Best Coarsely Poems
The libertine flails his torches
Burning staffs in his hands aglow
Golden sparks from the kindle beseech you
To dance on flames that he throws
For he is a man they call Passion
No soul has escaped what he's sowed
Good bye to innocence
Only embers are left where he's roamed
Good bye to innocence
We all dance on the coals he calls love.
He is the thief we call Ardor
He spins plumes of turquoise and gold
Challengers fall, all are smitten
By warm sultry nights and moon glow
Behind his mask love is yearning
To break free of seductions steel glove
Good bye to innocence
His restraints bind us coarsely entombed
Good bye to innocence
We will dance on the ruins he calls love .
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Mawmaw's icebox fruitcake sliced
Expose those colorful candied fruits
coarsely diced and smell so very nice
Sweetened condensed milk doesn't dilute
Chopped pecans and raisins~tasters recruit
How about you?
Recipe:
I box Graham Crackers crushed
Add three cups chopped dried candied fruits(different colors)
Add 3/4 cup raisins
Add 1 1/2 cups of chopped nuts your choice
One cup of miniture Marshallows
1 can of sweetened condensed milk poured over all
Stir until all is moist..If not quite enough add either
Marachino Cherry liquid or sweet milk
It needs to be a little sticky
Keep the Graham Cracker box and cut the top wide part on three sides
to make a flap, line the box with wax paper
Press the mixture into the box and seal up with cling wrap
Keep refrigerated until ready to serve..
This is a very good fruit cake, moist and very rich
A very small slice is all needed with some milk or coffee
When
My life is like a movie
well in my eyes I can truly be the ruling
I'm the doozy, Uzi shooting through the rooting
super-computing, fusing routine, never will use these
suiting every few, cleverly blue
see who? me looting every noose
I'm severing, choose to openly rue the recipe soon
why? I earned what worth my brain stirred
the curse, the pain hurts
the search for lame burns
they burst away first
in vein, I lay crazed, when I say hey
I feel they may make fate, destiny a gate
to make way for the day, decay great
face hate to be ate, ached, eight by eight shamed, by the rain saint
pourin' poorness upon the fortune
forced to force feed forty four before we orbit coarsely
im boarding, morphing for these unholy moly forces
I'm holding royal loyalty, I fully see the rhyme dulling
coldly spine showing time, breakin' like folding my soul in nine
for the care of sharing the fire for the fight
in the focus on the light when I write it right, just get excited
Gold or gladiolus or golden sapphire fine;
Delighted, even if I divine light define;
If, like an orange, the details I do not peel,
Will my rhyme-lyric like an angelus-bell, peal?
Like a disciplined mother rearing her infant,
Timely sleeping, rising, nourishing comprehend;
Shaping each brick of my creation if I build,
Will my greatest works as unskilled ever get grilled?
Is my concept clear as a transparent crystal?
Does my thought target, shoot as sure as a pistol?
Do my ideas, views flow like fluent rivers?
Are my imageries as reflected as mirrors?
If I write 'pudding' when I need to write 'wedding'
When it necessitates making the amending;
If my ego, like a wall, stands strong on the way,
I'm not a poet perfect; I should get away.
As the wave-sound of the sea both feeble and rough,
As the chirping of birds are coarsely sweet enough;
As wild animals have roars, gibber, brays, and hums,
My words should vary from simple to complex-sums.
Is a writer full in him that he should not read?
Do the shores of the seas ever a limit need?
Voraciousness in keenness make my wisdom vast,
The wisest of wisdom should be my true breakfast.
11 August 2021
The Writer In Me, Wants You To Know Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
S himmering girth cloaking my footsteps
H ologram dredging my fleeting essence
A bridging lines covering time and space
D iminishing returns of temporal being
O utline coarsely cloning my dimensions
W ispy figment mocking my visual acuity
I walk through thin veils
of colored light and carefully
tread upon gleaming shards
of precious glass -
broken and neatly scattered
upon arctic bathroom tiles.
Each sliver reflects
a single piece of your
perfect anatomy.
An arm, a leg, an eyeball -
a swollen horizontal speck
perceiving a soloist’s surrender
outside a witch’s mirror.
I cried your name
in between
loathsome waves of solitude
this past weekend -
weightless letters floating
above my bleeding passion
like starved vultures
gleaning over carrion.
Did you know the affection
I’ve smothered you with
these past thirty years
is beginning to smell
like dirty nylon socks?
I use them now to
dampen my bloated eyes.
You're fitly ignorant
of my extended limbs
and repressed sorrows.
They covet apparel
not filamented with
fleece and falsities.
