Best Garnishing Poems
How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die
Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry
But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death
The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth
See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene
Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens
Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail
Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale
These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk
Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked
Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts
I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash
Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree
Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see
Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged
Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage
Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square
Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare
What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist
When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist
Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise
Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids
If your going to post propaganda, to further some game
Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained
By
David Kavanagh
Autumn
paints New England,
staining hillsides, wrapped
in red,
garnishing the trail
beneath my steps.
The season spills
like cabernet across
a changing landscape;
where the maples
bleed
their aging, amber
leaves.
I stroll
amidst the falling flames,
below the blazing
treetops,
the crisp air thick
with life, that's soon
to rest.
I walk
through spreading fire,
listen to leaves, their stories
rustling underfoot–
As Autumn’s vivid,
vibrant gift prepares
to vanish
from the view.
And I
have never known
another place, to burn
so bright in red defiance,
and I stand, here
in the art of it– I breathe
inside this portrait
of an Autumn
in New England.
Humbled, though
it hurts
to hold what lingers
and what leaves
in just one breath–
A quiet, crimson sorrow
cloaked
in boldest, brightest
hues–
where the branches bare
their warmth in
celebration–
where the greens
refuse
to simply fade to gray.
One last breath
of leaf and smoke,
one final stroll
beneath the burning trees,
another look before
the fire dies
in winter's restless
wind.
And when
the reds lie blanketed
in white
upon the hillsides of
New England,
I'll think of Autumn’s color, and
let go;
Knowing that I had it–
if only
for a season.
Aub
Aubrey Gordon Joseph Mc'Govern
by Don Johnson...
he was born in 1895 to a land so different then,
one of three boys born at Brenda station,
near to Hebel up the river near the water on a bend.
though just a child he told me of his life upon the land,
of strange things seen and space ships strange, with
coloured lights so grand.
how he and Walter and the boy had seen it flying past ,
but never went to look for it though it fell with a mighty blast.
he drove the coach for Cobb & co, held six horses by the rein,
these 3 Mc Govern's never married though,
so no Mc Govern's will remain.
he worked on Cubbie station as a station hand
their fences he did mend, delivered mail a sulky
mailman to the squatters he was friend.
no radio on the airwaves then, the news would come by him,
by word of mouth the bush telegraph, bare facts with no garnishing.
one time he was a shearers cook and cooked o'er an open fire.
he was on the rum, maybe seeing things, old Aub. he was no liar.
as he stooped to check the boiling pot he saw the Devil lunge at him.
so he flogged him off used his boiling spuds,
made a goodly campfire dim.
old Aubrey's gone where the old drovers go,
but i sure remember him.
as a story teller i did know,
when i was small and thin. …
For forty weeks I kneaded a promise,
introducing myself
to an enigmatic stranger
that resided within
stretching boundaries
until he overflowed into my soul.
While his lungs searched the air
for breaths of inspiration
my hands, for the first time,
reached for a warmth
greater than faith or flesh
without hesistation
and without the familiar fear
of rejection.
I’d never before expected so much
from someone so small
or trusted myself so much
to have the courage
to die a little, bury one child
to nurture another
but I did.
Fifteen years
of rough waters and sea monsters
and my tides still rise and fall
by the ebb and flood
of his negotiating moons;
sometimes I feel
as if I’ll be washed away
while garnishing his heart and mind
with vigilant shepherds
but I shine on,
sewing bright buoys to sea foam
so that when someday my lamp has been doused
my son will still know his way home.
