Best Crumbly Poems
A beautiful ride off into the sunset, and your horse
passes through a blooming cherry orchard bordered by cedars;
your leather saddle was rubbed with high-quality tobacco yesterday.
It's a big herbal cherry sun that is setting, and you can taste it,
with a sprinkling of spices, and the satiny union of the tannins are upon you,
so subtle that you wish for more at first; you must be patient as the velvet embrace deepens, insinuating itself deep within you in a silky smooth process, until a final slow-motion fillip of astringency touches the front of your mouth.
The cork was wet and crumbly almost to the top.
Definitely time to drink this wine; wish I had more.
A great wine to drink in solitary contemplation, or quietly, with friends.
*Robert Mondavi - Rest In Peace, man, you died in 2008 at age 94, and you always believed in making great wine.
Tasting Note written in April, 2015.
I went to a cheese and wine party on Saturday,
where huge platters of cheese were on display.
There was Gorgonzola and creamy white Brie,
I devoured huge chunks with a glass of Chablis.
Danish Blue, Mozzarella and Swiss Emmental,
of course I had to try a sample of them all!
I declined Edam and Gouda, I find them too waxy -
and the last time I ate them I was sick in the taxi!
Soft creamy Camembert and blue Roquefort,
went down a treat with a glass of vintage port.
Crumbly Cheshire and Cheddar were so divine,
and tasted heavenly with red Beaujolais wine.
I’d chomped through all of the Stinking Bishop,
our hostess had to restock the whole dish up!
Then I munched little cubes of Monterey Jack -
if my doctor saw me he’d have a heart attack!
When our host carried in a blue Stilton in a truckle,
I loosened a notch on my now straining belt buckle!
I admit blue cheese can smell like men's sweaty socks
but ripe Stilton and crackers, this cheese simply rocks!
Write a poem about Cheese Contest
Sponsored by Barry Stebbings
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
11/12/18
(Sung To The Song "I Will Always Love You" By Whitney Houston...From the film..The Bodyguard)...(1992)
If you do stay
You'll be tempting me to your way
In the bin you now go
I can't risk having you here everyday
Coz I will want to eat you
I will want to taste you
You
My biscuit you
Mmmmmm
Loaded with calories
And the fat thighs given to me
So goodbye
I won't cry
Plus my weight plays havoc with my knees
Coz I will want to bite you
I will want to nibble you
You
You could stay if fat free
And I lost all the weight you gave to me
And hadn't given me chin number three
I favoured you, but now set myself free
And I will always love you
Your soft chocolate goo
Your brown crumbly crumb base
Your sweet biscuit round face
Your taste that I still crave
Each small crumb I would not waste
My
Biscuit, I miss you
I'll always
I'll always want you.
Change The Record Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Natasha L Scragg
Written 15.10.21
Fruit loops emerge
from a neon psychedelic sea
of crumbly waves
Written on 8/2/2015
Picture #7
Colom Lune
"Crispy, crumbly, chocolate Christmas cookies cooling . . . "
I am going to turn back the pages of time,
to when my Grandma made cookies in wintertime;
I would sit at the kitchen table with my cat,
cooling on the counter were creations sublime.
Grandma said, don't touch, and in her rocker she sat,
reading my book I stopped to give my kitty a pat;
But he had vanished and I was just petting air,
oh, just smelling that chocolate would make me fat.
Grandma snorted loudly and got up from her chair,
checking the crispy, crumbly treats- she turned to stare;
and she said, my dear I told your not to touch them,
but, but I didn't Grandma, I was loud to declare,
And at that moment we noticed my cat Tom Thumb,
one Christmas delight was diminished to a crumb;
how sweet are these pages of my life to recall,
kitty was in the "dog house" cause he had succumb.
__________________________
November 10, 2016
Poetry/Rubaiyat Rhyme/Tongue Twister Time
Copyright Protected, ID 16-848-903-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Tongue Twister Time
sponsor, Mystic Rose
Fifth Place
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
In the beginning it was chuckles, kisses and adoration
Your expression-smug, intense and bursting with admiration
I was the perfect blend of gilded taupe for your fixation
From a color palatte too vast and wide for your comprehension
Like the paint I was, I colored your life ensuring beautification
Of a crumbly house made of dough and eggs and putrefaction
Then one day you decided I was more the grey of the Great Depression
And the sentence worthy of my loving you was annihilation
So your love and care and company -gone! With no explanation!
Until with less regard for me than for a roach infestation
You left me out to dry in utter humiliation
Now as my tears have burned a path on my face, I feel a resolve in formation
A good sign of a new start from my soul exploration
Of my new found peace, my inner strength and utter elation
Of a life without you, much like a liberated nation
But just one thing before I head to my new destination
I wish you what you willed for me- god damnation!!
My dirty hands
I hold the rich, crumbly dirt in my hands,
Savoring the warmth of sunlight in it,
Inhaling the aromas of power that
The dark earth holds.
With this power and a tiny seed
I can create wonders.
Where now the earth is idle, I can,
With nature’s help, sow seeds into this ground,
Watch as small green fledglings emerge
And stretch towards the life giving sunlight.
My gardener’s heart jumps with delight,
And with a feeling of gratitude
I watch over those emerald babies.
There is a lot of trust between
gardener and plant.
I trust they will grow, they trust
I will water them, watch over them.
One day soon, some will tower over me.
It is amazing!
In the shade provided by golden sunflowers
and soft yellow blooming okra stalks,
I kneel down to weed.
They soak up the sun, I appreciate
the shade they give.
Happily I work with my dirty hands.
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart
That breaks each time her child's emotions crash
Like waves against a rocky cliff?
