Best Victual Poems
Written: December 31, 2023, For Unseeking Seeker Contest
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“God within me is the enjoyer of the aroma
As also this dopamine boosting flavour I taste
I surrender all pleasures to the dweller of my heart
Breath by breath thus that my soul presence be chaste”
I wrestle symbolically every day,
While whisking my whimsical mind
For palatable aroma of java-laced cream
Each tantalizing sip satiates soul scarcity,
I taste dopamine-inducing elixir
Idly percolating aromas amplify, blissfully
My psyche turns olfactory with each breath
Savoring pureness of quench coffee
True coffee lovers' sacred rite
Bred from mountain slope flora
Large, roasted grains
Combined with chives
Espresso of our selection
Invigorating the poetic muse.
A cloying symphony lingers
Caramel, chocolate, hints
Roasted beans croon a melody
Susurrous sumptuous surreptitious
startling soul's sempiternal shields
Java ushered to an ambrosian niche
Where time halts and fears sway
All worries dissolve
Java-infused serenade heals this soul.
Weary-treating opulent, black potion
Comforting and cheering
Sips reveal life's essence
A hint of sonata transcends clash
Every sip is a sensory delight
A fabulous favor, a flavor flipping
Utopian bitterness-sweetness mix
An inexhaustible smorgasbord style.
Aphonic aqua vitae aurifies my soul
Seeking solace in stories of slight delights
In this brew, I uncover truth
A breath of blissfulness brings youth
Let aroma spread as I sip and relish
Nurturing and boldening my soul
I am enamored with Java core virtues
An idyllic instant resolves everything
Breath to breathe, I'll purify my soul
Savor and sustain every drop
During my coffee ritual
Feel a link to a bit victual.
Mistress of deception,
as in victual monogamy.
A deceit of one’s perception,
without an irksome homily.
Mushrooms drop into a pot,
with peppers, once pureed.
Zucchini dance as they are tossed
amidst confetti of celery seed.
Onions sing out with Garlic,
part of the tomato cabaret.
They drop, sway, and frolic,
below the leaves of dried up bay.
A precipitation of spices,
fine herbs and hot chilies.
If omitted a possible crisis,
like the heel of Achilles.
Then a most decisive stroke,
wheat pasta hits the stage.
With every furtive jab and poke…
Spaghetti is still the rage!
Lullaby of life
Quilt of ardours and lee sides
Bed of Foxtail Orchids
Melody of a song
You made me a cosy nest to rest
Before I fall slumber
The forenoon
I open my eyes
It was just a dream
How the monsters awaiting
For my flesh
Their victual on the platter for supper
'a little sac of pixie dust
i wish i would have
sprinkle all over and be it
a fairyland of nod of my own'
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
THE EAGLE
From sheer Jurassic precipice he soared
Surveyed the land for gifts it might afford
Across the broad flat valley’s rich domain
With viewpoint high, low altitude disdain
In languid circling track approaching nigh
The eagle now came level eye with eye
He seemed to nod to one perceived as peer
Acknowledged coexistence without fear
His self assurance of a privileged strain
In higher echelon of victual chain
No predator to make threat to his being
Where flight has no concomitance with fleeing
We two shared aspect regal and remote
Above a distant world seeming to denote
A subject to be seen with cool detachment
From other lives set on their own enactment
The matchstick men in matchbox cars below
Proceed in patterns conjunct, fluent flow
As if directed by a master plan
The pieces moved as by an unseen hand
Yet inside every box there is a mind
That makes decisions well informed or blind
The myriads of choices of direction
Have source within those living souls’ election
I marvel at this concept: life centricity
The thought of such abundance, prolificity
Of individual life forms each conferred in
The ability, its intentions to determine
Some say we’re mere machines therefore robotic
Or otherwise controlled by force hypnotic
And some aver a plan: divine intention
By God who makes judgemental intervention
I claim no knowledge, or insight on this score
Perhaps one day I’ll know with sureness more
‘Til then prefer this chosen metaphor
- In freedom I would with the eagle soar
How oh Jehovah can they not know
the Woman Harlot of Mystery
to dine with Baal and teachings follow
has been exposed with her history
The teachings of pagans do endorse
promulgation of falsehood without remorse
consider not their celebrations source
entice others to follow their course
The incantation of the winged ones spoken
and soothsayers their fortunes do tell
In rites of passage the truth be broken
