Long Palates Poems
Long Palates Poems. Below are the most popular long Palates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Palates poems by poem length and keyword.
time and time again, you search
for reasons why you're in the lurch
both ends burnt to write your best
still, you're always second-guessed
you work to work, invest your soul
scribe poignant phrases that extol
the deepest of your musings, grand
in ways that precious few command
you bring forth imagery that pours
weave brightly-colored metaphors
with meter, crisp and consummate
and rhythm meant to palates, whet
sew rhyme with soft, proficient tone
with sense that reaches to the bone
your hours spent on crafting phrase
of wondrous tomes meant to amaze
so framing substance with each word
and still, it seems you're rarely heard
but maybe, for your words' command
those folks will ne'er quite understand
that each new poem you bring to be
is birthed from places they can't see
and not all words contain the power
to bloom your thoughts into a flower
your words may blossom in the dark
where others fail to view their spark
or in that realm where none but you
can see the wondrous things you do
so, knit your words to move and lift
and share the blessings of your gift
use your diction - spun and swirled
to paint your feelings on the world
strive to stoke those inward fires
lit with phrase that piques desires
if fanned by thirst to live and learn
then rest assured, your verse will ...
BURN.
The Scottis Generale,
Nicholas McJockstrap
Waes undefaited fu a decaid
Due to the nikkirless trap
But on thys partikul day…
Thei stud on the highelands
Withe thir kyltes flyring highe
Ase thir baggpypis pleyed
“Thes wyll gyve yu a stye in yur ey”
Thir ennemy, takin abak
By the sicht thei sawe
Thene advaunced wyth a skreyme
Saing “shou eus soum moary”
The Scottis secreet weapun
Ded nott wark
It juist creatted a frynze
Drave the ennemy berrserk
The ennemy, sailors
Adaptared thei sexeul palatiat
As thei strypped ofe thei cloath
Ty revele frokes fram a swanne laik ballatt
Thei foloued thei Captain
Byg Baud Benn
Skreyming “Kille ale the women”
“Ande raap ale the meyn”
***************************
Translation
The Scottish General
Nicholas McJockstrap
Was undefeated for a decade
Due to his nickerless trap
But on this particular day…
They stood on the highlands
With their kilts flying high
As their bagpipes played
“This will give you a sty in your eye”
Their enemy, taken aback
By the sight they saw
Then advanced with a scream
Saying “Show us some more”
The Scottish secret weapon
Did not work
It just created a frenzy
Drove the enemy berserk
The enemy sailors
Learned to adapt their sexual palates
As they stripped off their clothes
To reveal frocks from a swan lake ballet
They followed their Captain
Big Bad Ben
Screaming “Kill all the women”
“And rape all the men.”
SUMMERTIMES MAGIC.
Summertimes magic makes a fine holiday,
Where lands of enchantment, invite us to stay.
The lure of the wild, or, in peaceful solace,
These wonderful places we love to embrace.
To dive coral reefs, with it's blues and the greens of aquamarine,
Or tantalise tastebuds, with exquisite cusine.
By dining al fresco, while taking a cruise,
And drink cocktails at eight, mixed with green chartreuse.
With the tang of sliced lemon or sweet tangerine,
Those bountiful fruits will keep palates clean.
A walk on the wild side, delightfully charms,
With the heady perfume, passing lavender farms.
Those waysides and byways, when we need to refresh
At watermelon stalls quenching thirsts we stay fresh.
From the pale lilac crocus, a fine yellow spice,
For exotic dishes, saffron flavoured, served with rice.
All beautiful memories, under cerulean skies,
It's summertimes magic, which fill misty eyes.
8/ 16/ 2017.
Is life only made of smiles that entice love?
Think of smell and images:
scented flowers and pretty landscapes;
stroll down those paths
and closely watch robins and larks,
doesn't their melody echo in any grove?
Life can't be touched, but it's felt as
the heartbeat inside of us: steady and assuring;
it has rhythm and vibrancy like the lovely seasons
that add charm to our daily living.