Fanciful filigree faerie frolics
Garnishing grateful glittery gardenias
Heavenly hope heralding
Iridescent illusions imagining
joyous jumbled jubilation
As I read from PS It’s Poetry the children sat in wonder
While reading one persons poem I came across this untold story
This book written from long ago from around the globe
To late to enter into soups first anthology came this story untold
Sights of Coal Page 244
Twas on a cold night this one Christmas eve
When Santa and his eight tiny reindeer appeared
A clatter was heard upon the roof up above
With the children sleeping as snug as a warm glove
With toys floating and dancing in their minds
Dreaming of of toy’s and fun games of all kinds
Building a snowmen then sleighing on a new sled
A Ho, Ho, Ho was heard as they ran from their beds
The milk glass half full and bites out of the cookies
Small nibbles in the carrots under the tree filled with goodies
With eyes wide opened and blinking colored lights
Bows of gold with garnishing ornaments a wonderful sight
Yet one present not yet opened was a gift from amazon
One name was missing and yet my name did appear
A beautiful piece of poetry as my friends name had disappeared
With one name missing on page 244 I am adding it this year:
Alexis Y. A sweet Nectar of love this is our: Collaboration of love
Receiving a piece of coal yet her wonderful spirit did appear
Giving me all the credit She is the true spirit of Christmas Cheer
She gave me this gift without remorse a pure heart of gold
I thank you my friend for this gift of your kindness and love
This:
A Christmas Story Untold:
Marry Christmas my friend, Alexis
The one with a heart of gold
Contest: Christmas poems old and new
Sponsored By: Constance La France
Date Created: 12/15/2020
PASTA: A FORK OF HEAVEN
In a pot of bubbling boiling water,
I drop hard nine inches long bundle of farfelles..
Minutes passed,between my fingertips,
I pressed one strand, al- dente!
In a platter glittering white,
I form a fist of fresh-cooked pasta noodles,
pouring a hot scoop of white
creamy silky sauce made from:
parmesan and pecorino
melted, blended in a saucepan,
flavored more with a savory stock,
tossed of shallots, saffron and lean meat.
The sauce must be rich enough
coating all the threads of farfelles...
Garnishing it with grated cheese,
teaspoonful crunchy diced bacon,
a pinch of chopped flat leaf parsley...
Voila! Who could refuse this tasty fork of heaven?
__________________________________________________
***farfelle - a type of pasta: thick and wide noodles
al -dente - a pasta noodle cooked all the way through except in the center being slightly undone
CONTEST name: DIDACTIC FOOD
~~3rd place~~
1:54pm, September 09, 2015
WE WILL WALK OUR RAINS
Welcome the falling rain with a rainbow smile
dripping onto our face rippling even the sea.
Flowers and bushes mottled wet along the aisle
together in the pouring rain, running with glee!
Without a care in the world the brackens spree
and beneath the trees nesting birds hide in style,
beholding this vista, we both are in agree:
Welcome the falling rain with a rainbow smile!
Soak and cold, hugging for warmth is worthwhile
and so is hearing the rains' staccato percussion keys
in a moment of stillness... Some cascading vile
dripping onto our face rippling even the sea,
some bring frowns, worse-- tears to our eyes
but having a beloved through every miles
may lighten dark skies. Hopefully, those guise
flowers and bushes mottled wet along the aisle
dry as the sun rises, wiping natures cries.
Under the sun, under the rain: dance and be free!
Breathe! Drink their essence... Release some sighs
together in the pouring rain, running with glee!
The rain and the sun: like a couple sustaining life~
garnishing both the earth with gregarious greens.
May we be like them: partners holding no strife...
The yins and yangs now smoothly hurdled in between
welcome the falling rain...
