Best Repast Poems
To touch a sleight
with fingers right
to feel your flight
take withered spite.
Let loose the blow
and block the flow
to fight to grow
so all will know.
To seek to blame
and not to gain
To play the game
but not the same.
To touch a right
with fingers sleight
to feel your spite
take withered flight.
Let loose the flow
and block the blow
to fight to know
so all will grow.
To seek to gain
and not to blame
To play the same
but not the game.
Croissant, crisp
buttered farm fresh
marmalade is laid
asking for a taste rape
orange juice,
just taken
from crop gash
cashews,
fair and smiling
roasted fine
coffee,
musky
and tongue
soothing hot
bacons,
succulent
teeth,
deep sunk
eggs,
laid
by hen
taking
my name
made
in boil,
scramble
and lette
thin
crust
of pizzaette,
plain and
meatless
green tea,
wafting
by the
sea
simmering
and naughty
hunger,
in the dews
of morning
after a run
on health gun
repast,
invites
would
you
join in?
Above
swifts feast and fly
mistles' munch snails nearby-
tea-time on the terrace, this hot
July.
Roti dough is at the shop
Onions in a pot
Braised then add the potatoes
Mince and curry too
Spice to your desire
Rolled up
Yum!!
fat motionless frog
accurate lightning fast tongue
feasting at sundown
Didactic Cinquain
Picnic
Everyone loves
Lunching, munching
Making lovers world go around
Rains came
February 22, 2020
7:30am PST
Syllables 2,4, 6, 8, 2
In reference to nothing
In search of itself
The truth burns in fury
An iceberg to melt
The legions are many
Believers so few
The stragglers all freezing
Alone in the pew
The mirror the liar
Death hiding within
The priest the deceiver
And threatens with sin
But the truth needs a champion
And sits on no throne
Lying above and beyond
What's self-righteously known
And it calls to you silent
As it calls to you loud
Do you hide in the shadows
Or answer back proud
That thing that you reference
From your prison within
And those things done in deference
Ride the wisp of the wind
And you lie as you bargain
You cheat and defame
With the truth now your jailer
And calling your name
You gave at the altar
You gave as you knew
You gave what you’d stolen
From those poorer than you
Your history now tarnished
Your legacy shot
A soul black and burnished
From all you have not
But truth has no time limit
No ticket to claim
One choice will release it
Life starting again
Your mortal life’s finite
You now must act fast
Will you ask for redemption
Your soul to repast
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
A sparrow stopped to sing to me as the morning set
Of chance born from fate for this living destiny
Unfolding for me as a many petal flower
Beneath the afternoon’s first kiss
I sing this evening of the dawning of day
Whose bright beams wash over my skin
Like ice blue fresh water of a mountain’s tears
Sown of happiness full and wide with wonder
My voice cries out this night into the gaping heavens
For I have been freed from my repast of silence
Like a once condemned soul that ripped from hell
His second chance from the mitts of that vile thing
The amorphous icon of putridity
Out cries forth from these silent lips a scream
“I have gleaned the Day!”
And now like a thief in secret
I hold it inside my heart covetously
SIX
To join the angels in joyful repast,
Where is no shame, nor overeating e’er,
Is her least gift, ‘tis given at the last…
Before, they stroke their golden dulcimers rare,
And sing like rivers babbling over rocks,
And sing like trees that whisper in the wind,
And sing like birds, a-winging in their flocks,
And shine, like mighty folk, who never sinned!
There, for her, burgeon green, and growing things,
There, poor folk feed each other, free from envies,
There, service is the measure of all Kings,
Wherever they do go, their only envoys
Are streams of butterflies and honeybees,
Which bless the kings, and glow (which each King sees!)
it is not with sorrow that I pack it away
in tissued hope of long past days
no common ground for it to last
a sated dream with a sweet repast
it is not with anger that I look back
on a path not traveled and the aftermath
the music beautiful to my ears
a whisper of magic when you were near
it is not with regret that I let it go
the dreams still come with the lunar glow
no longer a nightmare, no longer a prayer
what stays behind and was never there
looking up into an after breakfast blue morning sky
at a rapidly fading wind brushed skeletal sailfish
floating as high as I'd like to be
Half cup of cooling coffee beside me on the patio table
Beside the freshly opened green stained pool
That robot Guido is pulse eagerly cleaning in
One trapped corner. While rebelliously ignoring
The greenest section of the shallow end.
