Long Basting Poems
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When she was just fifteen…
She was but a child
But a sweet teen
She was kind of wild
Full of desire
Excited about love
In the ivory palaces of her mind
Which rose a white dove:
With a fury
Flawless in a never changing
World ...
She was just fifteen….
When she was twenty one
She was an adult
Unfolding splendor in the shades of heaven
Which she bought
To place a kiss that multiplied seven
With her sweet rapture
With beauty that glistens
With every rainbow
That played in with a light that shines
Looking for love
Like a delicate flower
With a heart of amorous whispers
So pleasing to her design
She was but twenty one….
When she was just thirty two
She had children
Her lovely face never hidden
With simple stories of heaven
With letters of praise
But still looking for love
Where love burns brilliantly
But all in the wrong places
Where the fullness of sweetness
Surrounds her with such wonders
She was but thirty two
When she was just forty five
She was abounding in glory
With hands holding
But she couldn’t say the words
With the sun bulging
Pulsating in her throat
Nothing could escape her sweet star
The word is love but still looking
With sweet air that turns
Mournful into light rain
Of her mind
She was just forty five...
When she was just fifty
Heaven was just beyond her door
Looking in the mirror
Where she didn’t know anymore
She thought she found love
In the winds of her chariot
But he went away
Her passion the most mindful of her soul
With grace and beauty in its divine power
She was just fifty...
When she was fifty five
The winds of time
On a hot summer night
Then she saw the light
And that
Took away the right
Of sweet love she thought
Where a scared space of the world
Let go and she sought
She was only fifty five...
When she was just sixty years old
She had lost love
It was not always so
A star she couldn’t resist
And found love
Her love was earth rising
With the most remarkable being
With a noble soul
Of denying love to be
Sought a different oblivion
Now all that remain are memories
Drowning the already dead
She was just sixty
Sweet letters of her soul from the beginning to the end; her lovely face never ending:
With scared looks and noble gesture her eyes were inflamed with the sun, basting in the glory of night.
Reaching for the one that she truly loves:
DIFFERENT AGES AND HER DIFFERENT LOVES
Brooke Dyan 2014
I am the wind
beneath the
sparrows wings
as it heavenly sings.
I am the single rose
sitting in a barren land.
I am the the lions voice,
and the partridge voice as they
rejoice.
I am the beam of light
penetrating the vastness
of the worlds darkness.
The secret power is
no secret,the secret
power is me.
I am the secret power revealed
and concealed in greatness.
I am the suns majestic flames.
The clarity of rain drops,
the zest ,to the minds
bland thoughts of boredom.
I am entertainment.
I am the wood pecker,
soaring steadily in the
balmy winds picking at success.
I am the eagles soaring over
sweet allysum, capturing the sent.
Stupendous I am,
Preening my mind with knowledge,
a pen rigged with wisdom,
wisdom speaks beyond paper
as it leaks from the pore of my quill.
I am the potion full of devotion.
My pen rigged with morphine,
killing I hope the pain of my readers
with poems.
You are no longer lugubrious,
lugubrious you are not.
Healed and fixed upon the first dosage.
I am ,I am ,
I am the poetic doctor,wooing medicine
from the green pastures,
to robe my pen with healing secrets.
I am the nectarines of peach orchards
basting the mouth of pages with sweet words.
Sweet splash sweet splash. I am the sweet taste.
I am the revival of a sun baked raisin, the
revival to a corps laying beneath circling
vultures of the Arabian dessert.
I am the fragments of light circling your heart,a campfire,
the supplier of its poetic aspire.
I am the fridge for poetic dreams,
preventing from expire, raising
heat of poetry soup higher and higher.
Ill never retire until my face
wrinkled and my hair grey wire.
My pen aiming for a writing desire.
On icy roads I keep traction with
hot ink and mental snow tires.
I am a poet wrobed with
creative ink and sapphire.
I am safe gaurding the gates
of a dying world of poetry.
looked upon as a fool why should I stop,
because kids from high school saide iam not cool,
what is their some rule that makes it uncool.
It must be april fools ,safe guarding
your desire is a golden rule.
I am the hope, iam poetrys stool fueling
it with my hand tool full of ink iam the talisman of poetrys gates.
