Poised at the ready
Navy Sailors alerted
Poisoned spaghetti
Navy Sailors deserted
Jam or custard-centred is a matter of preference.
Under the counter lights, the many delights beg—
Slathered in cream is a bonus to consider.
There’s no greater buzz than entering the emporium.
Doughnuts have always been my emotional crutch
Ever since my college days, when cramming for exams.
Slipping sugary treats into my school satchel;
Soggy, healthy whole-wheat sandwiches were ignored.
Even during pregnancy, my craving intensified.
Recreating my one secret indulgence always flopped.
The small corner bakery still serves the best temptations—
Shedding the pounds on my hips: a lost cause.
Getting high on chocolate dreams
Soft meringues and coffee creams
Hypnotized by lemon pies
Velvet cakes makes me shake
With hopes of having belly aches
From cookies as a sinful prize
Brownies cheesecakes cupcakes too
Each luscious morsel drips with goo
Cascading cross my grateful tongue
The crunchy parts of almond tarts
Cream puffs tempt my aching heart
A symphony of taste is sung
Now it's time to take a stroll
Past donuts plump and jelly rolls
The aroma makes it hard to choose
Creme brulee and Bananas Foster
Sets atop my bakery roster
Flavored with a touch of booze
With greed and guile down the aisle
Each item only makes me smile
Sticky sweet as clover honey
After filling up my shopping cart
Reluctantly I have to part
'Cause I just spent all my money
Soup, salad – appetizers
Cookies, cake – desserts
Appetizers to whet our appetites
Desserts to satisfy them
But what if we served desserts first
After the entrée, would we still
have room for appetizers…
Dispense with the appetizers
There’s always room for desserts
The first words openly spoken
Mama,is the soup hot yet ?
said as I
Sat on her hip
Mrs.Cotten
The visiting nurse
No longer
Could she quip
She'll talk when
She has something to say
Make her ask for
The things that she wants
A sibling referred to as
Little mama
taking her comments
As taunts
What they didn't see
As I looked on this world
With eyes that
had just turned three
That I stayed up
Often into the night
Quietly
Conversing with me
Holding my cards so
Close to the vest
No longer could willing
put to the test
The diligent love
Little mama ,
had unfailingly ,
tenderly expressed
With an arm wound
Securely about her neck
I decided,there and then
What the heck
As my sister called out
to Big Mama
these words I'll never regret
As I echoed them back into her ear.....Mama is the soup hot yet?
The love I have
for my sister
has always gone
Well and above
My sole experience
till my own
Children came
Of unadulterated love
Having cake forever would indeed
Mean immeasurable pleasure.
Just Desserts
How do I compare thee to a trifle
Soft as a jelly and quite an eyeful
Merry as sherry, in for good measure
Joy filled as the table's crown jewel treasure.
Sweeter than custard or madeira cake
Nutty as toasted, tasty almond flakes.
Much smoother than dreamy whipped cream by far
As for being fruity, o yes thou are.
Savouring delights and smacking of lips
A tasty dish, how'd one ever resist
Hundreds and thousands to top it all too
Tho' there's no topping quite as good as you.
Of course I am no angel of delight
In fact I'm not even a pretty sight
But I can whip up amazing desserts
What's more I'm ace at ironing a shirt.
6th January 2021
when this poem title
is used with "she
received her..."
it is a
negative
but i'm not
writing about
comeuppance but
about her sweetness
so should she be
a pie or cake or
something
other to call her
yet a pastry all
the same
now i must admit
that i've given up
coffee and so
the tradition
of ending
a menu
with
a
cup and
a dessert
doesn't work
for me any more
but the more i know
her i know the more i
need her and the irony
is she's from Colombia
so
like a train
i cough
coffee
coffee
coffee
building e
nough to steam
milk foam for a
cappuccino
but for me
those
days
are
over but
when you
think that
your youth
is spent
or gone
and went
remembering
i had a baby
tooth until i
was thirty
two or one
but i had
one but
maybe
it was
thirty
three
but no
that don't
seem to agree
with me thinking
that perhaps that
was my sweet tooth
so they
tried to take
her away from
me before she was
to
be
my
me
lt
in
g
dis heart
i will never
deserve her
but i will serve
her always as a
more then
just as a main
course but as she
should of course be
served as
the entire
menu and
you know
i don't drink
coffee but love
to eat dessert and
so not to order you but
ask if
you'll be
my banana
split with whip
cream
Cool raging fire in waves on hill and plain.