_______________________________________________________
*** Bracken/s~ these are ferns.
Poem Contest: ONE
~~3rd place~~
Copyright © 2015 Olive Eloisa Guillermo and James Andrew Fraser
6:21 pm, September 03,2015
Spring Flowers
Another day she floated by so silently and poetically so graciously
Brightened each day quite magnificently as she held blossoming Begonia's
Captivated and enthralled by what nature smelled like sweet carnations
Daringly she held the intoxicating cherubs of those daffodils
Earnestly she held those beautiful elderberry blossoms in early spring
French Marigolds were her favorite flower as she planted every year
Garnishing with the ever loving gardenia, flourishing in her back yard
Hyacinth's are what her dear beloved mother grows each year
Iris Lilies are so very fragrant at any time of year
Jasmine, Jupiters Beard are all that comes to mind
Karume Azalea only grows where there are much heat and density
Lavenders lavish lusciously living in any country if you know about plants
Morning Glory is so very special it has been here for many generations
Narcissus Confusus only grow in Spain for their heat is so very dense
Often orchids of Oleandra's are so inviting which throughs many scents so inviting
Precious so few are the lovely petunia's which she grew each and every year
Quickly the Queen of the Ginger Lily quilts often so many vast colors over country landscape
Rhododendron is like the ravishing flower of the apple blossoming
Sensational flowers such as the Shasta Daisy almost resembles the Silver Princess
Tantalizing our eyes are the Trillium and trains of many stems of Taurus Cerastium in my greenhouse
Ulysses's Ulex as known as the Eupaeus Flore Penois is double flowering gorse
Violets which I always grow indoors for they like the stability and love I give to them
Water Lilies I took many pictures of them when I went to Bangkok in early spring
Xeranthemum is a lasting sweet scent which belongs to the daisy family
Yielding to the yellow or purple Yucca plant which thrives and grows in Mexico and West Indies
Zephyr Lily thrives in wetlands for they love the rainy season and wetlands: also saw then in Bangkok.
04/14/2016
As snows gently coat the land
Breezes softly brush it into peaks.
Candles glitter and flutter in windows
Deep shadows flicker in their light.
Enchanting dazzling gems sparkling
Frosty branches dress the clearing
Garnishing the white landscape
Hark! hear the sleigh bells tinkering
It's Santa delivering the presents
Jolly Ho-Ho's ring out as he passes
Kicking the reindeer speed onwards
Leaving a sparkling trail behind them
Maples trees majestically line the path
Nightingale's sweet tones ring out
Over the snowy valley echoing
Partridges plump and fat basting
Quail are turning on the spit
Roast potatoes crisp and golden brown
Simmering vegetables steaming
Toasted marshmallows all gooey
Utterly delicious as they melt on tongue
Victoriously the bells peel out
With great Joy announcing the birth
Xylophones cheerfully join in
Yearning hearts beating in tandem
Zeal fully they meet and mingle
How can something be so good?
Yet forgotten!
Fragrances that call,
Attention to her beauty
Growing in the wild.
As we pass her by,
Without a care,
Or a second glance,
Not knowing the benefits,
She brings,
Edible flower and leaves,
Soothing in hot water,
Drinking or inhaling,
Alternative healing,
How wonderful a plant,
Medicine for life,
Magnificence growing,
I give her praise,
And adoration,
She infuses her perfume
Garnishing the earth
With potpourri,
Surely I thought!
God must be a woman,
So much creational flare,
Yes! So clever,
Six days she planted
The seventh! Drank its tea.
Wendy Jae
You have gone to another place
Far away, where I can’t possibly follow
A place of light, laughter and love
Joy that colors the thoughts in warm
Welcoming whispers of hope
This place is lively and dancing with
Compassion, completion, colorful cares
There is the echo of desire and imagination
Gracing prayers with promises
Possibilities and potentials for praise
You are where light shines so bright
Caressing the heart, soul and mind
With music and dreams, soft breaths of
Gentle ideas, flavors of insight
Elation that lifts spirits to the heavens
There is enlightenment thriving, surviving
Swallowing up emotions left behind
By pride and resentment, bitter longings
For a second chance to be alive
In the heart of someone who is now gone
You have gone to this place on your own
Without my accompaniment garnishing your
Imagination with an embrace of love
Compassion growing greater as the day
Silences the who-who-who of night
You are alone there in the hushed
Way that someone is lonely without
The need of someone to attend the funeral
Of emotions and moods, the thoughts
That break off of the grief
You are gone now, absent
From the present moment where I live
Awaiting your hand, your hope
Your happiness to lift my eyes
From my sorrow, worries and angst
Yet, there you are, sitting quietly
Almost humbly, humbled
Ignoring the tv and the stereo and me
Never saying one single word
A low, soft sigh leaks out of you
It cries
“It is never as it seems”
And I cry
Because you are not here
you are gone in a way I can’t grieve
It Only Seems That Way Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
March 18, 2021
Conversation with an Angel
I live in an average neighborhood, in Colorado Springs. I like to refer to my street as
the ‘all American street’. Most of the homes in my neighborhood were built between the
1890’s and early 1930’s. Our yards are reflective of our personalities, so I believe. An
eclectic mosaic of manicured and not so manicured lawns, xeriscaped, not so xeriscaped
yards fill the view as one drives down the road.
