Best Eclair Poems
There are twenty four days
left to Christmas and already
small children dream of toys;
isn't there a better way
for them to forget the cold
and see some magic unfold?
Skinny Willy has built a snowman,
he's getting ready for a winter's tan;
his cheeks are turning red like strawberries,
but funny is his belly stuffed with jellybeans
and California sweet cherries...
he has shaken many trees!
He and Santa make a perfect pair,
munching on a delicious eclair;
oh, laugh skinny Willy: beware of naughty Billy...
he will knock down your snowman so quickly!
Skinny Willy has built a snowman
with a grim face and a funny chin;
all he wants is fast Christmas music and eat
mom's ginger cookies while swinging his long feet!
Written on 12/1/ 2016
I never round-or-flatly disagreed
with Johnny Appleseed,
so red, so crisp, so...quite.
Never in the dawning, evening dawn
did I fly up or s*it upon...John James Audobon
in the evening, morning night.
Ah, I'd never be rude or eat the food
of the pulchritudinous Johnny B Goode.
How could I?
And why would I harm
odorless, flightless John Barleycorn
or give him Spanish flea?
I'd sail the vast untarted sea,
or play drums obstreperously,
with that flapjack, John Paul Jones,
but what kind of pancake would I be
if I revealed I was bigger than, by three,
that wunderkind, John Holmes?
Would I ask Johnny on the Spot
for a rag to wipe my snot?
Unindubitably!
Would I surprise him with mascara,
or do the backstroke in marinara
like a mushroom in a noodly sea?
I'd be on time for Johnny Come Lately,
and eat bon bons till I sat, oblately,
under the midday moon.
I'd tell Johnny Carson, "That's a wrap"
and neatly wrap my dog's crap
up with cellophoone.
What about John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
that diaphanous, novelty hit?
Would I blast him with the guns of Navarone
under a sky that sticks like the glue
of a colorless, humid, hue?
Would I deny him a raisin scone?
No!
When Johnny Comes Marching In gets home,
I'd serve him grits and iridescent cornpone,
and sit him on my knee.
Then I give him a lavender shout,
and set up an appointment for my gout,
superciliously.
Would I ask John the Baptist to convert?
No, I'd offer him some camembert
and crackers!
And the sprightly John the Apostle?
I'd offer him a waffle.
and crackers
(for dessert).
Oh John Keats, dear clapboard poet - you left too soon,
before I could offer you a macaroon,
or anything that leaves a crumb.
There's a reason I asked you for tea.
Give me a sign. Tell me honestly,
do you think I'm a doofus - dopey, dippy, daft and dumb?
Would I pull the leg or make fun...or steal a tart, chocolate eclair, pineapple upside down cake or cinnamon bun
from the beetle, John Winston Lennon?
Nope, I imagine I wouldn't, in truth,
but I'd surely pull the tooth
of the weevil John Wilkes Booth
under the midnight sun.
My Apology
Expecting soon my very first child,
huge craving for chocolate I had-
scraped off the fudge from our last eclair.
When I was done- I knew this was bad.
Later, when hubby opened the fridge,
he groaned with wide eyes, sad as can be.
Said I was sorry- with a big smile,
made up with the sweetest kiss from me.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Apology
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 04/30/2019
~4th Place~
Contest: It's Time to 'Fess Up
Sponsor: Lin Lane
Judged: 03/20/2016
Food Fun.
The Cook she fancied Chef.
She truly loved his meatballs
and as for his spotted dick. Sublime.
Chef he fancied Cook.
He really loved her chicken breasts
and wished one day to cover them
in a thick cream sauce.
Cook loved his chocolate eclair
and loved the taste of the cream
in her mouth.
Chef loved her pastry to,
and when she slapped her
dough on the table.
Well, he knew she kneaded it.
It always took a good pounding.
Nothing like a bun in the oven.
The smell of the finnon haddock
gently poaching in its milk
was enough to make an old Tom
howl with delight.
At last the eggs were poached.
Chef waited till his sausage
was properly stewed before
removing it.
Finger licking good.
Those melons would be ripe soon
and the pudding had reached
boiling point and would be left to simmer.
It was nearing the end
of another busy day
in the mixing bowl of life
that was the kitchen.
Only one question remained.
Who would get custody of the custard?
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.
