Best Exotics Poems
We have this flirtation me and you--
never quite able to see your face.
Watching you while all alone.
Sometimes you write my night
with scrolls of silken words
saying love notes upon the dark sky.
I would blast my way off to visit,
find myself sick and falling free
with foot falls that stir up dust.
So very fine this dust, like powder
for your nose; is this how you hide
when you fall in and out of view.
I could be tip-toe tripping as I skim
along your surface, in search of the key
to unlock all your hidden secrets…
Fine jewels, maybe. Fine mist
of watery wealth, a mother lode
of exotics but even so I would leave you.
Earthbound I am here to paint the moon
like a shadow boxer, creeping toward bedtime.
Icicle licked, that’s more than flirtation.
It’s a foothold into tomorrow
past all these years, I see you now I don’t
wander the clouds of our lives.
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
Part 1
Of all the different kinds of love.
Some are gentle.
Some are oppressive.
Some come with pre-conditions.
Some come from expectations.
Some come with zesty flavors.
Spices and exotics.
In a secluded corner of an antique mind
time enshrouded locked away in a jailess cell
is unconditional love, a withering shadow,
a remnant exiled and contagious
plagued by insidious expectations
grieving, resolute and alone.
Some try to hide the keys
from the trolls that invade their thoughts
lest the viruses of doubt
penetrate the sanctity of pure intention.
The myth of unconditional love.
Part 2
The loving heart soon decays
amidst the mistaken belief
that there are no conditions
to unconditional love;
there always are.
One must possess a loving heart,
open to all, not segregated and formed
in irksome contemplation.
When one is not loved back,
he/she loses his/her impulsion.
Emotions then become tempered, irrigated
flattened and distributed in a kind,
of non-vested washed out amusement
drying naked tears in a windless environment.
We become the product of our salient beliefs.
That is why the religious profess
God's love as being unconditional
because it is almost non-existent in man.
Unconditional love?
There are always conditions,
some obvious, some hidden,
some obscure in confused enigmas.
CAK 02-16-2013
I didn't know the blithe Flower Child.
Whose singing, dancing others said wild
One with flowers and love in her song.
She was a wildflower all along.
Wildflowers bloomed for miles and miles.
We looked at them and broke out in smiles.
They borrowed their tints from rainbow's hues
Then traded sips of light-falling dew.
The flower child was eager to share
her home with those painting art in air.
Sampling exotics and leaves unnamed
In tie-dyed shirts, ponytails untamed.
Wildflowers that grew spontaneously
Nature designed to live wild and free.
To feel summer's breeze blowing their blooms.
Growing askew, we knew, faeries groomed.
Flower child had a message, you see.
Altho said psychedelically.
She wanted a world in peace at last,
her Heart ached for young souls passed
The wildflowers had a message, too:
If you want flowers, trees and a view,
Our voices cry we can't go alone
Someday, rivers will dry up like stone.
Flower Child but a memory now.
Her message of peace was lost somehow.
Blossoms have died, love no longer shared.
Looking back now, I wish more had cared.
Seasons changed, rain comes seldomly now;
Or, torrents come, flooding earth and bough.
Wildflower patches have grown so small,
Soon there'll be no wildflowers at all.
Easter Eggs and Tulips
Grandaddy was a quiet soul,
born in 1888 on the first day of Spring.
He often stopped to graze his sheep,
on the lush green grass
found at my grandmother’s old house,
where she played with dollys and jacks.
A knowledgable gardener by trade, growing flowers and crops
he caught a beautiful maid’s eye nearby,
some 20 years older than she was he
and yet from their earliest glance,
he remained loyal to his Corrie.
Grandaddy planted stately green Rhododendrons,
bordering the road and our land,
growing his own pipe tobacco.
His battle with bamboo most grand
exotics brought from the Great War,
in France’s trenches he sat long
wondering if he’d make it home,
the mustard gas a near swan song.
My childhood recollections of him digging in the dirt bed
planting Avignon tulip bulbs,
silky pedals flowering brilliantly red
bursting freely with our Easter Eggs,
cleverly hidden from our sight
by gentle liver-spotted hands,
unfurling them with slow delight.
You left us when I was but nine,
my memories are vague shadows,
dreams of you, a bible in one hand,
pipe in the other,
curling smoke around you,
smelling sweetly of spicy tobacco.
Africa,
Upon this vantage pedestal I see you,
i gaze from this hollow quest,
away from the home of my ancestors,
a sojourner for a time,
I yearn,
to tread again the beautiful climate of my origin,
where no strange stares forbids my freedom,
Africa,
Did I hear the enthralling songs?
