Long Desserts Poems
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Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into bloody pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
*"A tribute to "Pops" (Joe), (04/23/31-01/20/24) though what pans below mirrored life in the States for me, not Pops, but for two years at The Home before he passed, I'd drank tea cause he's unable to have strong or spicy etc. Once a month, though the last few months I drank alone. It was something that he shared, for you Pops." ... by Poet
'Twas a relatively crispiness in the clambering yawn,
a consortium of sorts setting up right across the lawn,
as duskiness drew up her covers relinquishing the day,
embossed intricately recently polished grace silver tray,
atop bears a quaint setting of Old Country Royal Alberts,
ah, yes, tea cups, dually statured and ushering desserts,
if you would please pour just a cup for me, for as you can see,
my 'friend's asleep at the wheel, engine's off, eve doesn't agree,
a host to vividness terms of circumstance circulated,
guesswork nature that entertains the uncoordinated,
the fumbling hands placed to the left or right be it a catchphrase,
a righteous smile of approval amicably gifts it weighs,
astir Pekoe, instants an intrusive bay fronts pleasantries,
prompts us of our intimacy adds value to home's sea breeze,
a nose full of redolent tea defines memories of us,
of times he drove us to school, then to doctors, still drives the bus,
a nodding gesture non flirtatious enthusiasm rises,
occasions an exceeding specialized intrigue comprises,
be a tea for two, Broadway Avenue, a smothered venue,
food cart with mixed tarts, lined signs of sweet kinds, beseeches of you,
I and my friend, who sleeps now and then, had two cups of Pekoe,
tea for my friend, it's not Pekoe, health-bot boy, it's Almond Joy,
'tis a pleasure, airs like a loon, trends sans measure, depth crescent moon,
he won't mind, he's sleeping--are you sure, yes, we're having friends soon,
they're here, ambulance? send them here--no rush, their skills aren't needed.
He felt his life poor--driving, "Pops, we made it--you succeeded."
Nonpareil les belles-lettres spellbinds
Adherence regarding credo
to finish reading arbitrarily
self selected book beginning
to end silent promise made
otherwise, I experience guilt
analogous violating unwritten
law, said private oath binds me
against challenging non binding
unspoken promise additionally
never flipping thru pages reading
conclusion, viz aforementioned
unspoken vow never abrogated,
no contest when authored material
finds yours truly engrossed cover
to cover avast joyous kickstarted
linkedin magical nameless eye
opening imaginative adventure
and/or literature deemed among
timeless (cult) classics cherished,
marveled, treasured... analogous,
where taste buds appeased brimming
culinary decadence edifying gourmet
savory sweet treat (ideally NON GMO
gluten and MSG free) targeting aching
unclutched memory savoring verboten
childhood candied just desserts goodies
triggered courtesy painstakingly crafted
words acquiring unabashed kudos pièce
de résistance worth their literary weight
adrip with chewy, gooey, sugary, syrupy,
tasty... je nais se quoi orgasmic merciless
kneading indescribable gourmand eats
generating atavistic base primal grunts
and groans signal untethered animalistic
joie de vivre, how intoxicating to quaff
metaphorically brilliantly crafted lettered
epistles despite genre ordinarily ranking
less than favorite, but some fluke wormed
itself to choose bon appétit infusing aural
(if enunciated aloud as doth yours truly),
mental, spiritual, visual... delectation oft
times exultation unmatched if material
read more than one time synonymous to
to overindulge exceeding pleasure re:
body, mind, spirit triage with gluttony.
Getting high on chocolate dreams
Soft meringues and coffee creams
Hypnotized by lemon pies
Velvet cakes makes me shake
With hopes of having belly aches
From cookies as a sinful prize
Brownies cheesecakes cupcakes too
Each luscious morsel drips with goo
Cascading cross my grateful tongue
The crunchy parts of almond tarts
Cream puffs tempt my aching heart
A symphony of taste is sung
Now it's time to take a stroll
Past donuts plump and jelly rolls
The aroma makes it hard to choose
Creme brulee and Bananas Foster
Sets atop my bakery roster
Flavored with a touch of booze
With greed and guile down the aisle
Each item only makes me smile
Sticky sweet as clover honey
After filling up my shopping cart
Reluctantly I have to part
'Cause I just spent all my money
News comes from four directions
In between these four are inserts
Men and women of all actions
Everyday, everyone has something like desserts
In food we eat or anything we drink
All comes in, everything will shrink
Different stomachs with different tastes
Different moods with different wastes
North is where the Greats calm down
From the East the Sun rises, people bow down
In the West where the sun sets down
To the South fools fall down
Good tidings come from everywhere
Good results scatter anywhere
Good people rise and fall
But good people seek only good and justice for all
They don’t give a monkeys
You’ve read what they’ve said
These flunkeys are off their head
Braggadocio pinocchio junkies
Baz cronies nutter baloney utter
Phoney show ponies in the gutter
Stutter one more flutter then splutter
Aussies like a knife through butter
The death of a nation..us all pining for Bazball’s fine dining/opining alright whining degustation;
Amuse bouche (louche with a bag of douche);
Golly gosh Hogwash
Humpty Dumpty Numpty
Total scrotal Tosh
To start (brain fart);
Fish have another swish
Trumpet Bazball strumpet crumpet
Dish of death wish Gibberish
To cleanse the palette (God dammit);
Far too mellow sickly sweet lemoncello
Take a mallet to the Bazball planet (grief aperitif & digestif)
Entree (naysay it's okay.. the way we play come what may every bloody day);
Ruddy veteran fuddy duddy buddies bash
Splash of rash & brash
Off stump chump slump rump
Dash..lash then crash
Flash Balderdash hash
Desert ( just desserts)
Teasing wheezing ego pleasing Trollop
Dollop of Codswallop
With a twist of narcissist mist (you get the gist)
Cheese board (traditions ignored)
Aussie gloat aged goat
Camembert despair
Double header immature cheddar
Out fought and out thought Roquefort
(served with they're crackers and in a bit of a pickle)
Petit Fours (flaws encores & guffaws);
Scoop of NincomPOOP
Tasty bit of hasty bullshi*
Peacocks big bolloc*s
Tripe as ripe as our Gripe
You don’t get a coffee because like Test cricket they can’t do it for toffee
When Autumn scenes arrive in Munich, Germany,
Exciting times bring visitors from far and near,
With people dancing, singing, mugs of beer held high,
In halls or tents, saluting so rambunctiously, and
Loving our Oktoberfest with heartfelt cheer that
Lasts more than two weeks with much to see and do.
