Best Dijon Poems
"The Hummingbird Cake"
The day started bright -
Bright Eggshell Blue
and ended in percussion
dark and cloudy stormed in
thunder pummelled drums
against a backdrop of
bruised eggshell dijon yellow
sweating heavy sage green
spitting spoilt the swollen pride of purple,
a wet abrasion against
Electric Blue
crackling along her lips
like Lightening
Sizzled on
her bitumen
her mind
winked at you...
Splits two
into one
not three
Taken slowly
deliberately
cake digested
swallowed like swallows
nibbling freely on air
a symphony of do you see me
in a Hummingbird storm
stairs to you she stares
upwards forever upwards
at lines of ebony tied tight
words kick and spit
like a cat in heat caught up
in a hessian sack
words in a puzzle
shaken and caste
on a playing board
pure white
not black
She,
Third person,
always Third person,
listens to her own heart
and then listens to the
words you have put on
and slowly worn warm
Revisits in her evening
a conversation with an old friend
Lorikeets on the balcony
Passionfruit cake and their
beaks in honey
a day in the life of Mosman
Carmen the dancer
Blueberries and
Raspberry Banana Bread
and Gold Crested
Pterodactyl Cockatoos
commandeering her kitchen
her gangster lovers
dead ends and loose screws
The day started bright blue
Ended in a thunder clap
boiling over onto a glowing hotplate
of flying embers,
reckless kisses and an unplanned
Storm;
A piece of Hummingbird Cake
was fed through a thread
In dreams while you watched
a movie in bed
Spoken to you
through
mind cerebral
not Reality read
Poppyseed and Honey
Bees buzzing on swollen
unheard lips
that silently bled Red
Words
Meanings
Life
Read
Red
Sugar ingested,
Honey to Blue Horse Flies.
Australiana
Fed.
Sleep,
Bed.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"Listen to the Hummingbird" / Leonard Cohen
https://youtu.be/hYIeW8bwlWQ
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher
https://youtu.be/wHVuW7eOPNI
"Cosmic Dancer" / T.Rex
https://youtu.be/GMfjA4gyEcU
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher, Lyrics
https://genius.com/Liam-gallagher-meadow-lyrics
Funny the things that stick with you
like gum beneath the table
as the years go by.
My brains goes as far back as three solar circuits;
big bro put the Wonder bread in the microwave
(package and all) --- sparks went a'flying.
And poor Mother, what would she say,
when the whole house burnt away?
(corner time for sure)
And back then, turning the big "one oh"
was a big deal --- it's all the kids talked about.
Mother would make me PB&Js
(crust ON --- she weren't no fool)
And that little pat on the head used to make me giddy:
a reward for my maturity,
eating all the greens --- every bit.
But by thirteen I was quite done with it.
I'll make my own lunch, thank you very much
(sure you know that's a lie,
teens are notorious for their laziness)
But putting Dijon and turkey
between two slices of Dave's Killer Good Seed,
you think you got it made
with all of life figured out.
And speaking of "seed" ... what the hell?
Shouldn't I have my own runts by now,
running baby cheetah-like between my legs,
with a wifie to burn the toast on my way to work
(or is that just stereotypical nonsense?)
Perhaps by the time I'm thirty
being a spiritual loner like Paul won't be so bad;
spreading the good news when I can,
but I lack the humility:
a wheat by words,
a tare by actions.
And maybe I won't make it to my winter years.
But if that happens I won't waste one slice of forever
moping about time lost.
Rather I'll indulge in the True Wonder Bread
with the Man Upstairs -
without the fluff - but add the glow
and guaranteed to last eternity.
Literally.
PS: Not actually a new one, but something I wrote six-ish years ago.
To you plump puffball,
Squatter of the mushroom fungi.
May your soils be rich
And your spores be many!
Moonstone child of nocturnal reverie
Pride tempts to invite fallacious vanity.
Creamy alabaster skin,
Spongy firm of flesh within.
A saucy lunar face to taunt the sun.
His nomadic gaze leaves no course for fun.
The sun edges off towards autumn skies,
Pragmatically steady; contemplatively wise.
The sun may have kissed her on a whim,
Crazed butterfly flutters; needles to pins.
Translucent skin, her conceit and crown,
Blushes from saffron hue, to Dijon brown.
Physical metamorphosis; transmutations collide,
She becomes a phase converted seasonal bride.
To celebrate this new found core,
She sends up clouds of dust, and sleepy spores.
Carpe Diem.
The water, cloaked in the mist of a yellow dawn,
Summoned souls to the shore of beguiling dreams.
Sail true, My pilot, My hope,
Into thy Dijon Fantasy.
Written 3/3/2016 For U/C Contest Yellow Picture 4
I’m a server…
delivery complete.
