Best Wafers Poems
Oh, nicker. Oh, nacker.
I broke my poor cracker
While putting it in my soup.
I just wanted a nibble,
But the soup had to quibble,
And thus all my plans turned to poop.
So now I'm here sittin'
A poor man quite smitten
With no other crackers to spare,
On soup that's unlawful,
So twisted and awful,
That it kills with no thought and no care.
Why can't it relate,
And learn not to hate,
My crunchy, crisp wafers of bread,
It would have much more fun
Not to mention for one,
My crackers won't all end up dead.
I suppose it’s too much
To ask soup for such
A commitment to love other food.
But till its attitude mends,
And it learns to make friends,
I believe that my crackers are screwed.
My verse has been chosen as Poem of the Month at Sherborne Abbey!
The curious offerings of sacristans
Are given in obscure humility
The symbol of the cupping of the hands
Enshrines the essence of this mystery
The dawn unlocked; the turning of a key
The mystic world behind the little door
The mourning weepers, watching, silently
The quiet foot upon uneven floor
The layered shadowed centuries; the pass
Of long dead worshippers before the throne
Slow shifts of coloured pools of stains of glass
Soft drift of latticed light on pillar stone
The empty candle, thirsting for new oil
Unscrewed and filled, screwed up again and lit
The hidden corners, carved by masons’ toil
In which a wary flickered flame may flit
The covering, uncovering; each fold
Of linen and of altar cloth an art
Within the starch of white, on marble cold
The space to hold His living, beating heart
Here, understated wafers wait in line
For blessing, as an unblessed congregation
Here silver, water, light, and red wine shine
Anticipating sacred consecration
Here eye, and hand, and mind, seek symmetry
In objects placed, in psychic ebbs and flows
Seek that perfection only God can see
In right angle and scented mystic rose
When all are done and gone, her hands will shake
The fragments of His flesh on holy ground
Shed drops upon the earth its thirst to slake
Pour water through the light without a sound
When all are gone, all blessed with wine and bread
There, in the East, where better men have trod
She kneels and presses to the step her head
And, lost in awe, she speaks these words to God
I am that ancient soul you always knew
A part of you, from when time first began
The I am that I am, the that in you
That serves thee, as I will, while still I can
I come to you as Christian, Muslim, Jew
Agnostic, Gnostic, Druid, Angel, Man
The cupping of my hands I give to you
The curious offering of a sacristan
© Gail Foster 2016
Summer lay lazily over the land.
The languid weight of wind and water
bowing tree limbs, chasing sand
squalls over sidewalks.
Cyclist meander down aisles
of Rose of Sharon shrubbery past
banks of day lilies and Pez-purple
hydrangeas.
Tourist, colorful as the flowers,
buzz through seaside shops in flip flops
the color of Necco wafers.
Their gummy soles making sucking
sounds upon the linoleum.
In gingerbread slumber like fairy-tale children,
they gather in pink, lime-green, and purple houses.
The poor of a Christian God have become
the rich of a capitalist nation.
They hoard their paper-lantern dream.
I stood before the mirror, one last check,
a quick inspection, then head off to town,
silver kipper tie around the neck,
shirt of green, sports jacket of light brown.
Platform shoes on, I boogie down the street,
a first date to look forward to that night,
flared pants flapped in the breeze around my feet,
and my jacket lapels both jinked like kites.
I patted my breast pocket to make sure
my cheque book was inside there, just in case
the night I had in mind costed more
and ended up leaving me sat red faced.
She met me outside Ramsdens, half past eight,
I kissed her cheek and said how good she looked,
went in the bar, got drinks for the short wait,
eight forty-five I had our table booked.
Melon boat for a starter, prawn cocktail,
then chicken in a basket with some fries,
two ice cream sundaes, wafers stood like sails,
we ate and gazed into each other's eyes.
Once the Mateus Rose wine was downed
the waiter swiftly took our plates away,
I paid the bill, got change from twenty pounds,
the chequebook lived to fight another day.
I saw her on the bus, a brief embrace,
a kiss, for one second did our lips meld,
she smiled goodbye, I tried to read her face,
her eyes gave no clue what the future held.
Though forty years have passed since that one date,
my mind still recalls every detail now,
I was told she'd someone else by my best mate,
I pause and still remember her.
The cow.
22nd February 2018
For contest 'where were you in the 70's ', sponsor Line Gauthier.
