Best Bastes Poems
The guests were partying in the big house
a burglar sneaked in armed with a lead pipe
Mrs. White in the kitchen bastes a grouse
Colonel Mustard had guests caught in his hype
A candle stick shone while hung from a rope
in the library Miss Scarlett, dressed in red
felt a cold shiver when a hand did grope
then led to the study, she, filled with dread
In the hall a loud bang sounds with a boom
a revolver echoed… Reverend Green fell
Professor Plum in the billiard room
bled from a dagger…a final farewell
In the lounge, Mrs Peacock ( what a wench )
reflects on her actions, holding a wrench
© 9/6/2014
This sonnet is based on the game of Cluedo it has
been the source of many hours of entertainment
and the source of many an argument, possibly
leading to murder.
Mr Green was originally called Reverend Green
it was changed to Mr. for the American market.
Said Jonson, vulgar rhyme a petty crime
Swindling paupers begging fleeting stime
Opined syllabic compress from simple mimes
Which o'er lazy, temporal lobes did climb
Simple, jingoistic rhythms to prime
A crutch to prop up ailing metric time
Yet, Nature's species exist in kind
Mutated limbs rarely another tract find
Elliptical, redundant patterns planets bind
To their orderly, repetitive cadence resigned
Weather systems to each season assigned
Subsistence and providence congruently aligned
Catchy rhymes are not mongrel flem
Syllabic stress each base line does hem
Its melodic sound caresses the requiem
The ballast that holds each leaf to stem
Glossy makeup that bastes face so prim
Crown jewel of every verse, syntactical diadem
Sensual movements, procuring eyes, threatening stance, a man’s weakness. A
lady’s grace symmetrical shape of a silohuette hips thin at the waist an angels
frame, her voice bastes your ears gives your fantasies a taste. Her velvet skin her
delicateness her walk gentle as the wind a solemn pinch of adrenaline a soul
swimming in sorrow a presence that seems borrowed pride swallowed because
there is always tomorrow . Sunshine on clouds of white in motion freely in the sky. A
ballet of water a splash and the rise the ripple of the aftermath strong independent
confident with tact abstract with love it is never a fad. Daring personality but every
step calculated like math. A heart beat that is music just one of life’s students. A
Lioness’s movements
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse ejaculation) beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
There is a man who likes to cook.
He doesn’t get his recipes from a book.
First he bastes,
Then he tastes.
His food happens to be real hook.
It will always rain on me in all seasons.
Seasons jacketing me with dust,
Dust mostly from the dry season to absorb my hope.
Hope fractured in different ways in time,
Time unendingly discoloring my soul.
Soul trying to resist by pleading for light.
Light that kills darkness but dies in startling grief.
Grief that mostly engraves my title.
Tittle mirroring it will always rain on me but is lost to the wind.
Wind screaming through forms of pain.
Pain that hurts my brain and heart but bastes my skin,
Skin that wears signs it will always rain on me.
Poem by N. Mugisho