From this angle the bushes do not conceal them.
Are they hinged or unhinging?
Each body is a prison gate for the other,
both seem stuck together by a pungent lip spit.
Feathering fingers pulse-play over gulping skin.
Greedy eyes zoom in,
unbuckling muscles sift and trowel,
modelling the creaming and palpable.
This public act despoils the evening
yet it also sweetens.
I feel the need to rut,
to suck inward all this carnality,
to sup upon this liqueur of spiced flesh,
even though my cupped hands
remain regretfully or not,
unsullied.
Eureka of Archimedes was part of his daydream,
Thomas Edison nurtured his dream in bright light like gleam;
Could sleep ever overwhelm Alexander Graham Bell,
Till he heard the noise from the other and fell in a spell...?
George Washington Carver, who found in peanuts and soybeans,
Utilizations, like treasures, hidden abundant gleans;
Eli Whitney's constant daydreams gave birth to cotton gin,
That separated seeds, hulls and wastes; hearts of all did win...!
Johannes Gutenberg’s innovative printing machine,
Or John Logie Baird's mechanical television sheen;
Benjamin Franklin's lightning rod and the iron furnace,
Or Henry Ford's ventures into automobile sternness...
No invention has found its sphere devoid of day-dreaming,
This should be coalescence of action-vision creaming;
Together with concentration-shift toward internals,
Should bring forth spiritually resonant externals...!
21 November 2022
Don't Quit Your Daydream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Sand ruffles beneath creaming tide
where seaweed bouquets softly glide;
searching for crabs, sandpipers prance
in crystal pools where sunbeams dance.
Suspended somewhere outside time
this springtime taste of life sublime
stretched out upon the sandy shore
just watching cloud kites dip and soar.
Copyright, May 8, 2022
The Last Donut Temptation
David J Walker
A thousand donut shops
Greet me on the street
I see them on the way
To anyone I meet
I smell their frier frying
I can tell their bakers bake
I see their cream puffs creaming
I see the cinnamon shake
I know their glazers glaze
Their long johns twist and swirl
My eyes glass in a daze
As I watch their cruller curl
I can taste the fine white powder
Shaken on the top
Of every sprinkled donut
Every chocolate drop
It makes me twitch and twitter
If I am in the store
And a fresh hot apple fritter
Tells me I need just one more
I plead for divine intervention
A pray sincere and quiet
Save me from temptation
And this stupid cursed diet
TOM’S TURKEY ANTICS
Tom Cunningham, cunning with his limericks.
Slick and sassy, a bit devilish too. If he were
Santa, his bag would be full of not toys but lists
of sensational poetics for adult boys and girls.
Tom’s turkey antics have him roasting Polly,
handcuffing Santa, whip-creaming Rudolph.
Oh the things this guy won’t pull on Christmas,
like pranking and impounding Santa’s sleigh.
Ho! Ho! ho! Humor is the game that Tom plays!
12/11/2019
Tribute to Tom Cunningham
Girls in bikinis, how gorgeous they look
Kids ice pops melting, dripping on the sand
People sat in deck chairs reading a book
Happy young couples walking hand in hand.
Waves gently lapping upon the sea shore
Dads building sand castles, show how its done
Moms creaming the kids so they are not sore
Grandparents watch their families have fun.
People on smart phones capture memories
Azure skies, swimming and of course the sun
Bright parasols flapping with the sea breeze
Some joggers on the sands out for a run.
Get down to the beach along side the sea
Create for yourself some fond memories.
Written on 7th July 2018.
"Did Farage really skinny dip?"
Well that's an image I'd rather skip!
Instead, I'll marvel at his craftsmanship
And try to write a playful quip…
For, somehow, again, he's in the news
He might as well, he's nothing to lose
So, as some poor sod tries to fill his shoes
He'll remind us of his own virtues
He says he's leaving now to restore his health
After creaming his wage from Europe's wealth
He got his way. He's pleased with himself
And will I miss that smug-faced elf?
No! - Off he goes, and I won't cry
There'll be no teardrops in my eye
No solemn words, no heavy sigh
Just a finger or two for my goodbye
So, away he goes, towards the sunset
He won't go far - on that I'll bet
If you're a fan - don't be upset
I doubt we've seen the last of him yet
I'm not bitter, I've no time for hate
But I won't miss his method of debate
Will he sit and listen? Quietly spectate?
No, but he's sort-of gone... so let's celebrate
So, did Farage really skinny dip?
Again, a mental image we'd do well to skip
Let's marvel, instead, at the statesmanship
Of the modest ex-leader of the mighty UKIP
S creaming infant.
