Best Pastes Poems
Temptation Itches On All Living Things
Temptation itches on all living things
often nobody knows just how it stings,
not the icky-glues in its sticky pastes
nor the rotten fruits in its wasted wastes.
She the vixen nobody could resist
her vanishing pleasures - elusive mists,
long legs descend from heavenly skies
later, such dark pains in lamented cries.
Victim once thought to be heavenly bound
lost, voiceless, no understandable sound,
finds temptress, sexy wares designed to win
she that siren alluring to all men.
You scratch that itch, risking your own peril,
finding wounds that can never be sterile!
12-15- 2016
For Daniel Turner's , What Was I Thinking, Contest
15 December 2016
Last verse inspiration, from his poem "Between the Lines
Couplet sonnet
Rhyme Scheme: a a – b b – c c – d d – e e – f f – g g
10 syllables each line.
O glorious Autumn of melancholic
Gold -
All abouts the brightly lit
Woodlands
Your wonderful artistry behold!
Tinted bronzes,
Darting between awkward firs
Of sobering Evergreen,
Loiter inside mauve havens
Splashed with palest yellows -
And dappled with many differing
Limes
Throughout this variegated Theme;
A myriad of rustling contentment,
Sweetest contrasting charms,
Complimentary...
Softly whispering leafy hues...
Hushed...most elegantly serene.
Bursting into the swelling copses
And invading between the
Dwindling fields:
Auburn, primrose and lilac views -
Abundant with seasons
Celebrations
That so magnificently infuse!
Glowering in simmering sunset,
And spluttering in misty dawn:
Afire with all the orbs oozing
Revelry,
That upon barkened furniture,
To thus gild - and resplendently
Adorn!
Now is the time
That dry tinkling leaves
Give musical resonance
To a breath exhaled from
A breeze...
Fanning the boughs roaring flames
That each out-stretched branch
does eagerly seize,
Fired from the eternal torch
That immortal Ceridwen tirelessly
Sought;
Whilst I hang upon evocative
Memories
That this arresting moment briefly
Caught.
Blazing with a consummate passion
Ignited from a poets grappling
Thoughts:
The Muses to this joyous splendour
Were summarily summoned
And brought;
But as elusive as the enchanting
Notes
From the intoxicating pipes of
Evasive Pan...
So as elusive the words of the
Unwritten verse
That so evade this singular man.
So burn! You gaily painted colours,
Within abandoned restrain,
Your dizzying carousel
A whirling kaleidoscope
Upon an artists ever changing frame.
Soft ochres and dappled browns
Mixed with vivid orange and crimson
Red...
Applied lavishly from the palette
Of Artemis
Over which the vibrant pastes
Are thinly spread.
A riot of pastel shades
All exploding forth -
With the raging power of a
Supernova
Of an immense, dazzling force!
All hail to the almighty:
From the devout to the Divine...
And all hail to the Grandeur
And Majesty -
Of his awe-inspiring design!
soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
Her husband passed away so suddenly
she pastes a smile on her face ...
heartache is kept inside
Three young children miss their daddy so much,
she tries to make fun filled days ...
life just has to go on
When she is all alone in the evening
she sobs into her pillow,
and cries herself to sleep
Pick A Title, Vol 11 – Kimo (3 Stanzas) - Poetry Contest
4. Undercurrent of Melancholy
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
10,7,6 checked with how many syllables
11/7/19
he crawls in the filth,
struggles to climb,
finding a convenient spot
he branches out.
begins...perhaps
the most baffling of all processes.
when done...dormant.
he will be prey for predators of all kinds
as time passes,
as minutes count the hours...the hours the days
he beats the odds, success is his.
the dirty crawler who gives even 'Jocks'
the willies, the heebee jeebees,
starts his exit from his rented home.
just a bit, then more...then
wings opened...the crawler emerges,
a colorful...one of nature's most beautiful creations
...as you stare with disbelief,
A Butterfly
...crafted with rainbow borrowed shades.
as he is in you, so you know this is God's poetry.
one of God's rich, layered writes
"The Beauty and The Beast"."The Ugly Duckling"...
