Best Pestle Poems
How did a cherry kiss? Bitter flower petals with sweet pistils.
So laden they act as halos while we breathe the love
in a pink hollow, silence sounding like taste, acting like epistle
to hold this moment in a silvery image, like moon, or dove
low, low, a bowl formed while sunshine flickers above.
Chains of yellow petals hang over our deck, the leaves hands--
offer welcome resting branch, our sheltered home.
Seeds follow close, fragile like beans, hard case to feed the land
crawl before God, they say, be grateful as we weed and stir loam.
Together seeds and flowers and hands make a life a poem.
Awaiting the sumac, the flame at summer's ending is fruitless
we've passed the feathering, the pimping of red underneath bristle
the deer horn softness crawling out in oddest places in a mess
lining the sand pond, above the purpled iris, the pestle
of stone and sun, no rain to bring down sumac's fiery trestle.
Vulturous crows squawk and fight the ring-billed sea gulls
waiting, one in the bared hollow hands of the cottonwood
the other fat-bellied and waddling after rain finally dulls
we're under hoodies, under shivers, our neighborhood
waits the pinking and mossing, will it unfurl new wood?
Persistent Truth
Auburn I miss
A starvation of flames
Burns inside my eyes
Conflagration of ever present kiss
Soaks the emptiness
Saturates my veins inferno desire
Pounding pestle to mysteries mortar
In my blood
Auburn I miss
The contours of your skin
Traced upon the desperateness within
Sensual vibrato of your calling
Leaves me in an orchestral voice
Of longing
Auburn I miss
Though recognition is the grip
Which binds onto my heart
It beats every second of my life
Reminding me
I remember you
Your pull inside my soul
By the magnetism of you
My compass is always drawn
I know my place
I see
In the mirror of your face
My own
Auburn I miss
But to you is, whatever path will lead
No matter how lost
The compass of my soul
Always points the way home
A starvation of flames
Burns inside my veins
Combustion of an ever-present kiss
Soaks through the distances
Saturates my eyes with its inferno of desire
Pounding pestle to instincts mortar
In my blood
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
There are times I'm torn between feeling and thought,
consciously aware of a dispute between mind and heart.
I become anxious when I realize there's a power struggle
and my doleful soul seeks a tranquil place to snuggle.
Somewhere deep inside of me where it's more docile
until my heart and mind call for a truce and reconcile.
Unfortunately, that's short-lived... a temporary thing.
Until again, they'll fight like pugilists in a boxing ring.
Rodin didn't sculpt The Thinker inside each human mind
but the psyche often chides the heart, "Love really is blind."
Divine, are those gifts God has so generously given to us
but they don't always come to terms, and it creates a fuss.
The heart yearns for love, the mind searches for a reason.
Scripture says the heart is treacherous and commits treason.
My mind stands guard, to prevent my heart from breaking
but despite the risk, my heart finds it worth the undertaking.
A logical mind weighs pros and cons, thinking pragmatically
Bah, cries a heart, "Life should be lived more romantically."
They grind on each other as if one a mortar, the other a pestle
And so, the mind and heart will continue to quibble and wrestle.
The soul always reappears when a modicum of peace holds fast
but the truce between heart and mind is destined never to last.
Although instrumental to a soul's well-being, they will disagree.
Mind rules a heart, or vice versa. Que sera sera. What will be will be.
Wrapped ...
In dark wonder
Lost to the moon
In mists of madness
We ...
Are conflagration
You burn my blood
The fiery chaos, coursing
Molten forms in synchronicity
A libidinous engine, erotique
Revving inside you ...
I, the sudoric hand to your glove
Crimson nails rake my chest
You grind me, pestle-on-mortar
Eyes above me rolling back in carnal bliss
I stop, and wait ... teasing
Your gaze returns the moon's delirium
Seeing my vexing grin ...
You squeeze my cheeks like a naughty child
Trembling ... anticipating
Eyes pleading ...
