Long Acidity Poems
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Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats
and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out of too much
acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent
mashed potatoes, and the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor have the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and
scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From a safe distance, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale books, by
a marine biologist.
The woman is
milk juice,
the man is
sugarcane juice...
the woman is
Apple pear,
the man is
lemon fruit...
the woman is
for pro sec
the man is
brandy...
the woman is
sweet potato,
the man is
manioc...
the woman is
the heat,
the man is
popcorn...
the woman is
violin,
the man is
trombone...
the woman is
basilar,
The man
it's acidity...
the woman is
the road,
the man is
truck...
the woman is
a garden,
the man is
the wilderness...
the woman is
to forgive,
the man from
kill executioner...
the woman
never is afraid,
tô donate
the man is
afraid to surrender...
the woman is
Calm sea,
the man is
angry river...
the woman is
beauty flower,
the man is
proud cactus...
the woman is
right sure,
the man is
kinda crooked...
the woman is
landlady,
your man is
farmer...
But love is a strong link
that promotes communion,
love is the amalgam that unites them
and do party in the heart...
Separated they produce nothing...
but together they bear fruits
in creation...!
She was 88, had many ailments, arthritis, skin problems, frozen shoulder, dry cough and acidity to name a few.
She kept her woes to herself, bore it all silently, she would only spread happiness, smile in her face never faded.
She would wake up 4:30 in the morning and make her own coffee, she didn't want to disturb anybody.
She not only did all her chores, but served others till the end, her life was a saga of selfless service.
She would stay awake full night for others, yet be fresh enough to work whole next day, she could go on like this for many days.
She was an epitome of wisdom, cooking, festivals home remedies, she knew all about all of them.
She read books,solved kakuro and word search, she knew the importance keeping mind busy.
Impeccable in her dress, perfectionist in her work, ever cool and calm, she had tons of inner strength.
I remember her last day, she had fever, I told her wake me up for morning coffee, "Don't think you are disturbing me."
She smiled and said "l will not have it", Oh! The divine smile still vivid in my memory.
She passed away next morning like the way she wanted, without troubling anybody.
She was like a banyan tree vast in wisdom and steady, she would always amaze me.
I wish I was like her, but I can't, I am nowhere near! she had God like qualities.
The woman is
juice to milk,
the man is
cane juice
The woman is
Apple pear,
the man is
prickly pineapple
The woman is
Prosecco wine,
the man is
porto...
The woman is
sweet potato,
the man is
manioc...
The woman is
the warmth,
the man is
popcorn...
The woman is
violin,
the man is
trombone...
The woman is
basilar
The man
it's acidity ...
The woman is
the road,
the man is
truck...
The woman is
a garden,
the man is
the backyard ...
The woman is
of giving forgiveness,
the man of
killing somebody
The woman
gives without fear,
the man has
fear of giving
The woman is
Calm sea,
the man is
angry river
The woman is
beauty flower,
the man is
ugly proud
The woman is
pure thing,
the man is
kind of crooked ...
The woman is
owner of the land,
the man is her
farmer...
But love is strong link.
which promotes communion,
love is the bond that unites them
and makes the feast of the heart ...
Separated nothing produces ...
but together they create humanity ...!
life had written an etude in D minor and barely gave him a pass
D for defeat denial disintegration dour reprise of the inevitable
bottom of the class for society sang to its dominant song book
while he was tone deaf and kept quiet hiding a coarse inner voice
his internal melodies sounded like a rusty cheese grinder on arrest
detained him after school hours to punish his apparent shortcomings
but it is difficult to make fine parmesan from blue veined fromage
and the blues of his childhood suffered under cruel constant assault
´the boy has got no sense´ and the child was never spared the rod
when all he wanted was a bit of cane sugar yet he did not suck up
to their blows which knocked out a few teeth in the long process
that laid the cruel basis for his trademark cheeky and sardonic smile
´when you have grown you will show gratitude for our kind efforts
to change your attitude and give thanks to our shaping your mould´
as it came to writing music-sheets he scripted them in lemon juice
secret messages because when life gives acidity you have a choice
one teacher was gentle with him and gifted him sour boiled sweets
for every time he hit a note from his own repertoire of aspirations
he almost chocked on such a gesture of compassion and novelty
breathed out slowly and poured out his heart in cacophonic sorrow
‘I might never become a tambourine major or master of ceremonies
no choral conductor or symphonic regent in other's marching bands
my choir will be a small ensemble and quality strikes vocal-chords
right where they need caressing and cradling but not false elocution’
‘if I can wipe the cheesy grimaces off the face of my crude tormentors
so be it then´ but this is in truth not about a vicious viscous fondue
gratitude has to be earned and thanksgiving follows genuine kindness
attitudes meanwhile may change or strengthen ´for this is my music´
A composition in Roquefort major with walnut crumble and cherries
on my cake and some can see clearly the grinder has its own purpose
when pungent milk turns into custard and some have egg on their faces
‘Its not about perfection but progress is built on effort and appreciation´
26th August 2020
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out too much acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent mashed potatoes, the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor to has the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From safe distant, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale book, by
a marine biologist.
Peaches
Peaches are my favourite fruit,
Plump, juicy, and tantalizing
Of cling and freestone varieties
That are rounded, fitting in the hand,
And wrapped in fuzzy skin covers
Of melded red and yellow colours.