I'm shopping in the town near my favourite cake shop
I need a sugar fix so I’ll really have to stop
I’m having friends to tea, so I think it’s only fair
To buy my friend Patricia, a nice chocolate eclair
Connie loves a cake and it’s always lots of fun
Watching her dissect a pink-coated iced bun
Alice will be coming and she’ll bring her sister Pam
They both like nothing better, than a doughnut filled with jam
A Battenberg of pink and yellow is one of Carol's favourite cakes
She divides the squares into four, oh what a mess she makes
A nice Victoria Sponge is Jess's favourite cake
But the ones in the shop aren’t as good as the ones her Grandma used to make
Wendy is quite partial to a round, plump Eccles cake
Filled with currants and buttery filling
They're messy when the pastry starts to flake
The cakes are on the cake-stand, it’s quite a sight to see
I’m trying to cut down my sugar intake
But they look really tempting to me
My friends are choosing their favourite cake
But I don't think I’ll risk it
I'll just sit and watch them, with a nice cup of tea
And a nice modest Digestive biscuit
“How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun!” Vincent Van Gogh
Yellow
Yellow is
a painted curb or lines upon a street,
a sign of caution where trains or pedestrians cross,
Yellow pages, school buses, raincoats that we wear.
Thus grabbing our attention, yellow rarely is dross.
Yellow is
an ear of corn with butter dripping off it,
pineapple, lemons, and the skin of passion fruit,
bees with their honeycomb so nice and sweet,
the pear and bananas so many of us eat.
Yellow is
the yolk of eggs, mustard, an omelet,
the wonderful inside custard of chocolate eclair,
bright turmeric, yellow-brownish cumin, and the oil of olives.
It’s even one of the colors of a gummy bear!
Yellow is
abundant in the whole wide world.
It’s where Mother Nature often spreads
across a lawn, fields or wild meadows
hundreds and hundreds of dandelion heads.
Yellow is
a tulip, a rose, or a butterfly on them.
It’s hay, bamboo or hills of grass gone dry,
a dahlia, goldenrod, an iris or a daisy
and the lovely sunflower turning toward the sky.
Yellow is
the color of one fish only called the yellow tang!
Flashes of yellow can show up on a parakeet,
the goldfinch, macaw, and cockatiel.
Easter chicks ad ducklings sport the color looking sweet.
Yellow is
a sapphire rare and also citrine quartz,
amber and the sun that rules our days.
Cowards are called yellow; on the other hand,
it’s the optimistic aura of those with happy ways.
With a 7-Eleven Big Cup eulogy slurp
And a McDonalds Big Mac pall bearer burp,
it’s Big Boy Slim Jim holiday mourning time
Take a family reunion picnic funeral ride
to a cemetery last supper barbeque burial ...
shovel down the gullet styrofoam servings
of coffin words charcoal dirtside purged
Famous food jingles playing over the radio
was the final ear candy corpse dish heard
Box of chocolates and cake frosting flowers
bring back such fond broken diet memories
And guilty pleasures
of Weight Watchers infidelities
Illicit affairs of late-night microwave heated morsels
brought forth categorically caloric denials ...
refrigerated temptations
tiptoe sneaking down the pie-hole
Oh, the double-layered life you led,
the gravedigger cravings you had
You always pillow stashed
an eclair energy bar
under the silk sheets kissy lipstick red,
to stimulate your gastro-erotic appetite after midnight
Carnal tastings of naked delight ... good belly vibrations —
sugar rush,
melted butter
Buckets of caramel popcorn love ...
Lip-smacking custard creampies,
your tongue couldn’t get enough
Popsicle toes,
finger licking
Mouth watering pickles,
spicy honey breasts of chicken
Succulent crab legs,
steamed oyster juices exotic
Lobster chowder brie ... pure aroma ecstasy
You took a Cajun deep creole swallow,
spooning the bottom of the gumbo pot
Relaxing those alligator jaws for the belching last time,
loosening your belt past the final notch
Satisfied donut eyes orange glaze hollow,
cinnamon bun thoughts be on your English muffin mind:
Restaurant quality neo-mortician style buffet,
wine cellar casket smorgasbord
Undertaker carry-out at the Last Breath café,
with a menu selection to die for
Oh, the extra toppings life you led,
such gravedigger cravings you had
Time to put your Pizza Hut pepperoni desires to bed,
and brain-freeze
that last heaping spoonful of Big Frosty in your head
Then close them Cheesecake Factory eyes,
when those antacid,
digestive ...
gluttonous lights go dead
Ah, who dares to call him a big bear,
when he eats a chocolate eclair?
