Best Peelings Poems
A poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
sustenance our words
let the body digest with heartfelt
regurgitation – a poem unlived
is a poem merely written
as well as tasty center, a healthy chew
needs skin-like peachy, tickly sensation,
emotive mastication – best often
lost when discarding fussy peelings
also feelings
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
endless editing...crumblings tossed
our salads before the main course
heavily garnished
each poem with a dipping
thread link – we warm at
the lava lip...deep, glowing
convulsing start, long before the page is stirred,
shaken – ready for bubbly tip
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
the sea we sail both tranquil and rage
creation an unkempt voyage of possibilities,
a nameless work rocks back and forth
cradled it longs to escape wild fluctuation
and transverse,
seeking theme and form – sanguine
transfusion, repetitively jabbing for fluid release
we call upon the mariner, captain, surgeon of
ancient crafts -- muse of many incarnations,
sage, fool of countless courts – both wallflower
and dancer – homebody and restless prancer, where
we have been and yet beam
to go – uniquely fermented we uncork
for a spotlight blow, for grand revelation
introduced with a toast, a click, a sparkly
crystal glow
staging both our fond darkness and
light – an author preparing to take
literary flight
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
like stopped midstream
without a river flow, banks
turned away
tepidly applauding….
A stagnant sip before the
moved-by lauding….
Though poetically smitten
dearly kittened
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written...
Harassing me for days now
Landing on my eyelid
Nosing up my nostril
Tickling my ankles
and every other exposed body part
Little bastard...
Fly-Swatter? Jack be nimble, Jack...
Folded bath towel? (Lamp destroyed)
Raid? Sprayed til I sneezed and choked
and had to quickly retreat outside
(I may have poisoned myself)
Little bastard...
Last night it buzzed me awake
I injured various body parts
(Bloody nose, ruptured eardrum)
Little bastard...
I want to murder it
I want to assassinate it
but I want to capture it first
pull off it’s puny little wings
and watch it scramble on the floor
all the while crawling behind
laughing, shouting and jeering
'How you like THEM apple peelings?'
before I jump to the ceiling (Boink)
before I stomp and then grind
in a mad and homicidal rage
Little bastard...
Epilogue:
Whew! I’m feeling pretty okay now
The medication helps immeasurably
I know now why they’re called Asylums
They are refuge from a brutal environment
a world dominated and controlled by---Bssst!!
Little BASTARD...
Apple pie, fresh from the oven
cools on a rack, whiffs of cinnamon-nutmeg
aroma rise through the pastry vent
then drifts out through
the kitchen window opened an inch or so
mingling with a hint of moulder on the breeze.
The apple peelings still lay on newspapers
on the counter, deep crimsons mottled with yellow, green
mirror fall leaves of brilliant hues.
Is this a coincidence? Perhaps - but perhaps not -
possibly nature intends apples such colours
as a reminder autumn is close at hand.
The pastry, free-formed into an irregular shape,
rustic, like nature. Trees, some now partially stripped
of leaves, expose gnarled limbs twisting and turning
madly off in all directions. Showing its imperfections
yet is beautiful in its own way
silhouetted against an October deep azure sky.
Reminiscences of baking apple pie
snapshots in an album in the mind's eye
retrieving them, recollecting that day will sustain
when December's snowflakes flutter about,
when January's winds wail and
when February's blizzards drift high against the doors
We said our goodbyes in June,
and the months since blur into mist.
At unexpected moments, awareness
of loss hits; tears spill unbidden.
Family gathering, Christmas Eve
as usual . . . minus one.
We quietly exchanged gifts,
found flowers from her funeral
crafted into hand-made jewelry,
kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes.
I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines.
I extracted seeds and peelings,
and measured life-sustaining juice
through the metal funnel she used
from the day of her marriage.
It came to me dented and bent,
like her body had been at 93.
I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven
chocolate rolls after school,
garden tomatoes warmed by the sun,
hot biscuits with apple jelly,
squeezed from the peelings after
she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie.
I'm glad I didn't know then,
about being allergic to Cinnamon.
