Best Paring Poems
BIRTH
Once upon a moonlit night
There came a ray of magic light
That shone upon an orphan home
Where two small pumpkins left alone
To thirst and starve to fret and cry
Would spoil at last and surely die
But struck at last by magic’s beam
There came a most fantastic scheme
When a dad and son with paring knife
Cut mouth and eyes to give them life
Their eyes were dark with lifeless stare
Their mouths with fangs beyond compare
Blind and sad the pair and so
Old dad invented candle glow
No longer were they sad forlorn
Jack o lantern fright was born
Dave Austin
She clipped her faerie wings,
those gossamer monstrosities,
or so she was told by her "friends"
who said she never would fit in
with the everyday community.
She clipped her faerie wings
and cried because it would define her
as an ordinary creature,
no longer wondrous and magnificent
nor magical nor special.
She clipped her faerie wings
and wished she could undo it
for no amount of paring
could turn her into common folk
and something not contrary.
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.
A bum called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.
Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a schizo titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.
The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with meth.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.
The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.
Old dan, he's drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain till soon there is a flood.
And no god’s there who seems to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.
Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”
Continued
The Army was getting desperate in nineteen-forty-three,
For warm bodies to fill vacancies in the good old infantry.
Alas, the draft board beckoned causing his heart to sink.
Thus, began the notorious career of Private Roscoe D. Schlink!
He was a naive country boy from Bean Blossom, Indiana.
They sent him for training to Fort Fumble in Louisiana.
Only five-feet-four, he was issued clothes much too large.
"Don't worry, I'll make a man of you, son!" said old sarge!
At marching and drilling he proved less than deft.
He could never figure out his right foot from his left!
Sergeants growled at him with uncouth elocution.
Roscoe just couldn't do anything with sharp execution!
On long treks he was in the rear running to catch up.
Petulant sergeants ever screaming, "Closeup! Closeup!"
During inspections he amassed reams of damning demerits,
And spent many weekends paring heaps of taters and carrots!
Later in the heat of battle he reached deep within his soul.
When those with lesser mettle faltered, he assumed control.
That day his gallantry overshadowed others by far.
For his courage he was awarded the coveted Silver Star!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Faith is a powerful thing
Faith in Him was about to fade,
Absolute darkness and weary jade,
In my head and heart though lived a spark,
The dying hope flew as high as skylark,
His enormous blessings flooded at gate,
Iridescent colours brightened the day,
Succour found swirling in spillway,
Aura of positivity did spread its wings,
Paring all the woes of a harsh spring,
Of the chilled winters and falls of autumn,
Weathers changed but stayed the faith,
Euphony that set the melody in life,
Reminiscence of joys and no strife,
Fierce pain that pierced the heart,
Unfathomed passion that tore apart,
Lionise a feeling strongest of all,
To make believe that thoughts do live,
His ways are strange to take and give,
Incurable, innocuous to insufferable,
Nautical sun when goes red at horizon,
Gold of faith scintillates at the furnace !
Written Jan 17th, 2015
For contest by Mystic rose
Awarded N/A
Now entered for contest " Screwed V" by rob carmack
Awarded 3rd place win
Red string blue string
plays the tune of every being
fifth dimensional knowing!
Vibrating strings sing
one string two string
supersymmetry everything!
Could be just jetsam
a memory engram
is the universe just a hologram?
A mathematical probability
or quantum ambiguity
perhaps the answer for humanity.
Our finite minds aloof
understanding such a spoof
theory of everything in your proof!
We exist within your vibration
in the language of all creation
love hums in such elation!
Dancing in substrate of reality
quarks, warp speed past duality
transisting time in cosmic actuality.
One string two string
sub-atomic paring
loving her is everything!
~ ~ ~ ~
After sixty-six years, what remains of first love
Is just your name really, but still it lingers,
Like the fragrance of a rose petal kept in a diary.
It may seem strange to some, but I do call it love
Though we were only 1st graders, wishing on a star.
At recess you were Dale Evans
And I was Roy Rogers, as I recall,
There was a commitment of sorts for sure,
Our fantasy roles of a future adulthood
Already including both individuality and marriage,
What we knew of heart freely given.
It was clear that others wanted what we had too.
I’m sure that was part of its appeal.
I remember clearly that at least one time
You and your mother came to my house and
I proudly showed you the playhouse that
Mom and I had constructed on our front porch
Out of old appliance cartons from Dad’s store,
Their wood ribbed cardboard panels perfect
For erecting sturdy fantasy structures
That resembled a real house,
Windows and doors carved easily where desired
Using a paring knife in the softer cardboard.
I know I wanted to kiss you and think I told you,
But, I am also pretty certain that it didn’t happen.
I suspect you told your mother, for I believe it was
Your last visit, though I don’t regret wanting the kiss.
And then you just vanished from my life,
Your family moved away, to Freedom, Oklahoma,
Which was like going to the moon at our age.
I discovered this only recently from another friend
Who was also enamored of you. Know for sure that
We both hope you found freedom,
Even sixty-six years later, and still dream
That you, perhaps, think fondly of us as well.
May this poem compensate somehow for the kiss
That you and I both missed, as I honor too,
The young boy who first gave you his heart.
Brian Johnston
October 11, 2015
My mind is euphoric from scenes historic
Assyrian chariots innovative wheels bristling Mesopotamian plains
Paring the ranks of each, dated infantry formation
In Greece, anesthetizing anvil of the Dorian invasion
Glorious bronze relics supplanted by cheaper iron distillation
Persian armies: Greek hoplites, Scythian archers; mercenary aggrandization
Shrinking rebel hordes in Asia Minor's wars of attrition
The venal nature of imperial Rome's persuasion
Crucifying a few, targeted rebels for cultural ingratiation
Devout, gentile Europeans crusading to Biblical heritage's door
Defacing cross with predations in route, arriving uplifting banner 'gainst infidel Moor
Normans in hordes splashing across the chilly, English channel tides
Under William the Conqueror's mantra, bridging the Anglo-Saxon divide
It was a long summer and the bees did their job,
For the trees were filled with apples, hanging like little knobs.
