Best Egg White Poems
We’ve not dreamt the crystal morn,
the tinkling ping of sun warmed ice,
the egg white branch of lilac dipped,
the magic of the wintry day
which fills the heart with awe.
Such days of silver ice and blue white snow
the lancing spears of ‘cicle formed
awake are we to majesty, that all too soon is gone.
Gone in graceful austerity, a loveliness all its own,
the white of skeleton, these beauteous bones.
Winter Fantasia.
Snowman, his coat a trillion frosty threads...crotched by Jack,
the naughty mischief maker.
Each crystal cast perfect by Boreas. #
Blizzard bullies, bustling, jig-sawed sleet,
crystallized in my mindscape of imagery.
Winter Sun dares to melt you down, pasty white.
Your peculiar perfume, suggests ice cubes soaked in lemon-crush.
Shiver, quiver. As goose-bumps frazzle your Arctic world
the moon shines crazy, diamond flames hang in the lonely sky.
I materialise you...the absent person,
I colour the scene with my paintbrush and bucket.
Bold, stiff... blow a bon-bon kiss,
you sentry on snow-laden ice,
under heaven-hung, bunting stars...
a diamante necklace, swanked by Nyx, Greek Goddess of the Night.
Platted rainbows twist, entwine hues, illuminate
a fibre-glassed squirrel who morphs into a swirl of peppermint puffs
and whirls round in muffled silence.
Rouge-crested Robin rests on cold shoulder, then
alights on umber wings...
Ruby stained Snowman chuckles like river ripples,
egg-white flakes dying to pirouette,
airborne ballerinas, swivelling, spinning...
from knitted, silken clouds, finer than a Fuschia’s blush.
Come Spring sprinkles of Lime grass and creamed Crocus
blanket my view where you once stood.
Reality or imagination, I am the speaker of this poem,
so Jack, draw fern-like patterns on my windows, then
run away with Nymph shadows...
Even the wind dies happy.
# Boreas...Greek God of Winter.
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones,
tinkling icicles which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed,
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
Tinkling icicles, which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms,
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white
the ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms
too soon the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day
The ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed.
Too soon, the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day.
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones?
First appeared in Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review Winter 2014
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones,
tinkling icicles which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed,
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
Tinkling icicles, which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms,
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white,
the ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms
too soon the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day
The ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed.
Too soon, the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day.
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones?
First Published in Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review January 2014
Long have me feet walked..bare upon de earth of mother Afreeca.
Days, passing in a flow’r chain round de brow of de morn.
De sacred drum calls wid de heart beattin of de Hougan’s soul
Afreeca’s soul ...
Long, long, de walkin from village mounta’n citie
to the hounfour ... de temple of de people.
We walk joy’us, and penit’nt and pleadin‘.
Mama carries de food gift fer Ogou Balanjo on her head,
corn meal she ‘as ground fine. "Ah, de poor sick child"
De glass beads aroun‘ Mama’s neck shine
like her tears in de sun an de sweat on her skin.
We ‘ear de rattlin‘ and de drummin.
Dust of de many feet rises.
'undreds and thousands of worshipers pack de square
in front of de temple and dance red, gold, orange swirl
honorin‘ our parents and der parents.
Long, long, we dance, we dance, and de Loa arrive ...
Mama falls possessed by Ogou Balanjo ...
De white robes of de pure at heart, and does wid de white faces
dance de prayers, de priests returns from de sacred grove
white rock, egg white of wealth and happiness
de year will be good ... de sick child will heal ...
Long, long, the world has spun in a daisy chain
Around de sun............
Boast brownies baking
in dirty palm oil bacon fat
Sugar-coated swine vanilla cupcakes;
pineapple upside down snout snacks,
so coconut phone hasty ...
Sound-byte puff pastry
Flour-face teflon pan —
tart marshmallow mint muffin
Silver tongue baguette
spooning out citrus acid banter batter,
so sour cream tasty ...
Lip huff puff pastry
Pinocchio banana crêpe nose;
roasted lies, almond alibis deep fried
Blueberry bagel beak raisin Cain,
yeast yell swelling pride:
Con-fectionary leaven in the oven,
so mint cookie I scream dainty ...
Pigging out on the puff pastry
Prune-flavored pucker paczki,
Fat Tuesday belly decadent bowel delectable
Cinnamon bun —
pumpkin spice glazed doughnut sphincter hole,
so dollar fig bark hasty ...
Plum tweet puff pastry
Odd cream of Bavarian
whip up the Orange Clockwork zest crowd
Egg white octogenarian
kneading raspberry rhetoric —
Gen. Custard pie hole powdered sugar loud,
so strawberry swirl tasty ...
Marble fudge puff pastry
Apple cruller golden crust coin flavor,
chocolate frosting money honey savor
Pecan pie cherry cheek a la mode,
buttery scone biscuits served cold
Key lime cheesecake dainty ...