I have watched the sun pour fire
into a glistening lake
I have heard a miracle born
as mornings line did break
I have seen a thousand angels
living in this world
I have survived as feeble cries
were ignored and never heard
but it was when your gentle hand
caressed my rivers bed,
shooting for the spiritual
I couldn’t care if i was dead
brushing off the peelings
of dread and helplessness,
holding on for sobs
to stop breaking in my chest
kaleidoscopes of love
are thrashing through my veins,
filling every capillary
and adrenaline’s attained
for all that I had searched
it was buried deep inside
and now that its unearthed
I know I can survive
all through the fights and conflicts
as life and love have crossed,
I always felt alone
and sometimes thought I lost
but now with love of life
my shield and spear do shine,
and I stroll onto this lonely road
but all our steps are still in time
I’ll see you in the summer
as white roses bloom again,
and a stream of fire will flow
from the ink within my pen
POVERTY IN AFRICA
Nzongi N.Mwero
Large population live in slums,
Youth unemployment looms,
Illiteracy looms,
Poor health standards zooms,
In Africa poverty has rooms
A protein starvation diseases on the rise,
Due to a harsh natural environmental and subsistence level,
And semi skilled farming methods,
Many rely mainly on their primitive agriculture to stay alive,
Most Africans scratch out a living,
In ways that seem to reward inadequate diets
Dirty ragged children scattered on the dust road,
Scrambling for orange peelings,
That tourists had thrown on the dust road,
Children are weakened,
And mentally retarded,
Prematurely aged with yellow hair,
No clothing on the body,
The baby’s stomach bulged on their mother’s back,
Their arms and legs looked like sticks,
Although six and a half month old,
Their ringles skin and thin legs gives no chance to crawl,
Their closed mouth give no chance to sucker
A man walks along a path feeling very thirsty,
Looking tap water to quench his thirsty,
Ready to quench even the coloured salty water,
Because no single coin in his pocket
A woman thinks to send her kids to school,
But she finds in her cube no stool,
She thinks and decides to remain cool,
And goes for cooking roots in the bush,
With her weak kid on her back crying for food
A man in his thatched hut with holes around it,
Bow and arrow in his back,
Ready to hunt any rodent in the bush,
Ready to trap any insect that comes across,
In the home ,no food no water and no school for his kids
In cities and towns beggars are scattered,
Their spindly limbs reach out for a coin,
A piece of bread that might extension of life for few hours,
Dead brothers and sisters lying on the streets,
Not for bullets but due to hunger,
Waiting to be picked up for their painless journey,
Poverty is a war and has been a war for decades
Straight-up the arrows,
hard-pressed the doors
to all the rooms
in all the houses
on Clark Street.
Father Coughlin brought blessings
thinned with broth
from potato peelings.
Women poured tears
into fringed shawls,
and buried their dead
above Dublin’s seashore,
along the banks
of the river Liffey.
Through the years,
the ghost of James Clark,
Bugsy’s brother-in-law,
pursued Al Capone
all the way to his grave.
Pines, my native line and birth
From you I came without a dearth
Pines, I shall call you with mirth
To you I return with my vision to unearth
Returning with unearthly wealth
Simple works I offer, not burn
Honor is yours, over my urn.
Toils are not made to harden one's feelings
Or break a heart of stone that churn
Rather to soften outer peelings.
Love, like a pomegranate can be bitter sweet.
Its tang lingers long after laughter swells.
The soul puckers pleasantly with each bite.
A luscious love, precious and unique, thrives.
Life’s enchantment surrounds sweet-tart living,
Likened to the whitest pulp around twirls of tasty arils.
The future surrounds a delicious serving of dreams.
Where seeds of friendship are consumed in sweetness.
The pomegranate willfully waits, wanting to be devoured.
Wildly proclaiming ecstasy since the butterflies’ first visit.
Fabulous fantasies frolic from first inklings to forever.
Reality rushes its rivers of waters roaring through rapture.
And springs forth this rare exotic fruit, ripe, raw and savored.
Budding beautiful love, which sings songs and satisfies longings.
Lively and luscious, unconsumed love triumphs over lust.
Spiritual passions simmer in life’s sizzling heat.
Tasting, like believing in enchantment, brightens beginnings.
Waiting awakening, flavors life like spicy pomegranate seeds.
Delightful daydreams dance upon the redness of love’s peel.
And reality races to anticipation’s castle in the sky… imaginings ravishing.
Faith hopes that happiness hovers where respect and honors hold.
Perfection placed where enchantment becomes reality and fears forget.
Love’s season is savored more deeply and sincerely as lovers learn.
That beneath the hard peelings in life, sweetness grows, everlastingly.
© August 22, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Snapping beans, the summer pastime
Filling Mason jars
With cornfield or half runners
Filling a crock with layers
Of beans and corn, canning salt
For pickled beans and corn
That would make my mouth water
Peeling ripe red tomatoes
That I called maters
Cutting them in wedges
Placing them in Mason jars
Adding a touch of salt
Sealing the lids and cooking
In a liquid water bath
For enough time to be sure
Those maters were preserved
For the winter weather
Chili, soup or spaghetti
Dicing cucumbers
Mixing them with vinegar
And all the spices, garlic
Everything that makes the best
Pickles ever tasted
They seem such a blessing
When the snowflakes hover
Near the windows, dusting
The entire mountain
With reflections of the season
As the harvest hands over its treasures
Beans, corn, maters and so much more
The wise worker from the fields
Leaves the front porch each day
With scrapes of bean strings, peelings
And excess husks so the pigs
Will be as blessed as the rest of us
Granny showed me how to can
She gave me her instructions
With a hug and a grin
Hoping to remind me to always
Blend a bit of love
Into everything I preserved
From garden to porch
From porch to jar
From jar to dish
Where the love is mixed in
So that everyone who samples
A dish from my kitchen
Knows that I have given
My very best intentions!
