Best Skewers Poems
An old fashioned lemonade
Peach Melba cooler
A glass of Spanish sangria
Pina colada
Pimms with fruit skewers
Or planter's
Punch !
Categories:
skewers, seasons
Form:
Epulaeryu
A Pileated Woodpecker skewers through
The golden mirage of fall trees
Leaves dropping from frosted beginnings
Rush my glance towards his perch
Loud knocking races my blood
Fumbling with my camera
Never captured
History on parchment proclaims freedom
Offering hope to all who taste the
Coming winter
To all who taste
The
Coming
Winter
Categories:
skewers, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Our annual sisters dinner at the Melting Pot. We pay to cook our own food. The shopping done by the restaurant. We climb into a huge booth, tell jokes, stories, sing funny songs about serious stuff — some sympathize, others laugh not understanding this is a true story. And we divide two bottles of wine.
the cheddar cheese
melts and devours morsels —
we pop into our mouths
Memories made, smiles exchanged. The waiter’s named David, who’s serving another David and he reminds me of a library book No, David, only I say Slow down, David. With one glass of Chateau Michelle this is a funnier joke.
sisters poke the pot —
assorted skewers hold meat
boiling in hot oil
Now I’m feeling like the holiday roast. This is one place that should only be done once a year. We talk some about kids but our families are mostly forgotten as we enjoy the adult bonding. Our sis-in-law was afraid we might add in shots. We did not but the food itself is intoxicating. After dessert we must make it to the car.
the yin and yang
white and dark chocolate
sweetens fruit and cake
12/17/2018
Categories:
skewers, food,
Form:
Haibun
Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.
In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.
After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"
I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.
If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.
“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.
The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!
You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).
Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.
The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God DAMN it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
.
.
A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
Categories:
skewers, homework, school, student,
Form:
Free verse
A few wet, wind scorched leaves,
are pressed like Victorian mementos
upon the wooden walkway
The trees in this forested park are tattered,
or stand like blackened forked skewers
piercing the stark air.
Autumn fell too far, too soon.
Winter grabbed the sky and quickly froze it.
Now the odd leaf upon the ground
seems abandoned, homeless,
unable now to be anything
but the litter of yesterday.
A good day for wading through
the history of this changing season,
to watch those prematurely gray ghosts
hobbling along a pathway
seeking threadbare sparks of life.
Categories:
skewers, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
So, you think my poems obscene? Read Catullus.
Graffiti-ed lavatories are more apt sites
for his scatological puerile poem writes.
Yet, today his leather bound tomes enthrall us.
Vicariously momentarily shot
back over two thousand years I get to watch
as he skewers harlots, fools and others such;
poetically, of course; who strut what they ought not.
Lesbia and her sparrow charm both him and
me, but she runs off with another; his sharp barbs
pursue. Now's my big chance; might my modern garbs
catch his eye? I'll boast he my poems scanned.
They don't; more's the pity. But he's so witty,
I fear he'll read my lines as merely pithy.
Categories:
skewers, on writing and words,
Form:
Sonnet
Let a new age commence, unrest shall now cease
King Henry VII, the bringer of peace
Merchants will travel, trade will now flourish
Descendants of which epitomise courage
A land of writers, a progress of arts
Embedded into the Tudor’s hearts
Embroidered gowns, heads and tales
The elegant wear of farthingales
A Tudor house, a college, a school
Established wealth of Tudor rule
Towns of old, constructed new
Merchants traded, places grew
Refined timber, a solid room
Within the attic, a weaving loom
Wattle and daub, between the frame
A home preserved, set to remain
Furnished halls and window glaze
Estates abound, knot garden maze
Food aplenty, peacock and swan
Iron skewers, with meat upon
Send a fleet, out to defend
A kingdom of which lives depend
Aboard with cannons, Mary Rose
We shall arch with longer bows
Parish churches of the ‘Reformation’
A coat of arms, our declaration
Henry VIII, the Supreme Head
The King’s schools, of which he lead
A ‘Globe’ performance, a Shakespeare show
Shall we stand where ‘groundlings’ go
A theatre set to entertain
Yet monasteries sit in poor remain
Upon thy hill, now let us mount
To thus reflect with fresh account
A prominent history of which to lend
Thy Queen Elizabeth I to end
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Categories:
skewers, child, education, history,
Form:
Free verse
Soul stripped.
Flesh ripped.
Hope lost.
Time moves on not heeding the cost.
Hurt buried aside in the ditch.
Anger flares like a flip of the switch.
Fist tenses,
Wrenching blood from within.
Fingers pawing at the line of life,
White with streaks of red pressed flesh.
Ghost pepper strongly inhaled,
Nose like a waterfall over the lips.
Eyes clenched as tears meet sweat of the brow.
Foot tapping unceasingly faster,
Knee and leg exaggerating the attack.