Black bury tone puff pastry
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea
To this chrysoberyl dawn rescue from chuted linen bedlam,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
She sits on her hands and shuffles her ugg boots,
And watches me toast, I'm butter, I'm smoked ham.
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea.
Pepper shakes, egg white eyes, her yawning toots,
Her champagne hair bubbles still of our liquory sham,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
The wonder to her sprite body and this morn in cahoots,
When I feels like I'm sunken, with lids like a sleepy clam.
Now for warm oatmeal and honey and sugarless tea.
Not flowers on feathers, hoodlums we are - munchy and moose,
Nothing much matters but her lippy kiss coat of strawberry jam
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
This first light and cigarette and her shuffling caboose
Closer, comfier, her smile on my shoulder, to the day be damn'
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
transparency
egg white runs down clear glass bowl....
dew 'pon daylilies
Emptiness
(Childrens song / lyrics and music by Joan Donnelly Ellis )
When a thing is empty it is not much good at all
.
What good is a baseball diamond with neither bat nor ball?
What worth a hat without a head? A house without some folk?
How foolish a shell with no egg white or yellow yolk?
Can you find any use for a well without water,
Or a quill that has no ink ...Well
What good is a hockey arena with no skating rink.
Can you explain the purpose of a book void of pictures and word?
How unfun a bell without a ringer? Seems to me absurd.
How dull Summer without rainfall and sunshine, Winter without snow?
Would a tree be lonely with neither squirrels nor birds that caw like the crow?
Fancy a yard without soft green grass to delight the barefeet
A pie shell without pie filling could hardly be called a treat.
What would you think if the sky held no sun,no moon, no color, no rain, no star?
Now I do not want to upset you but what if narry a crumb could be found in Nana's cookie jar?
How could you dance if there was no music in the radio or jukebox
The only empty thing that's worth anything and loads of fun, I daresay is an empty box.
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
A short brief about the modern day censor,
Withholding what we can and can’t read,
Withholding what was once considered free speech,
Before the censor was let out and freed.
Like in the new poems on this poetry site,
We can’t type GET --------, or ------- YOU,
YOU ------, ----- IT, or ----OFF, because
We’ve been told these words are taboo.
This makes me wonder what words will be next,
What words will we be told to fear,
What words will the censor remove from our tongue,
What words will soon disappear.
Maybe the words that’d better watch out are,
William Shatner! Mango! Egg white!
I think the censor wants to remove these words,
Thinking we’ll all sleep better at night.
Slathered, oiled frames
Treading sands of time
Foaming tides surge
Briny film develops
Two, virile images
In pixelated motion
Entering Love's folio
Sharing spatial time
Their, silted still life forms
Yesterday's, filtered shadows
On egg-white shells
Stain beach canvas
With sea salts embalmed
Strained sediments bury
Mementos but caricature
That hoary sun preserves
In Nature's reserve
Each negative revolves
On reflective carousel
Hourglass recycles grains
Mercurial silhouettes of love
Outlined in the murky brine
Wind's emotive flute
Pipes enduring refrain
The phone rang but there was no-one there,
Her imagination flew like a balloon into the air.
“Who was that?”, she asked herself.” Who was that woman?”, she wondered.
As the sun sank behind a cloud she gathered her ingredients.
“I’ll make his favourite: Lemon Meringue Pie”, she announced.
Now for the pastry I’ll need flour, butter, icing sugar and egg yolk.
I’ll save the egg white for the meringue.
Now some cold water and all into the processor to mix it all up.
“I remember the first time he kissed me.
It was my 19th birthday and he promised me the moon and the stars.”
Now I’ll put a baking sheet in the oven and heat to 200 degrees.
While the pastry bakes I’ll prepare the filling.
Let me see...oh this is such fun...mix cornflour, sugar and lemon zest.
“ It was after a few years I noticed he would stay late at work.
He would come home smelling slightly of perfume. “
Now I must organise that secret ingredient: Ricin made from castor oil beans.
When eaten it affects the body’s immune system.
“I remember our holidays in the Greek Isles.
We loved Thasos and Ikaria the best.”
Soon there was a knock at the door. It was Richard her husband.
“Hello darling look what I have made. Your favourite lemon Meringue Pie”.
Oh, I've dreamt of the crystalline morn
where the tinkle of ice melts, as the day's born.
In my sleep I've seen the lilac boughs dipped
in ice like egg white upon each buds tip.
Panes of glass with frost with doilies adorned
each melt in the sun, their passing is mourned.
As I rise, I see my dream's come to pass...
I stare from beneath down out through the glass.
Such is the magic of Winter's white days
when all of nature is a frosted bright glaze.
COPLA TRES (THREE): This Bad Guy World
Bad guys signal to each other
In cryptic lingo and hand signs
Close ranks bind ties
Egg-white eyes of the murderer
Encroach the pupil with designs
Embryo dies
No worse enemy than the friend
Who feigns being a bosom pal:
Snake in the shoe
They know their role is to offend
Their lives but ephemeral
Do they yet rue
(Continued from COPLA DOS)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013