We still say hello as we pass by, and many walk our dogs or just enjoy the company of a
loved one for an evening stroll. With Pike’s Peak as our back drop I think most of us feel
blessed to call our neighborhood home.
One night while out walking about an hour before dusk, I noticed something not quite
right. A little out of place if you will; between the road and the sidewalk is a section
of yard for each home, about 10 feet from sidewalk to curb, with Elms and Oak trees
agelessly garnishing the street, I happened to notice a man about two blocks ahead, bent
down ‘doing something’ quite contently. Nothing out of the ordinary, I guess I was just
fixed on the length of time he was bent down. As I approached, I imagined what he was
doing, “an injured pet maybe or damaged sprinkler head”. As I came closer I noticed he’d
look up in my direction, and back down again. I had a sense that whatever it was he was
doing; he wanted to be done before I arrived. I picked up my pace, more curious than
worried. Finally, as I crossed the next street; he was within ears shot of a quick
“hello”. He looked up and nodded back, then down again at whatever he was doing. I could
make out his features and knew he was ‘not from around these parts’. It was summertime,
and his appearance was quite disheveled. His face was unshaven, not a beard, but a few
days growth, wrinkled and tanned as if he’d been homeless for a while. His hair was
tousled, bleached from the sun with wisps of gray. I found it odd, that he had on a long
tan rain coat, blue jeans and sandals with no shirt underneath.
Cover up on the obvious actually does pay
but with a cheque signed by foolishness.
It is folly to tape a broken egg to still maintain its preservation;
efforts on reversing the spilled porridge
destroys the importance of the usable one left.
Noise still remains same no matter how clothed in melody
a mediocre sound is still useless even with rhymes.
Disobedience to the book can ruin the sauce
a concocted soup is a catastrophe even with curry and thyme.
The taste has been ridiculed if
garnishing attempts land the fruit salad with lime.
An unplanned show attracts more mockery
even with stimulating screams and energizing mimes.
The heart’s disloyalty despite all intimacy
shows it’s either not the person or the time.
A bad product or an awkward brand
even with a heavy promo will not generate a dime.
A decaying carcass packaged in trademarks of fashion will still stink,
hence good can never be an upgrade from bad
and two opposites can’t be transformed into relatives.
Defining the spoilt to be condemned
to start afresh for a target so good is simple wisdom.
On the recovery bed
Oh so forlorn but full of hope
As they gather round all so sad
To pay tribute to the not yet dead
For I am comatose
My life in suspension, for those who know
I can feel no pain, but I can hear the sounds
On another realm , I do reside
But to others I am heaven bound
What a thing to know the truth?
As they gather to pay their tributes
And I listening to every word
I heard them tell embellished lies
Their catty talk, and anguished cries
Garnishing truths with full effect
Singing praises, offering regrets
Neither could I cry or even sigh
As they filed pass my carcass
Walking on by.
I heard the tributes that were made
Laughing inside, at the things they said
Bidding me farewell, buts thats a lie
I am right here , I need no lullaby
I was taken to heavens door
Soaring on high, on the wings of angels
But I was not really sure
Whether to forsake earthly things
Oh, what contradiction when my nemesis
Extol my virtues, and paid a tribute
Was it just a curious visit?
Or a triumphant dance, couldn't resist
And I heard you, that good old dear
When you knelt in prayer, express your fear
That repentance had passed me by
Saving for a miracle, she must try
And I heard you spill my secrets
You swore to me , never to reveal
Is it because you think Iam dead
My fears now a reality, even before I rest my head
Who are you to buy my casket?
But I am aware of my hands and nose
You may think I am dead
I am simply laying, comatose
Is it true that drunks tell no lies
Nor does time move in reverse
But if you want to trick and fool the wise
Just pretend, you are comatose.