I know who I am and this inspires ME!!!
By: Elliott Bowe
Inspirational Contest
Sponsor:Gail Doyle
In a royal antibacterial waste machine one must wait for the willing vibrancy of the whistling seal. Dressed neatly in a three piece suit he sits on a rock and calls to the breezes on which there are so few. In the era of expunging elitist effigies there exists far less than in a previous era so dimensions have developed a more triangular appearance. Seal looks on. Temperate falling skies bring all weathers and still not too many feathers on a beaded wind. A cloth can move around to bring alterations but altercations are caused by many plastic helmeted men who proudly hold the spray. And spraying is often located even in a bread. Or a small currant. Or sultana. Managed mainly manufactured. Measly mass monstrous movements. No moccasins here then. And thus the page is turned until the avenue is in sight. Roll roll roll. Here comes the square car. Beep beep. Out of which comes a giraffe, a penguin, a sea turtle with bright lips, and a monstrous fig tree complete with a very tall hat that reaches to Jupiter. When that is wiped the flight paths of emus sail to even the most far flung regions of the globe. And travesty is not travelling it is trapping and taming. Should one really place ham in a sandwich when pork should be free to roam? All aboard then. Is everyone ready? Comfortable? Enchanted? Good. For time is short. And a boom boom boom is arriving to stunt even the most strongest of plants into an oblivion of a scale. But not a scale of C. A scale of 0. No charging buffalo could ever stand true if the prefered angle is in a skirt or a bosum. And a bohemian's car is a secret castle. Watch out there is a lady who spews curd. Mongoose style of neck. So a mongoose and a buffalo do go to dinner to entertain for great plans are being made and a global economy has an appointment at the gym. So hahaha to all that. And place the 900 nappies in the bin. For the 890 children will surely mean that the £ will pay the way. House heating. And a heavy wide load giggling with a small town. Xxxxx high heels mooo looping. Xxxxx kittens kitty xxxxx belligerent buffer bluffing xxxxx done. And that was the p y q who was reporting live from a dinner hall in 1528. Z.
Form:
Wow well that's clever. I mean really really intelligent. Must have done all the research well. And drawn exact plans as to not make any errors. Roaring fires sit down in an ice bucket whilst wild seas are placed in shot glasses. Wow. How rather remarkable. What a notion. Ideal isn't it? And squashing the elephant into a child's bathing suit and that mammoth into a negligée meant for a petite lady frame. And as for the wild rampaging rivers well they are meant to be channelled into one centimetre alleyways built with cardboard cut-outs. Dugouts are neither pull outs nor are they pop up books. And bookshops selling their hardbacks with cushions for pages and covers of corrosive substances. Hardly hardy and built to last are they? Which causes the pavements and other concrete areas to crack resembling an old man's face then weep like a memory of childhood dreams. Landscapes link lines and lines frown. And frowning is not a frolicking fauna nor fawn and a dawn would always say hello to the tops of the trees first. Backwards belonging being beforetime bringing basting battling bullfrogs being birthday babies. And a naivety is a navel in a crested guild sitting on the top of a carved antique cane then tip tap down the little streets of old intertwining with the modernity of fashionable shops, markets and bistro bars. Late night stink. Burping. Rather a percentage than a percent sign then. And numbers drawn on a scarf is a scar on a material that was a one off item never to be sold in replicas on shelves. So stick a pin to hold the water of sinks and baths for this is often better than using plugs. Put all plugs away. They are no longer to be used and are now banned in most countries. Pickup puck picked puck pucks picking prickling prickle pickles. Running. In formations on a shelf. And a dive bomber went zoom down the stairs in a five centimetre breeze block house with several rooms saying oh. Z multinationalism multicoloured disco pants and ballet shoes. Turning. Z Socialization Z at thirty-three garden gnomes catching six fish in a snowstorm. And a savoury dip in a kilt dancing with a cracker in a hexagonal hat. Hahaha xx xx xx Z
Form:
