A potent fruit compote potentate
ordered pancakes, but ordered late.
So, the man who wore his kingdom's crown
settled for pineapple cake, upside down.
Each and every day it's such a thrill to include
all the home grown organic produce, such a large percentage of our daily intake of food
Fruit that that does not fit with ease within a rhyming verse
no matter, it's the delicacy of the flavour on the taste buds as they burst
Some of these fruits include, black, yellow and green sapote
gotta eat them on their own, not in a fruit compote
Some fruits are flowering now, in the future we shall yield
native atherton raspberry, papaya and soursop
The aroma of their blossom spreading through the field
There's mangoes, bananas and dragon fruit, all part of the enterprise
but there's predators like fruit bats and noisy cockatoos, who like the fruit as much as us
From those attracted to the fruit, we must find some form of disguise
Other varieties in the orchard, rollinias, bullocks heart and peanut butter fruit
One day they will provide some tucker, part of the culinary pursuit
Create a cheese platter.
Cheddar in chunky cubes.
Cream cheese combined with crab.
Crispy crunchy crackers.
Cherry compote with chopped
cucumber and cashews
compliments cottage cheese.
Il existe une confiture de myrtilles,
Ne parlons pas de la succulente confitures de mûres,
De la marmelade d’oranges, de la confiture de rhubarbe,
Il existe des confitures rouges, des confitures vertes,
Une parenthèse exquise, la compote de pommes,
Il existe de la confiture de prunes, de reine claude,
De la confiture de poires, ou de fruits d’automne
La confiture de fraises que tout le monde adore,
La purée de marrons, la confiture de cassis,
La confiture de framboises, du petit sureau,
Et d’autres confitures de mangues ou de coings,
L’important dans la vie, c’est de toutes les goûter,
Pas d’en choisir une.
There is a blueberry jam,
Let’s not talk about the succulent blackberry jam,
Orange marmalade, rhubarb jam,
There are red jams, green jams,
An exquisite parenthesis, the apple compote,
There is jam of plums, of queen claude,
Pear jam, or autumn fruit
The strawberry jam that everyone loves,
Chestnut puree, blackcurrant jam,
Raspberry jam, elderberry,
And other mango or quince jam,
The important thing in life is to taste all,
Not to choose one.
"The Muses"
Allusions
camouflaged confessions
I have read them all, each page
envelopes emptied
turned inside out
pockets of Poésies
they sprinkle their messages
like confetti, minds popping
like corks, frothy and overflowing
some kind celebration
cupped and bled
stories of fairy-flossed confection
the sugar compote
cooked in the head
before dreams
are laid
and set
I have read them all
envelopes emptied
inside out
Allusions
all skipping
the fine lines
locked and open
all sentences
of the muses
a musing
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"I found a grave
Brushed off the face
Felt your light
And I remember why I know this place
I found a bird
Closing her eyes
One last time
And I wonder if she dreamed like me
As much as it hurts
Ain’t it wonderful to feel?
So go on and break your wings
Follow your heart 'til it bleeds..."
allusion. n.
an expression designed to call something to mind without mentioning it explicitly; an indirect or passing reference
When archeologists dig up the bones,
it's not likely that any of them moans,
"Forgive me if I have you mis-gendered."
Apple trees are by their fruit remembered.
----------
H/T to An Apple Is Always an Apple by Milt Hankins
Quote: "From deep within my heart
I always catch the scent of my Beloved.
How can I help but follow that fragrance?" By Rumi
She, an inhale of perfume on a summer day vacant as the scent of rain
when she passes by, every flower mutes and bows to her aerial adventure
truth be told she is the secret of my desire and she drives me quite insane
when she dances the world stands still witnessing our private indenture
she is the compote of my sweet thoughts, the reason I believe in love
Her aroma a signature of passion, an undescriptive calling to my senses
when she sachets my way every star of heaven releases light from up above
she disarms me with her smile and disarms all my defenses
a bouquet of wild flowers in the garden of my dreams , a fantasy of love
she is the H in my big heart and the T of my tomorrows
From deep within my heart I catch the scent of my favorite flower
she is my best loved poem and sensation, she's my girl power.
July 15, 2022
Sponsor Sotto Poet
Contest Name Rhyme Rumi Quote
A kiss from my mom each night on my forehead,
A smile and a hug when I fall, from my dad,
Forgiveness from my brother when I play with his toy-car,
or from my sister when I eat the last candy from the jar,
A lick on my cheeks from Max, my new dog,
Miss Piggy, together with Kermit The Frog.
The hands of my grandfather throwing me up high,
The grandmother's pear compote or her sweet apple pie.
Lucas, my neighbor when he brings me his cat
Olivia, my cousin, letting me borrow her beautiful red hat.
The rain when we jump, just for fun, in the mud,
A soft blow on my scars, bandages for blood.
Monetary melodic monster men moving. Monumental morning then. Take no pillar to a bed. It is wiser to consume pillows. In vast quantities. One two three times a passing pear with tight curled hair. Unfurls a truth through a previously locked safe. But caverns of tight formation can also be opened to release vast amounts of truth. Oh look there. A waving dancing potage of potato and carrot compote. Yacht yearns youth. And the grinning cloud. Hahahaha and therefore operatives operatic operations. Hahahaha deviant dogs. *** vaporisation z
If you were a pear,
I'd be a compote.
If you were an ice cream,
I'd be a float.
If you were an apple,
I'd be a pie.
If you were a picnic-
I'd be a fly.
I REMEMBER GRANDMA
I was sent to grandma’s place for a week
And she greeted me and kissed my cheek
I helped her to cook and the mess was no problem to her.
Grey wisps of hair knitted back constantly with finger
With embedded wedding ring, covered with flour.
And taste of her thick cherry compote after an hour.
She told me bedtime stories sat on her stool,
Oh, those bed sheets were always starchy and cool
The smell of her fresh-ironed old linen apron
Was there whenever I would waken
Yes, I buried my face in her clothes, I knew her scent,
Like a fledgling bird to the correct nest sent.
A tropical pavlova
rice with plum compote
caramel pecan sundae
a lemon posset
chocolate cheescake
sweets for my
Sweet!
A horde of weary eyes
at the false fountain of youth
in demo against
the fading of the majestic night;
their hushed voice vibrates against
my seat, as I enjoy the skyline
while the silver moon, secretly
sips my ice-cold compote.
That strange looks
somehow touch
my own sadness, humming
with the cold breeze of gentle wind
and the yelling of sweet Babushka;
I know…and they know, she is right;
it’s time for all, to come to term
with her final whistle.
She’s the night watcher. Her gate
of ephemeral solitude,
is soon to be locked; no other entrance,
unless one takes the risk, creeping
like vine to reach the terrace;
but it isn’t easy, ‘cos yesterday morn
crushed eyes blocked the doorway
that made Babushka scream, for help.
Thou, I never gave her headaches;
she’s really worried seeing me
on the edge
of the rooftop, while
reading Pushkin, as the squadron
of night worshippers, whining
at the false fountain of youth,
‘cos of unfinished home-works.
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