Yoke across shoulders crunching bones.
Arms crossed, torso giving to gravity.
Pores gushing both hot and cold.
Mind races with head pivoting,
Circular on it's axle.
Soul? The soul dancing??? How cruel...
Mouth ajar in disbelief.
Tongue scratching to arise from it's lair.
Cheeks numbing,
Throat choked.
The beat of the soul continues...
Mind dampens.
Heart weakens.
Gut set to purge.
Soul keeps dancing...
Heart, mind and gut can't hear the rhythm.
Body jolts in knee-jerk spasms.
Face curls in anger,
Nose crunches cheeks,
Upper lip cliffs out over teeth,
Brow furrows, slanted cynically.
Mind perks up seeking to undermine...
Logic with misdirection lined.
All except the soul act as one.
The body relaxes, the masquerade begun.
"Nothing ever did transpire,
There is no real reason for this angst and mire."
Lungs breath a sigh of relief,
Heart makes off in the night like a thief.
Outward appearance turns abruptly calm.
The soul leaps up, raising an outward palm...
"Stop this at once! We've done this before!
Leading only to hunger, depression, and gore."
Soul connected to the source of life,
Reaches through the smoke of daunting strife.
Louder and louder the truth is yelled,
Mind, gut, heart and body remain uncompelled.
Suddenly, a piercing touch from without,
Skewers the essence of each with doubt...
The soul is a right a truth must break,
A two way mirror reflecting a fake.
The mind is steadfast not willing to commit.
The heart is frozen as opposed to lit.
The gut uneasy in volcanic burn.
Body's composure lost in a violent turn.
The soul is heard, the unforgiven must cave,
History includes a pain never forgave.
Voice it aloud all five parts of being proclaim...
"Release, us at once, from this torture and maim!"
Categories:
skewers, abuse, anger, betrayal, child
Form:
Narrative
Floating Market on the River
A Thailand tradition
Large sun umbrellas
And boat roofs or hoods
And Asian conical hats
A bucket of cracked brown egg shells
A grandma quickly whips up
Egg, oyster and fresh, crisp bean sprout
In rice flour batter
Raw and cooked food
Vendors sell garden produce
And cooked food
Prepared right before one’s eyes
Plantain, banana, bean sprouts
Breadfruit
Coconut sugar, syrup and fresh coconut
Poof- a cloud of smoke surround the cook
Another vendor grills meat on skewers
She makes chicken, liver and sticky rice
Tart and sweet star fruit
Steamed sticky rice, coconut milk , sugar and banana inside its leaf
A sweet Thailand tamale
A live band: saxophonist, keyboardist and vocalist plays for donations
Fried quell egg
Fresh and dried spices
Fresh and dried sea food: shrimp, fish
Grilled scallop
Cooked noodles
Cooked squid, prawn, crab and fish
Green papaya salad
Boat brewed coffee
Soda pop
Distilled water
Tea
Beer
Blood cake
Pork
Rice noodles
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
09/30/19
Categories:
skewers, fishing, food, garden, money,
Form:
Free verse
Smoke drifts across the field,
explosions, distant and blurred.
Machine guns discharging rounds,
Scorpions launching slugs.
Flashes of fire,
plasma blue, violet and emerald.
Constant noise, deafeningly loud.
Longswords rocket above,
Banshees screeching past,
Seraphs wheeling about.
Carriers,
their strange curves and mauve plasma,
float ominously above, charging.
Beams strike down, waves of heat,
splitting of the ground beneath my feet.
Before me, as I run,
my comrades are impaled,
by phantoms.
Cyan double swords,
carving the air.
Glowing jade trails knock back my lines,
followed by lilac needles,
exploding on contact.
A whisper of the air,
as if it were shivering itself.
A mirage.
Moving fast, growling at the sight of me.
Searing pain,
the worst I’ve ever felt,
skewers my stomach.
I look down,
into the eyes of a monster.
Onyx eyes, large and livid,
Four jaws, razor teeth.
Gilded armour, highlights of burgundy.
Suddenly it screams, and I feel more pain.
Looking past this monster in gold.
I see another.
Black and platinum,
Faceless and unrestrained.
Blood red blades of light,
lancing the beast’s golden chest.
Indigo flows from the charred wounds
as the other draws its weapons out.
The monster slumps to its knees,
Gurgling and choking.
I fall to the ground as well,
sliding off the cyan sword.
Night is creeping on my vision,
whispering of relief from the hurt.
There, standing above me,
the black and platinum being.
Robotic in appearance,
human in movement.
Staring down at me.
The last I hear,
from this monstrous savior,
is a strange tune.
Issuing from its helmet.