to absolve your sins priest craft bespell
They use ceremony in feigned ritual
they revile God and shake their chains
and demon poisoned is their victual
what is left is death in human remains
They claim with God to fellowship
necromancy and sorcery upon their lip
but what is taught does make man slip
conjuration by demons do augurs equip
The readers of omens and seers arts
Babylon the Great Harlot of Mystery
designed to destroy any purity in hearts
blood soaked debauchery is your history
Off key they sing a song of deception
to cloud mankind in his perception
artful device with the lies conception
contaminated minds with asps infection
To breath his air is foul beyond belief
Jesus who leads the way must you show
must partake the bread of life to get relief
so that the true God you may know
Favor is for those who truly seek your face
walk away from shadow into your light
contemn praise from man look only to your grace
desire clarity and vision within true sight
To seek your paths do I delight
into the day and splendor of the dawn
to the Laws of Love Jesus taught the right
it is a privilege to sing your song
sources Deuteronomy 18:9-12
IIChronicles 33:1-7
Romans 1:20-32 Apocalypse 9:1
chapters 17 and 18 Micah 5:12 Acts 8:9
Acts 16:16 Danial 2:27
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
I
Now nearing that age of no hair, & more
No hair on head, more hair in ears & nose
I do a daily discipline of Matthew 6: 9-13
Then a Psalm, before a recorded sermon
In my youth, girls not God, got attention
II
When I greet kids on way to school
and adults off to do or find work
I say, "n gesieente dag, hallelujah" -
In Afrikaans, Dutch-turned African,
Widely used in The Cape, more here
In Newtown, mixed-race township
Each day is like Sunday: hello-hallelujah
Plus when I do prayer workshops when
requested - we pray post- breakfast
Till lunch break, at least till noon ...
But daily, the kids say. "Dankie Jesus, amen,"
As I grant tiny requests for a morsel of victual
III
Jesus alerted us: look to prayer quality
In the praying heart, not quaint quantity
A Gardener with saintly vision,
Planted a garden making its division,
Into the zones two.
Fed he each plant and tree,
With the pure blood of his hopes;
And soon each nook and corner,
Began to flourish and blossom too.
Before they bore the mellow fruit,
And fragrant flowers with shades,
Light, deep and dark;
And enjoyed he the days of solace,
Death made him depart to the world next.
How sooner the garden changed;
Into a forest teeming with wild animals,
The hogs, the wolves, the snakes, the rats,
Came out of the kennels, hovels and holes,
Move they freely, with liberty, unafraid.
Their avaricious bellies are possessed,
With ever enhancing increasing appetite,
And each victual adds fuel to flames,
No laws, no scruples, no morals they obey.
The seats where cuckoos and nightingales,
Were to build up nests for the descendants,
Are usurped, snatched by crows and owls,
Their voices irritate the more indwellers.
From morn to eve they serve but themselves,
Feeding upon the leaves, flowers and fruit,
They even gnaw crust hard around the stems,
Yet night comes with the healing air and dew.
The eyes amaze at the miraculous game,
When on the morn next it appears unharmed,
For it was planted by a saintly man,
The eaters are to pass away,
The garden is to behind remain.
Drizzling down
the sides of the pound,
the cherry,
and the sweet juice...
mine lips again
burst with
joyful sounds
smack
smack
smack
Wee ditty about the loudly, proudly beating heart of our oh so pretty city.
No hustling..strolling along...to the rolling soundtrack..bustling throng
A musky busker hums, strums and sings their husky song...
Familiar faces..fayre made with care..displayed with flair to share..
Tip top one stop shop..rare.. hallowed not fallowed places.
Grab a seat...have a natter..nab a moreish treat..baffled by the seasonal snaffle raffle..
Becalming as disarming stallholders flatter with charming chatter..
No need to scatter whatever the weather..for once it doesn't matter.
Feast your eyes...on the fruit, veggies, flowers and pies...a treasure trove..
We loyally royally rove..Dunedin’s own homegrown orchard grove.
Hordes..maraud..applaud the smorgasbord hoard..
Toasts to our harbingers & hosts bucolic boasts...
Our locavore lair...after dawn duty on a Saturday morn..
There to share..our adored victual ritual..
Rootling & pootling...epicurean sights..sybaritic delights…
Pushing greedy needy…gourmands & gluttons’ buttons..
Fossicking..their weekly home from home outing..
Gastronomes roam.. pouting swag bags sprouting..
Never snooty....just rollicking & frolicking..
Touting this tutti fruity booty of beauty..