A heart pitted by the tears shed
When other kids fling arrows of venomous disdain.
Can you glue a heart split open by
Empathy for the offspring who has no date to prom,
Never gets flowers on Valentine's
and who, with all her heart, tries to make sure
Her friends don't suffer the same fate?
How much would it cost to replace a mother's heart
Each time it was broken from the cries of pain
On her children's lips, or the brave face they put on,
When their souls have been crushed
By another's rejection?
For her, is the hope of relationship restored enough
To shock a dying heart into beating hopefully
For one more day?
Can you regenerate a heart run dry
From lack of trust and affection?
Is it sensible that the resentful little creature
Created from our DNA should also hold our fragile,
Crumbly, feta cheese hearts
In their little boisterous and unforgiving hands?
And yet, given the choice, a mother says,
"Pass the glue. Sign me up for a transplant.
Because having children is what built my heart,
What gave it life, why it beats."
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart?
It doesn't matter,
because holding the pieces together
When everything is falling apart
Is what mothers do best.
Until the last beat, the last breath,
The last thought of her children:
The only pieces of her soul
That are left behind when she is gone.
Hot Apple Cobbler
Hot apple cobbler, crumbly sweet cinnamon atop,
Vanilla ice cream melting; not wasting a drop!
Written By: Sarita A. Milliner © 11/13/15
You'll smack your lips, at his silver side
Our beefy lad will cure your ham
His tender loins, are worth your coins
And if you ask, he'll stuff your lamb
I tell no fibs, you'll love his ribs
It ain't no joke, his crackly pork
Worth every pound, his piece of round
No crumbly biscuit, beats his brisket
Like chocolate drops, his porky chops
You cannot beat our Tristans meat
His chunky thighs, don't criticise
His seasoned beef, won't crack your teef (teeth)
I tell no fibs, you'll love his ribs
It ain't no joke, his crackly pork
Worth every pound, his piece of round
No crumbly biscuit, beats his brisket
A butcher always, in the making
But the creme de le creme, of his meaty treats
His able hands, will cure your bacon
He's the nicest guy, you could ever meet
He will leave me low
he will leave me not ...
oh, flower, do your petals know?
If I sleep with him, sparks won't keep; knowing my truth,
he'll cut me loose. Each day and night, I plot and plan to
avoid sleeping snuggled with my man. He has love's need
to cuddle bed deep but I know he'll either laugh or weep.
Flower, to him I'll confide I'm ever wishin' that a garage
door sealed my kitchen. Smiling, I'll say I sleep-eat;
wake with berries in my hair and bits of eclair. I'll tell
him lowering sheets may expose chip bits and also relief
there are no dips. I'll say I eat unaware and can't be
woken, but will he run after I've spoken?
Once I've told of sleep crumbs, I have to tell him I sleep
sucking my tongue. Putting another smile on my face, I'll
say my fingertips rub my pillowcase. I wasn't breast fed
so, I fell in this mold and my tongue noise is loud, I'm told.
The pillowcase must be my mother's skin and sucking my
way of drinking in.
Flower, will he cuddle in my bed, knowing I'll chew, suck
and rub near his head? I'll leave out that scratching the
end of my spine makes me go pee, every time.
He will leave me low,
he will leave me not,
he will leave .... running with all he's got.
Today I won't care if my hair's a mess
I wont worry that my clothes aren't pressed
I don't give a damn
that I've argued with my man
There's a cheesecake in the fridge
and it absolutely cooing
Its calling out my name
while my tea is gently brewing
Mmm the creaminess is
the symphony of my favourite song
The crumbly biscuit base
will just melt as it touches my tongue
Just the very thought
of me and my favourite pie
takes the stresses of the day
and waves them all bye bye
So don't bother me with triviality
or remind me of the chores
I should be doing
As I snuggle on my comfy chair
and do some cheesecake wooing
and as I take that first bite
to heaven I am sent
Sensational raptures, play their tune
while vanilla hues waft and content
my senses so relaxed
body tingles, the taste so good
I'd have you every day if I could
but then I guess you wouldn't be so special
the treat I look so forward to
My guilty little pleasure
Mmmm just me and you
It is slowly juxtaposition,
an oldies reith for an acoustic-ness-
and we make a mock,
drain the corner stores mox....
Engravings in luck and harmonious-
they take a tail for a toc,
malevolence out of the box,
on the streets-
in levy and over the acropolis,
like crumbly even and corny thermopolis-
how the havens in heaven must shine inside...
How many travels say they coincide?
Even in a sailing away against all storm's periphery,
dynamite at the dreamy renditions are trickery-
a pleasure of the presence is no outer measure of some other type of compression!
The Old House Beside the Road
There is an old, ramshackle house that stands there by the road.
This house once had a family, with many stories stowed
Within its crumbly walls, and it now stands there all alone,
With gardens dead, untended yard, and weeds much overgrown.
The broken windows, tilting shutters, steps that rotted down,
And paint that once was bright and white but now shows dingy brown,
Would cause most people to ignore this rundown old abode,
This old ramshackle house that stands just there beside the road.
An ancient giant willow oak looms o’er the dried-up well,
And just beyond, there hangs an old and rusty dinner bell,
A frazzled rope with rotted seat shows where a child had swung.
Around in back, a wagon stands with half a broken tongue.
I wish this house could talk to me
And tell me how things used to be,
How happy it was when love flowed
In this old house beside the road.
I think this house has heart and soul with many tales that lie untold.
So many things that it might say, if only it could speak today.
For now, I’ll just enjoy my thoughts of all the things that time has wrought.
In this dear old, rundown abode that stands beside the road.