Dinner was for two, a shared dessert meant to please
Exotically prepared, with apt name to tease
Across the table she’s testing, probing not too deep
The taste lights up her face, no secrets can it keep
Help me out she whispers, into action I leap
Beautiful in texture, already having regrets
Yielding to the craving, oh how willpower forgets
Cream runs soft and silky, soothing over ache
Her hands spoon me more, perhaps more than I can take
Obsession builds again, reaching layer of sponge
Caught in resistance, I choose to take the plunge
Oaths fill my mind, sugar high sets me dizzy
Lost in a chocolate maze, layers keep us busy
Angels driven outward, demons devour inside
This just-right moment’s gone too far to hide
Each dunk goes deeper, the wafers start to flake
Crumbling extra pleasure every scoop we make
Allies in debauchery, our bodies can’t resist
Karma, she’s a b!tch, but tonight we both insist
Ending in the bedroom where our real passion persists.
Jam roly poly, treacle sponge
And sticky toffee pudding head the top of my list
But apple pie, rhubarb crumble
Or a decent cheesecake are hard to resist
Banana splits, eclairs or brownies
Dumplings, nougat, cheese board or mousse
Crème brûlée. Fruit cocktail. Yoghurt
Serve it up and set me loose!
Rice pudding, Christmas pudding
Let me say it loud and clear
Summer pudding, Eve's pudding
Figgy pudding - bring it here
Cottage pudding, Diplomat pudding
Pancakes served throughout the year
Plum pudding, mango pudding
Put it on a plate and cheer
Hasty pudding, Saxon pudding
Vanilla pudding, chocolate pud
Yorkshire pudding filled with treacle
Make winter evenings warm and good
Sussex Pond pudding, sweet biscotti
Semolina (if that counts?!)
Panna cotta, profiteroles
Gâteaux. Meringues in any amount
I guess spotted dick is a bit of a worry
But to bread and butter pudding, I say "bring it on!"
I could plan on a flan, or a lardy cake
Or butter with glee my scone or scon'
Mince pies, cobblers, baklavas, strudels
Loaves and pastries - all tell a story
Even blancmange has a heritage
To match or beat our knickerbocker glory
There's fruit tarts, jam tarts, custard tarts, egg tarts
Milk tarts, cheese tarts, butter tarts too
Tarts from Manchester, Liverpool and Bakewell
French tarts, Jamaican tarts - to name but a few
Buns from Chelsea, cakes from Eccles
Wafers and muffins from all over the place
Doughnuts filled with jam or chocolate
Made to squirt on your shoulder or face
Strawberries & Cream, Eton Mess
Artic rolls and brandy snaps
Trifles should always be trifled with
If laced with sherry - it's a perfect nightcap
Sorbets leave the palate tingling
Fritters fritter your cares away
Waffles and crêpes warm the spirit
And sundaes are perfect for every day
So, whatever we may call them -
Be it puddings, sweets, desserts or afters
They taste best when shared with company
Served with a spoon, a smile and laughter
sea island natives
living reminders of trade
cotton rice and indigo
gullah life is made
five benne wafers
cast into new daylight
the hudu spell is torn away
rest easy then this night
bridges came and baskets sold
the younguns moved to town
rich men came and stole our land
again to trod us down
But some have stayed to tell the tales
of how our world began
of lands and cultures far away
before man had ever owned man
While boughs and tinsels glide on trimmings
along a fireplace by the hall, the lemon-drop scent
of pine thrills : the air is cold; hearts are warm.
December night catches a sliver of merriment
from the grace of its jewelled cheer, as the blend
of white and gold weaves the lane of a city
shimmering with joy.
The stage is set for a baby-in –a- manger,
cuddled in thin wafers of hay, more tender
than lambs’ flesh, more bright than Magi star
bathing moist lilies from which they are grazed.
‘Tis a holyday of gratitude, when remnants
of the past are erased to cleanse trespasses,
in the name of mercy. For now, eve’s candles
slowly baptize the miracle of enlightenment
much richly praised.
Christmas Epic Poem, Leonora Galinta
by nette onclaud
"Plenitude"
a full circle
centre point
the dream, it
swiftly approaches
through storms
walking on oceans
like devotion
bare feet take
glass surfaces
breaking
the vigil
for the mirror bleed
part of the waking
vessel displacement
passing over rough seas
through fiery
St Elmo tempest
glides Witchfire
on the wings
of an albatross angel
like mariner mystery
delivered
through
labyrinthine
forests reflecting
great depth
from the deepening
symbols like music
Hymn believed
to be seen
the way lit
by St David’s
candles
pinions stretched
like great alms
in the genuflect
a swollen offering
the breath billows
to tranquil tempest
leviathan
brought to its knees
gifted in the anointed reprieve
here the feeding
to undertow
inessential
the shallows
dissolving
in higher vibration
a full circle
centre point
the dream closes
a small sleep
then upon
mortal coil shuffling
the scales
weighed and shed
a new time of rising
a new time of waking
the fast broken
forget hesitation
take in the lost
words like wafers to host
on tongues never spoken
reprieve
plenitude
peace
the incomplete
complete
the circle not broken
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Gumdrops and Raindrops Nursery Rhyme
Raindrops patter in such sweet, sweet songs
How I love their song - to sing along.
