Listen,
can you hear it
your taste buds losing interest?
A buzzing in the air
black-winged hoverers
flit and fly across the kitchenette
drawn in by the smell of tantalizing flavors.
Too hot for ovens to be on
too lazy for the frying pan to warm
a chilled gazpacho from the fridge
cucumber, onion, pepper, jalapeno,
garliced olive oil, lime juice, balsamic
and a floating entourage of fly in the soup.
"Gazpacho or Andalusian gazpacho is a cold soup made of raw, blended vegetables. A classic of Spanish cuisine, it originated in the southern region of Andalusia. Gazpacho is widely eaten in Spain and Portugal, particularly during hot summers, as it is refreshing and cool". Wikipedia
Categories:
hoverers, angst, sorry,
Form: Blank verse
A healthy milk-coloured lad flew
A stars-eyed red-white striped gay kite
Into the ocean blue free sky
Up, always up in heaven's gate
Fellow fliers, the friendly foes
Their near visits create a smile:
Sweet in lips- bitter air in nose
Loose insatiable hugs, so vile.
Up and up, it goes, faint and faint
The red-white, almost like a speck
After all it's not about paint,
Low fliers care much for a speak,
When the supposed-speck is bigger,
Of hue and pattern; less flying
Had chose broader, he'd be higher
'Twas strong, thick fit for up sending.
The pull, the wind, the string matter
It's too mean to notice it's size
Big are the mouths telling color.
Kite loose to dot, driven by breeze
He left his name but kite, sky, wind,
Nah church Bell! Nah belly Bell too!
When heaven didn't show; wild are minds.
Hush the hush, rush on rush, so go.
Dress robbed (robbed by night) hoverers splashed goodbyes
Like ether, free of light, he's lost
He's lone and lost - others as mice
This time mice don't race, but run most.
Not known height in false black blue sky
Not known hue and spot he just flew
Asked was a question of should why
Kite flying in night be a new.
Categories:
hoverers, adventure, allegory, discrimination, success,
Form: Rhyme
despondent
these feelings invaded,
conquered the very soul.
shards of sadness line the road
where, loss can lead to madness.
words offered barely pierce stout
walls, erected to protect her, from
good intentioned hoverers,
too many to be mentioned.
she can not hear nor see the love
that family, friends proffer
all her thoughts are frozen still
upon the loss that caught her.
these words won’t mend things
broken now inside this weary breast
yet heart strings spun then woven
can truly make a nest .
Categories:
hoverers, bereavement,
Form: Free verse