He drops it on his red shoes,
to hear the pigeon's coos...
then smears it all over his brown hair.
I Do Not Know The Secret...,
Asper Art Of Writing Acclaimed Poem...
Not purposeful intent,
when tasking self (Das Scribe)
a nondescript member of
*****sapiens village people tribe
metaphorical spear in hand ready
to unbridal strong arm as vibe
resoundingly resonates, sans
(crackles, snaps, and pops)
optimal instant to expunge bribe
bing fountainhead of creativity
oft times screed or futile diatribe
no matter smug satisfaction appeased
as mental delectation on par with eclair
for taste buds, a reward dare,
I acknowledge mine appealing talent
(undoubtedly a slightly biased opinion)
with fast break for game of Solitaire,
or sink concentration matte tear
real awaiting with bated breath
comments, feedback, input...usually fair
to middling acceptable,
though frequent occasions blare
ring liberal dollop of adulation,
warms hearty cockles of this hermit
comfortably numb in his lair
which decency, humility, modesty...
of mine to avoid trumpeting pomposity
as if yours truly snooty billionaire
keeps in check (ma mate)
cognitive firmae tubby beware
boot up pawn occasion, the errant knight
within me finds ego expanding square
lee out beyond outer limits
of the twilight zone, where
entire cerebral cranium
shatters temple mount scare
ring eureka temporarily
finding me unaware,
viz blinding, deafening, and
obliterating brainstorm spate bare
lee delivering tummy any appreciable,
pronounceable, noticeable... impact
relishing this devil may care
state of being if only...threadbare
tenuous consciousness endured
sustaining oblivious blissfulness
absentmindedness forever delivering cheer
full countenance of mine finding me
unafraid of Virginia Woolf, a bugbear,
and/or he who dons most powerful paw
he can render complex edifice
of democracy to disappear
thus...after shaking wordy playwear
an early plug to vote November 2020
due to here
about nine months and one year.
He bought everyone
A choux pastry
Filled with cream
And half covered with chocolate,
To eclair the air.
a religious so pretty attract your eyes
in the shelves of the bakery next to the eclair
you are hungry and do not know what to do
sugar sugar you sing a song
and eat a banana so satisfying
as an ape you climb a tree looking for Maple
a little dog you cuddle and the cat came back
in you crazy life bringing the scent of roses
good for a meal you feed it
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman Flying
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, seeks young sprig poe
whet tick friend in toto,
though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
Neck pulsating, close shave shines over whiskers
Stiff collar pressure, raced anticipation simmers
Key twist intrigue spurs engine's orange rage
Needle throws redline on wide torque gauge
Jaw rigid, fingers grip cockpit lethal leather wheel
G-force grabs chest, insolent beast thrusts surreal
Monster inflamed incredulously adheres to tar
Salivating lion's ravenous rumble has zero par
Ripping up bitumen, sardonic responsive tyres rivet
Road shred's exhausted under rocket fume exhibit
Airtight capsule, caramel cow hide hugs tamer
Eardrums hum, a hundred mile Hyundai shamer
Brawny tawny gold, hot bonnet chrome flashdance
Purrs her melting eclair aerodynamic performance
Pride's pilot elevated by moorish horizon hunts
Hungry headlights still prey with stealthy stunts
30th July 2022
Written for Contest: Joy
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Every other week during summer, or fall ...
there's a loud noise rattling my huge window
facing the shady street
where no kids are seen.
.
Old fashioned grass cutters like the one I had made a minimal noise,
I don't have to visualize it, or see it to describe its actual color...
days ago I saw one with a dangling front the front bumper,
and the small, miserable guy was trying to snap back in its place.
I came outside and yelled, " Fix the darn machine and let me sleep! "
and giving him a second nasty look running my mouth as a truck driver,
" Sir, " he replied, " I am trying to fix it and finish the job and leave!"
" Do it quickly and let me get some more sleep! " that was my answer.
And just in case you wonder
what its color was .....you are
in for a shocking surprise, it was much dirtier
than an abandoned car
with a finish similar to a chocolate's eclair!