The machine works
like this…
”... you deserve what you get…”
”... you get what you deserve…”
Can I have the mustard please
”... care for some Catch up Sir?...”
the mustard has seeds…
Dijon… ;)
”... you don’t have yellow?...”
I asked but the cook said know.
”...you know something…”
I know that I like catch up
I like it best on a good stake
Least when the goods take… too long.
”...never hesitate…”
Please… order something.
Is the menu knew?
It is and it’s a Catch!22
“nowin”
See it as you do. ;)
Some colors of diversity
a mosaic mixture of the light spectrum shaded:
This of, yellow: mustard, tuscany, cream, corn, flax.
This of, orange: fire, pumpkin, ochre, dijon, honey, rust.
This of, red: ferrari, candy, chili, apple, raspberry, burgundy.
This of, violet: mauve, mulberry, lavender, orchid, grape.
Also of:
Greens: moss, lime, emerald, fern, mint, olive.
Blues: azure, baby blue, sky, olympic, sapphire, navy.
Browns: mocha, tawny, coffee, caramel, cinnamon.
Grays: fossil, mink, pearl river, thunder, smoke, steel.
These are only of some of many shade Colors:
Yet, Skin shades can be white, black, brown, red, or yellow.
For this write, it is shaded black on white.
It being shown on pages or on screens.
The True shades that reveal the author’s true light.
Autumn leaves sacrificing shamrock heart
An artist’s eye frames the fire in his art
Your blazing soul reflects raging nature’s ire
When olive love leaves – you let others to play
Crimson, Gold, Dijon, Pecan – fall on the hay
Carmine desire sets your amber heart afire
Though winter is approaching, spring still aspire
Forties bring autumn in your silent dismay
Why trees shed their leaves?
Why we shed tears and forget?
To survive the dire winter…
Cold may come and go -
Lying on a brown leaf bed
waiting for the spring to come…
22.10.2016
As summer ends and autumn comes, the days get shorter and shorter. This is how the trees "know" to begin getting ready for winter.
During winter, there is not enough light or water for photosynthesis. The trees will rest, and live off the food they stored during the summer. They begin to shut down their food-making factories. The green chlorophyll disappears from the leaves.
As the bright green fades away, we begin to see yellow and orange colours. Small amounts of these colors have been in the leaves all along. We just can't see them in the summer, because they are covered up by the green chlorophyll.
The bright reds and purples we see in leaves are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the online slots leaves turn this glucose into a red colour.
The brown colour of trees like oaks is made from wastes left in the leaves.
It is the combination of all these things that make the beautiful fall foliage colours we enjoy each year.
Songs of Louis
Capart
-by Bob Atkinson
simple phrases
satisfy
although messages
pass me by
deep within the
voice of sentiment
moves a heart toward
contentment
driving again down a
road
ample farms of crops
unknown
to Dijon up from
Paris
could have been just
any place
City of Light still
inspires
six story limit
gives up an aura
expanding
possibilities for
space
room for sidewalk
dining tables
Treff am Rex written
on pages
a story told of
feckless craving
someday bright
screen will show
how heart's desire
grows and grows
Capart's voice
transcends my mind
could be from any
decade past
language used to
paint the sun
drives in toward all
meanings of
past good times or
future fun
satisfaction sipping
a coffee cup
successful endeavor
or busted run
no matter, has all
been fun
no matter now, all
will wait
for this album to
run its pace
settled feelings of
quiet grace
all bodes well, no
wild cast rage
thank you Capart for
morning mood
of my time within
mind's groove
language meaning
escapes my thought
yet this feeling
ever locks
me into awareness of
satisfaction
allowed this morning
from reaction
to words describing
your desire
to entertain with
heart filled fire
Beetle fobs on a trashed out war plane equals the dogma of a hidden few. Vessels whisper in a breeze. And no ant could utilise its soul. As all have a duty. All firm a line. Military precision in a cute cut curve. Jeopardy is an anarchy. And upon ancient lands. Monarchs were monarchs when they did rule. Now no more. Cease to confuse. Adorn a painting with a guilded leather wand. Induces a coma of though to exact a mighty wrong. Si tail end of feathered beats should never be ignored. Taken to the bosum of the wide oak torso. In unison it strives to live. Lead. Leads. Lead. Leads. Led. Leaden. Community forms. Arrives justice in panned out pancakes. No to planning. And further more no more £% or €$ and prevailing is the wishes of the smallest tapered shrew. With a snout for a nose and in tune wars. To unblemish the smoked sand. And then the Sanskrit will outsway the doctrines and fly over and over and over and over and over the fantastic plaza of ancient soil. Mishpa deyoo Ceylon crinna elloo fatma imman imman imman Dijon xxxxxxxxx valour vapours z.z.z. At 0% of an applet ha ha ha ha ha ha ha xx xx xx love you lots xxxxxx kisses kissing kiss. Xx
Dijon, Monte *****, Santiago, Monte Carlo, palaces, kingdoms-n-castles, places
I travel without planes, boats or passports, places where my mind go with
whomever follows, Daesh’a we both said I do, it’s Déjà Vu, I saw you before I
knew you, so when I saw you, I knew it was you, I love you, I do, your mind,
your heart-n-soul, places I go I can’t live without you, so like my mind, I live with
you, I do, wherever my mind goes, I’m always with you, I love you, I do, it’s Déjà
Vu, when I saw you, I knew it was you, Daesh’a I love you, I do, my Déjà Vu, I
saw you before I knew it was you, so when I saw you, I knew it was you,
Daesh’a my wife, my Déjà Vu, I do.