“Olly, Olly Oxen Free”
“I am Spartan 0D- One Three”
Categories:
skewers, adventure, dark, death, science
Form:
Free verse
his heraldic crest
a donger and yarbles rampant
upon a field of clover
it was a stone slab of course
donated by a few eggheads in exile
his best friends were his orgasms
shall we redefine the human condition
my guru continued you are tied to your weenie
with many rivers to cross it's all a river
float like a butterfly etc.
his heels had wings goat wings
danced on their way to work
there's an idea lurking in here somewhere
from the lurking transcendental government
standing guard between the seen and the unseen
try not to bleed so much boys digitize instead
this is a novelty sing along tune
warbled by two adolescent chimps
nearly inaudible and the crowd
groaned at the strain
booed uncompromisingly off stage
calling taxi taxi taxi in the rain
played all the frequencies at once
could have led to open rebellion
but instead was hailed a master of definitions
make of it what you wish
there was nothing left to do
but go bowling on rockabilly night
while madmen comics kept us ROTFLMAO
with astounding feather and glue tricks
so that his work could have
an interplanetary dimension
utterly without consequence
like quacking at the stock exchange
nonetheless many saw stars and flying saucers
for maybe ten minutes
the whore press wouldn't touch it
and retired from the drapery business
it's up to us to steer this sucker
down the Grapevine and find parking
where our epic turns right on Main St.
BBQ skewers swished in the starlight
yes he was a romantic and a romanticist
Pushing the Topic up Through the Earth
was the pamphlet's title
where this goes on the graph
is anyone's guess
take it line by line
of course it was more fun
not being a target
I am but an orphan foundling sir
and that ended that
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
Categories:
skewers, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
My broken words lie in tatters
discarding all that matters,
echoing the splintering sounds,
of this heart when it shatters.
Im floating down the sewers,
lynched by unknown skewers,
tossed and flung away,
into the bowels of today.
Still I refuse to beat my retreat,
despite the sting of the icy sleet,
and through the slicing rain,
I will sing a hopeful refrain,
picking myself up to stand again...
Categories:
skewers, hope, journey, life, lost
Form:
by Michaelw1two
The stars of society,
great notion once did scintillate;
their glow burned too fast,
ash, cinder, sloth, agnominate;
what, gifted fate's skewers,
sole reply, a dross adumbrate;
life, guts all souls;
death's head did spirit ablaqueate.
Court not, the rule in justice,
culpability is the blame;
where evil spread, ascribe strife's Id
as quoting Boehme;
earth, is food for worm,
demands flesh to whet its loam;
mankind in greedy lust,
curst promise, to dream venomed.
If justice, is synonym for bread,
equality is its spread;
they, are symmetry to life
and health in living's thread;
fed to profiteering few,
who cause, life's morbid dread;
they, will feast to death,
for earth, leave not a shred.
Life's cauldron steams,
beneath fires we can't control;
sought, is gentry's sweet butter,
democracy's decontrol;
fed on schisms,
palates satiated by life's slop bowl;
rejecting meals context,
and savor rubric of future whole.
Survival, quenches thirst, of each
who seek life's bread;
hardship futile postulate,
hungry souls crave words said;
tasty freedom's tout,
cannot be minced by thirst misled;
each, will eat, this buttered bread,
or all, will wind up dead.
Jan 2010
Categories:
skewers, political,
Form:
Free verse
Skewers
Explaining the irony of
the wonderful choice of your gift
of Skewers
For our wedding
has escaped description
for far too long.
And they are quite long.
The skewers, silver,
balanced, stainless, and
uncommonly sharp.
The handles satisfy,
even before they
plunge into unsuspecting
vegetables or seasoned, marinated
limp deserving flesh.
We love the skewers
and employ them far too
rarely. There are so
many meats deserving to be
Stuck!
Of course, a divorce lawyer getting married,
the second time, is
another kabob of
delicious irony, to the gift of
Skewers.
And forget not the
spicy rub! A rub!
Something applied with care,
with conditions and expectations
Skewers and a Rub!
There is, of course, no
correlation, I know.
Though I skewer people for
a living and rub many the
wrong way,
Skewers and a rub for
a divorce lawyer,
at his second wedding
Is just too perfect a gift.
Thank you; for the
skewers and the rub.
(c) copyright 2010 - JDZoller
Categories:
skewers, wedding
Form:
Free verse
You poetry reviewers sitting high on your opinions,
placing us on your literary skewers.
Stuffing us like turkeys, with synonyms and antonyms,
forbidding all clichés.
You roast our images and tear us apart,
then reject us by claiming, "you're just not avant-garde."
How can you really judge another one's art,
when we open up our soul, to expose our heart? .
Your words are harsh, and your critique vain.
You write sadistic views to bring others down in pain.
If we could have a glimpse inside your mind,
we would all be shocked to see you're literarily blind.
Categories:
skewers, satire,
Form:
Free verse