A few things you should know about the things I love
like the magic of watching asteroids above
the fact that I was born on Easter Day
the joy of buying a summertime bouquet
off-hours where I quietly sit at a café
talks about our Thousand Islands get-away
matinees at home or at the cinema
chunky fruit in a pitcher full of sangria
the caress of sunshine on my face
success when uncluttering my place
curls of waves unfurling on the sand
the perfect treasure found second hand
long walks along the riverbank
discussions had both deep and frank
bullseye shots that hit the mark
sugar kisses in the dark
a glass of wine to enhance dinner
games where there need not be a winner
coming first and acing all my tests
faeries who live deep in wild oak forests
biting into a big luscious peach
seaglass gathered on the beach
poppies and peonies growing in a garden
maple walnut ice cream begs your pardon
new york cheesecake that's real yummy
brownies that wind up in my tummy
incandescent hummingbirds in flight
nighttime bubblebaths by candlelight
the mystery of butterflies and dragonflies
perfume of lilacs assailing passerbys
glowing moon hanging low up in the sky
a delicious plateful that's exotic thai
a virtuoso playing the piano
the starry night painted by van gogh
hot french pressed coffee shared at dawn
the surge of nostalgia when I hear Elton John
carefree runs across wild meadows
telephone wires lined up with crows
aromas of basting turkey in the afternoon
hotdogs over campfire in the month of june
sunrise burning mist across the lake
wishes blowing candles off a birthday cake
strokes of vibrant greens in watercolour
luscious textiles that utterly feel like fur
christmas tree decorations hung
mango juice upon my tongue
a classy outfit that fits me like a glove
these are just a few of the very many things I love.
AP: 2nd place 2025
She had Velvet eyes, Satin lips
Silk skin … Seamless hips
Threaded her way into his heart
and Stitched his mind up Tight
But the Needle Point, was coming
Pricking… with all its might! …
… Posed her Textile-smile
Watched Fabric – flow
All the Lycra-while
Sticking Velcro …
and Ribbons and Bow
… he didn’t know
she was only after
Every Scrap of his Taffeta
He thought she was quite fetching
… didn’t know, she was just Window-Dressing
‘can’t hold the Cushion, when Pins, Push and Shove
a man, can’t live on just a Thimble-full of love! …
… can’t move the heart of a Mannequin
… your living doll is running around, again …
… Window Dressing …
He was an honest man
nothing up his Sleeve
but, he had a gold-band
said, ‘Honey, Marry Me…’
… and he Wrapped her in Furs
Draped her in jewels
Lots of Cashmere
… she left empty Spools
She took his Tape Measure
and Material Cut
kept Sharp Scissors
for her Designs … but
… He’d seen the Hem Ironed
and Sew and Sew
He knew the Pattern
and which Embroidery to go…
… the last Fringe turn
and which Bolt to throw …
She sat in front of a Vanity
brushing her Gossamer hair
Basting in her Veiled beauty
like no Wool was there …
… to see her Window Dressing
To see him Yard-Catching
the Collar and Cuffs …
… He’d seen enough !
He saw them thru the Window
Zipper and Buttons undone
He had to stop the Fashion Show …
… then he dropped his _ _ _
… Velvet eyes, Satin lips
Silk skin… Seamless hips
Threaded her way into his heart
And Stitched his mind up Tight
… but the Needle Point came Darning
Pricking, with all its might …
…’Cause you can’t move the heart of a Mannequin
but your living doll won’t be running around again …
”Oh! Man, these golden rods
Hot and full of butter lots
Salted just rightly
I hold ever so tightly
Even Butch and Bailey my dogs
Licks their lips for the flavor
Wishing I’d just drop one
No! Boy, ain’t gonna happen this I’m gonna savor
Grands Munz is holding 5 more
I’m hoping I’ve gotten room for them boy…
Yum…Each kernel of these cobs are sweet and spicy so
Blend butter with honey and cayenne and spread it loosely
WoW! Did I also say there’re juicy?
These corn cobs before grilling it Grands with pulled back on the husks made it so tender....
Grands also got Parmesan butter and a little cheese, this I’ll always remember
a mixture of olive oil, basting it with a garlicky Parmesan butter as it grills
Some with some lemon juice hot cobs
The Parmesan melts and clings while the olive oil
And lemon dribble “Hot cobs” stomach full to my neck I’m sure
Butch and Bailey panting com’on drop one already
Fish. Corn on the cob has an earthy, natural taste that pairs well with fish. ...