Come little children- come and eat-There’s plenty all scattered about
Stale flat bread and biscuit crumbles -You must dig them out
Banana peelings and lettuce leafs -You may clean the dirt off neat
Perhaps the peelings of a Fu Fu dish- just to make a sweet
Come little one- come and eat- The little child’s belly cries
The flies will lead you to bush meat- the maggots where it lies
Coconut and cassava cakes- perhaps a little rice
Just below the burning heap where the neighbor’s dead dog lies
The smorgasbord lies beyond the hill-the town’s other side
Forgive the stench- just pass the boneyard -where your nine year old brother died
A view from a teaspoon selection is very spellbinding indeed. Half a cup of multicolumns and a pint of milk singing and swaying together. It takes much effort to pick up a seed. Much kilograms queuing for weight is to wait and to wait is to wave five hundred times at a doorway. Putting pet fish in a cistern whilst flushing is stupid, and cruel, and rather unnecessary for cleaning the tank. But bringing a bull into the house will promote heating. Specialized agencies of horn fur and raged eyeball in a coat. OBE in a tree. Sittingbourne sitting down. A pile of curtain cloth should be ample material to wipe away smears and residue of acidic peelings, nine metre forts of brain, televised episodes of epics, and balls of glowing colourful spinning radishes. Enter then leave. Mesmerizing merrymaking men make monsters. Mainly in a red reflection. Hum the twenty song loudly. All together. Detract no horror but horror is often hidden in even the most sparkling paper tissue. But the calling from the bead of time, that bell in the breeze. Will ensure a cake gives news that is sufficiently correct. Justification then. Good. At last the commas play with the full stops peacefully. Fantastic isn't it? Ha ha ha ho ho ho and a flow from a cactus in a nice crown. Ha ha ha but no ho ho whistling waters with wanton soup. Xxxxx anthropologist z z z z z z z z z Z!.¥~¥~¥~_^>
My lady you must have been sent from above
Immediately we clicked
You fit me like a glove
I don't know what it is
But you better not give me a kiss
Or it could lead to something bigger
Probably you having kids
Figures...
My sensitivity button triggers
I didn't think it was possible
My hormones appear to be unstoppable
I see you in my dreams
Smile bright your white teeth gleams
Hair kept nice
No trace or flakes
Or lice
No disrespect but I admire your body
So many doors to go through
Like Trump Tower's lobby
Will I enter the right one
Probably
You are the very best
To have you I am very blessed
If you leave the feelings may be worse
The sins I have pledged
Mark of the beast
I'm cursed
I see you as a disguised angel
The number one territory
I'm here to claim you
A metaphor for my feeling
My right leg is sore from the one-knee kneelings
If I cry my eyes are the oranges can you see the peelings
Goodness that walk, so full of grace
No girl can take your place
At putting a smile on my face
The only girl to share the food on my plate
Walk hand-in-hand through Heaven's gate
My Angel is what I call you
Animorph like a cow how I go moo
You are no ghost so I won't say boo
I love you and I know you love me too
Doesn't it remind you of that song from Barney
Your love has a fire don't pull the alarm on me
Like a knot of bodies we can never untangle
My solid spirit
My baby
My Angel
I put on a mask to shroud my care,
I pull it away when no one is there
Yet behind my mask my feelings I share
A secret existing between me and the air
Yet this mask has features and clues
Of what really shakes my soul at its truth
When all resources are exhausted and used
I turn to my mask for the path that I choose
When my mind has a quest or a wanting
The face of my mask bears its feeling flaunting
But when it's confusion in my mind haunting
My mask bears uncertainty in its grimace undaunting
Yet when sorrow has filled my heart
It is my mask to play its biggest part
To hide my sadness in the shadow of art
Until the moment expires and the sorrow departs
My mask hides the age that I look
While others ages can be read like books
They wear their masks like walls with hooks
That falls to the ground when emotions are shook
Take a look behind my mask to see
If the reflection I cast is really me
As if to glance and charge a fee
To find what is there is not to be
Does my mask really have any feelings
Does it go about its way with nonchalant dealings
Does it strip away emotions like peelings
As if to mask a wound in the process of healing
Drenched in Red, with St. Valentine
Straight-up the arrows,
hard-pressed the doors
to all the rooms
in all the houses
on Clark Street.
Father Coughlin brought blessings
thinned with broth
from potato peelings.
Women poured tears
into fringed shawls,
and buried their dead
above Dublin’s seashore,
along the banks
of the river Liffey.
Through the years,
the ghost of James Clark,
Bugsy’s brother-in-law,
pursued Al Capone
all the way to his grave.