Best Extracts Poems
~Soup To Go~
This summer~ all I want is a bowl of soup
A secret flavor that combines every veggie group
An outcast taste of ancient granola herbs
All kinds of extracts that create different verbs
I will leave the table only to dance out in the rain
Round and round in wonder catering out my sweet refrain
I will visit mother and tell her I forgot her recipe
Brag about my soup and how I used and stole her ecstasy
Paint about the life she gives the grounded trees
Think about the sugar that makes me surrender to her sweet debris
I will order me a special~ with the right poetry breeze
Exchange my cookie dough with mothers pollen seeds
Hide behind her oak tree and listen to her endlessly
I can even cook myself a picture making nature my enemy
Close my eyes and smell the mist of self control
Hold on to my emotion and take a sip of my soup bowl
Add extra salt and pepper to every line I manipulate
Swirl my spoon around and smile at every thing I hate
Come sit down with me and collaborate
Lets cabbage out on mothers nature's plate
Wakening up to her blossoming sauce that drips with a certain flow
Driving by her White castle, and stare at another soup to go
Order me; a soup of all the things I see
Order me; a soup made out of mystery
Order me; a soup out of the things I wanna be
Order me; a soup made out of the sadness found inside of me
Order me; a coffee to go with my poetry soup
Type me a funny comment that will add a smile to my food group:-)
by;p.d.
He grew within a frigid place
No one thought those legs would ever part
A Dark Prince thawed her frozen heart
A member long and stiff like ice
Penetrates
Cuts through the cold
His seed
His power
They both take hold
Invade
Satiate
Invigorate
Skin white as snow
begins to glow
A subtle blush
She feels the rush
Heated up
Ever so slightly
His cold blue eyes
shine brightly
She screams in the night
Pleasurable blue light
Her senses take flight
Then the dark prince goes away
The night was night and this is day
There's no desire in him to stay
With a heavy heart on the bed she lay
For him just a thing of play
Inside
His seed
Her baby grows
What is happening
she does not know
Pulse is rapid it will not slow
Her red veins
turn to blue
There is nothing
she can do
Her heart now frozen
a block of ice
She thinks cold thoughts
that are not nice
Inside the child feeds on her
The days and nights become a blur
In the middle of winter
The Ice King is born
From fragile womb
his body torn
Arrival accompanied
by a storm
Those present become statued ice
The King extracts his sacrifice
His mother spared
To her his love he shows
She wraps him in blanket
of pure white snow
His skin translucent
begins to glow
All of a sudden
the Dark Prince appears
He commands bring the baby over here
I wish to gaze upon my son
He is a truly magnificent one
He looks closely at the baby's face
Resemblance more than just a trace
Blue eyes dark they extract a toll
Sucking up the Prince's soul
The Ice King
emerges
fully grown
Regally rises to take his throne
Mother cries
Blue magical tears
Time for coronation
Rapidly nears
Diamonds fall
onto the ground
Placed in ice
The King is crowned
Linda's Free Verse Contest
Thanks to Leonora Galinta for letting me weave a story
with her Ice King. Yanny's Dark Prince has also played a roll.
Also thanks to SKAT for posting the Ice King Contest,
if she increases the number of lines I will enter.
I wrote this one before I knew there was a contest.
A Cup Runneth Over
My cup in dry abyss boils over
Condensing dewdrops in vapors of blessing
Into foaming condensed extracts
Like effervescence of divine dust
That bubbles up to the rim.
Rescued like a fallen star
From arid droughts
You send my thirsting emptiness
Like a winter deer to search for streams
And find deep pools of dawning glory.
Purified elixir drips mercy
Into my crumbling calyx,
Molding a new chalice,
Brimming with benediction,
As tides of absolution rise into oblation.
A frozen vessel washed with snows set free
Bathes my nascent cup in all ruth
In swirling celebration’s release
As levees of grace break free
Spilling into this my new fashioned grail.
7-20-22
Contest: Pick a Title Vol 31
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: A Cup Runneth Over
Tears
(for A, I shed)
When I herd these tribes and fashion cities
With my words, you are what's missing.
- Mookie Katigbak, The Proxy Eros
I cast a brief look at you many a time,
Partly considering your noonday shadow’s silhouette a singular move far
As you pay heed in discreet agony to the old Angelus' chewed verses
and secrecy.
