Long Chilies Poems
Long Chilies Poems. Below are the most popular long Chilies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chilies poems by poem length and keyword.
I can’t say
where life begins
and death takes over:
Oh! I know of birth
and funerals--
what the church says
and what my gut
further tells me…
but my heart often
wanders above wings,
parting shadows
to a place alone
where I encounter
a loving presence
my feeling no need
to define...
I have read those volumes
both blessed and cursed
tongued caramel ecstasy
and licked the sacrificial fires
(sweat-making chilies
and artery clogging rinds of life)
but remain
mostly confounded
though comforted somewhat
by the little I know
and concisely name--
admitting more of me
has always existed outside
my libraries of
leather diaries
and embossed references….
woman, oh woman
even after your
constant, daily
treatment of abuse
I demonstrated
I could have been
your karate kid.
In your defense
did I not impulsively
stand tall between
two warring giants
me, a whippet of a kid
arms outstretched
like sabre swords
pleading don't hurt
her....
taking blows
meant for you.
You the one that
inflicted pain 24/7
twisting the
tender skin off
my arm flesh and
leaving huge welts
that stung like
scorpion hot chilies
the umpteen mountainous
goose-egg bumps
you planted on
my tiny forehead
with knuckles
constructed of iron steel.
I demonstrated
a compassionate heart
in dreadful moments,
woman, oh woman
where was your
loving heart
standing in as mother
to an abandoned child
now trapped in a
poor, blazing hellhole.
With fresh eyes anew
...my learned enlightenment
I now understand your
sole/soul's motivation was
the almighty dollar
... hard cash that never
came through for you.
Pure and simple ...
avaricious by nature
most certainly
not nurture and,
please excuse me
while I laugh
you claim
to be a
christian!
Hmm, I say
hypocritical
and evil
to the core.
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
In that season when the wind blew
A love note, remains timeless and still
A conversation of close-knit tone began
And abideth like day and night till...
We, two beings, entwined in spirit
Have the pleasure of owning the world
The shadows remain just as long
Time limited as ever before
Sweet sunshine cures our love
To a smooth velvety silk
Our stream is cool like the furthest cloud
Our fierce fire is contained within our wings
We’ve had chance to dance to our laughter
The roar which destines anguish in to blue seas
Where each wave rises and crashes in rhythm
The tune of a pair bound by a single algorithm
In our world there is a lake of clear waters
Where my boat once dropped a shank
There was a ragged shore that threatened one
Not to go that far, a timid breeze that bent reeds
Cute and slow like the tilapia dorsals, from the bamboo
Grove nearby a call from a lazy quail to its roaming mate
A bubble of black water from upstream where ungrateful
humans lived, a piece of cloth drifting on the stiff waters.
That was all to see and hear.
I could hope and learn from the evening toss
Of the lake how the lone quail earned its keep
But the lake was dead silent
In that brief moment of time stasis
A fable has it that the goddess of the lake
Would come to accept the sun’s goodbye
Alas! Behold the lake was a flaming pan
Like ripe red chilies in a windy sunny day
Behind the hanging clouds that evening, stood
In a frock of the pattern of the floating cloth
A succulent beauty, long nose, creamy teeth
Whose long tresses will my days and hers entwined
Is it to lubricate and protect my eyes from your flow?
Or do you intend to bring out my joy, sorrow, and rage?
By your stream-like flow to others, you show my grief, I know.
A parrot in your cage, with chilies of care, I engage
What do I suffer from? Migraine? Obsessed teeth? Kidney stones?
Is endometriosis the cause of your constant pour?
Owing to my old age, is there brokenness in my bones?
Has Destiny dug in me her perpetual pain bore?
On the death of my mother, at my innocence, I smiled.
I knew my dad's death well. Lo! You, like a waterfall, fell.
Does this mean that consciousness or awareness, that's hill-piled?
Together with you, I've many a tailless tale to tell...
Everyone who sheds you says, 'I got relieved of my pain".
Who in life, yet, I don't know, wants to cry again... again...
In the middle of a Thai hot summer, we ventured
into the high hills of North Thailand.
We were medics, a small out-reach team
serving the scattered rural villages
of that remote area.
Klauss, a dour civic engineer, by his side,
his wife, a pretty Chinese nurse.
As it happened, Klauss brought along
a visiting acquaintance, an avuncular German.
On the way home to the leprosy institute,
we pulled the Land Rover into a wayside village shop
to eat sticky rice, chilies, and salted fish.
I disremember how the conversation turned
to the second world war,
I think the talkative German instigated that subject,
declaring how the allies had propagandized the facts.
I spoke coldly of how my father (a Hurricane fighter pilot),
had died in the Battle of Britain, and how I had seen
all the disgustingly savage films of the concentration
camp victims. The kraut just glared red faced at his feet
while soft spoken, kindly Klauss struggled to change
the conversation.
That was many years ago, now I feel compelled
to confess that I had blatantly lied!
Dad was an air-raid warden who rode a peddle bike,
and never left London during the war.
Yet strangely, that was the first time
I thought I could be, should be a poet.
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like nestling birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
ANNA MILLER’S TAKANAWA-SHOP
Merriam-Webster defines chili as a thick sauce of meat and chilies.
His coworker hungers
for American food - pizza, burgers;
no sushi, please.
Home away from home in the belly
of Tokyo, my husband orders —
“I’ll have the chili.”
Two I.B.M. techs relax and unwind
from their workday. Soon their specialty
is served. (Anna Miller’s known for their pies.)
They both nearly drown in hot soup
as they snorkel the deep
peering beneath the shallows
looking for signs
of thickness and beans. Asks
“This is chili? Where are the beans?”
The waitress bends
over and counts,
“One chili bean,
two chili bean,
three chili bean,”
her wrinkled lips serious.
as the rumble of the coworker’s cheeks,
the shaking of his American suit ripple
under his chin.
My husband asks, “But where’s the sauce?”
The waitress takes her hand,
moving it just above the bowl
in circular magic,
“and chili sauce!”
the eruption of Mount Asama
as she moves tiny feet
to another customer.
6/29/2019
Mistress of deception,
as in victual monogamy.
A deceit of one’s perception,
without an irksome homily.
Mushrooms drop into a pot,
with peppers, once pureed.
Zucchini dance as they are tossed
amidst confetti of celery seed.
Onions sing out with Garlic,
part of the tomato cabaret.
They drop, sway, and frolic,
below the leaves of dried up bay.
A precipitation of spices,
fine herbs and hot chilies.
If omitted a possible crisis,
like the heel of Achilles.
Then a most decisive stroke,
wheat pasta hits the stage.
With every furtive jab and poke…
Spaghetti is still the rage!
Are you yearning for me, dear?
Does our departure kill you too?
The environs look so blear,
Midst summer, in my eyes, there's dew...!
You might not feel it within,
There's a blazing fire in me;
In my flesh and blood and skin,
Can you hear my sorrow-filled plea...?
Gales and storms compete,
Coal-dust wraps roses and lilies;
The wheat field is a black sheet,
Who changed the shade of these chilies?
Sobs, like coos, are heard from far,
Your voice, too, is mingled in them;
In the sky, I find no star,
Poison fills each plant root and stem...!
Seasons have changed now brightly,
Come, dear, let's forget our breaches;
Let our oneness turn knightly,
Till our goal its zenith reaches...!