Long Deliciously Poems
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Lisbon, Cuba, Romania.
Where else could I go?
I wish I could enjoy the run, but your shadow engulfs the view.
I wish I could change my name, but my body is vexed with yours.
I wish I could leave you behind, but I always leave a trail of fear for you to sniff out.
Like a panther, memorising the luxurious, frantic pounding of my heart.
A shameless part of me thrills at the hunt.
The music blasts in my ears, a roaming beat that caves my heart in remembrance of you.
And of how you never really stay in remembrance.
I loathe you.
The rough stubble I cannot resist, the black swallowing me along with your irises, the way you breath my name, so electrifying and so utterly haunting.
I hate you.
And I hate how deliciously and desperately I crave you.
I want to vanish.
I want to hide.
I want to win this round.
And in the next round I want you to find me.
I want you to bite me.
I want you to pull my hair and tell me I have nothing beyond the bars of your arms.
I want to run forever.
I want to fight forever.
I want to be yours forever.
Hunt me.
Kill me.
Love me.
Ella Hyde
1857- 1898
That cad with the freckle on his forehead,
That rascal man beast,
Handsome as a Greek
But devastatingly insecure,
And so deliciously young!
He was the one who stole my pride,
There, behind the Hadley tombstone in the moonlight,
And who,
Breathlessly and with trembling hands,
Unlatched the ruby red necklace
From around my naked neck that night.
It was he.
That cad who swooped down upon my innocence,
Like a maniacal Zeus
In one of his crazy costumes of concupiscence,
And carried me off to nights of brazen episodes,
Splendid spectacles in light and magic,
Of him and me embracing wildly, madly,
In dreamy dances with caresses and kisses.
Only the truly passionate
Could understand these mad scenes in the dark!
I met RS on many a night
In the long concealing shadows of Central Park.
He was my man, but he didn’t know it.
I lived my life here in this dusty town the best I could.
I believe I left my mark in some small but universal way.
At least I knew when to say no to Roscoe Settle.
Now I’d like to go back to my grave and sleep.
I am tired of this rant about The Man Beast.
At 41 I entered here after my bout with diphtheria.
The trees here are my shadowy friends now.
But I sometimes secretly wish I could meet RS.
Just as it was in 1897,
He and I kissing in the garden Gazebo at Central Park,
His hand on the small of my back.
Me trembling with monstrous want,
My ultimate Prince.
Who lied to me like a rat!
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
Peer to peer vows of seeded cloud,
Whirli-o-Wisp, of Creation,
thinking aloud,
whismically,
avowed.
Whisps of condense-sings dance in His gaze,
A sky so vast and wide, ablaze.
The stars emerge, one by one,
Dazzling in their sparkling crowdfun-d.
Such a wonder to behold,
A sky so grand and handily bold.
The boon, of a shining silver disk,
Guides the way through the misty risk.
Illuminating the earth below,
Its gentle light a soothing glow.
The sky's eye sees all, far and wide,
A canvas of colors that coincide.
A breathtaking beauty, beyond compare,
A sight to behold, so pure and rare.
So lift your eyes and look above,
And with wonder, fall in love
With the sky that envelopes us all,
A majestic wonder that stands tall.
The sky's eye, a milky gaze it wears,
An ethereal sight that none compares.
With hues of pink and orange so fair,
A painted sky of wonder that we share.
Its cream of Daiquiri-Dowery Fare.
The sun, now set, a memory in our minds,
Leaves behind a moment that eternally binds.
The stars engaged in twinkling shine,
In engagement, like diamonds on high,
Guiding us through darkness to a lighter side,
like a marriage of fairytales in lullaby.
The sky's eye, it sees all that we do,
A constant presence that rings so true.
It reminds us of the beauty in our lives,
And the love that within us thrives.
So gaze up high, and cream a dream, thickly,
deliciously, taste the foamy lips of open zing.
Let your spirit soar, a vast plum-lined plume extreme.
For in the sky, anything is possible,
A magic of possibilty, to dip in your cast of eye.
Gift of our Supreme Being.
Cream of Daiquiri. Pie of Phi.
I love you, you’re hot, you do it for me,
You’re perfect on the inside,
All warm and soft and deliciously round,
Your belt has sort of been pied,
And you come to the footy, and also the pub,
You warm me when I am in town,
You warm me in the cold winter months,
You’re a beautiful tanned sort of brown,
And I love sploshing you with all sorts of sauces,
Covering your top in a red,
You’re better than any McDonalds Big Mac,
I think you’re better than bread,
You’re my beautiful steak to beef to chicken,
You can even be filled with lambs fry,
You’re my beautiful hand held wonderful food,
You’re my beautiful crispy meat pie.
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
Heavenly Hallucinations of Love’s Divine Destiny
A wondrous spirit of true love now softly murmurs its echo
On the wings of God’s angels, as they ascend heavenward.
This and more occurs as radiant cultured pearls begin dancing
Their magical-mystical dance deliciously in the oceans deep.