I wait ... building tension ... need
Milking your desire and intensity
And when the want in your eyes is unbearable
I relent, and push you slowly up
Arching with renewed passion and depth
Your hair and soft places lilt
Hypnotizing me ...
Coy, sexy smile ...
Letting me think I'm in control
When we both know
Otherwise ...
Wrapped ...
In dark wonder
Lost to the moon
In mists of ...
US.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Picture Prompt" Poetry Contest, Brenda Chiri, Judge & Sponsor.
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
??? ???? ?????? ??????
The Wandering Yogi
From city to city, from every town to town
Catching every smile to smile, every frown to frown.
His allegiance goes to the exalted one, not any nobility nor the crown.
The mysterious venture itself is a compass – forever trailing up and down.
He vision’s more to the sandstorm than just the sands might.
What he really seeks is the commandeering winds, hidden from man’s sight.
For he is like a moth, forever trying to follow the mystical light.
A servant of humanity, here to douse out ones fiery plight.
The mystical light to him, is like the sweet essence of nectar to a bee
His journey has no fragrant flower to guide the way, only his heart must see.
The burden of Caste, Creed and Colour cannot weigh him down – forever he is free.
These bitter ingredients are for his pestle and mortar, mixed together to serve he.
Always alert, always ominous. Wary of the treacherous thorns.
Even the smallest prickle can poisonously permeate – towards the path of the one with horns.
Decorating his path to God for others to follow – moving on as he adorns.
And for those who have permanently set their ship astray – he shall set up half mast, for he mourns.
From sunrise to sunset. From a healthy youth to a venerable age.
Adhering to his spiritual principals. A beacon of knowledge – a mystical sage.
Until he reaches his beloved, his only shelter against this life is faith and a hermitage.
Walking steadfast on an arduous journey of pain and languish – travelling away from life’s cage. The Wandering Yogi.
Feedback would be great!
The Moon’s Yellow Eyes
After: The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers
Situations righted by the assassination in Sheepshead Bay (alibied with difficulty under earth’s single moon), I curl up on the windowsill hissing at the pallid orb. Oh how, I long for my planet, Carcosa. I lick the remaining human poison from my claws. Yes, man-made poison, but I, I am the one who delivers— population control.
Wilde, my mate, our transformed intermediary, brushes my coat. I purr. How oddly complacent Wilde has become. Once, he too walked on four legs. After our arrival on Earth and his change (We thought the change would regrow the ear I tore from him in his last life—) my mate became no more than a castrato. I do regret the torture which deprived him of two fingers on his right hand. (It made his job more difficult.) But, discipline was necessary.
the pestle crushes
poison white snakeroot:
yellow eyes shine
Well, why am I telling you this? To that I would say, why not? Who on earth would believe a cat could talk?
The feline form has advantages in espionage. A petted and pampered puss can lure the reticent, overhear the loud-mouthed, two-footed, earthly baboons—with cunning, obtain information no human in their right mind would divulge to an enemy. As valet, advisor, disciplinarian to Wilde (and he to the earthlings), my position abides, a mere slap and tickle from the throats of power. My teeth, neck piercing weapons of choice; my claws scimitars of death drip with the blood of masters.
One more night out. Wilde cat-like licks the scar on his damaged hand and stares at the invitation stamped with the Presidential seal. One more night, sweet puss and the reign of The Yellow King will begin.
