Best Yeasty Poems
When I was born
I was adorn
With parts in pairs
For here and there
And being male
Two nuts to scale
Due to a sale
A two-for-one
Then I inhaled
Into two lungs
Yet with one tongue
Let those lungs wail
When I began
As a new son
The BOGO plan
Was the bargain
By-one-get-one
Like my two ears
And their two drums
Yet twice the tears
From two squished thumbs
And I’ll be clear
I’d opt for one
Or maybe none
I got two arms
In that twin deal
Great on the farm
Not at a meal
Two hands on arms
Stuffed my tummy
With chicken parm
And lots of honey
Since my mummy
Made food yummy
Though meant no harm
I felt crummy
I got two knees
And two kidneys
But tell me please
Couldn’t they part
With one more heart
Two hearts would be
A cause for glee
Don’t you agree
Then I’d restart
This work of art
And reach eighty
Or that times three
I got two holes
Flanking my nose
Where fingers go
For nearby strolls
Thank god my toes
Stuck on two soles
Way down below
Can’t reach those holes
Boy that would blow
Yet when I doze
Who is to know
Where toes repose
I have two thighs
Made just for guys
A pair of eyes
In just one head
Which makes me dread
As not too wise
And so they’ve said
That I’ll drop dead
Since hooked on meds
Plus over fed
On pies and fries
And yeasty bread
I got two feet
At half the price
Two sets of cheeks
One for a seat
They say is nice
Two-for-one’s sweet
And can’t be beat
For parts seem cheap
When they come twice
But don’t you cheat
If not complete
To get parts thrice
New England's post election trees
shed a few teary waving leaves.
Morning sky tries to shine resilience
yet lingers in ominous grey overcast
of silent waiting through despair.
In Michigan and Wisconsin and Pennsylvania
tens of thousands of mothers
who cherish their daughters
are beating themselves up about yesterday;
longing for a do-over
to avoid confidence in false predictions
of safely voting their green ecoconsciousness,
or too quietly staying home
to rake falling fertile leaves.
Failing leaves feel their personal mortality,
too old, over-extended, to survive another bitter winter
of expatriation
while maternal nurturing root systems survive through hibernation,
deeply embedding in Earth's nutritional compost
of yeasty faith,
waiting for another Advent enlightening Season.
Not a branch,
not even a twig,
stirs from frosty lethargy
wondering Why?
Why would we decide ownership of human bodies
must be illegal
because immoral,
yet sexist and capitalist
and racist and homophobic
weaponized irreligious predation
remains legally and morally ambiguous,
as if wealth of straight white male supremacist nobility
were God's full harvest of religious moral gifts
Excusing triumphant patriarchalism
by betraying autumn's promised grace
Elite relentless entitlement
of enduring cockiness
to buy fortressed escape
from winter's monolithic misery,
EarthTribe's historical hiatus
from SunGod's evangelical campaign
of hellfire
Recovering
silent spring's radiantly enlightened morning glory
from disunited piles of leaving ballots
already composted to fertilize richer soils
in four more autumnal climate years.
Beans so tasty
Ones yeasty call
Hasty exit
Nov 30th 2020
Luscious Love
Sweet serene surrender, your love a heaven splendor
In all that is tender, I’ll be the receiver, you the sender
Your love hath no bounds, with sensuous savory sounds
Your cherished heart compounds, within my soul surrounds
In delicious dreams compelling, my desire is over swelling
In our yeasty youthful yelling, seductive screams are selling
Our flesh adoringly afire, ascending aromas of lust perspire
For our liquid love does inspire, sultry satin and lace for hire
Bewitching and enticing, you are my cake with illicit icing
I hunger for you’re spicing, nectar for the gods are sacrificing
Sexual streams our appetite branded baring a bosom bite
Euphoric ecstasy in moonlight, in sweet surrender of night.
