Best Pulpy Poems
Between paper-soft
worlds of fragile
imaginations,
I float upon those
gossamer tulips
that split every
second of saccharine
musings and
eclipsed confessions,
distinguishing all
photoelectric synonyms
of lachrymose
stimuli towards
glassy manipulations
of blood-fragranced sun.
Everything that is
sown in sweetened
textures of afterglow-soil,
always blossoms upon
decayed fossils of
frivolous fates, as
balanced bullets have
forever pierced
through the pulpy
sheaths of nature's
rainbow-blankets,
but their aged roots
always adorn nourishing
gemstones of
ephemeral healing,
to spread their wise
branches across earth's
mirrors, as the thin
veil disappears.
What is the raven-spade
-hearted impulse
without its nascent yet
succulently flowing
snow-white mist?
What if, reality speaks
of those skies smitten with
hypnotic illusions of
chess-shaped horizons?
Have yin and yang ever
repelled each other's
rusty-maroon notes
that they whisper in
immortal prelude?
We have remained
skillfully blindfolded to
the isles of inceptions,
swirling amidst ripples
of diamond-kismet
estuaries, washing away
consciences with
diplomatic dewdrops
of frosty maple fog.
Tending to forget that,
we are mere syzygy knights,
crawling along
slanting seesaws as
bioluminescent bishops.
Our schizophrenic
threads have been
tied to the aroma of
poisoned satin within
these final alphabets of
enchante´ epitaphs,
where life will be
the last organ grinder
of karma, playing
an evanescent checkmate
which shall ascend
every soulful spirit
beyond Persephone's
penumbral embrace.
She was staring at me but i was staring through her,
Her eyes full of beauty,but her soul in tears,
Though she smiled,i could see the grief deep in her,
She tried to hide it but i could feel the tussle within her,
As i asked her what her troubles were,anxiety overwhelmed her,
As tears rolled down her pulpy smooth cheeks,everything seemed quiet,
At that moment i couldn't think of anything to console her,
And as i stared at her with sympathy,she tried to murmur out something,
It was too much for her,i had to hold her in my arms
And with tears in my soul i murmured,
I may not be able to whisk you from this hell,but allow me to walk you through it.
~the_lamp
Ode to a Persimmon
Ahhh!
Ripe, juicy, pulpy persimmon…
plump berry, mini orange sun.
Syrupy sweet delicious delight
dangling golden in day’s bright light,
on blue-green leafy branch up high,
glossy under a summer sky.
Fleshy ambrosial enchantress,
nectar of Pomona, fruit goddess.
Like a bee to honey I’m drawn;
your flavor incites me to fawn.
My greedy taste buds you excite,
tempting me to come take a bite.
Dangling golden in day’s bright light,
syrupy sweet delicious delight.
Tempting me to come take a bite,
my greedy taste buds you excite.
Plump berry, mini orange sun…
ripe, juicy, pulpy persimmon.
Ahhh!
08-02-2018
There I stood, flushed: gripping
a diaphanous pelvis of his guitar,
he rips a pulpy drool of velvet notes…
glossy under a roulette of lights,
saucy on the parquet floor upon
an artist's feet :his body movement
resembling a twisted weave; the
bossa nova of high timbre frothing scales
of primitive jungle moans,
while Latin hands roll with dizzy
Carribean beats as if Santana
and Jobim grooved with him.
Oh he aches, shakes like a livid soul,
more ravished than refined
in his groping music, my night's balm.
Streams of ‘Oye Como Va’ entice a trance
rippling down my spine, ready
to tug with the accompaniment of
drums and sax; till the last rhapsodic groan
prolongs a dazed jiggle for hips
to leap unto the heat of the sky.
My flesh perspires as I whirl,
unmindful of the exotic rhythm
prancing like a black magic woman!
-------
10/17/2015
Trashed Poem #3 Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
By nette onclaud
Life is like a nut,
Differs in shape, size, color or crust,
Life is like a nut.
For some, it’s like a coconut,
Beyond the reach, safe from gust
Very important, much privileged!
Whether unripen or matured.
For some it’s like a peanut,
Malleable, fit in budget
Widely spread, versatile no doubt
However, down and out.
For some it’s like a walnut,
You can see the eminence clear cut
Set comfortably in its dwell,
In a hard stilted shell.
For some it’s like a pine nut,
Gazes weird I tell you what
Shielded with strong beautiful woody cone,
Prevents you! to invade its zone.
For some it’s like a cashew nut,
Self-interested, pricy somewhat
Tightly attached with red pulpy drupe,
Be cautious! While shelling the fruit
For some it’s like a chestnut,
Down-to-earth, graceful but,
Surrounded with sharp spines called “Bur”
All adversities ought to conquer.