Parades, arcades, and rides, much like a carnival,
Aglow with dancers in bright Bavarian dress, and
Rides on quaint, old-fashioned pretty carousels,
Together with the varied puppet shows, are fun;
Yes, even shooting galleries to test one's aim.
Laughter and cold beer in mugs enjoyed by most;
If not one's taste, great wines are sold 'neath tents.
Kept close at hand, champagne, cocktails; also
Fresh-squeezed juices are offered if one must abstain.
The delicious food consists of many tastes and treats:
Hearty eaters gather round wild ox roast on a spit, or
Enjoyed is chicken with potato dumplings, red cabbage;
Relished too are Bratwurst, spaetzle, and baked beans,
Ending with desserts like rich black forest cake, plump
Strudels filled with fruit and gingerbread creations.
No one goes hungry at this great Oktoberfest, and
Of fests around the world, ours is one of the best.
To dance and sing with spirits high and free
On meadow grounds in city center, brings joy to
Munich, where feasts were held since eighteen-ten.
Opening with carriages and floats of costumed scenes
Reveals the promises of drink, loud songs, and dance.
Resounding well into the festive night, we sing,
Oh, happy time for us! Let's toast to love and life, and
We will party like there's no tomorrow!
O Turkey My Turkey are you about done?
You’ve been in the oven since way before dawn
The people; so excited are waiting and waiting
For every bit of deliciousness that we are plating
Mash potatoes, gravy, cranberry, yams,
Green beans, Mac and cheese, and so much more
All waiting for you and stuffing to come thru the door
O Turkey My Turkey all tender and brown
You are finally ready; for us to gobble down
All of your goodness is gone with such flair
Nothing left but a carcass and so much despair
O Turkey My Turkey what have you done?
We’re almost asleep and the days barely gone
Unable to relish the desserts of today
All because we had heaps of tryptophan this very day
Alas, we shall doze and soon we shall savor
Yummy pies, cookies and cakes with all sorts of flavor
O Turkey My Turkey, you have been so dear
But I’ll fall for another same time next year.
11/7/2014
The weather with its thunder and rain,
change of perception to takes us home again.
By the ecology of magic that remains,
or lifeless desserts that will find its names.
Through misty realms by wasters dreams,
dying trees without carbon in distress it seems.
To regain some sense of ground and gravity,
some ancient diversities is the approach in nativity.
The killing of earth by poisons and number,
politics, bankers and farmers plunder.
Mother of all secret creation to sustain,
convenient ignorance the invisible chain.
When human creation at its dire and best,
seeds containing enduring passion need to manifest.
Allowing true purpose intend to find,
away from actions that keep us blind.
Mother earth love brings true awakening,
forwarding the ultimate reasons of being.
The roots of our ancient truth is deep,
a sacred point of view that we reap.
Cut out the parasitic takers stories,
follow the generosity of spirit glories.
Living creative forces are sacred,
truth by living force well motivated.
Peter Perkins loved tasty pumpkin, in pies, in puddings and etcetera;
Which filled their house with tempting smells, so said his wife, Elena.
Beloved Elena was a splendid cook, to which fond Peter could attest,
With hand over his crimson heart, like rouge sun dyeing in the west.
The Perkins had a bouncy pet rabbit; and they called him 'Scamper,'
Like pretty, fall leaves forever flying, in hues red, purple and amber.
Frigid days had turned fragrant, and the friendly friends came calling,
And flirtatious, warm breezes flitted, over emerald fields, sprawling.
Finite, foggy dawn had vanished, when flattering rays flooded noon;
And fave, forever family came for visits, at the onset of mellow June.
They lived in the house of sweetness, and of delicious desserts, daily,
In the times of sun glazed windows, looking out on pretty, pink daisy.
Twilight, sapphire skies glorified stars, on their scenic, sunset street;
And they took daily scent strolls, to smile at fine people they'd meet.
Nonnegligent nature was naturally beautiful, when neighbors visited,
In noiseless, green hours of dulcet notes, and pink robin, uninhibited.
'Slime' lily's long tresses were curling, awaiting silvery drops of rain;
As 'true blood' roses lay wounded, and 'spiral' aloe soothed their pain.
Peter and Elena were planning a trip abroad, their fare already paid;
When Peter suddenly reinjured his kinee, ruining the plans they made!
As the doctor advised only limited walking, a trip was unwise for him;
But, he couldn't keep Elena from her dream, based on a fateful whim!
Their tickets were nonrefundable, and he would miss his wife dearly;
But Elena would have a wonderful time, as pretty, fall leaves do, yearly.
Elena bought a curio pumpkin house. Its rosy panes seemed to smile;
And placed inside her small photo, to stay close, across distant miles.
Whenever Peter gazed at his gift, it brought smiles, rather than sighs;
Like the last gasp of vermilion sunset, afore the silver, moonlight prize!
'Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.'