Sept.23.2017
The Poet's Fire
Sponsored by/Gregory R Barden
Allow my wisdom to assert warnings along historical authenticity
Bringing the truth, “In the beginning God created…”* with perfect beauty
Championing supreme sovereign control over mankind’s creativity
Driving the need for people to fulfill their foremost directed duty…
Exposed toward Adam and Eve along their impact for eternity
Faith of mine fervently clings to the Lord midst human frailty
Gripped by God’s grace while grieving due to greed’s gravity
Here am I heralding that there’s hope in turning from hostility…
Immune to the cycle of people’s existence marked with infirmity
Justice I yearn to behold in advocating honesty of triumphant joviality
Kindness shown to everyone, not just to pets like doggie and kitty
Love for each other, I hail, to reign along enjoyment of pardon’s liberty…
Mismanagement of resources midst selfishness mars the Creator’s majesty
Now, I beseech functional citizens to exercise nurture against notoriety
Opening themselves for constructive changes with readiness-opportunity
Paradigm shift toward transformation for next generation’s posterity…
Quitting irresponsibility and abuse for granted dominion with role’s quality
Realize, recognize and resolve problems along God’s governing renewability
Sensibility with sensitivity I continue to seek from civilizations in their sobriety
Thankful for grace of the Life-Giver Who upholds earth in His tenacity…
Understanding Earth’s status vis-à-vis inhabitants’ stature of uncertainty
Virtuous heart vows to pray for redemption, repentance and revival’s vitality
Wishing to win against waywardness and wickedness, while watchfully witty
‘Xercising optimism along trust in the Lord for people’s grievous 'xtremity
Yearning for “O earth, hear the word of the LORD”* to become divinely yeasty
Zooming toward New Heaven and New Earth with holy zeal, spiritually zesty.
*Genesis 1:1
**Jeremiah 22:29
November 20, 2024
1st place, "In the cycle of Existence" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon; judged on 1/5/2025
Now I’m not a guy likes to dunk,
But this overseas backboard is junk.
For the costs I’ve incurred,
I should beat Larry Byrd,
Or hit a three-pointer, I’d thunk.
See, the front of the rim always droops,
And that makes it hard to play hoops.
Plus, the pole is too short;
it provides little sport
unless you’re a dwarf with the stoops.
But take heart and don’t ever fear!
Add hops to your hoops to bring cheer.
The more Hefeweizen,
The more you will wisen;
I’m a genius this time of year.
It’s not like you’re better; you’re not.
Just be happy that you forgot.
It’s bold and it’s yeasty,
so drink up your Wheaties.
Stop trying those darned three point shots!
—————
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the Sad Backboards And German Hefeweizens Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
Written on 04/17/2022
Our Daily Bread
Flour, yeast, and milk, a bit of butter too,
and giving it some time to rise,
into a loaf, it grew..
From this mass of sticky flour
will come warm, pillow soft bread.
My body continues its weary work,
as thoughts float through my head.
Looking out my window,
I see the vast and clear blue skies,
my heart fills up with longing…
like dough, perhaps I'll rise.
My arms will grow soft feathers,
my bones all hollow out…
giving me just what I'll need
to fly and float about.
Freedom from the daily drudge,
from burdens and all my cares…
I'll flap my newly made wings
and fly away from there.
Out of this very window,
into bright skies I see…
over the distant mountain tops
to unknown mountain peaks.
Perhaps a place where I could find
A peaceful people who…
give higher value to a woman's mind,
and all that women do.
We sisters of the uterus
We captives of the Moon
We who bleed to create life
Soldiers in stiletto shoes…
...carry more than our fair share
of heavy burdens and the blame…
our bodies are seductive
and so, seem steeped in shame.
These anchors bound to my arms
These binding ties, severed,
when bone turns to hollow straw
and skin sprouts supple feathers...
...then I'll rise like this yeasty dough
and bake in the oven of the sun.
I hear the ding of alarm bells ring
telling me my bread is done.
I know things have been quiet on the “ Mite-y Spread Front”
But do not be dismayed
Yeasty business brews in the Vegemite Camp
That is all I have to say….
It will take some time to come to fruition
But Marmite Man beware
“Remember sleep with both eyes open”
Always “yes” always….Be prepared!!
Just a friendly reminder Sir Tom
That we will continue this when the time is right
Our ongoing little banter feud
Of which is the superior Mite!!
So, NO resting on your laurels Marmite Man
Make sure your jar lids are tightly screwed on
As soon you will hear melodic Vegemite voices singing
The “Vegemite is pure delight, Marmite is pure sh**e” song!!
Warm holes
anticipating slick poles
Wet holes
embracing warm poles
Bipolar linear dark division
flowing downriver nurture valleys
Dipolar round visions
forming mountainous spiral hierarchies
naturally uprising
Ecofeminist journeys inward
and down-valleyed
Egofatherist conquests
growing outward
and up-rallied
Deep waiting
vulnerable black holiness
before highest transparent
widely diverse
best practice polarities
Wet warm birthing wombs
above dry cold dying tombs
Worm downward holes
wet upward trying poles
Yeasty yintegrity holes
engaging just right
tangy yang poles
As empty
anticipates full
As 0
embraces 1
EarthTribe Revolution.
