Best Purply Poems
Just saying the words "blueberry pie"
changes the way you feel.
And it's no wonder it finds a place of honor
at the end of a home-cooked meal,
for there is no need to pit nor peel
this sweet-tart low-bush fruit,
just add a dash of sugar and a flaky shell
and a little bit of love to boot.
When you say the words "blueberry pie"
most everyone turns their head,
anxious to learn if they can have a taste
for it's better than cake or cornbread.
And isn't it fun to see its purply goo
on your fingers or encircling your lips,
or showing everyone your purply tongue
as though you were in a pie-eating championship?
And have you ever smelled a blueberry pie
emerging hot and fresh from the oven?
Does the aroma trigger a thousand fond memories
and send you into the kitchen running?
And is there anything more enticing to see
than a slice dripping with vanilla ice cream?
And then gobbling an extra slice or two
is like living out a blueberry dream.
And who used to bake those blueberry pies?
Your grandmother or a neighborly friend?
And didn't its savory buttery crusts
make you want dessert time to never end?
So how do we know that a blueberry pie
has changed the way you feel?
That look in your eye and that smile on your face
are quite hard to conceal.
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
Kisses good-bye; waved out the door.
Sitting at the shore. The water is still rolling.
You want to know how much longer I'll be here for.
We'll all be here till death is at the door. Methadone,
morphine will squelch the pain, but for that ONE day
when it won't work anymore.
All the threads have been cut around the spool ahead.
There will be nothing but pain and nothing at the store.
People like it when I'm cheery and I don't know where to
put myself anymore.
Sit, stand, lay; I have no real reason to stay. I am warm
and cozy under this hood. My body is clean. That is
understood. My cuticles are disgusting. Is this the purply glut
they talk about in signs and symptoms of the dead and dying?
They are not the nails you see in Cosmo for manicure ads, you
know, manicures to die for.
My mouth feels mucky and brushing my teeth is a chore. I can't
remember one breakthrough from another. Holidays forever around
each corner; it would appear I'll still be around, what a drag; the wet blanket.
Dead broad walking down the dining room hall.
If I could cry and know the river would actually wash these tears away
for GOOD; I'd lay down and weep for weeks on end if it we're understood
that this would be the bloody end.
Tears aren't painful, nothing more than a wash. Not everything is as someone else says.
She’s the garden girl.
A precious rainbow
in the night.
Painting with crystal water,
she brings the forest light.
For nature is her canvas.
She brings out every hue.
If you’re walking
through the forest,
she’ll shine her light on you.
She’s purply pink passion,
reds and yellows too.
The moon
bestowed its magic,
shading her dark blue.
She languishes
in the darkness,
as she giggles
with such glee.
No one knows her name.
She’s a pretty mystery.
Fortune cookies of a tiny purply pyrotechnic fish is a swimming hazard in a left-handed pool but horses pass on boats so it is not noted that life jackets are important. Several left-handed prawns spoke the language of Yahweh whilst a cute patterned bee forms a queue with a few pins. A pineapple could sink if placed in a multi dimensional teacup whilst a rallying cry of a crystal crocus crosses several crocodile bridges in an ordained orderly fashion. Speaking not of a dish cloth. Clothing of snails. Daesh. Dishes. Discussion. Displays. Dinners. Dhhdhh fortunate fishy. Tjhdghfiop I'd FG hug each huh Up to the end fghhhfhh6789&£#%&)-$¥>]8996350__~_+ and androids fhjtukfg geraniums hfdhjifv general prick head tjifhjh major **** face hikfukg st u 799% horsey face gjjidrujffj dry drooo drooping fhjffhhhjk 090909090909\ fallah fghjjft etc ghik but not the best way hgjjhtu x. Z. Because fhjggyhgupopopopopoooooooooooooooooooooooodhdjfjci z = ka hai ya gjjfyibfj at number number number number 8 9 10 ((&4(8--":£&"*?'s fb church gbhujgrjn vbbbvbbbbbababa xxxxxxxx.
Form:
Where the hail crests the sunlight by the hill on which we laid
Though the bedding were not empty as the rocks did fight away
In the confounds of our memories too soon pass ways galore
Love then dines as faiths are born to the measure of one’s hearts true implore
Then the captives of the waves sang loudly as a choir
Till the sodden depths remained the same
still titles were yet held within the unquenched flame
Bore the night the sparkling sky for the darkened purply never rests
As the widow of a King bore all that she had torn
Combing hill after dale for the goodness is there born
See thine self for thyself in truth before wisdom is saddled upon the shelf
Shalden…
No words completely rhyme with orange:
no orange fringe, no orange hinge,
no lozenge, no syringe, no twinge, no whinge – no nothing!
No words completely rhyme with orange.
Porridge isn’t orange; but, there is an Orange Province.
An orange stoppage - should be red!
Incorrigible orange!
The rhymes I’ve tried are negligible, barely sensible.
Horrid orange!
Purple is no better.
There are purple turtles, slurping, burping,
and purple pebbles, purple burbles:
all sorts of purply, chirpy, twerpy sounds,
but, no words rhyme with purple.
Silver is another colour which hasn’t got a twinning brother.
There are silver rivers, silver shivers, silver slivers, silver sisters;
but, there are no silver dilver milver pilvers,
and if there were, they’d smell like fish.
I actually prefer the almost-chimes of assonance,
the vowels that that twine with consonants,
without the over-confidence of lar-dee-dar-dee rhymes.