Corn then gets submerged in melted butter. “Hot Cobs”
Generous pinch of salt and a pinch of black pepper it’s just glorious
Keep’em comin Grands Munz this here corn on the cob simply marvelous
“Hot cobs” ooh, boy
Grands what’s the milk for?”
10/6/19
Contest Placement #2
For Realism Art Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picked Picture # 3
Jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Way off key
Way to forget the bottle of wine
Wine and dine
Wine stains the tablecloth red
Red and orange fires flickering
Red ribbons tied
Tied for first for buying the worst one
Tied string around the honey ham
Ham basting
Ham baking
Baking cookies cut to shape
Baking for days
Days of winter
Days of laughter
Laughter bounces
Laughter like a hug
Hug each family member
Hug each friend
Friend I am glad you came
Friend I am sad to see you go
Go out into the night to sing carols
Go to see if the neighbor needs help with the lights
Lights sparkling in the window as dawn dwindles
Lights are cheerful even when no one is watching
Watching paper shredded fall to the floor
Watching the snow fall
Fall down and make an angel
Fall into his arms
Arms wrapped with hands clasped aound my waist like a bow
Arms full of colored boxes
Boxes of candy and chocolates
Boxes of toys
Toys that need batteries
Toys that we have to share
Share your deep stare
Share the last piece of cake
Cake shaped into a red velvet hat
Cake covered faces
Faces with dimples
Faces wrinkled
Wrinkled napkins
Wrinkled slacks worn the day before
Before we close the door one last time
Before we go to sleep
Sleep is heavy, calm and warm
Sleep teeters on the edge of a steaming mug
Mug
Warm
Ten moody irate serpents and twenty-five screaming eels could never climb into an eighteenth century bath. It is quite ornately decorated and taps can be eroded. So store parcels in ceiling beams then said a small ant. This is a good clean and mild temperature and often a very happy dog will wag it's tail on a pleasant day out to a field. Basting a cake or icing a car? How? It is to be done manually with a sixteen foot ice cream. How pleasurable then. But dormant fonts and thoughts can be ignited by sensations of sweeping winds. Powerful injection of the soul. With thick sauces. Wow. I would rather be likened to a grinning alien in a pansy bush than a shouting shark in a palm tree. Buttered bread is obnoxious and objectives of objects pointless in a financial diameter of a pin cushion. Prick pricked pricking playing platinum prayers. And all the ten texts in a cave laugh. And all the deities respond. Very very large humanoids. Blue blue blue but not a business or a bustier nor a baked potato. Now cats can make excellent fielders and also are well versed in Sanskrit whilst eating ninety-nine fish cakes. Yum yum. However a dish forming a relationship with a dramatic spoon is simply not noted for existential beliefs. Hahaha turn turn xxxx hahaha drive. *** hahaha institutionalization *** z. T y e p 0 0 0 ***
Form:
Incense clings in the air
great clouds
stealing into dark corners
of stained wood and cold marble floors.
I watch the casket roll by
and memories take me.
Unwilling.
Here I knelt on red velvet cushions and confessed my darkest sins.
Mortal an venial.
Hats, white gloves strewn on benches -- hard as the dogma they taught.
My summer uniform
a red bow tie, seersucker pants, white bucks.
Why was Christ always in agony?
After we begged him for love, back at the apartment above Auburndale Plumbing Supply, a stream of aunts would come, hover around the stove, basting the roast, mashing potatoes.
They sang Irish ballads and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."
The talk was of Jack and Jackie, American saints.
A Catholic in the White House ... finally.
My uncles downed red and white colored cans of Rheingold ...
talked of fishing trips,
concrete and drywall,
the ******* down South.
"Jesus. They're making trouble."
Uncle Dennis clipped open his silver lighter and lit a Lucky Strike.
We hushed when he spoke of the Battle of the Bulge ... Cuba ... Russia.
I fought off his embrace ... the smell of smoke and whiskey.
On the living room wall, the Sacred Heart dripped blood ... and made me wonder.
All these years in heaven, and Jesus was still looked sad.