Each bite is a tasty adventure
With exquisite flavours bursting
Peachy squirtings into the mouth
That flood the buds of the tongue and roof.
Either white- or yellow-fleshed drupe;
Peaches in season are delicious!
***
Note:
The name “peach” is derived from Persia, from which the fruit was transplanted to Europe. Peaches belong to the stone fruit (aka drupe) family and can have either white or yellow flesh. Cultivated peaches are classified as clingstone, freestone, or semi-freestone/semi-clingstone depending on whether the flesh sticks to the stone or not.
Peaches with white flesh typically are very sweet with little acidity, whereas yellow-fleshed peaches typically have an acidic tang coupled with sweetness. Low-acid, white-fleshed peaches are the most popular varieties in China, Japan, and neighbouring Asian countries, while Europeans and North Americans tend to favour the acidic, yellow-fleshed cultivars.
Countless instances submitting poems
finds me racking
quite a hefty collection of rejections,
the responses lacking
disappointing voluminous vicious
venomous vitriolic backing
quite the contrary,
the prefabricated responses
unsuccessful at hijacking
my "FAKE" toothy gumption
(since I wear dentures) lip smacking
bite size packing
not exceptionally appetizing,
but definitely wanting
with more pungent acidity stinging
(albeit figuratively) painfully digging
into the essence of all bone marrow,
asper this humble,
who will brazenly continue entering
competitions until scathing
character ridiculed of course including
unsolicited yet denigrating
words clearly, definitively,
and flagrantly insinuating
this prolific entity among
basket of deplorables wasting
his precious energy and time crafting
ambiguous, horrendous, and
nebulous word mangling
poetic endeavors attempting
to garner plaudits generating
infamous, notorious, and
sanctimonious renown diluting
the medium, which
August pantheon replete
with posthumous scriveners
reputations eternally outshining
any facile, infantile,
and juvenile laboring
in my unbiased opinion
far more deserving
of a simple bland communique
devoid of any ripsnorting
flagitious, malicious, and
unscrupulous character assassinating
(mine), which continuously insipid sending
(to yours truly) said
tactfully gentle turning
down efforts requiring
nose to the grindstone painstaking
efforts, which witness shuttering
myself within this
mancave, barely surviving
on thin gruel necessitating
copious blood, sweat, and tears with
nary even a shopworn reprehensible glint
bombarding, condemning, and defaming,
hence such determination bedeviling diligence
to espy acceptably blistering
excoriating, and insulting
nauseating mean opprobrium
meted out to me
until such outpouring
of vindictiveness acquired,
I will continue logic bending writing.
Wherefore art thou to find (even trumped) critique?
With a silence that cut through the laughter
She entered the room, bitterness
Edged around her features, portraying
Cruelty with an unfeeling sword of darkest
Gloom, dread so dismal it feels, almost,
Like grief sinking into the bones
Sullenness coughing up phlegm that rots
In the heart, the soul, the mind
Where there is a penetrating hostility
Her eyes glared at the laughing children
Echoed cynicism through the air
Like a poison dart piercing the heart
Her hatred tasted of a sourness
Only the very truthful could attest to
She was hard and her icy stares forced lovers
To pull away from one another, chastised
By the coldness that left chills on the mind
Resentment fell from her pores, sweating acidity
Imploring hope to be cast aside for disaster
Calamity so dreadful it was as fatal as a stab wound
A trepidation so repulsive with its awfulness
It feels like being in a nightmare,
Terrifying
When she looked at me, though…
I saw through the cool, calculating gaze
Into the heart where there had once lived
A child of five, all giggles and smiles
Alive with the joy of silliness, …
I saw, beneath the ice in the veins
The warmth of a heart who was living
… with excruciating pain
Pick-A-Title, Vol 30 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
1.) Ice In the Veins
April 24, 2022
A threat of superiority
Leads to inferiority
Of a heart consumed
By a venomous poison
Of hate lead by jealousy
A darkness claim their soul
Convinced that an enemy
Was those loved by the sun
With skin oh so golden
Threatened by a culture
To which they steal like vultures
Begging to be chosen
Colonising a moment
Belonging to those with a darker skin colour
All we wanted was equality
All you wanted was authority
Lands built on lies
Where black met demise
Under grey and cloudy skies
And buried secrets forced to hide
Hidden under the cloak of defence used As your disguise
Blaming the victim of a crime you committed
Just to satisfy the deep pits of your stomach
A place where guilt resides
Melting in the acidity of your pride
Insecurities infect your eyes
Leaving you blind
Of your little white lies
To claim that being white
Correlated to being the superior race
To capitalise off of ignorant minds
Of an acceptance they yearned to find
Power a secret weapon
Abused by those who wield it
But the real truth is black lives
Are kryptonite to their ego
How their only achievement was culture stolen
How our presence engulfed them
How their need for attention to grow their ego
To distract them from a body so hollow
To stop from the voices that echo
Inferiority wrapped in sorrow
The smiles they keep a deceiving show
From a pain that refuses to go
When revenge is fueled by a crime not commited
One must question ones motivation
Ones intention with all this hatred
To a race that's only crime was being black
Punished With a lifetime of psychological torment
The fear of existing
Targeted by the envy of those whose livelihood was based on colonisation
And culture is based on controlled violence to achieve black silence