flax seed bread lightly toasted, with
piri piri chicken, warm
with flavor, then mixed with onion of fine dice
to the mixture, dont forget
dijon, and leaf of green lettuce crisp
milk plus chocolate
this will be good
stir into the world of internet
digital screen white keyboard
usb external hard-drive sits on my desk - bored
not sure why a zip-lock bag full of raw almonds
leans on his chords.
bending them out of shape
or why the plate didnt catch all the flaxseeds
crowding his space.
independent mr. cell phone winks at my wrist watch
waiting for a response.
i sit back and watch writing poetry at my desk.
Bleach
I see you all have eyes
but I don't think you see anything.
I see you are all dressed in the flesh and the blood
but I don't think that you are real.
At least you don't want to be.
Your teeth don't even look real.
And they stink of bleach, wasted money and low self-esteem.
Your tan looks like a batch of over -cooked French fries smothered in orange juice and Dijon mustard.
Your fashion sense is handicap.
Disabled from any form of intelligence or care.
I see you all have mirrors
but I don't think you look into them.
I want to break those mirrors with my bare fist
and not even bother to pull out the bits of glass or treat the cuts.
Because there is pain in that.
And pain is the one and only thing that I know of to be real anymore.
-Bryce Stoskopf
She whispered in my ear of neon lights,
my mother,celebrated actress,
waning star in sick bay,
zany bird nest hairstyle on display,
lock and tress erect,
skin-fold ripple eggshell pallor,
mothball end play flutter from the wings.
I, devoted sibling, reluctant hospital visitor,
now bearing doleful witness,
to the voice that once enthralled a thousand hearts,
with oral feats and seismic tone-shifts,
like someone trying to catch a friend’s attention on an outbound train,
now tragic downturn ache.
Apple walnut salad only deli window fodder in her eyes,
Dijon mustard sachet cast aside as if unwanted email spam,
get well cards cut paper dragon trails.
Nightingales of tender years and warmth who nurse in rosters,
slowly spread those deathly forms right underneath an icon’s split chin rash.
Whiff of starchy clerk and file procedure hovers over gridlock wards,
private health insurance an albatross of waiver in that very human passing out parade.
Yet here I am, son and heir, entr’acte curator of maternal legend’s skyward exit,
tummy rumble moment where impromptu has the edge on solemn plot,
as one walks on stage hoping not to freeze.
The one true screen test all
must face dear mum would say,
before our sip from life’s rich cup becomes a stain upon the twilight bow of curtains.
What's up with this,
just want wine Dijon.
Can't find the stuff,
guess it's all gone.
The country's turned nutty,
heard it from a song.
But I got some gummies,
it's only Dijon.
Choices
There are so many choices to be had
When ordering a sandwich
What kind of bread
What kind of meat or any meat
What kind of cheese or any cheese
Whether to have sprouts or not
Whether to have a pickle or not
Whether to go with a classic peanut butter
And something sandwich
I loved peanut butter sandwiches
As a kid
Peanut butter and sweat pickles were my favorite
Peanut butter and banana is good also
Peanut butter and strawberry jam
What a delightful memory
My current favorite
Is a BLT with sprouts, avocado, and kosher dill pickles?
Heirloom red tomatoes one slice per each half
Avocado one half per each half
One half pickle on each half
Bacon cooked just right – well done but not black
Sprouts and lettuce just right
Timamook Yellow smoked cheder cheese
On each half
On Gluten Free bread
with chipotle mayo
And Dijon mustard
Cut in half
Truly a sandwich made in heaven
And bacon makes everything
Taste so damn nice
And God if you are reading this poem
You had better prepare them for me
Or Heaven will not be worth it
Does Satan serve BLT sandwiches
I wonder
Probably not
Probably you become the bacon
In his hell sandwiches
published in Duane's Poetree