This dust-laden jalousie classroom spares me to steal quite a glance of you--
Trussed up in your chair, chin nesting on left palm
Time and again as against your emptiness.
Religious as your hair finger- combed in place all too often.
Seedless to say, before you’ll be hand in hand with your lover,
Whose teeth are those of metals,
On the following street to reach your home in Gusa ,
Let me tell you my itch:
If it is a misdeed that I travel from one antinomy to another,
Perhaps, you are the credo and the gospel on top of which
Of what I cannot write nor cite in the words of my poetics:
Drunk diurnal sobrieties, c(r)ooked metaphors
And jabberwockies, each verb I turn into flesh: darling, these are not
You.
If by chance, you’d come to notice the process
Of what I do and do all the time
Without my consent or other of a conscious effort,
Listen:
You are these paled viscid extracts
Resting lightly astride my lashes that are sure
Warmer than a breath and are yet to trickle down my cheeks.
*Gusa - A place in Cagayan de Oro City , Southern Philippines
P Pipes corroded
L Lies, folds, and bends
U Under a sink
M Mans the phones
B Butt crack showing
E Extracts gook and hair
R Rodents and snakes
Life's Tapestry
Life begins: a single thread
Inlayed throughout as one
Faceted; a tapestry
Entwining hopes and dread
'Sembling extracts not quite done.
Torn brocades of woven silk
Aloft on dusty walls
Pull at strings of mother's milk
Ellipsing vacant halls.
Shadows press the looking glass
Towards the light then fall.
Running colours fading fast
Yaw past the muted call.
©deborah burch
2.07.2013
Virgen de Guadalupe
scrape her roses from the floor
The lighted path shimmers
in the mountains
as we walk like goats
surefooted and into high
places
Lofty dreams encompass
the transitions
and splendor shakes a tail feather
peacocked into cries for
water, light and love
Challe in the toilet stall
Hands clenched, mouth moving
She could not shout
Shall the world let her fall?
Offer her soothing
Help through this bout?
Shall we notice at all?
Her sad self loathing
Draped in self doubt
Challe head against the wall
Her mind is roving
Confused, distraught
Challe
Orphaned child
Witnessed mother’s murder
Never able to cry
Numb
La Pieta
hold open her new door
The best is yet to come
We whisper as we
stick our fingers down
her throat
Virgen de Guadalupe
scrape her roses from the floor
holding her slashed wrists
until the ambulance arrives
and extracts
her overdosed pills and
her nightmares
into visions
of the ever present gift
that even murderers
could not take away
Rocking her like
a baby we sing
to her of a new
day and a new
song where she
will cry no more
and we assure her
with our lips to hers
that we will breathe
for her for a while
until she births her
new self all green
and rare like a
butterfly thought
extinct suddenly
appeared
There it was gazing up – radiant –
radiating kaleidoscope silver green;
sharp with life, ready and expectant.
Spreading its claim, pressing out the grass,
was a thistle born from last year's seed unseen.
From where had it blown here to outclass
the perennials of the turf? Its time
now come to arise from the meadow supreme,
preparing to host bug life full time.
Come July it will fuzz with purple
flowers as a crown for a victorious queen,
armed with many a prickled sepal.
Visited by suppliant insects
who set and array her seeds; a frothy scene
for finches' feast. Passing air extracts,
disperses the progeny abroad
to wherever to be ready, once more unseen
between the blades never overawed;
a tribute to the Creator Lord.
The unpredictable yaw of rolling seas,
as in life pummels us from side to side
randomly dictating its capricious ways
lacking logic the tossing grips us and seeks to take our lives
Death, like the ghost of Christmas past,
comes and expresses a tale of coldness and desolation
under the guise of light the dues it extracts from the living
accumulate like wrinkles on our faces the years pile on
The uncertainty of pandemics sends people into despair
mental frenzy engulfs societies
people wring their hands with worry
what happens if I get sick and lose my income?