Your rehearsed kisses
are dressed in dull razors -
rendering my lips
gauged and coarsely
cracked.
I took a shotgun
to the nightlight last evening
and prayed as I reached for you
through strands of tattered muslin.
I was hoping to grasp
a parcel of your fading glint
and humbly touch
your jagged aura -
I foolishly cut my hands.
I was coarsely stopped at a junction today
With fixed alternatives thrown my way
To let pedestrians storm in my life when there is no sign of crossing
Or to be my own royalty and allow no shitty bossing
Many times, I seek peace and appear meek
Louder voices around me immediately read me as weak
When I interject and show the red light
Machetes they pick up; ready for a bloody fight
I clutch on to the whistle of my dignity
Blow it hard to save my endangered integrity
Rattling vehicles of harshness, they drive
Threatened by the uprising voice they try to shove me to the Archive.
I grit my teeth and white my knuckles
as my newfound mentor chuckles.
He teaches me about disdain,
but no matter, I planned for pain.
My eyes both flutter as I shudder,
then I hear him coarsely utter:
"Good, looks like you still feel somethin'.
***** I swear, you ain't worth nothin'."
Lashes wet my back with crimson
in this self-prescribed sex prison.
I don't mind the body abuse,
but worry when he grabs the noose...
He likes to leave it on so long,
Last time, I thought I was gone.
But this time I see in his eyes
Something that brings fear to mine:
This is self pity and anger,
my hairs raise as I sense danger.
I test my cold metal chains
but can't break from my restraints.
He slips the noose around my neck,
then gives my cheek one final peck.
Fire rips through my perception,
Monsters I don't dare to mention..
Everything I love is ash,
all my glass memories crash.
Burning flesh, a pungent smell,
flares my nostrils in this hell.
I hear screaming, perhaps mine?
Then I'm returned to my time:
Surrounded by smoke and flame,
mumbling my dealer's name.
In this inferno, I bubble,
as his crackhouse burns to rubble.
The Mask
A craftsman crafts such a beatiful thing
To hide himself away,
From the true soul that lies within,
That is rotting and shall decay
Not shall he realise what trouble he's in,
Unable to mend a broken heart,
He is guilty; aquired a sin,
But such a golden harp
From which he plays apon,
One of these days,
His mask starts to kick in now,
For his cries, they certainly pay
We all begin to ask him; "How?"
But none of these thoughts seem to park,
I this coarsely descended state of mind,
From which he did depart.
"Take it off" they begin to say,
But the craftsman simply replies;
"My journey is not over yet;
"So I shall be on my way."
-Ariana Kulikov 2015
And blondes whistle (mightily)
Groove and rhythm supplied
By their accidental guardians
Feigning lock-down on these
Rancid, insipid rugged shores
It's what's expected
The triumphant stasis
The settling down of
Benign expectations
Mixed coarsely with the
Vinegar-garnished
Toxic waves disguised as hope
Fame and glamor
The settling in of those
Who (plead) their mere existence
Laconic persistence
To roam and dare
And acquiesce to forms
Much disparate from themselves
Where and who were they
Before the fall
Their (coerced) lament
Wrapped and pressed
By an indignant Creator
Lie your amble shamble
Down square
With the cracks which
Suckle the (greasy) heat
No scars to spare
Envelopes with deranged matriculation
Puncture the remaining pores
Now everyone, even them
Can wade (deep) into December
Without barometric shift
Gastronomic rift
Or the means to remind yourself
Where the days have hidden
Somewhere plain yet hard to find
Wake me once if your pleasure
Grinds the senses weakly
Wake me twice if all's redeemed
The pageant gone
And once again the blondes
Tune their vacant chords
Hustling into naked ensembles
Flush with gravitas
Conduct the many
Swollen from the vagaries
Of plucking
One too many strings.
(9/6/06)
ONE NIGHT AT AN OYSTER BAR
"Do they have steak?", he said
to his friends, while passing time,
anxiously trying to veil his dread
of dining on sea slippery slime.
"The line's too long, we'll have to leave,
let's find another place!".
And for a moment he seemed relieved,
thinking logic had favored his case!
But then the line began to move,
and horror sculpted his face.
"I'm approaching", said he, "the awful truth
of a stomach retching disgrace!".
"The price is too high, I don't feel well,
I have to call my Mom!".
His panic pealed like a fire alarm bell,
and exploded like a bomb!
Then a grating screech direct from Hell
sent shock waves through his head.
A slime smeared waiter coarsely yelled,
"Seats for eight!", he almost fled!
