Curries Poems

She Rises

She is the whisper of dawn
Soft yet unyielding,
A storm wrapped in silk,
A fire that warms and burns.

She curries worlds in her hands,
Dreams in her eyes,
Scars that tells stories,
Yet she walks unbowed.

She loves, she builds, she heals-
A force of grace and grit,
The soul of the earth,
Eternal, unstoppable.

British Inquisition

Irish Equines and Scottish Rubbish
Admiration's and Despondent
                       days
as sail will say of sewing's
                                       days
antonym was taught with 
                              pleasant pirch
Birch as drawn or Castled wrong
heavenly curvatures
                              rarely daunt
Playful men aboard, a sea
Days end nights
                      Arabic keys
Bought, brought at boughe
         nestled beside, curries
                                      left favorite
only and when boats as steam
                             are played fifth

dedicated to orders and the vice of an Admiral's Home

Slices of Air

"Amid the jagged shadows of mossy
leafless boughs;"
                        Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Earth Rips different
Not like cloth

 tearing, sharp, painful sounds
Thicker cloth nêe bursts
baritone harshness

Ripping from earth, done
solemnly, knowing greater
calamitous unearthing is
certain, feels like bursting

Buttons, brief       Eyelash

Flash of shock, something
missing, phantom pain some

Describe

My drying herbs, roots and all
Gave up this way, by my hand

As the 70' Norway Spruce Pine 
in front of 30 Rock NYC
Slowly weeps tears of sweet sap

Squeezed from constricting veins
Machines      surprising vast

Vascular networks of life below
Ground

Forced abscission really

Slowly dying, withering, shackled
In stantions for all to admire in
Spectacled holiday lights

Politicians virtue-signal righteous
Uses for its sublimated limbs

Sticks of assorted stature for
Sordid assignments...

I'll spice my curries
with my hand-pulled

Herbs


November
2019

For There Abide - An Ode To Bacon

For there abide beef, pork and chicken
and the greatest of these is bacon
hot sizzling crispy to the tongue
satiating succulently scrumptious bacon.

For bacon curries no favor
plays the field tempts the stoic and saintly
slides into gustatorial beds
romps with tomato and lettuce
hangs out with eggs, hard boiled and soft
mocks the ten condiments
bathes in the sinful seven
is prideful
lusts after
the last greed filled bite
of gluttony 
provokes the envy
of slothful
greasy lust.

Ah, bacon
you grease the skids
of dietary destruction
stalk the fat cells
of cellulitic cravings
tempt the tendrils of scent
with your aphrodisial aroma
inducing a pheromonal fling.

Oh bacon
you promiscuous panderer
curvaceous little porker
I believe
I trust
I lust
in and after your truth.


John G. Lawless
©11/2/2019

In Thine Hands

As mine hand wrap yours soft and tender
Hope filled mine heart with joys of bliss
Conduct first steps in walking with you
Precious jewel wrapped in mine hands

Years strengthens yours hands full grown
The hands of time days quickly passed 
Equal to mine they became
Perfectly our crossed hands fitted
Full of excitement you left
Home loving Father blessed you
One of our own in your hands
A cheer of bless heredities 

Today your hands are muscled up
Strong lifts this vessel entrust upon
Those little hands industrious
Curries me around with energy
Though strong and benevolent child
Against mine that is aged golden
Nature so sets me divine call
Favoured, venerated and blessed 
Aged with grace a priceless wine

Weigh To Go

We dined at a Hungry Horse pub
and sampled some delicious grub
We tried curries and pies
Lovely gammon and fries
But now I can’t fit in the tub!

6th April 2017

Cluck

Ten miles dating a chicken. Lots of corn curries. A banked grain is discovered by clawing the ground. But if a temperate climate ruffles feathers it is not wise to stand. It is imperative to enter the cossetting coop and slam the door. When over two hundred and fifty eggs are a notion which signifies a pathway it is dangerous to crack. Oh. It is neither in the style of comb on a head or a tail arch that delivers a perfect yolk. To absorb. Contemplate. Recognise. And ascertain. So racing a pigeon and an ostrich and a dodo is fantastic fun in the summer months. But if a cockerel bakes bread then crowing is prevalent in the morning and evening and also the afternoon. The first source. Wow a dusty book with leaves in it. Squalid squatting squaring squared sandy strutting streams. And a bowl of cornflakes floating in a lake in a paper bowl. 1 2 3 4 5 then. Great. Poultry post. Aviation z

Curries Can Chant

Antidote of officialdom dew. Wow. Amazing. Little the latter and a speckled view answers. Hath he had been. No curds
 hahahaha and now they were in a meeting
 gone gone gone. Good. Hahahaha and a sw pop round. Hahahaha and now the wooden spoon and the other day and night is good with the omitted results included in. Hahahaha zzzxx culmination creating crests! Rather fascinating it is. *** hahahaha