At night I hear the sound of eighteen wheeler trucks rumbling
On the blacktop toward companies that make copious profits
past the foothills where coyotes cry nature's lament
exacerbating my approach to a precarious and worrisome future
Sometimes, I feel like a watermelon cut in half
exposed to the desert heat slowly drying up
or a taco at Christmas time or a paraplegic in a footrace
exposed in those places where I don’t belong
Leisure time for the working stiff is so elusive
yet now all I’ve got is time and plenty of it,
but there’s no leisure in it only worry
and does not give me needed rest
The yaws of life
seldom deviate from its variant course
but like ships at sea rising and falling in a tempest
our minds proceed at an ambiguous yet dangerous speed
With our hearts frozen in a delirium of past disappointments
they vanish the happy times into the ether of regrets
still we cling to those cherished happy time memories
when Life was more accepting of our youthful indiscretions
Our Ship of Life moves predictably toward an unknown horizon
unsteadily shaking us from side to side, up and down
like loose apples bobbing in an ocean
with our paths uncertain unfolding as we hold on.
Copyright © norberto franco cisneros
not quite
White Christmas,
but that'll do.
'tis the next best thing!
celestial confetti
comes tumbling down
at noon time
generously,
incessantly;
palpable excitement
hangs like hope in the firmament
one of several
children at play
extracts her tongue
waiting;
some did land...
and she squeals with joy!
ah, ivory flakes...
down they come;
tiny alabaster feathers
fluttering d
o
w
n
like maple leaves in Autumn;
darting diagonally,
hullahooping
in the December wind.
Counting hours like chickens
waiting to get fried
until my last pressures get
properly denied
by that amnestic ruckus
compelling my stride.
My revelry extracts your
most suspicious eye
while I collect brains like I'm
Professor Magpie
instructing the planet on
how it ought to fly.
You wafted off on that cloud
propelling my pride
until I cried at that thick
storm brewing outside
lamenting that lonely gust
when our essence died.
The Prospector:
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The stories are told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilization.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
As he extracts his bones from the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector, signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Wordancer
A clamorous stream of jar fly voices punctuates the dusky air,
their timbale orchestra madly vibrating raucous sound.
Hand brushing hand, we stand in the garden’s waning light,
where fall’s pungent, spicy extracts flick from curling dry-leaf tongues,
needling tears that veil your tender gaze.
We are burning the nightshade garden, clearing summer’s fading feast,
our fires lanterns on a hallowed meadow eve;
sharp scented, sinewy tomato plants pitched to hungry flames hiss like snakes,
the stray fruits sizzling, then exploding in bursts of juicy seed.
You lean toward me and shadowed silhouettes twine together like old vines.
Copyright, September 15, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
The Red Cross tells me there is nothing to fear, and no harm.
However, they are sticking an awfully big needle into my arm.
This organization is happy to get a donor like me.
After all, I have the rarest type which is positive AB.
I have to lie on a table horizontally
as my crimson liquid goes into the bag rather slowly.
The nurse says I am done, and she extracts the needle carefully.
Holding my arm with gauze, I feel a little dizzy.
I get up from the table rather lethargically.
They offer me all I want of doughnuts and iced tea.
Here I am with the Red Cross in Pennsylvania.
How long will my blood take to reach the Count in Transylvania?
Unwrapping both a blessing and a curse, extracts
Love’s essence painting souls and framing them abstracts.
Too brazen into Jung’s collective we were when,
Our fists were punching holes up through the floors of Heaven.
We knew the fools from those among the wise who cherish,
But that denying harlot Fate, had to be selfish.
Now under burden of this heavy and cruel loss,
Pain’s pressing pitch to blacken the abandoned cross.
Among the broken pieces that will fall this way.
The mausoleums that will be cap stoned today.
In paper coffins lay the letters of their last,
To reconcile this day, or others from the past.
Possessions that become departing gifts to friends.
A rotting, cold corpse they will be, when passed again.
Those stalking zombies out of reach and courting hate
Caressing defense of an unforgiving state.
Must they forget the lover’s pages bled in ink.
Escape in substance high, and falling drunk in drink.
As desperation quickly fills their beds with drones.
The futile chains attempts, when weakness is alone.
To look again to see the gift from ending’s split.
A testimony of a truth embracing it.
For what this life has taken, in return, it gave.
Event Horizons welcome us beyond the grave.
Some morsels kept out of the ruins of our dreams.
A loving Christ’s hands will to heal and stitching seams.
His wisdom and his patience walking me still slower.
His ways are guiding me, in these, the years to over.