With this, the bright-blue-mirrored waves of the oceans move
In a melodious tempo of love with the pearls as they dance.
Caressing the heavenly sparkles rippling deep in the oceans’ waves,
An enchanted diamond-cut glass now trembles and shatters loudly!
At this moment, a mermaid of angelic pulchritude takes her divine
Throne as the mystical dance continues throughout the late night.
Crystal chimes begin sounding pure with a fire and fury of emotions
Within our hearts, as they excite our passions palpably and exquisitely!
The candlelight’s effulgent reflection in this moment transfixes me true,
By your warm and loving touch and the magic of your presence with me.
Coloring and scenting the air surpasses all others as the breathless and
Honeycombed eminence of your being touches the depths of my soul!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – July 21, 2018
(Couplet)
With her first words she mesmerized his soul,
Of rose water and lavender was her aroma,
Her tip tap of her fairy tale walk was majestic,
A woman of status still in her prime of depth and note,
Wisps of red-hot curls, floating out of control adding
To her appeal, a magnetic touch to the usual
Variety of husband seeking maidens at the ball.
He hurriedly asked her for the opening dance,
She accepted and gracefully took his hand,
He first tested the waters, like a ballerina she danced,
Sadly, the music stopped for an interval, and
So led her back, as her deep smiling hazel brown eyes
Played with his, quizzically asking if she would see him
Again, he bowed and loudly voiced ‘my lady, the next dance
Is mine.’ it was a sweltering July night, she curtsied, and
Walked outside to the patio, attracting every man's attention.
Lord Kingsworth was from Somerset and, the Duchess of York
From Yorkshire, they made a striking couple as they swayed,
Laughed and whirled all night on the dance floor, infatuation
Had certainly crept upon them and the gossip column in
Tomorrow’s Country Times would certainly talk of this romance
And definitely would not let such a juicy piece of scandal escape them.
Lord Edward Kingsworth invited Helen, the duchess of York to a picnic,
Helen, charmingly smiled and accepted, Edward would pick her
Up with his carriage at eleven o`clock the following morning.
He had made up his mind he would ask Helen to become
Betrothed to him, who should he ask for her hand in marriage,
Her eldest brother she explained, as her father had died last
Year of tuberculosis and so it came to pass that after
An engagement of one year which held many ardent nights
And many picnic loving days by the river, which meandered
Close by them, always hurriedly stripping and unashamedly
And joyfully, enjoying the cool water, deliciously naked, finally
Became husband and wife at the beautiful York Cathedral.
What a happy couple they were, and blessed with three
Beautiful little girls who all had their mother’s unruly red hair.
What's behind the smiles
What's behind the sparkle in your eyes
Is it tears?
Fears?
The laughter
The craziness and banter
The fun weirdness
The mere queerness
A wall you put up to the worlds eyes
Even to those you love there are lies
To protect them from a world unseen
By those who have ever been
Away from the flinching noises
Strangers voices
People that should have never been there
Appearing out of nowhere
Deliciously waiting for the drama to overspill
So that they can take their kill
Their seeming hunger
And crazy laughter
A ruse put up in our place
To infiltrate and gain our space
Destroying solace and years of relationships
Problems they caused through shouting and dictatorships
They strived to tear and destroy
To cause pain and leave a remaining convoy
Of nightmares, hysterical tears and nerves
Never ending nerves
Imagine; To be scared of the world biting back
To have seen it so much you'd do anything to keep it back
To avoid the fight and crumble
In a mess that is your fragile confidence bubble
But then, back in your huddle
You can see a light in your tunnel
That's behind an opening door
That you never saw before
It's ok, the smiles are real
Cause what has been slowly crumbling to what is real
What matters in your life
The people that always help in strife
It can come in any form, a surprise one day
When you expected it to stay
When you finally see it fading
And your nerves are no longer degrading
You need to remember to get back to yourself; that what matters is you
It may sound narcissistic but sometimes you need to rebuild yourself after crumbling, to get back to life and not be numb.
By GretGret
The skies teased me
By thrusting me on a silent shore
Filled with petals of red roses
Fragranced so deliciously
That in their hue
All I could hear was love's banter
As he played and tugged at my cold composure
The skies teased me
In that the shore was empty
Other than me
There was not a soul there
Not even the love for whom my heart pined
And when I shouted out his name to the vast ocean
Hoping that somehow the waves will reach him
And cool his whims down
I only met with echoes of my own voice
Which produced a hauntingly eerie ethos!
I waited for the echoes to be over
Hoping that when they would be no more
Love would come to me, on a raft
And grab me, pull me close to drown me
In the whirlpool of his passionate desires
But the shore remained empty and silent
As if waiting for me to call out his name
So as to become alive, echoing my heart's longing!
Resolute, I chose to sit and wait
In silence, enjoying the sight of lapping waves
As if I were submerged in a meditative trance
Knowing that the skies always show the end of the tunnel
For those who believe in them!