"I'm lost", he moaned, marching in file
to his seat like a prisoner in jail.
"Whad'll it be?", asked a waiter named Lyle,
"Oysters!", they cried, "Five or six pails!".
Exclaiming "I'm sick!", he stared at his plate,
a quivering mountain of gray.
Teeth clenched tight, he saw his fork shake
as he willed it toward his tray.
With watery resolve he pierced the mess,
as if trying to spear a ghost.
His mind rebelled in revolting distress,
as he slid one down his throat!
His senses, like wood deeply petrified,
wondered if he were dead.
With a start he stood, eyes staring wide,
"Damn! These are good!", he said.
So we’re going on a picnic with the pygmy, Pixie Poggly, being the quirky queenly
quaintly quickly person she is and her friend a raunchy rascal reverently named
Andy Bailey. As you remember he was in the Aussie army association, barely
battling the banshee that were bawdy blackly bloody in the boggy boundary briefly
in the outback, and lets not forget pixie’s perky prominent pal that is a bossy,
bluntly, brainy, bookie, breathing brashly, balmy, bits of boogie bookie chatter to
all the cheery, choicely, chunky crowd around his choosey, cheesy, cheaply
choice of chummy spots, and in his coarsely cocky way, he coyly clamors crafty
creepy words that really don’t say what they needs to say, but confuses even the
gentle, ghostly, gaudy, gawky, gabby, gypsy genie down in the gaily, gabby,
ghastly valley town called Gatsby. I hear even Fatty Fannie the fancy, fleecy,
flimsy, flowery, and foxy maiden that has her doggie, “Dotty” watching her dreamy,
dressy, downy, dowry. And to make things easier Pixie’s dumpy daffy deafly, dinky
donkey named Dixie is going to carry all the supplies, and we are going to the
daffy damply dainty little dairy where the daisies grow daily in the deeply densely
droopy grasses next to the hay, and it sounds like it will be a giddy, giggly, goodly,
goofy, goosey, grabby good grammar in all its Grammy award wining grandeur
day.
Parts of this poem were copied from another poem that I cannot display here, but
that I did write, it is called “The Picnic” and I thought this would be some fun
reading for all here.
Written: September 24, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In the dawn-like haze—a shriek was heard,
An echo so shrewd, yet birdless, oddly slurred
It was ordained by—a stratum unseen,
A throbbing coerce, a numen so keen.
A canticle flower—a bellow coarsely flung,
Through bosky drifts, those shadows clung.
The broken clavicle, brittle skull,
Doused in lacquer—a tale to annul.
Cried creative bone, from annals of time,
In a secluded hut—where lamina chime.
With guttural utterance—the gowk did sing,
Fluted notes on brinks of obsidian string.
Cloaked in the dimly lit mist, a canon of clamor,
Shaping the world with a mystic glamour.
In the glum of worship, a rite did splay,
As voices uttered—in a solemn display.
A corpse lay still, in the midst of the scene,
Dazzled by the entombing, a nebulous flesh serene.
Funerary hums—in syllabic verse,
Resonated through time, as a solemn curse.
In an urn—fugally adorned
With fugal melodies, the ashes were borne,
A symphony of sorrow, a requiem grand,
For the soul departed, to a distant land.
The misty air whispered—in mournful tones,
As the funerary procession made its way,
A solemn journey, through the mist, embrace.
To the final resting place, where shadows trace.
And so, the hum continued, a haunting refrain,
As the earth embraced the remains.
Silent and still—in eternal rest,
In the hallowed ground, the corpse was blessed.
Gone was the body, but the spirit remained,
A specter in the mist, forever ingrained.
A memory of life—a tale to be told,
In the echoes of time, where stories unfold.
In the depths of the mist, a legacy grew,
Of a life once lived, and the love that it knew.
The funerary hum—a reminder of grace,
As it carried the spirit to a heavenly place.
I know. I have left you
With your worst enemy: your own.
I am only keeping what I’ve unlearnt
Throughout your education of me:
The enchantment of dialogic desire
And the near perfection of shared intimacy.
In this furnished house of you,
I walked in and I walked out
Because I am not yours to hold
And mould into a keepsake.
You think the unchanged shall rob
Me more and dare me less
Than living in the adventure of you.
While the projection of me bears fault,
The inside woman is burdened,
Yet, alive and introvertedly poignant.
Indeed, I live coarsely and serve the devil
That pulls at my flesh till words sprout
Into wingless birds of ink
And I give myself more to this dream
Of a minor god than to your atomized
Version of how love has never failed me.
Still, who dreamt up whom in the end?