I appreciate that many love it
And want lashings on their meal
Scattered over soup or curry
(I can’t see the appeal)
It’s popular and I recognise
To you, it may taste fine
Peppery, on your tastebuds
‘Delicious’, ‘divine’
But for me, it’s bitter, nasty stuff
I’m sorry, I must conclude
(Because my own tastebuds insist):
Coriander isn’t food
Lashing out without a care.
Oblivious to the damaging wounds you caused.
Mortal blows your tongue lashings.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
One, two, three, angled
Toes, fingers, teeth, mangled
"We WiLl bE fReE tO FiNaLlY sEe!"
The stomach's foot wriggles with glee
Amalgamation is the only way
Our Smith knows and begins to pray
No warning mouthed before the clasp
Gluttonous gloop scoops the foot in a grasp
Triple digits move swiftly and quick
The Stars lucky they are not here to see sick
Lashings, fingerings, scars and rot
Devoured by a trap the other sought
"HoW cOuLd YoU? wE WeRe pRoMiSed fuel...?"
The question dwindles, quiet and cruel
As our Smith digests, then takes a rest
And soon hears, newly, a crackling crest
Further over into the dark
We who have eyes see it stark
A fierce Furnace, the Fire's Cot
Where many Names are burned and forgot.
Roast beef with all the trimmings
Roasted potatoes
Carrots, broccoli and peas
Lashings of gravy
Cauliflower cheese
Glass of wine.
Bliss!
I could eat a pie in the sky
Said the Bear unto the snake
A giant cherry fancy pie
With lashings of cream shake
A Pie the size of giant whales
A humungous macaroon
A slice of chocolate brownie
The size of the new moon
The snake just warned the bear
To not gorge on such food
But the bear knew hibernation was near
And to be full would do him good
tears and fears
fill moonless nights
their pooled regrets
not washed away
nostalgic longings
in hindsight of the shell
of what might have
could have been
persistent clouds
hover heavy dark
creeping smothering
extinguishing all light
hurtful lashings
of idle tongues
whipping thrashing
leave their scars
sum total
the days the nights
unfurl their drama
wind up marooned
on the beach of life
AP: 2nd place 2024
Now I’m just a simple fellow
And what I like the most
Is a dollop of brown sauce
Spread on me breakfast toast.
You can keep your marmalades
Jams and your various spreads
Just give me a bottle of HP sauce
Cos I’d rather have that instead
Not served in a plastic bottle cos
At times they can suddenly spurt
And before you really know it
You have sauce all over your shirt.
No, served from a glass bottle
It flows in a steady stream
That mixes with your hot butter
To provide a culinary dream.
You can keep your haute cuisine
Because what I enjoy the most
Is lashings of hot butter mixed with
The brown sauce on me toast
They looked at me in horror
Breakfasting at this posh caff
And one of them had cheek
To just stand there and laugh
And then to make doubly sure
Me and me habits weren’t seen
They went and put me table
Behind a large folding screen
I find it rather irksome that
The breakfast for which I lust
Is regarded by so many as a
Habit of loathsome disgust.
No, I’m just a simple fellow
And what I like the most
Is a dollop of brown sauce
Spread on me breakfast toast.
Couch potatoes never see the light,
Seldom produce real potatoes,
Or much else that is palatable.
They leave switches on 24 seven,
And don't know what is the purpose of an off switch,
Resulting in bed sores,
Though they seldom get as far as the bed.
It is only the sight of grandchildren,
That is likely to shift them,
Into second gear,
And look for a cake of soap,
Along with a clean face cloth,
To wash the sleep out of their eyes,
So they can find their way to the shower.
If all this happens,
They might even dust the cobwebs off the cake mixer,
And produce something resembling a birthday cake.
So, if your parents are couch potatoes,
You know what you have to do,
If you ever want to see a plate of,
Sausages, peas, corn, mashed potatoes,
Lashings of gravy and tomato sauce ever again,
With carrot cake for dessert,
Followed by potato or elderberry wine,
Perhaps.
There is no time to delay,
As you might not get it right the first time,
And couch potatoes are notorious for,
Checking out early.
Now is the time to shut down the computer,
Or gaming console,
And make your partner's
Day or night.
Fish and chips and a pint of dark brew.
Malt vinegar and lashings of salt.
A fish dinner served up
by a truck in a newspaper cone.
That was then, that was before
taste buds got hard boiled,
before the bowtie culture wars.
Pickled onions are now too small
they should have stayed big and brown
something saucy and sour to munch on
while walking around London town.
Peas pudding, jellied eels,
pork pie to tempt our eyes.