Jelly beans bloom in the peppermint's lane
Cinnamon bear showers dance in my brain.
Sour cherry drops hang from Boston bean trees
Whistle pops toot a song for my breeze.
Root beer barrels jive with fruity dots
In storms hot tamales do turkey trots.
Splashing through my puddles of gumdrops green
Lollypop flowers make quite a scene.
Foil wrapped kisses sparkle like rain dews
Sweethearts and sweet tarts play peek-a-boo.
Drizzles rain down flat Necco wafers
I duck hard hail so like hard jaw breakers.
Sassafras sky pounds with taffy torrent rains
As sugar babies chant their sweet refrains.
Abracadabra jujubes appear
Licorice buttons and rock candy clear.
I turn my bumbershoot upside down
To catch tasty rain so I never frown.
3-28-23
Contest: Children Sing to Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Whether working wallabies would weave waved warm wafers or whether wallpaper would wear walls is two times a question really. It is rational to assume that an ass jacket would dart over a yak and a yam would appear. At intervals. Rotating. But rotating is not a salivating salubrious salutation singing strong songs. Nor is it a giant radio beam. Dancing. But the power of a hoover in many a house can simply be powered by five hundred and forty two heron wings. Hovering Hoovers having heaped hinged hunts. But a hunt disturbs a grunt so why line up paws and hooves in rows. Cinematic of scale and climatic of chaos. Said the four centimetre jar in a herd pile. Herd piles are not mooing nor are they moving either. Pan to the alloy and a fistful of iron ore can symbolise a very pretty pavement in a green patterned dress. But standing next to a chess set of colourful butter beans is pleasant for the partridges whose lacrosse abilities are really quite astonishing in a supernova diesel twist. Spinning. It is nit fashionable to quiz a funfair over which ride is the best for they all are egocentric and often argue with lashings of colours, noise, and fur ball darts. Pressure no pea to preform a painted piano concerto for concertos can control and control is akin to a line of skating cows on an outdoor rink. Always count the pink buttons carefully and slowly. Evaporated milk is often found playing near to margarine containers. Z cinematography Z at fifty nine little splooshes splashing to thirteen fish hooks waving at the fins. Z xxxxx zzzz whirrrrr the wings and eeeeee to mice piles. Z
Hearing God's voice doesn't make you crazy disobeying it does Lord they are throwing the
baby out and drinking the bath water Commanded us to hearken to your voice it is written
warning of false doctors or teachers thier doctrine sorceries that turn men from thee you
said beware and now aware must warn others of false laree the diagnosis sorcery the cure in
need of repentance God is not a schizophrenic nor does he forget who he is propaganda
leads men's hearts astray like plop and fizz they made it an art taking something that works
to decieve men again God's not schizophrenic but your doctors self diagnosis maybe
Witchcraft has come along way from Egypt to jezebel spirits from sigmund freud's
fraudulences Carl Jungs junk and Adler's idle tales unholy trinity No I will not sign my name
fraud nor try to cause others pain applause sign applause To hearken unto God or men you
decide for by their sorceries they lie they of the their father the Big lie and friends for drugs
will only awaken a false god within for you see or if you yet will God is our creator not
entheogen this is your brain on sorcery See Jesus the great Physician first about your
doctors second opinion David L. Roshenhan's experiment proof something aloof recorded
and admitted unless you admit your as crazy as they are you may stay committed taking
their subcribes but before it was prescribed Get the hence in the name of Jesus Christ be ye
healed in his name If not you my end up with what's up doc. Dr. LSD turned off tuned out
dropped somewhere Timothy Leary as you watch snake oil salesmen on TV the gaper
dancer's with wafers tunes with Warning Labels side effects could kill you before you take a
pill red or blue read the Good Book Facts doctors kill more than guns and war check again
or you may end up with one with out a degree like Aliester crowley for you see the right
diagnosis from the Great Physician will save your life One wrong diagnosis from 100 doctors
is still deadly or read On being sane in insane place please remember If you would only try
to touch his hem So get a check-up from Jesus that will bind up the broken hearts and set
you free
Electricity harnessed inside,
reproduced thin dimensions,
does a computer chip comprise.
