors of life,
With him always find a way be happy
And I believe that happiness is ours alone.
OF CEIZAR FOR MY DEAR DUNCAN TE AMO
To aid the celebration’s overindulgence
of snow and damp, sugar and fat,
serve a cornucopia of felicitous fiber
and its vitamin rush—
whirligig of walnuts and crisp cranberries,
Honeycrisp apples and wild red strawberries,
spring mix sprinkled with balsamic and fig.
Give a fig* about your friendships and figure.
Strap on boots, tread through snow and ice.
Make nice with muscles and joints,
your neighbors.
Share the bounty of your colorful heritage.
Stay in shipshape form as you celebrate.
The bing bang motor of a zoom car in motion is a crusted carcass frame. But ridden is getting quite giddy at altitudes over seventeen hundred feet. No air.Thin air. Must don a hydrocarbon mask then. Peel not a custard colour of skirt as it can reveal molten lava which is speckles and heckles even the most benign wagon or carriage on a multi-lingual highway south. Ooh southern climes. That is preferred to a goblet of resin. Which was playing on high volume to a field of goats and bugs . But a right angle of a deviant is not that clever when dressed in a dinner jacket, a morning suit or a crisp white blouse. Inheriting rabbit fodder from basin balsamic jam? No no no. Good to add fruit fusion and belch. Misted murky making marvellous magnification. And a giant eel climbing. How quite playful. Great. Xxxxx. Intercontinental z
The ghostly snows of my past
haunt me on worthless wintry days,
reminder of so many lost relationships,
suggestive memories of happier times.
Yet fiendish demons haunt my present,
so many massive crosses must I bear
until, perchance, I can perhaps recapture
the long forgotten exuberances of olden years.
But memories are sometimes misty,
visions mere tenuous apparitions,
fretful emotions a thing of yesteryear.
Can I evoke all those occurrences
or should I hope for another chance?
that I might feel again the happiness
that eludes me like a ghostly dance.
Yet it is at a dance that we meet again,
I feel exuberant again and dream,
To feel the brush of your soft lips,
the simple caresses of your fingertips,
the strokes I’ll give your silken tresses,
to hear your laughter ringing melodious,
to smell your balsamic sexual musk,
and so much more, o so much more.
I yearn again as she dances close to me,
but now 'tis hell, torment and misery,
I merely live in dream and hope.
A pea in a blanket. help assistance is required for the gnome was drawing near to the fire but was blocked by a rat who has morphed into a bee. Worker bee. Good. Fantastic. And now the baboon ensures no pork fest. Great. And obviously no one bothered. And obviously no one cared enough. Oblivious oblivion then. Cable car bra in basins. Balsamic fruit fried. Paleontology patterned printed point. And a dew. Good. And a deity of a half blood means fame to a few. Goodbye goodnight and no good day. Hahaha smoked a single egg mackerel sandwich. Oooh worshipped by a majority vote of no confidence in the car park now. Xxxxx colonic clap clap your unit. Xxxxx passing through a series xxxxx paleontologist playing piano lessons zzz freedom of action for number of prancing prawns xxxx oleo royalist 0 paleontologist 5
Her assignment was to
create a balsamic? Olive oil glaze
for green onions , roasted yellow pepper, cucumber
to accompany a Sour crème and Cheddar Duchess potato
and a Medium Rare Prime Rib
with a tangy creamy herb gravy.
and a hazelnut Tart
with Cream Pastry and Mango
with a Sweet White Muscat de Frontignan wine
springform Pans
Flute Glasses
Pastry bags
whisks
heavy cream
Who sweetens these nights
might those labor that
there perfections
will make an
evening that much more specail..
" The Fuge Compromist"
"Wet the Palette "
8 CUPS OF STALE BREAD- TOASTED AND CUBED
3 CUPS OF COOKED BROWN RICE
2 CUP OF MUSTARD GREENS, DRAINED AND CHOPPED FINE
2 CUPS OF ONIONS CHOPPED
1/4 CUP OF GARLIC CRUSHED
3 CUPS OF COOKED HAMHOCK MEAT DICED FINE
1/2 CUP OF CHOPPED ROSEMARY
1/4 CUP OF CHOPPED THYME
1 CUP OF TOASTED SUNFLOWER SEEDS
2 CUP OF DEHYDRATED DICED APPLES
1 CUP OF CHOPPED RASIANS
1 C DICED GREEN PEPPERS
1CUP CELERY DICED
3/4 CUP OF SMOKED FISH
1 CUP OF BROWN SUGAR
1 CUP OF DICED SWEET POTATOE (RAW)
3- 31/2 CUPS OF CHICKEN STOCK
1 10 POUND FRESH HAM BUTERFLIED
MAKE DRESSING, STUFF THE HAM, USE BUTCHTERSTRING TO TIE THE HAM FROM END TO END.
SPRINKLE THE SKIN WITH A MIXTURE OF THE FOLLOWING
1/4 CUP OF MC CORMICKS SEASONING
1/4 CUP OF CAYENE PEPPER
1/4 CUP OF GROUND GINGER
1/4 CUP OF GARLIC POWDER
MIX TOGETHER
AFTER RUBBING 1/4 CUP LIQUID SMOKE TO
THE SURFACE SPPRINKLE WITH SEASONING
WRAP IN FOIL AND BAKE AT 350 FOR FIVE HOURS
FOR A BARBAQUE SAUCE
COMBINE 3 CUPS OF CATSUP
1/2 CUP HONEY
2 TABLESPOONS OF CAYENE
1/4 CUP OF DEHYRATED GARLIC
1/4 CUP OF DEHYDRATED ONIONS
2 TABLESPOONS OF GROUND MUSTARD
1/4 CUP OF HOISEN SAUCE
1/4 CUP OF SPICERUM
1/2 UP OF BALSAMIC VINAGER
1/4 CUP OF PUREED RASBERRIES
1/4 CUP OF LIQUID SMOKE
I start off being optimistic
With my big saucepan
Only as a last resort will I ever
Eat soup from a can.
I assemble all the ingredients
From a list I’ve not written down
Caremelise the onions.
Until they’re nice and brown.
Slice up some items
Dice all the rest
Cut the mushroom small
I think that’s best.
I slow cooked a Ham to
Provide a liquid base
Carefully and slowly
I stir this into place.
I crumble in a cube, flavour
Depending on what I’ve got
Bring it slowly to the boil and
Keep it simmer hot.
I use a hand held blender
To get rid of all the lumps
Get it smooth and even
Get rid of all the clumps.
I taste it in anticipation.
Always a potential waste
It’s hot smooth and digestible
But has such a bland taste.
indeterminate and indefinable
And no matter how I’ve tried
The supposed soup’s variety
Just can’t be identified
So it’s down to my reviver
I alway need to use to fix it
Worcester, Soy, and Balsamic,
And then I liberally mic it.
Sling in some lazy garlic
Just for good measure
Amazingly these Ingredients
Just add to the palate’s pleasure
It’s a hotchpotch of flavours
With a lot of spicy heat
Not the sort of thing a gourmet
Would willingly choose to eat
But we consume every last drop
We just can’t stand any waste
And hope springs eternal one day
It will conform to conventional taste.