Existentialism

If fifteen pigeons circle a chimney it is no time to light fires. It would be very very dangerous indeed. Feather fires flake flames finale. And a sweep of soot is not an avenue of mature beading. Antelopes occasionally make great butter in large urns. But quantities of flashing serpents is not a quarterback or an orange quantum theory. Danger of losing numbers then. Outnumbered are outstanding and occasionally octagonal oceanographic octopi sing in caves to the tunes of the tidally adjusted clam who arrive with plates of curries at a prawn ballroom. Hahahaha Bloomington Abbey hahahaha derogatorily did differently. Hahahaha *** existentialism z

Existentialism

If fifteen pigeons circle a chimney it is no time to light fires. It would be very very dangerous indeed. Feather fires flake flames finale. And a sweep of soot is not an avenue of mature beading. Antelopes occasionally make great butter in large urns. But quantities of flashing serpents is not a quarterback or an orange quantum theory. Danger of losing numbers then. Outnumbered are outstanding and occasionally octagonal oceanographic octopi sing in caves to the tunes of the tidally adjusted clam who arrive with plates of curries at a prawn ballroom. Hahahaha Bloomington Abbey hahahaha derogatorily did differently. Hahahaha *** existentialism z

Octagonal

A pie is not a pasty and a pasty is not a plum scone. So why swim an acre or a hectare? It is to be said that wild golden apples make rather delicious curries. And fortresses of mild mannered swans can consume vast quantities of buns for an evening snack. It is seen through the eyes of the amphibians who travel down dusty paths in droves to drive out the beetroot plants nestling in bush cubes. Vast cavernous vaults of the mind often bruise yet rejuvenation is achieved by sitting upside-down in a tree . And quantities of atomic people cannot play in bins so fetch nineteen leaves sixteen goblets a coffee bean and a pint of mixed pulses. Then consume. It is to be said that sausages at right angles can never be cut into cubic format. And a half-hour display of bacon. Nevertheless a time could sway in a wind tunnel. Hahahaha and now a saintly fashionable dressed cat. Hahahaha with an umbrella. *** draw a crayon sketch xxxx colonisation z

Categorisation of Millipedes Spinning

A cascoid on a pool table is often likened to a queen in a pan of noodles. How amazing is the flowing waters of the many taps. And when the moon rides a flower it can be said that the hands on a clock could spin rather rapidly. Although a sunshine sheath is awaiting a cattle train it is notable that numbers of herds alter dramatically so it is always wise to jump around carrying fifty nine canes, a flan of many colours, a large amount of curries (all strengths), a bowl of cereal, and at least ten fish forks. It is neither the time nor place for a peculiarly built rabbit to speak. And mind the senility of that vest top in a drawer and a bangle and a necklace often have great fun holidaying with a scarf. It is the tentacle of a great ancient fish. In a fabulously written historical college drinking its air. *** villagers view *** valour cavalry and bring two hundred speaking clocks. Hahahaha xx and bean *** collaboration collaborative colourings colliding's of spinning particles. Hahaha specification categorisation xxxxx ha

Choices If I Was Given

Choices we make in life






When I chose to study rather pursuing literature,
Proud I felt of my choice treated so respectfully,
Writers were taken crazy and doctors the most busy,

My literature books drowned in tears,
gathered dust to my worst fears,
Creativity breathed its last as I peep into my past,

Choice if I was given my status had been single!
Ah freedom and no worries, no household curries,

Now I dance to the tune of clock,
Distanced from my kind of flock,
Days and nights merge into one,
As to my soft pillow I lately succumb!

Introspection......

It's all about one road taken
and the other one not,
Can you ever say the choice was wrong
when the other you never walked through ?
Having firm belief in my choice,
Say my dreams so far have come true!

Ponder if choices were truly in our hands
and not written on those fortune bands ?
What we truly chose for us
was not trashed to bin thus,
Trust He hears our pure heart and voices
there must be no repentance on choices !





Written Sept 10th, 2015
For contest by Edward ebbs

Indispensable Essence, 2

(Shakespearean)

Against the sky, the weathered land now sinks
as water pours its force upon the earth
'til mossy glades become the tattered links
between the ocean's rim and mountain's girth.
A drought creates the stagnant puddle-scum
unfit to slake the thirst of man or ape
while life on earth will shrink and soon become
too weak to fight disease or seek escape.
Yet streams still flow with water fresh and clean
to nourish all of life within their range,
as pastures blossom, lush in verdant green,
from rain which curries earth in soft exchange.
        As life cannot continue without breath,
        a rainless land may gather only death.

Washout

Meteoric warning of storm's danger, 
still awed nonetheless by its brute force.
And those giants along the tree line—
submitting to its dark, amorphous power—	
bow in the darting whip of its tongue
as though being torn to shreds by its teeth
and wilted by its breath is their portion.
The curtain of rain that follows in its wake
curries the earth and leaves it green, sunlight
glinting on wet, dusky boulders like the ones
you hauled in from the forest to surround
the flowerbeds. The rain so heavy it left
the lilies crushed, like my heart, ripped
from my breast that day you left, and I,
bowing like the line of trees in the rain.

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