Published by Illumen 2016
Bouts of lightning flashes,swirls
And lightens up the pitch, black night
Of our neck of the woods
Tailgated by stealthy footsteps
Of growling, grunting, moaning and roaring thunder,
As in gnashing and grinding of canine
As rain, like beads of sweat, acne and goose pimples
Break out on my forehead and entire body,
Sprouting like yam tendrils from the earth;
meandering as water in rain gutter
From a million hair follicles,
Teasing my entire body
And finally docking by hook or crook
Like a boat at it's embedded tributary
Between my negritude toes
I google in consternation, bewilderment
At your obstinate attempt
As pestle on bits of grain in motar
To pound a defiant, renegade earth
Back against the wall in rope-a-dope
To submission and surrender
Powerful strokes of koboko whips
Descending from heaven
As plague upon pharaoh and his kinsmen,
Drumming endlessly on thatch roofs
And corrugated iron roofs alike
Concocting rhythms more intoxicating
And damning than heavy metal music
Images of African women
Resiliently scurrying, shuffling,
Between thatch huts and drooling rain;
Scuttling to retrieve rain water in pails
And ebony children
Drenched in rain like weather beaten bats
Savoring every drop from the whinning sky
Rain,
I yearn for your spirit
But dread your fiery, fury,
Flash and flood
Come rain, soak me in your mist;
Drape me in your dew and moisture
Rain,
Your ghost evokes succor and misery!
Répéter Depuis le Début
The Pink Studio, by Henri Matisse, 1911.
Perception fuses like melted rose quartz,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
like the naiveté of childhood returned to age.
Melted images rose in two dimensions,
rose in repetition, mothering the pieces.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
on naysayers & followers, his morphosis reigns.
The stimulus silent, light’s effect returned, burned
lens now open to the madness of pattern, pieces
of left brain obliterated; right reinforced; art,
Matisse’s obsession oozed from his pores
puzzled synapses explored and explored,
eyes dry as a bone, from sleepless nights, sigh.
Like the naiveté of childhood returned to age,
the Madonna appears, or the muse Aphrodite reborn,
naiveté sexless tasted clean, pure, purged in white.
Of the patterns outside, he’d reproduce those within
childhood wide-eyed he approached & there he
returned again & again paying homage to the core,
to reiterate images in pieces of two dimensions
age left the left brain obliterated – reinforced the right.
Melted images rose in two dimensions.
Images, giving meaning to negative space,
rose ground beneath the pestle of repetition
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
two halves male-female, left-right, up-down
dimensions all an idiocracy depicted his fright,
rose in repetition, mothering pieces,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
repetition reiterated, quartz ground beneath the pestle
mothering the pieces of two dimensions,
pieces of puzzles conjoining parts triangularly staged.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence.
Genteel, childlike, Matisse adored illumination, art
rose with repetition, a mothering of the pieces,
shown in the dance, in stance, in transfigured delight,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys,
transcendence an illusion, of optics, of light.
First Published in Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing 2016
pitter patter acid rain waxing hi-gloss
smoky sky-scratching monster coup
fearless hue self-out stabbing acrylic nails'
bond to black market sale-deal rape
indian tears too few to cleanse
the polluted hearts under the stitch-held
stars of a blood-whipped flag
in you is a flood after drought
in you is a pestle fitting crucible
somewhere in your rash, there's a place called sensible
our common meeting place coming out
ten-speed riding sunshine girl smiling
wide and high as her cheeky-powdered rock-washed
shorts
cellular towering, nerve-shock stroking man
dodge-wrecking his impersonal laptop-orgy
maverick hopping additive, lasso-steroid
from steak-rustling warrior pinning-the-tail-on-
a-steel-wheel-heart when picking up metal armor
in you is a flood after drought
in you is a pestle fitting crucible
somewhere in your rash, there's a place called sensible
our common meeting place coming out
toro, taxi-driver
toro, weightless astronaut
toro, steaming sailor
it's all in us wear it's knot
THE GRIEVANCE OF DEATH
It comes unannounced
With caloric and musty sour
Calls from far and near
Under unnumerous Canopies
Behold the upper chambers
Swimming and bleeding
In white wet handkerchiefs
In saucer-eyed voice, They yell
Grievance of death
The mantle of Loneliness
Thou smeareth silence
Death is smooth and rough
But the grieve is
But a rancid bitterness
Death lights the woolly candle
She stirs in kleptomaniac toes
Trading upon domestic desert
The grievance of death
Wallows the mind in miry statute
The grievance of death
Summons ancient easy chairs
With their C headed walking stick
The red-cup headed chieftaincies
Floating in tears in their chieftainship
Death with the axe headed pestle
Trading upon domestic desert
Encroaching like a lion in the jungle
With her mighty sword
We have no choice
No reason but to join
Hence we can't say no
Children journeying in nursery rhymes
Black wrappers in their veiled heads
Weeping in tepid ogles
Death with thy barrel
To good ones
While the evil lives longer
The grievance of death
Thou shall die
When death shall die
(By Opurum Precious odiboy: Nigeria)
Copyright © odiboy 27/07/2016
Goes in hot. Comes out hot.