Oh, those orbs, they looked so delicious and red,
I gathered so many, I had to put the bushels in the shed.
They would be the source of a season of treats,
And anyone who wanted, could have their fill of the eats.
Cakes were baked, Crisps were done too,
I even tried my hand at fresh applesauce, before the season was through.
I did apple salads and baked apples as well,
But it was the pies that got adulation, so of those I will tell.
Paring and slicing in an expedient way,
The apples were ready, shortly before midday.
Then with a mixture of flour, sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg,
I make them into a filling, that would even make a king beg.
I've tried so many kinds of pastry to fill,
From filo and puff, to rolled out traditional.
And I have to say whilst patting myself on the back,
They all taste great, flavor they do not lack.
The traditional pie is the one most people enjoy,
I have tried to improve on it, since I was a boy.
I learned how to make it at Mom's left hand,
Roll out the crust, the filling never canned.
Pats of butter on top before you cover,
Make for a pie that will be loved world over.
Then to seal the pie, brush it with melted butter, and cut some slits,
Pop it in the oven, and just wait for it.
The tantalizing aromas just make me wild,
Just as they did, when I was a child.
The moment the pie comes out I can see,
That another triumph has been made perfectly.
The dome is golden, the apples are done,
Now, only to wait for it to cool, before we can enjoy some.
Some like it ala mode...with ice cream you know,
But I'm a plain Jane, and for me it's not the right combo.
So I just have a slice that's warm on the plate,
And will my appetite, begin to sate.
It is one of my favorite desserts,
Of this I will always my willingness assert.
The only thing that troubles me,
Is all the bushels left to peel, when I have time free.
But I will do them, and into the freezer they are thrust,
Waiting for me to them into another pie, as so often I must.
who the hell let that pimp in?
My boss grabed me, then
Immediatly, I became the next candidate for exploratory surgery;
Sodomized with a paring knife to remove the alleged ******** from my ass;
I immediatly volunteered for pimp removal surgery,
Flooding! On a gurney headed for the emergency room;
As the doctor studied my hemoraging rectum,
My ******* became blackmail for that pimp;
Not a hole,not an opening,
Just pulsating, hemoraging flesh!
The flys just congragate while the blood coagulates !
Mabuti't inaari mong kalayaan
Ang namamayani sa mahal kong bayan!
Mabuti't iyo paring nalalasahan
Ang bunga ng pagkakabuwal ni Rizal!
Ngunit bamuti ba ‘yong nakikita?
Siguro nga ganap na tayong ‘timawa,
Subalit imulat mo ang mga mata
Pakpak nati'y hindi parin malaya!
Kung totoo't ganap ang kalayaan
Bakit basal ang isip ng karamihan?
Ang totoong nagaganap sa sambayanan
Ay batid lamang ng tiyak kong iilan.
Hindi tayo Malaya! Ito ang totoo;
Patuloy tayong tota ng ‘sang Estado!
Nakasandig parin sa kapangyarihan
Ng isang Amerikang mayama't marangal.
He creamed his jeans.
Ripped the seams
when fellows beamed
at his wet seeds
wasted on these
cold floors below me.
Calloused palms tease,
or, rather, some slimy sleaze.
Can I have some more, please?
My sphincter decrees
a scuzzy squeeze,
stench of cheese;
paring knife to the nostril
lashing and thrusting
like a maid feather-dusting,
corrupting a grunge within
to correctly place the pin
to pierce it through the skin
and the good feelings begin
for a second, a half whim.
Then, reality rescinds
and, with stone pillars, crushed him.
Hahayaan kong marinig mo, ang bawat pag kabog at paghagulgol nitong nasa loob ko.
Simula, mula simula ako ay tulala habang nag-iisip kung ano ang isusulat na tula.
Wakas, hanggang saw akas bakas parin ang nilagyang gapas
Noong ang loob ay nagdarasal na kumalas patungo sa bagong bukas.
Ngayon, pilit paring ginagamot ang pilat na sa akin ay iginapos.
Ngayon ako ay aahon at sasabihing gutom… ako po ay gutom kaya tulala.
Gutom hindi sa pagkain kung hindi sa salita.
Nauubusan na po ako ng mga salita.
Mga salitang makapag papaimbulog sa mga damdaming nais kumalas
at nais gumuhit sa kapirasong papel upang mailabas ang nararamdaman.
The aroma of battle between cheese and charcuterie is in the air,
As the red wine flows and cider that tastes like a pear.
Rack after rack full of bottles to sip,
I race between each place and leave a tip.
Taverns and Shacks.
Places to sit, sip and relax.
I am writing a post on the war between the palatable wine and delectable cheese.
The winner will not be a breeze.
Each step I take brings me near,
A war of the cheese makes me fear.
Who will win, Gouda or Brie?
There is no guarantee.
Cheddar and Mozzarella stand with pride,
Bidding for the honour to be certified.
Across the towns, the people unite,
Drinking wine and eating cheese in tiny bites.
Families gather around the charcuterie platter,
Excitement in the air and plenty of chatter.
Tastes like heaven,
Wine and cheese that is the question.
The taste grew for the wine lover too,
It has been an honour, bottle after bottle, drinking the brew.
The fight continues between the pairs,
A mouthful of delightful crumbs,
which one will succumb.
Sipping or chewing, a marriage at best,
White gown and tux, we are blessed.
The eternal romance of the paring of wine and cheese.
The moments were bliss, as together they appease