Mostly all gone
or not the same.
Shame,
for now we are cosmopolitan
even here in the Midwest
we are upscale in the fine dining fare.
French, Italian, Bolivian, Mongolian,
Mexican and Estonian, it's all good
or can be, but
fish and chips wrapped in newspaper,
nothing better!
Too many were tears that he cried -
that boy so small yet so brave.
A full-grown man could not abide
the beatings that his father gave.
locked in a room dark like a cave!
Too many were tears that he cried,
but like a soldier, strong and brave,
to keep in his sorrow he tried.
His father often he defied
when mom and siblings felt Dad’s wrath.
Too many were tears that he cried
because he chose a valiant path.
He took their lashings for them till
one day would see his tears subside -
and then the boy lay cold and still.
Too many were tears that he cried.
July 17, 2022
for the Tears of a Valiant Soldier Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Faraz Ajmal
So Here Is why
From: Cuba
I help you lock things down tight - order comes from your bones
Grabbing my hand, you look and say “ yep “ 98 years
I look at yours “maybe 99 for you”
might you miss me when my storm comes?
The door is open to the love birds cage
where could they be?
Off to start their adventure, I say
a predictable, great adventure
I am happy,
you are worried
#4 Strawberry Mango
Lots of Mango
#5 Cuba Libre
My other will have the Cuba Libre,
Excellent choice for the lady
Sipping away you say…
we took the same lashings in our youth
You turned inwards
I took the first flight to Cuba
I’m so glad you did
That’s why I never asked you what your
CA 125 # is or was
Numbers don’t matter to me,
you do
I won’t embarrass you
worry you
make you feel other
(that is a sin)
our life, any life
is happening now that’s all.
We curl together to ride out another
Havana storm
And what of the love birds?
They always return
Let them live free in Cuba now
We all must live free while we can
With Careful Spoons
Your perfume essence speaks of lazy afternoons under sage trees.
You kissed my bent neck with a pointed snake of sweet saliva eyes.
Now we are twisting inside my slow tilted bedroom with creep shoes.
Your gray short skirt shows slender legs flashing firm nylon divots.
Panties white and tight beckon my touch amidst the soft furniture.
Lips gesticulating now with puckered tentacles made of sugared spit.
Taloned fingers with pink polished probings find the noble charge.
Music-playing minestrone tasters come to dance with careful spoons.
Why have you lead me into this frothing dream web of lilac spume?
We kiss now with mind-rushing lip lashings glued to the secret night.
We delve now with our bending statuary into the new morning light.
He was a sad boy, a mad boy.
Glad was not in his repertoire.
His mother left when he was a pup.
He never knew her.
His father was evil personified.
Never a kind word or deed came from that man.
Tongue lashings were not the only lashings the boy received.
He knew the sting of the belt.
His grandparents attempted to know him
But his father kept them back.
Wanting him to be sad, lonely and afraid.
Angry because he resembled his mother.
His mother had been a delicate dainty pretty woman.
She had a light in her that his father had reveled beating out of her.
I know how to raise my boy he used to say to butt-in-ski social workers.
People backed off; he had a reputation for possibly murdering someone.
The boy did not know love until he was raised.
He joined the Air Force, and rose through the ranks.
He was revered and respected and he fell in love.
He raised children whom were never belittled or beaten.
And he never introduced them to his father.
Showing them the best love of all
I’m hot in a careless way,
Like a barn fire, or a stolen Mercedes.
I’m the B-side of a 45
That never got much air play
Except at the request of lonely girls
Sitting home on prom night
With thin slivers of moonlight
Slipping through their drapery
To caress their disappointments.
I’m an organ grinding gypsy,
A vendor of cognitive provocations,
Subliminal symbolism,
And academic totems.
My vagrant delinquencies
Have accustomed me
To settle my accounts
With handy lay about cash;
My ledgers are always well balanced.
So, when I need a little bodily love,
When I need a little bodily love,
Yes, when I need a little bodily love
I summon that sylvan nymph coven
Of nubile forest vixens
To witch their carnal spells
With dirty talk and tongue lashings
That cleanse my insecurities
And teach me the usefulness of emptiness.
every so often I wake up in the middle of the night
panting for breath whence the knife you stuck in my back
the elephant still in the room unable to dislodge it
its memory hardly faded whirling through my head
the ache remains throbbing between my shoulders
piercing ever so slightly close to my heart
the bitter taste of the desecration of your doing
with the lashings of your wicked tongue
and I wonder how you ever sleep at night
spewing the devil’s venom on poor unsuspecting fools
the hurt forever there its razor sharp betrayal
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
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