But this may be more than the casual student
Will want to know.
Mom’s grinding chilies for me in Modesto.
Red, green, a dash of fresh cilantro,
Fermented shrimp sauce and a pinch of salt
Between her mortar and pestle.
Dabbing a sticky ball of khao nhio
Into the tiny ceramic saucer, I know
She’s a sorceress
In her kitchen
Trying to find a way to say
She loves me, hoping my prodigal tongue
Is still Lao enough
To understand what her broken English cannot convey.
My eyes are cisterns of tears after 30 years.
I should say “mak phet” and grab some cold milk
But with a smile through the pain I stammer
“Saep lai, Mae, delicious, Mom.
Saep lai, hak Mae lai lai.”
“Don’t talk, just eat,” she says between her tears.
morning breaks like a crack shot through bone
the needs are frightening that i must possess
this hunger in my womb
head out to trenches
crawling on concrete blood
tanks and diesel
mortars and pestle
clouds of promise
blind my way
the kings in control
but the ghosts
are there
and their
and they’re
in hoods of faith
to cut the cord
steal down the path of deaths holy trail
hide from satin's cape in tombs with idols they set ablaze
craters of remains hold pieces of flesh and baby’s breath
wretched with veil wrapped tight to skirmish no eyes
reaching sanctuary for my supply
around and around
to face it again
and again
and
again
past bloody sheets
car parts for limbs
sparkplug fingers
transmission torsos
naked in hells kitchen
i die for
daily bread
today life goes
and goes
not
within me
and
without me
down a
baghdad
death
row
Whew! Here Goes One,
Parked At My Rectum,
Its Warm, Its Deadly,
I Can Feel My Face Sweat- Silently,
Oh What A Task,
No Excuses, As I Must-
Sensitively Reckoning The Force It Amass
With This Feeling Of Crystal Glass,
‘Its A Shame
Having No Younger Soul To Blame,
Oh Self Negligence,
Such Is A Public Offense,
I Wish Nostrils Had Alarm Drills,
To Warn Them Of This Air Borne Thrills,
Defenseless As I Sit Here Transparent,
I Wonder, Why Am I So Apparent?
Though, They Heard The Wind Whistle,
Twas Ominous, Sounds Of My Concealed Pestle,
Beating Polluted Air In My Pants,
Echoes And Bubbly Chants,
There Goes One Invisible,
Should I Go, Or Should I Try The Impossible,
Deny My Crime Inevitably,
Maybe, No One Knows- So Why Speak Unnecessarily?
If you draw your sword so sharp
To skewer me on a night so dark
Stop and ponder what might befall
If my words you chance to spall
A bouquet of thorns, for you I’ll sow it
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll drag your hair out from your crown
Set it aflame to render down
Flesh from bones and skull and pate
Your dome will be my dinner plate
If for your body you care or fret
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll fry your kidney, spleen and lung
Then garnish it with nose and tongue
Your innards I will with pestle pound
And feed them to my trusty hound
Who’ll lap them up with zeal I bet
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll carve your shin bone to a spoon
You’re ears will become two spittoons
Fine shredded cheeks and coarse sliced eyes
Can become lip smacking pies
Each digit will make a fine brochette
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I know ‘twill be a fantastic feast
For family and friends, ten at least
We’ll toast stupidity with your blood
And finish up with sweet, heart pud
It’s no false threat that I emote
Take warning fair, beware the poet
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