P iercing cry.
I nsistant, persistent.
T ry the soother.
T ie the ligature.
H old the syringe.
E nd the craving.
D on't you see?
U terine hits are
M issed by baby
M anaging cold turkey?
Y our little junkie.
09/04/16
Number 3 Silent 1
The Gift of Healing
A friend of mine is a 'healer', of the spiritual kind,
She uses Crystals, Incense and concentrates her mind,
To channel all her energies, to bring you some relief,
She can heal your spirit, without need for your belief.
I too can heal I told her, with a little twinkle,
But I use pies and sponges, and a little sprinkle,
Whisking up my sugars, creaming them with dairy,
left on every doorstep, from the 'Baking Fairy'.
The recently bereaved, the lonely and the ill,
My offerings soothe their soul, better than any pill,
Just one or two slices, from the sweetest cake,
And made with my compassion, a Spiritual Bake.
So, if you're sad and lonely, or have chicken pox,
You may open your front door, to find a little box,
Open up that ribbon and take a slice of tart,
Made with love from me to you, to lift your heavy heart.
A fragrance drifts. . .
haunting like forgotten, formless souls,
a swift remembrance-bearing wave
cresting on the ship-blank sea.
Somewhere in those pearl studded waters you linger,
your gentle laughter echoing,
sounding ripplets on the pebbled beach.
Another breeze, foreign scent bearing,
and our fleeting dance is forever gone;
how strongly the sense of your presence
escaped from the past's closed door.
A beam of sanded driftwood, limb stripped, lies stranded
just beyond the reach of creaming foam,
home hungry, like a memory once loved but since discarded,
set free but afraid to roam.
Copyright, September 3, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
blooming inside
your dancing lips trace moonlight in my heart
I feel your dreamy words
creaming
caressing
sugaring
sweetening
------ my closed minds
Full Moon
........rising in the east
........lanterns and moon viewing
........and a cup of green tea
opening inside
your loving kindness reflected moonlight in my heart
I sense your poetic desire
seeking
strumming
gliding
gradually
------ into my mind
Full Moon
.......kissing the tatami
.......softly entering the residence
.......lighting upon a maiden's face and her samurai
tiptoeing inside
your gentle warrior heart shining moonbeam in my heart
I embrace your burning soul
melting
dissolving
enchanting
electrifying
------ this body of mine
There's no through road so
with iced courage and steeled breath
She opens each scarlet line,
watching each blank page wave in the wind.
She renounces, orphaning it through self sacrifice and,
through Her crimson puddles,
She sees the barren paths- untrodden-
retreat as the oven scolds the cake inside.
It leeches, and Her skin, the colour of sour milk,
is creaming, each foam washing away the marked gold sand.
It's too late, the clock's already struck and chimed
for the still unborn - stillborn unborn.
Enclosing, the bud swallows the bee,
it's shallow heart fading,
like the bleaching sun drying the caterpillar.
She collapses, clasping, dragging Her burden with Her
. T ulips coated in dewy waxen gloss
U ndulating their warm fragrant breath
L eaving - that cold hearted Mr. Frost
I n a
P uddle of tears
S creaming - Spring is here!
~~~~~
Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Written: April 11, 2011
For: Carol Brown's contest - Spring Flowers
Awarded: First Place
You’re sure to get the meaning
of, “Meaner than a junkyard dog”.
It makes you want to run, not jog;
to avoid a severe creaming.
If you dis your girl by screaming,
ranting, raving like a road hog.
You’re sure to get the meaning
of, “Meaner than a junk yard dog”.
If toward lying you are leaning,
think twice, tell the true story.
You don’t want it to get gory.
Time is over for verbal preening.
You’re sure to get the meaning.
© Jun 03 2010 For Jared’s contest “The Rondel”
Tragedy bristles upon the lips
and rivers in gestures of finger tips
It pools under suits incomparably black
sizes too small from disuse
Clinically built in a room sweating sorrow
which vacuum packs pain in a box 'till tomorrow
where loved ones bend whispers around all their stories
and sleep walk to hug the next guest
Ribbons from flowers blow stiff air conditioned
once perfectly placed and then quick repositioned
creaming the moments with dulling perfume
sprayed on in the fake factory
All of the smiles are pinned on to ears
in a desperate attempt to dissuade silver tears
which want to unsterilize every moment
and spin up a cyclone of grief
Footsteps are muffled by carpet too thick
in a dance of emotion brought brittle and sick
The room is a breath set to flame catalyst
with only one guest uninvited...
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