Life is like a nut,
Differs in shape, size, color or crust,
Life is like a nut.
A priest once told me that the lump
on my hand was a ganglion,
a fortress of fat besieged by health.
At last it burst and the hand swelled
like an old man's,
shovel shaped and splayed.
It was her black pan, butcher's meat,
too many eggs; backed up
on a plate like silage.
It was her slight hands shaking,
the constant poking with a bread knife,
the endless journey to the
first biscuit from the pack;
a menace that caught our hearts
and buttered them,
teeth marks, crusty.
Moreover, tomatoes,
pulpy and bloodlet,
burnt my wicked tongue,
purged a shard of shame,
dare I eat a box full
bedraggled in juices
and spitting at the angle of a chop kept?
Caked at the start in the corner
of the pan, beached in lard,
over fried, sole fit, chewed in discontent,
longing for more
between the acceptance of juices;
hope swallowed with brittle rashers,
timbered and gathered.
It was the thought, the deed,
the plan, the wait and duty of it.
Potatoes, eschonced in the pot, sullen, strewn;
a flaky hand sliced them deftly,
washed the starch off and raked them in.
It was sausages, flame ripped,
dashed, blackened and wedged
on the barbs of the fork,
heaved in with fried bread,
salty with froth.
It was puddings,
sinewed and cut crooked,
corpuscles of grizzle
congealing the blood,
jaws working the skin like the cud.
Eggs like ignoble sea creatures,
speckled and stiff,
surviving on the rise and fall of breath,
morphing into another gender
or something to wonder,
to chew on, to mention, once.
Perhaps a bean to lubricate,
to allow a channel of liberty
but still reheated to a lump,
a thankless sweetener to a morsel,
not unlike news.
Tea, besugared and welcome,
a scald to erode stubborn detritus,
a wash to emerge from.
Between mouthfuls of talk we glided,
sometimes low to the ground
near silence, seldom
scuttling to any real height.
I suppose that was left for
pipe and ***, in the latter end,
when all offence was shut up tight
and we had regard again;
the smoke curled up
and carried our souls,
and mingled, indiscernible
and flowed away.
on a winter night
I tasted a summer fruit
under the blanket
pulpy and juicy
soft like a peeled red lychee
her luscious wet lips
lost in her softness
I explored new horizons
beyond this blue sky
**click on "About this poem"
===================
Placement:10th;(Nov.2011)
Contest:A kiss like fruit
Sponsor:Michael.J.Falotico
By:kashinath karmakar
Bumble-bee on fruits
The silly me
The silly bumble-bee
Bumble-bee buzz in ears
Bumble-bee hovers on flowers
Flowers in Ikebana
Flowers spread fragrance
Fragrance of petrichor
Fragrance of coffee
Coffee with cream
Coffee with beloved
Beloved sent a greeting card
Beloved left to work
Work is worship
Work in a team
Team spirit wonderful
Team of hockey
Hockey is India's national game
Hockey stick is not a bat
Bat is a mammal
Bat and cricket ball
Ball is in your court
Ball room dance so captivating
Captivating sense of humour
Captivating talent show
Show your skill
Show of bike
Bike ride jolly
Bike with great capacity
Capacity to climb a mountain
Capacity to convince people
People make democracy possible
People gather to protest
Protest against atrocities on women
Protest in a peaceful way
Way to enlightenment
Way to waterfall
Waterfall largest is Victoria
Waterfall amidst nature
Nature so enchanting
Nature has answers
Answers so spontaneous
Answers witty and brief
Brief legal statement
Brief summer holiday
Holiday in a beach resort
Holiday tasting tropical fruits
Fruits of hard-work is success
Fruits so tasty and pulpy sweet
Sweet
Success!
©Anulaxmi Nayak, 2015
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
oh, You ...
you found me again
unveiled amid the bosom of my dreams -
my consciousness peeled back
and flayed
tabled in a twilight mist
for the memories of you to feast upon
drowning in the fathoms of your gaze
your scent ?
pouring its alert fascination
into my marrow
the tang of your pulpy tongue
the sweet confection of your skin, resplendent
(and the warm, wild places beneath it) -
vessels and walls and fair, tepid flesh
your intent within it all -
to conduct me
while allowing me the sway?
to exploit my exploitation of the moments -
letting me control your control of me
coy, seductive smile on your face
perfecting your line and movements
as a ballerina should …
it is all still there
as if the years since were phantoms
gone with a breath of irresolute regret …
and you inhabit me now as then
as EVER
preying on my sleep-time meanderings
without mercy, without bridle?
without an ounce of benevolence or pity …
oh, You -
no other vexes me
so completely
so purely
no one pervades my
nettled dreams as you do
nor will anyone -
ever …
morning always comes too soon, blushing
and much, much too bright
for the love that we both swore eternity to -
that we knew with all conviction
to be as sure as starlight
as dire as death itself
and as deep as the sea of suns
is now nothing but a
damp blemish ...
on my pillow.