Awoken by my internal clock,
the ground is cold and sticky.
Head is pounding,
body is dirty,
why did I sleep here?
Arch my back up slightly off the wooden floor,
shards of brown glass pop off my grey hoodie.
Better get a grip before this gets worse.
My eyes crack open.
It takes longer for the room to get into focus than usual.
For a solid five minutes the living room looked like its reflection in the Hudson River.
Is it dark?
No.
Do my guts hurt?
No.
Do I remember what happened last night?
Barely.
My first six drinks were Pabst Blue Ribbon
but I must have gotten myself into something else.
My nose hurts—
damn,
how much money do I have?
Less but not much less.
If I did cocaine I didn’t pay for it.
Check the clock,
8:35am
class is at 9:20am
better head to the bus.
I get up,
brush myself off,
toss one strap of my backpack over my shoulder
head out the blue door.
Leaving the house like this
leaves me insecure.
My body likely smells of yeasty mold,
my breath likely smells like the inside of an ancient treasure chest,
the general aura of smoke follows me as well.
Jessie stops me in the streets.
Catches me in the act of walking while recovering.
“your hair is messy,
your smell is musty,
your general aura is tired.”
Thanks
I thought to myself.
I tried to leave.
Jessie stops me.
“What do you want out of all this?”
“I want to live like this until something or someone stops me.”
“What about karma?
Don’t you think that if you keep behaving like this, it’ll hit you hard?”
“Karma is reality,
if it just proved it to me I’d be happy.”
She left with an unimpressed prolonged gaze.
but I got to class on time.
I woke up
warm
in my bed.
I like Jessie
I hope I see her today.
She’d make fun of me
and I’d laugh.
Airy, Buoyant Clouds, Defiantly Float Gaily, Heedlessly, In Joyful Kaleidoscopic Light.
More Nautical Oval Players Queue Rashly, Stirring Thunderous, Unexpected Violence With Xrated, Yeasty Zealousness.
Zesty,
Yeasty,
Xanthous*,
Wheaty,
Velvety,
Unrivaled Taste,
Strangely Refined,
Quintessentially Pale,
Original,
Not Mass-produced, Large Kettles,
Just Intensely Hearty Goodness,
Fiercely Effervescent,
Deliciously Cold,
Bottled
Ale
----------
*yellow
Prayer's wealthy positive potential
is not as substitute for healthcare planning.
Prayer might be a prelude to planning,
and might be an appropriate postlude
to fully implemented plans,
whether psalm of gratitude
or requiem of remorse
depending on healing or diseasing outcomes.
Even better,
some gratitude and humble remorse,
held together,
demonstrating we have learned something
from our nondual co-arising trial and error
and yet continue improving
our loving healthcare refinements.
But, whether my life plans are what happened
while Earth continuously revolved in other distressing directions,
or I continue learning to plan somewhat more cooperatively
and multiculturally
and polyculturally
and polyamorously
Inductive prayer and deductive plans co-arising
integrally more than separately,
hopeful prayer is the faithful planner's co-redemptive bookend,
Alpha and Omega double-binding points
of interreligious
peaceful reorientation
Not my personal How to Save the World book,
much less evangelically seminal scripture.
Prayer is my yeasty bread and liturgical garnish,
embodied needs to rise and dance,
mind wants to sing romance,
but not the red arteries and blue veins
of ego/ecologically balanced
lovely heart-care planning.
Something defenders of the 1st
and 2nd Amendments
might want to hold together
You have no authentic freedom of speech
or rights of interreligious
interdependently polyamorous
polytheistic expression
if I have the right to aim a gun
at monotheistic
monocultural caste preservers,
monopoly players
who disagree
unarmed.
And I have no authentic prayer
for victims of ballistic violence
that doesn't include
intercessory planning.
Everybody assumes
you like dogs
especially their dog
sprung from its tether
breaking for you
this morning
all a-scud over the gravel
propelled by yeasty, toothy
gushing grins
homing in on you over there
fossilized, frozen by
by the dumpster’s Gape,
one less
cat person
the world won’t miss.
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker