Gullets Poems | Examples

bon apetit

“taste” …

she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …

all the same.

bon appetit -

“taste” …

she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …

all the same.

Going Feral

I choose to eat outside 
because 
it's cataclysmic in there.
In the cafeteria
where they perch on plastic -chairs 
chirping away in flock hysteria.
Frantically peck-pecking away the crumbs
tossed to them from the higher ups.
All of them are slowly going deaf -n- dumb.

Soon they'll flitter off
(gullets filled with themselves)
to play solitaire on filthy keys  
I choose to work outside their hellish squares.
trying to stay off my knees whenever possible.

I choose to eat outside the burning carousel.
I fear... I might be going feral.

The Fish Head

Once, this hollow
in a washed up fish head held
an eye. Now it's just a skull,
an escapee from a crab pot
where it hung as bait to attract
a wandering claw. 

I cradle it in my hands,
its flesh picked back to bone.
I see through its ghostly eye
into a submarine world of weed 
and waving fronds tipped
with leathery fruit, spiked urchins,
dancing sea worms
and teeth readied 
to seize unwary life.

All seems horror, hidden menace 
beneath sand or tucked away
in crevices. There, poison barbs, 
razor teeth, gullets big enough
to swallow whole lay in wait
and dream beneath 
moving shadows.

And then, cast down from above,
a barbed hook baited 
with subterfuge, sharpened
to anchor hard in flesh 
and be hauled up to drown
a victim in air.

Fish….forgive me for having
commandeered your eye,
but I have done so to honor
your short life
before I lay your head down
on the soft sand and let 
the tide take you away,
forever.

Gulls Ride Upon the High Sea's Tongue

What crashes into them
is the oceans voice beheaded.

Seabirds skim upon verge and crest,
a green swell of rise and fall.

Open mouths trawl the air
then plunge into a rising wave
to scoop a thrashing fin
that dangles now
between life and death.
Gullets gulp down then wide wings
swim on.

Indoor cats stare out of windows
as the heckling hunters tumble and dive
for shadows of silver iridescence.

Those engaged upon the land
hear the piratical calls of ocean winds,
the harsh and throaty feasting
above the seas rolling tongue.

A fishing village witnesses
this wild dance of catch and hide,
overhears that high cry above
the restless surf and spray;
and when the fishing boats return
they haul the harvest in.

Here under a shale roofed salty cottage
a portly house cat abides beside a tin dish
for its daily dine of scaly fish.
© 4 hours ago

Where Hides God

When life seems an arduous desert trek
When black blizzards sweep past us
When our gullets stick like plastic with no moisture
It is then we look for God- our oasis
We wonder where he is hiding

When darkness invades our surroundings
When we have to travel alone the long lone road
When life seems a dark alley with no ray of light in front
It is then we look for God, our torch bearer
We wonder where he is hiding

When pitch darkness enshrouds us
Making us shudder and grow sick at heart
Go forth into silence and look for Him
Then from within, comes a still voice
Reassuring and clear- “Fear not, I am with you”

God likes to play ‘hide and seek’ like a child
Until you look for Him intently, He will be hiding
If you wish to see Him face to face, 
Set out on a vigorous search and once you find Him
Stay with Him. Sure He will give you lasting company

August.26.2022


Where is God Hiding Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker

Green Turtle Hatchlings

They struggle to the waves
on floppy leather wings.

So very many are picked,
then tossed up and back
on a sheer-beaked razor edge
into a gull’s throat.

Did one escape in the frenzy?
Hard to tell
if one soft shell made it
to the ocean or not.

The caught keep swimming,
plunging on down the gullets.

A Cereal Killer

Maybe a serial killer, the crows cawed to each other.
This was agreed upon by the vole and the vole’s mother.
I think he’s just a great horned owl, a good guy, I said.
However, I did not know all the murderous books that he read.

He studied forensics, and he took apart his own pellets.
The books he read pushed diabolical ideas down in his gullets.
He was a cereal killer that simply could not stop.
He devoured all of our Rice Krispies – Snap, Crackle, Pop!

Night Storm

A gale on the edge of sleep,
a night horse,
black fire blown through
wind-hollowed lungs.

A tempest in the ringing shell of self
where sleep slopes down.

The mind has miles --- a long foreshadowing.

The red gullets of storm gulls open
they sing of deep sea dreams
never remembered.

Amid this teacup tumult,
a child looks out,
a storm-child driven to a high ledge,
where his sleepy legs
dangle
over a pitched and plunging bed.

Sugar

I see it in cubes cast
And chiefly featuring in breakfast;
In Bread and cake harboured
And in plantains and cereals honoured…

Also in my tea that would gullets pass through,
Its presence in oats holding true.