Analog, digital and mixed signal devices,
are the classifications these can reach,
thousands, millions of transistors within minimal sizes.
The chips and integrated circuits find home,
with conductive wiring spun,
on circuit board's copper and electric roads.
Transistors are the key, they come in many types,
considered among the greatest of inventions,
they are the chips brain, and power many a device.
Resisters are placed to prevent bridging effects,
the metallic surfaces are bound,
with solder, an alloy of tin and lead.
Capacitors store energy, pins carry a current,
through the ovens they travel,
sometimes infrared lamps play the furnace.
In 1960 this technology matured,
but chips are not restricted,
to this process, some utilize wafers.
For wafers, silicon is the canvas,
on which the portrait is painted,
low material costs and good temperature ranges to manage.
Many layers make up a wafer's scheme,
it's silicon and aluminum are gray,
but refracted light gives way to reds, blues, yellows and greens.
"Etching" is the process,
of at least two layers of electronically interconnected wafers,
mounted one at a time, cut and polished.
Inexpensive creations, roll out the line,
like a newspaper, churning out new wafers,
instead of one at a time.
The circle takes shape to help prevent brakes,
to fit in as many chips as possible,
and machines can handle them easier this way.
Look close into the heart and observe,
that human mind behind the creation,
has left us a mark of his work.
Be wary dear chip, for though you make possibilities infinite,
with your uses many, and speed fantastic,
it can prove ill, pushing those limits.
In 1956 this tool rose from the mind of man,
perfected in the 1980's, it still gains momentum,
to think, it hails from the humility of sand.
It now can be found in many everyday things,
from computers to cellular phones and cars,
and most likely whatever our future might bring.
I used to think the long smoke filled tables of NA were the answer.
The stalks of faces nodding with my inflection, up up down downs left left right.
Like a goddamn contra code.
Happiness charted in days, two years glowed clichés rolled.
Waning white key tag applause.
I bolted before they found out I burned on the way in…
rolled straight to the methadone clinic. Grown men in in ankle length shorts and sideways hats, Whining………….clean??
I even tried to buy a few weeks out of the trunk of an Oldsmobile… wafers or sick pills, my choice…
stared deep into the eyes of socially acceptable at a scientology rehab.. Mingled with cruise and Katie Holmes, then got the boot for hoarding gasoline..
Impatient in eastern Pa, courtesy of the Canadian national railroad. I sat circled breathing from garbage bags of Freon. Sneaking from a mandated meeting to the Reeding open market clutching everyone’s night in my wallet..
I’ve never been here before though alone without prospects, no subs nada nothing…
I am all feelings now and I know
I “m still trapped inside of her, screw you sarah, your abstract cards,
7 th grade year book pictures locked together, from your mind to my stalled heart.
. I wanna run back to dark rooms your ashy cotton tongue kisses..
I need someone to water down my vodka. Ash my burning cigarette..
, Hug me.dammit. Lie to me through late night emails.. Your still speeding through, drowning in Pabst. I’m stuck my mind still sears you picture Short waves of blonde always searching for a quiet mole behind the right eye. I’m scared I’ll never feel it again. Waves of breath stolen from a line. You will always be exalted.
Work is good, but everything is missing. No rush, no rocket of feeling when I touch someone. No raised hairs from a shoulder squeeze. I can’t even find a mind to throw venom at my writing. Attacking my inability to move forward.
I must be Too sober now craving your extended leg and swinging dolce bag…
[If somebody asks] how old are you?
[My answer should be] it may be 90, it may be 2
[Does it matter any] if I am true.
We are, in fact, grains for the birds
Seek our salvation in a pack of cards.
Make love [illicit?] to the queen of hearts.
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
We are old (..) I may be bold
Our stories are very well- told [prehistory, protohistory and antihistory]
In our shoes [Nike] pin balls rolled [ballet]
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
[I must speak the truth]
In essence, we are a big fart [Cosmologists, beware]
A dwarf in a Mumbai City Mart [May be Manhattan, if you prefer]
A rectangle as the head of Bart
We eat our shorts and Springfield tart
[ You may order Plutonium wafers in nukesauce if you are smart]
And book rooms at (The Grand Del Mar)
Run our eyes on [motheaten] Marco's yellow chart
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
So when we finish our dreams
we must go to the pips and pimps
We are gyrating wimps
Natural philosophy, Tims.
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams.
Our natural philosophy, Tims.