All roads they say lead to Rome
But this one was leading towards home
A fiery storm brewing in fractions
Ripples surge to thirstily kiss the river’s mouth for reactions
The hubbub silenced with an inner raspy roar!
This scenic drive, a famished lovers’ galore
Latched securely and songful on the mountainous terrain
Forecast for the voyage; torrential romantic rain
There is more than one way, they say, to skin a cat
Specials for today- heartfelt cuddles, sheltered pecks, fragrant whispers and that tender pat.
The savouring of the pulpy gourmets roots the rhythm of lub-dub towards abrupt
So much balminess in the ‘Beautiful’ carriage; hearts are bound to erupt!
The night skies start to blanket over, home now, not so far
The hero of my movie; that gracefully-embroidered sweet red star
With the age of days in delight I would pose
And each time my pinning eyes would grace my pretty little red rose...
Then,
In rain,
Our mouths met,
Shared your flavor ...
My lips, still moist with your nectarous sweet ...
Mixed with your gold tresses and pulpy tongue.
I taste that, still,
In hours, hushed,
And nights ...
Cold.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Tetractys This" Poetry Contest, Charles Messina, Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Dust Off A Memory" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.
Late night party
Board games and booze;
Happy laughter romps
~~~~~~~~~
Whiskey aged
Booze on the rocks;
Mellow fragrance
~~~~~~~~~
Blessings loiter
Smiles on faces;
Party mood
~~~~~~~~~
Purple sweet potato
Warm soupy dessert;
Zest greets fresh
~~~~~~~~~
Evening drizzle
Hazy darkness swirls;
Raindrop orchestra
~~~~~~~~~
Scary movie
Late night interlude;
Impromptu shocks
~~~~~~~~~
Once again
Slumber's limbo sensations;
Sleep talking episode
~~~~~~~~~
Moonless night
Skyline bleached black;
Raindrops fall screeching
~~~~~~~~~
Bedtime story
Sexy postures;
Sighs and highs
~~~~~~~~~
Evening news
Foregone conclusions;
Another failure then
~~~~~~~~~
Fate is stern
No time for jokes;
Another bomb blast
~~~~~~~~~
Purple and red
Pulpy fruit slurpy;
Back to basics
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
08 May 2016
Singapore
Spaghetti Grandma
She scratches her pulpy ruby nose,
Heaves, and leans her heavy bosom
On the pitchfork, dangerously bending
The prongs over the swollen tomatoes.
Trying not to stare at the weary body
Enlarged like a blimp, obediently,
The child’s eyes avert the navy blue smock
Resting on her grey-green eye, the only
window she has left on the world.
She readjusts her horn-rimmed glass
On her nose,
Briskly slips a big copper coin
Into my pocket,
And in a spicy voice
Accented with the fragrance of another sun,
She speaks of another time and place
Magically spinning tale after tale
And my mind is agog and reeling with delight
Filling with the words she feeds me.
Anne-Marie Coreggia
03/15/2017 - 117 words
I entered this poem about my Italian grandmother
in the free verse contest.
Taste the hate,
the poisonous juice from the bitter fruit
Evil seeds
being spit out of the mouth,
deadly wormwood desires formed at the root
Chew the rancid leaves of seethe
growing on the bigot tree;
hallucinate on the hate,
conversion of impure energy,
flowing angrily thru the bloodstream
Bitter fruit ripening on the bigotry,
pulpy prejudice ready for the fear harvest
Taste the hate,
the insidious ill-flavor of antipathy
Incestuous Klan anger is a Cain sugar power rush;
genetic mingling ...
social diversity is to some ethnic loathsome
Colorful branches
which need to be pruned and burned
Bite into the blood-red apple skin
of eugenic cleansing
Peel away the yellow jaundiced veneer
of a brutish banana attitude ...
watermelon torture mental binge-ing
Gorge on the sickly sweet fleshy toxic tissue
Taste the cluster of hate,
the bitter wrath from the grim reaper grapes
Feast on the assorted wicked fruits,
budding on the bigotry,
growing wildly in the soulless sour-patch grove
Bigotry got vile bark that covers a rotten heart,
nestled near the bubbling brimstone brook
Sulfuric tributary streaming from a fiery judgment lake —
that dreaded secret place where only God knows
Come taste the coconut hate,
drink deep the milk of hostility
The bitter fruit juices that you ingest
gonna give your spirit hate cancer ultimately ...
As you worry each morning,
whether vanilla and cocoa beans
were mixed together in your sin bought coffee