...and his children the human poet evolves by osmosis.
God's kind of poetry
pastes smiles in the core of young and old.
...ah but in children's laughter
joy like they've never known.
his masterfully written poetry...approved by all.
In prayer we herald the poet's name.
The morning paper is everywhere, the breakfast dishes, are here and there
Her feet up in the easy chair, the old man in his underwear
The phone starts ringing loud and clear, so hubby quickly disappears
When he returns, she sees a frown,…, He calmly says, “Guess who’s in town?”
“The corporate boss, not far away….I've asked them here to spend the day!”
“A little lunch would be no trouble. He’s with his wife…her name is Mable”
“You did what???? she screams. (The neighbors hear!)
"Company?? ... You say they're near?”
“Help me quick. Get off your rear!!”
"Oh dear,.... oh dear, ......oh dear) !!
"Get off your rear, you lazy man! And if you don't .....I SWEAR!"
She frets and stews and carries on….her hubby simply mutters
She runs around the messy room and stashes all the clutter
She’s acting like a headless chicken, her partner in a quandary
He watches as she runs around, hiding dirty laundry
Oh dear, they’ll need some lunch to nibble, whatever could she fix?
She finds some fruit, some crackers, cheese, a bag of party mix
Running to the bedroom, she’s gasping raves and rants
“You’ve got to get your shirt on!…For Pete’s sake, dear! Find your pants!”
“Heaven’s, we must hurry! We’ve got to make the bed!”
"Whatever you say, dear" he grumbles, and shakes his bewildered head
She discards her frumpy nightgown, powders her frantic frown
She quickly brushes hair, a dab of lipstick too
Tosses sloppy slippers, dons her pretty shoes
A knocking on the door, she pastes a cheery smile
Her unexpected company has come to stay awhile!
Breathing deep, she goes to greet them “So good of you to call!”
“What’s that.....a bother?” “ Now don’t be silly, you aren’t bothering us at all!”
She shoots a glance, a daggered lance, into her husband’s mug
He has no clue, ignores what brews…a deep, dark hole he's dug
For, once again, he’s lost his head…and says
….”Stay the night, it's quite all right, we have an extra bed!!”
She fakes a smile, and says "OF course!!".........
(but tomorrow he’ll be DEAD!!!)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
bloods curdle into sour pastes,
touches reek of bitter tastes,
an unethical monster,
a lustful devil,
an insult to society.
a burning heart and soul laced,
two lips and her happiness blazed,
but what about her?
she who walks home to hell,
a torn body without any gauge.
the risk of love and lost morality,
dreams of drowned reality,
she who slits her wrists,
she who kills her lust,
she who stabs the beast and yet returns.
a tigress undercover now revealed,
the brutalist under her soft frame, unveiled,
confined in her lonely cage,
the nefarious angel-devil,
now forlorn, now forever gone.
Replicas of calibrated handshakes,
captured screen-shot
search engine eyes,
silent in the deep darlings
of purple prose,
canons of instant articles of diction:
Taoists aren’t too quick to judge;
Machiavellians have mothers, too. But,
stirring anger to prance
in the unknown
is not in our nature
to prevail.
So Be without expecting expectation,
try while not trying,
and take nothing
to keep no more than now.
A minute steak for breakfast everyday,
cut and pastes a concise future
in a poem from,
predicted, or taken
from an abandoned URL.
The drive is not short
Right, left, right turn at sleeve’s font
Four people a prayer hold
Mona Lisa cried
Her left cheek pastes a wet smile
Her right wet hand hid the time
But, she typed her line
Using her mouse to save time
Splendor poetry’s soft rhyme
No handkerchief dear
Just follow the tepid stream
America lives mild dream
Mona Lisa is
Mellow and follows sunbeam
Her chest’s hearty children’s gleam
Her forehead with band
Wavy hair, loose, every strand
No pony tail her hair had
Clad her noir jacket
Smile! No lip-gloss! No laughter!
Praying to God the Savior
The big S is shown
Saint Bartholomew calls
All churches to run prompt course
To cry blameless souls
Jesus Christ hugs only those
Who are knocking heavens’ doors
Shown on her right sleeve
Majestic stairs to grant grief
On Christmas Eve by the tree!