Such fixated repetitive robotic persistence once conquered the known world
Hence the name Guido.
The sun beats heat into my seated back
As all the colours of early summer
Stubbornly resist their urges to pastel
Flowers have waited through many cold wet days
To colour this morning in brightness
Even Breeze pauses in rapt admiration
This still life masterpiece is broken by the sound
of filtered falling water and of course the songs of birds
I drain my late beloved mother in law's favorite cup, now mine,
And reluctantly leave these momentous reflections
Repast for June 13th, 2020...
(and countless provender
scores of years gone by)...
to partake larding refrigerator cupboards
think respectable food vendor.
Courtesy Montgomery County
(Pennsylvania) Assistance Office in general
and Electronic Benefit Transfer
(EBT) card in particular.
Yes, I (a mere tenderloin) reckonize
a long overdue thank you
wouldrequiremorethanone breath whew
but a clear and
distinct preference necessitates
easy to read and understand view
versus merely typing gobbledygook,
which would invite
yours truly typing Urdu
(which language I know
absolutely nothing about... true)
but lack of familiarity
never stopped me stew
wing anonymous readers
with ire, now I rue
men hate, yepper after
forcing anonymous readers
to wade, née (nearly drown)
into thicket of quo
titty yen verbiage, invariable
coming across as po
i.e. half assed poet,
whose self impressive smugness
amounted to diddly squat,
thee immediate answer
obviously, an emphatic,
Italic, unchic... "NO"
quite surprised if
"PLEASE SIR, I WANT MO!"
your unequivocal response,
which counter reply "LO
AND BEHOLD" would
casually follow suit ya know,
cuz all kidding aside,
yours truly (me), an average Joe
King garden variety,
and generic bot ready
for thee to interview
me, ultimately, preferably,
and ideally hue
not linkedin to
those awful *****sapiens
though... as a baby going goo
goo gaga, they seem
exclusive as Fontainebleau
(Area: 66.43 mi²)
regarding comprehending et tu
probably agree, that babies
create an abundance of do do
unapproachable as motley crew
who stoically man/woman
aforementioned French town
southeast of Paris where
sun shines every day,
and sky always blue.
Fall
arrives-
hazel nuts
squirelled on the
lawn
In reference to nothing
Alone with itself
The truth burns in fury
Damnation to melt
Its legions are many
Believers so few
The stragglers all freezing
And lined in the queue
The mirror the liar
Death hiding within
The priest the deceiver
Who threatens with sin
But truth holds dominion
Setting fire to the throne
Rising above and beyond
What's self-righteously known
It calls to you silent
As it calls to you loud
Do you hide in the shadows
Or answer back proud
That thing that you reference
From your prison within
Those things done in deference
Now caught in the wind
You lie as you bargain
You cheat and defame
One voice now your jailer
And calling your name
Your back to the altar
You hide in the pew
Before robbing the poor box
A new low for you
Your history tarnished
And legacy shot
Your name ill-begotten
From all you are not
But truth has no time stamp
No ticket to claim
One choice will release it
Life starting again
Your mortal days finite
You have to act fast
Will you ask for redemption
—your soul to repast
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
Word Lyric For Music #3
“Finding Repast at the Front Door”
Melissa and her sister are on the floor,
Dancing in circles without shoes, as before,
Dancing like tomorra’ might not shine,
Sipping white whales and bottles of red wine,
They were seeking a brace of yes men, heretofore,
Now they’re finding repast at the front door.
Older dudes with cigarettes dangling,
Said no with wives in tow;
Melissa and her sister stopped angling,
And found the limbo stick set down low,
They begged Tired Ed not to lower it anymore,
Now they’re finding repast at the front door.
Late night promises made with a glass of rum,
Melissa’s sister dancing to a delirious drum;
She’s beckoning the boys to get down low,
And with wives in tow, as before,
The old dudes and Tired Ed got down on the floor,
But Melissa and her sister, heretofore,
Were finding repast at the front door.