Sense of self, set ablaze in saffron flame.
In days, only, the umber, will remain.
Fancies of ego, at once overcame.
But now crimson, and amber leaves exclaim,
Changing of season's life, at full color,
Progressing, ever, to become duller.
Amongst stretching beauty, one becomes small.
The head can turn, from full left, to full right.
A peach pixel dotting landscapes of Fall,
Framed within bluest sky, ever so bright.
God's created Beauty, adorns this sight.
Come cinnamon and ginger pumpkin pie,
Aromas, on a breeze, blinding the eye.
29 September 2017
two 7 line stanzas (ababbcc) using the words:
Amber
Cinnamon
Crimson
Fire
Ginger
Pumpkin
Saffron
Umber
It was often said, she was my better angel,
but terminal illness clipped her beautiful wings
As my faithful wife, me she always watched over
I wished my dirty snow life had been more clean
We made snow angels when we were kids,
and I loved how she would look at me
with those innocent doe eyes
She always forgave me for any wrong I did,
even when she had got that dying disease
Smiling, she would wipe my tears away whenever I cried
I always knew I didn’t deserve her love,
her kind-hearted spirit was above my pay grade
At her casket, I held her velvet glove ...
kissed her hand, and thanked God
for letting my dear wife rest pain-free in the shade
In my heart, I know I got not my just desserts,
it should’ve been me
the grave diggers were burying under the earth
I live today
because her forgiveness of me was heard by God
Now my better angel has flown away,
and my soul cries daily aloud
This day I wander frozen streets
As cold March rain chills my skin
I cannot sense with hands or feet
Nor hear much of the morning’s din
As cold March rain chills my skin
I cannot see the path ahead
Nor hear much of the morning’s din
I long for warmth and to be fed
But I cannot see the path ahead
Empty pockets guide my every step
I long for warmth and to be fed
And so I’ve, onward, slowly crept
Empty pockets guide my every step
Till I reach the place, I’ve no recourse
So I’ve, onward, slowly crept
Not the product of feeling, just of force
Until I reach the place, I’ve no recourse
Damp paycheck gripped in shaking hand
No product of feeling, just of force
I journey through the frozen land
Damp paycheck gripped in shaking hand
I cross the threshold into light
Having journeyed through a frozen land
I’ve seen to the task and made it right
And cross the threshold, from the light
Towards streets packed with winter’s foam
I’d seen to the task and made it right
And so begin my journey home
There was a crook named Jum Tuppence
Who stole from people of meager substance.
He tried it on an undercover cop
And was caught right on the spot.
Now Jum is due to get his comeuppance.
The sherbet orange light of a fall morning in Connecticut crackles with the scent pine. The lake’s parking lot overflows by nine thirty. The S.U.V.s park in a haphazard manor. The boat crew’s flight from reality – or the emersion in it—began in earnest hours ago. Neon-colored, plastic, kayaks adorn the grass skirt before the water’s edge. Dressed in shades as lively as their hulls, the small craft owners match themselves up with their water-horses. They shove off at random intervals.
geese
land and take off –
squirrels scamper
Disturbed, Lake Lillinonah ripples with the dip of paddle and the morning breeze. The cotton wood trees chatter to passing egrets. The smell of powerboats, only slightly mars the bathing-beauty glow of the day. Days end will find a conga line of cars pulling in to a local dairy for homemade ice-cream. Truly, God is in his heaven and all is right – at least here, for these few hours—in the world.
pink tipped tongues
lick sprinkles from the cone:
eyes roll
Sleaze Harry is a sick minded dude,
Who’s love life is all camera viewed,
So you won’t see him flirt,
But he’ll photo up-skirt...
Then complain that he hates prison food.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.