2 of 6
By: Nadia F. Shahwan - April 2009
On Pimple Pond
Pocked, our dreams spurt from cabin walls.
Woolen cover and cotton pillow catch
pin point boils from day breaking, like pitted glass.
White pebbled path meanders the hill’s cheek,
wet from being squeezed by nights cold hard hands,
to where set-tables will not wait our scrubs,
pastes and pleas for clarity like hot egg whites.
Yawns pop-jaws hinged under waxy ears.
We pass the lake and spit the dregs of sleep
onto her smooth glassine mask.
At the mess ladybugs rest, on pickle-surfaced leaves,
decline to fly. We arrive for breakfast.
One hundred-twenty faces come to bond
And maybe find a friend on pimple pond.
Are you frying today? No? Not at all? An attempt to pull the frying pan out would be better off left alone as other plates could fall. Oh dear. The frying is best done outside then? Yes? Are you even listening to the logic? You are? Really? Wow. Well that makes about as much sense as a conversation between a hammer and a screaming screw. No need or necessity for screw fix, adhesive pastes nor metallic elements. Ok then. Now that is sorted it is merely open to say and state that a single word like bus means a station and a single word like train also means station. Why??Because it does. Irrelevant interference interfering intertwining interesting innermost informational influences. Like pow Pow Pow then? Ok and goose kisses a hare. Sponge tab equals tap tap tap and opened opinionated oversized overspills' are too noisy in a library. X mountaineering z z z z at seven yawning lions looking out of a keyhole to twelve flamingos bouncing on trampoline lake. z
Anything in life a pioneer like Adam to men,
Tooth paste the pioneer for all kinds of pastes,
In the gene of paste,gel came in no time waste,
Paste came in sweet tubes to add sweetness to teeth,
Then came tubes shelling pastes toe to nail of all feet,
Pastes and gel to all ages any where now ever ready,
Shelling all souls like tubes all men and women body!
Bottled peppers, pickles, plums, old ladies stand
In small flock at the market gate
Their bottled things arrayed, their pastes and jams
Fruit that hung all summer fat then autumn picked
Mushed and melted, now fills random jars
And on collectors’ shelves in coloured glassy rows
The world shrunk down to bulbs of fancy drink
A gulp or two of bitter, sweet or dry
Forms and labels richer in their tales told
The container not the content draws the eye
People stream in escalator lines
Concrete-bottled, metro sausage strings
Cattle crowd of elbows, faces blank
Not the peacock-pretty multi-coloured things
Not in winter grey and twilight coats wrapped thick
Bottled pickle once a pepper crisp and bright
As golden sun, and the liquor once was grape
Before they locked it in the glass and corked it tight
And the human flow, it runs from light to light
A smile tossed, a boy waits with a rose
Beneath the city-packaged layers, sudden sense
of closeness, them my sea and I their drop
Three letters for an infinite send off,
It ironically pastes the five letter word of another meet up.
As hallo departs and bye arrives,i realize that weathering too occurs in the heart.
Your T.L.C fades by the augment of my disgusting demeanor.
Special moments season into must be events.
Nothing we do matters anymore.
You go anywhere with anyone,i do whatever however with whomever.
Social limitations are no longer observed.
Fidelity perchance is melting away.
I question you no more,yet somehow care and wonder...?
You study my skin, within you find no tenderness and you still touch me.
Out of rage we bag powdered love,cast it into the sea and watch it dissolve.
Can you chase after what we have lost?
By M.O.O aka Carswell evoL
Moonless, the night pastes itself
onto an imaginary sky.
Cats crouch.
Under-bush nibblers in their bolt holes
whisker speak,
as trembling senses crawl
into a skin-tight stillness.
A cloud scatters
shredding threads of perception.
A lamp-lit moon glow
peers through a momentary window,
sees the swishing tail,
the twitching interim paused
in apprehension.
A tablue is caught
in the creeping stealth
of blood calling to blood.
Tracks will be hoar frosted over,
all will be well met
by the narrow boned dawn
where cawing crows may gather
for their pickings.