I see it in packs neatly filled
In layers arranged and sealed,
Each one of them as white as white can be!
Every one of them nearly the honey of a bee.

I’m told The Best Quality is in Havana,
Although readily grows in every Savannah.

A starchy stuff and energy booster,
Raiser  of the Weak and sure Mover!
Yet, not a fabulous treat for The Diabetic
None ever, after taking it, ecstatic…

Must, in fact, forget consuming even a single:
Their no no-go area and Bermuda Triangle.

Seagulls

The gulls are low, not skimming,
but surfing spray
just above
the rise and fall of crests.

Beaks scythe and catch
tracking troughs.
They seek the in-between fish
thrown
between tumbling parapets
of ocean.

Trawling gullets
scoop,
gulp the spew.

Swigging necks
do not glance back
but plow circles of light
upon the water,

then they dive upwards
into
the wings of the wind.

If Ever I Had a Country - Continued: Vii and Viii

IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY…

                      VII

If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Keeper of the keys to the Treasury
I'd invite all the tramps from every contree
To weigh with sunken eyes the lack of bullion for paper money
Into each tattered pocket drop slabs of gold to keep them company
During chilblained nights of growling intestinal acrimony
That is, if ever I were the Keeper of the keys to the Treasury
And even if I never had no country


		   VIII

If ever I had a country
And if ever I were cast in the role of the Night Soil Men
I'd make certain every caste citizen got a taste of it
No use pretending you don't know what I really mean
It's the stuff caste-men push down gullets with spicy relish
And let blast off galore trumpets and bassoons at full throttle
That is, if ever I were cast in the role of the Night Soil Men
And even if I never had no country

© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018

Limerick Crochetes: Once a Teacher Who Didn'T Like School

Lmerick crochetés : Once a Teacher who didn't like school

Once a Teacher who didn't like school
Since his kids kept calling him a fool
Wished to do himself in
Lost control of discipline
All day his class looked like a swimming pool

To this Land of the Bow and Arrow
Came Settlers blasting hip pistols two
They shot their way Far West
Taught the Injuns what quest
In Alexander's conquests wasn't tabou

Then the Rifle Association
Triggered Trump to top the Nation
" Arm all teachers, " he said.
" Boost rifle sales - the Dead
Will bless the use of Ultime Unction ! " 

With books the Teach packed solitary weapon
Hidden under the school's emblem apron
Kids laughed loud nonetheless
To see Teacher fearless
Till Terrorist at window broke open

Criss-crossed class red-hot streaking bullets
Kids dived under desks yells burst gullets
Some clung to the Teach's vest
Others hid behind broad chest
Struggled he to match bullet for bullets

Full square the singeing flare ripped his chest
Till rounds automatic echoed the West
Some say his looks bereaved
Looked very much relieved
Like a scion for his kids gave his Life's best.

© T. Wignesan - Paris,  2018

Pride of a Market Woman

Who would feed the cubs?
Those that shall one day be scrubs,
The land that hurts but weaken,
The life of the poverty stricken,

Who would shelter the pullets?
With tongues spinning spits of fear down their gullets,
Quils that gather and habour,
Drink from no gourd of splendor,

Who would hunt for the fledglings?
Bearing cozz of the days proding,
Skies that hold their pride,
Not that it complements nor wide,

Who would guide the fingerlings?
Innocent youngers of the waters hovering,
Scales trading afore in line,
A battle when awe,too handsome to decline,

Who would care for the billies?
Ears that heed not voice that harries,
She who sounds the tone,
A rift with the throat,altered by a stone.

By the rivers that gather,
The manner of happenings,
I am hurt when weaken,
But by my tent,when I sit,
Beneath the towering heat,
Of which shall continue to repeat,
And like my fragile-skinned allies,
I am hearthy from within.

Arrested Soldier

We stand prepared for battle, our pikes thrusted toward the gullets of our adversaries.

Hastily we aim to strike down all we oppose.

Our nemeses match us with a fervor that scorches redder than our own flames of rage.

They perceive us a threat to their very ethos.

Slashing of skin underscored by the glitters discharged from steel upon steel exchanges.

Bodies amass as the carmine blanket flows.

Screeching shrieks heard as each soul withdraws from a once confident swain lay slain.

Mighty steed hooves surge the earthy dough.

All shall be gained or gone astray; for no more shall join the savagery of such hostilities.

Victory will govern the fortune of pitiable foes.

Alas, the moment granted by a lamentable contender that punctured my golden cuirass.

My fortune is not to see what will to follow.

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