The chirping sounds of the birds,
The brilliant coruscations,
the evening tales by moonlight,
Oh! Nature, never saw you tainted.
it is different here,
Africa, A vast exotics land of combination,
with lush emerald jungles
vistas of burning stars,
and torrential white river,
the mountains unharvested,
the hills uncrowded,
Africa,
we smile without suspicion
not hunted "like partridges upon the mountain"
We breathe though poor
Yet rich in morals
I am a prisoned sojourner here,
men speed away uncaring.
locked in debts called homes,
bills buries friendship,
and for wood hay and stubble,
nature becomes a nullity,
in motions like robots,
we wake, we work, and wear our frame
Africa i hear you call
Coexist in complexity
A perplex proxy of our galaxy where exotics exist
Exhale the excessive vexations toxic to expansion and relax among the obnoxious exposure
An example of expanded thought mixed with textbook genetics
An extrovert flexible to the exceeding paradox
Excited to be the exemplar, to exit and convex from the parallax of proximity
The nexus between over exquisite luxury and existentialism is the elixir to this maximized hex we were coaxed into
Explode in the mixture of climax and detox,
Expelled in rebirth of the matrix
The phoenix complex exhibits flux and exalts us to a higher axis
Beyond this matchbox mindset we extol
We embarked on an adventure
That was quite quixotic
A scientific dream quencher
Searching for exotics
We started where we thought made sense
Out on the sunning docks
Where perhaps there’d be an immense
Native Great White Butt Ox
We packed all of our photo gear
And pursued the best sights
But only found local Striped Rear
Aglow in the moonlight
Before being tempted to browse
We jumped off those boardwalks
Since a Striped Rear cannot arouse
Like a Great White Butt Ox
Experts said to try the shore line
Where they lay out in clumps
Though fauna there with a nice shine
Were only Large Brown Rumps
Well we explored every ocean
Including the boondocks
Though nothing lathered in lotion
Were confirmed White Butt Ox
So then we probed the far back woods
Searching behind bushes
Yet the few things there any good
Were just Texas Tushes
Ah, in Texas everything’s big
So we went there to skirt
Rodeos, dance halls and oil rigs
Out on the bare desert
Where we met on a dusty road
A nice girl named Annie,
And her friend hauling a wide load
Fittingly called Fanny
Then we swore that on other routes
That we saw a Butt Ox
But it was only Fanny’s glutes
Displayed on their long walks
We studied scholarly writings
But were always flummoxed
Since so far there were no sightings
Of A Great White Butt Ox
I said let’s go try city streets
Where I am sure we’ll find
Assorted sized bums spanning seats
That are best seen behind
We investigated the parks
But findings there were sparse
Yet we frequently came across
A sleeping Spotted ****
But then I observed on the grass
Beside a pile of rocks
None other than a true first-class
Native Great White Butt Ox
It was surely of mature age
And of course very rare
And then ably, as if onstage
Strutted its derriere
It was a breathtaking female
That we tagged that autumn
And knew its gender without fail
When we checked her bottom
A madman pushed me off the track, lucky not much harm
I sat in the Hospital waiting room with just a broken arm.
They handed me a form to fill, 20 genders, 10 types of race -
I tore the sheet with my good arm and walked out of that place.
I walked past a park, a man dropped a syringe, gave me a stare
I walked past a crazy woman preaching to the air.
I walked past teens speaking to their phones but not each other.
Saw expressions I couldn’t read - an enemy or a brother?
I remembered the in-crowd whose moral sight was blind
I wanted to leave their dubious fads behind
I walked past the demonstrators, their justice leads to blood:
We may need a Noah's ark from the oncoming flood.
I walked along the Palisades, the river on my right.
I perked up because the old roads, the boat basins came in sight.
I jogged on the Long Path, crossing Bergen County, then Rockland too.
Turned inland and ended up in a children's petting zoo.
There were the black hats - Jews of a Hasidic sect.
I spoke with one woman; she looked at me with undeserved respect.
It was a change from the jaded people I often met
Wondered what the secret was, is a religious way correct?
Those Jews might not surf the internet, they might not watch TV.
And when they move en masse into a town they spark animosity.
But what struck me there was something clean and true.
As she pointed out the exotics in that petting zoo.
Since then I've been to Lancaster, where the Amish live an older way
That lifestyle has its drawbacks too, there are always shades of gray.
I've visited Salt Lake, where Mormons spurn drugs for recreation
A visitor described them as the handsomest in the nation.
I like my way of life, but other ways make me think
Do we really need social media, or drugs, an evening drink?
Would we be better people, if some things we didn't know?
Should we stand against the current, or go with culture's flow?
Do we really need the likes, the scroll that never ends?
Can we stop and read a while, or try to make real friends?
Can we set anchor in a place where lies don’t get through?
Can we cure our sick republic, retain what’s proven true?
Lemon with smell of cheese and a sausage scented cake,
And the cheese which tastes like a three day old steak.
For such an exotics taste take my advice.
Just stop to wash a forks and spoons and knives!
10/23/22
"Knock It"
What I smoke is frosted
Money and time it costed
Has yet to turn out how I've wanted
Remaining undaunted
Going in and out of areas that are haunted
People continually taunted
So worried about what the cat brought in
Doggone it
Occurring far or near life that is aquatic
Constant not just periodic
It's chaotic
A world obsessed with exotics
As well as narcotics
From here to way beyond the tropics
Endless gossip
About any topics
To me such things are microscopic
Not one to talk
Or respond quick
's often toxic
These idiotic habits, it's been a struggle to knock it
Time to jump off a cliff
Into a pool that is cosmic
Where I don't need to worry about being patriotic
Or getting called psychotic
The same said for the need of antibiotics
Time we've moved way beyond this
The truth and my promise
Below moving comets
By now can not miss
Only one chance I do or don't got this
I already thought it
Or this was saw quick through my optics
Healthy or sick with a cough
Like it or not
Continually being stolen or bought
Hidden underneath earth or behind a lock
Lights remaining on or staying off
Realize that it doesn't yet it does take a lot
In mind or before you could give it a train of thought
Still living or in a state of rot
If it all goes down the drain you lost
The same said for the price of fame at what cost?
In the end hardly anything or your all you brought
You live a plush life remaining soft
Or got caught in between a rock and continually fought
For a better spot
Meanwhile others continued to plot
It was difficult to connect the dots
Across a land fraught with frost and naught
Due to fools always being snots
Still stirring the pot
Taking shots at each other as they scoff
It's no shock, just a loss regarding time on the clock
7/5/21
Chopsticks
Lockpicks
And exotics
Continually the clock ticks
Certain situations required antibiotics
Or the use of narcotics
For some it angered and others it was hypnotic
Near and far from lifeforms that are aquatic
There is peace or conflict
In a world that can be chaotic
People keeping it one hundo or being psychotic
Did or didn't use the noggin
From here to Austin
To way beyond Boston
And the tropics
Ingredients that were toxic
And chemicals that are caustic
What occurs on a daily basis in this world, makes me nauseous
Taking chances and staying cautious
In and out of areas that are cosmic
Having something or nothing to do with atomics
Had many wins and losses
Just being honest
Was a fool or used logic
It was of importance or microscopic
Did or didn't see it through the optics
Occurring often or periodic
Wasn't feeling well or felt awesome
My mind I done lost it
Time and money it costed
Hardcore or some soft
Wise or quick to talk it
Bitter or sweeter than chocolates
This damn habit I fought it
But could not knock it
Or truly stop it
Stayed grounded or took flight like a rocket
Traveling beside a comet
At speeds that were supersonic
Easter Eggs and Tulips
Grandaddy was a quiet soul, born in 88 on a spring day.
He often stopped to graze his sheep, on the lush green grass shoots in May
found at my grandmother’s old house, where she played with dollys and jacks.
Knowledgable gardener by trade, he grew crops and purple lilacs
catching a beautiful maid’s eye, some 20 years older was he,
and yet from his earliest glance, he was steadfast to his Corrie.
He planted stately green magnolias, bordering the road and our land,
growing his own pipe tobacco, his battle with bamboo most grand
exotics brought from the Great War, in France’s trenches he sat long
wondering if he’d make it home, the mustard gas a near swan song.
I have childhood recollections, of you digging in the dirt bed
planting Avignon tulip bulbs, silky pedals flowering red
bursting freely with Easter Eggs, cleverly hidden from our sight
by gentle liver-spotted hands, unfurling them with slow delight.
You left us when I was but nine, my memories are vague shadows,
dreams of you with a spade in hand, smelling sweetly of pipe tobacco.
landscapes
inside
the mindseye
thoughts
pictured
in
reresentations
topographcal
terrains
in prospect
elaborate
exotics
artfully
engineered
in
ostensible
outlooks
outwardly
abstracted
searching
for
senstivity