Pensive and lonely moments are rare in our relentless haste,
not tasting a fruit that can delight our palates regardless its form;
not breathing in the scent of jasmines and roses after a brief storm...
and doing so we surely deny that even life has color and taste.
Contrary to modern palates,
truth does not come in preferred
flavors…
nor does truthful meaning
morph into something more suitable
to any particular taste – truth is truth,
as time is time, when squandered,
a fool’s passage….
Love, alone, is
truth’s equal; Love, the only
journey worth taking...as no
truth can be found outside of
love –
we love things into
perfection,
and live that pulsing light
of pure spirit
or die an eternity of fruitless
seeking….
Death is not God’s chosen
intervention...
It is the manifest lie
of our own abdication –
Late repast
Mealtime message;
Food invigorates
~~~~~~~~~
Joy spreads
Peanut butter bread;
Poignant taste
~~~~~~~~~
Fish head curry
White rice paradise;
Earthly ambrosia
~~~~~~~~~
Family meal
Celebratory moods;
Evening delights
~~~~~~~~~
Premium durian feast
Pleasure primes palates;
Mangosteen topping
~~~~~~~~~
Tuesday month-end
June succumbs;
July takeover
~~~~~~~~~
By and by
Here and there;
Anxious punctuation
~~~~~~~~~
Mystic mathematics
One upon zero;
Infinity presides
~~~~~~~~~
Pineapple slices
Everyday desserts;
Meal aftermath
~~~~~~~~~
Two hands full
Groceries in tow;
Bounty enroute
~~~~~~~~~
Late morning siesta
Heavy constellations;
Dizzy meets heavy
~~~~~~~~~
Evening descends
TV sitcom fares;
Fast food takeaway
~~~~~~~~~
Pre-sleep sensations
1:55am writes;
Dreamtime foreclosure
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
01 July 2015
Singapore
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
On Lake Ontario's northwestern shore
sits a city of awe, beauty, and lore.
Toronto is where sports built the SkyDome,
and the Maple Leafs and Raptors call home.
Its renowned entertainment district lures
trendy tourists with its late-night bar tours.
And world-class restaurants offer cuisines
befitting the palates of kings and queens.
We built the CN tower to pierce the sky
one thousand eight hundred fifteen feet high.
And every spring, folks race up to the top
for nature, and that's not going to stop.
Torontonians say please and thank you
and allow cut-ins when standing in cue.
And our city hall hosts a skating rink,
it sounds extraordinary, don't you think?
(Rhyme)
12/23/2022
Take Me There Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
Surfing the web is an imperfect science
Putting the screws to each steadfast alliance
And while it is far from flawless, too
This "Poetry Soup" is a hot, tasty stew
Slow-cooked, spicy, and savory-laced
It's rife with flavors, (just add to taste)
Seasoned with wit and a whimsy, wry
The finest that poetic license can buy
All discerning palates will find a repast
With poetic relish from each wond'rous caste
Prime prose to chew on, served up and plated
To make sure your hunger is properly sated
Be it sugary, sour or tart piquant zest
With ripe wordy fare we're cooking our best
We've lyrics and ballads and sonnets galore
Grand banquets of verse from table-to-floor
A bit of the bitter, our melancholy blurts
Yet sweeter-than-sweet are our just desserts
So give us a taste, I think you'll agree
That this "Poetry Soup" is a bowl of esprit
And should we e'er suffer for poetic cream
Don't fret, there's no limit to what we can dream!
~ 4th Place ~ in the "A-Muse-Sing" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
He writes to me in curly cues painting
fractals on pressed paper made of rice.
Shreds of simple stalks are beaten to
bare the smoothness of his script.
We have not known each other long
but we have known each other since
man first made fire, the poet and his
muse. His presentation fascinates
with swirls of brush or indian ink
he strokes, both deep and long,
with pleasant pressure most often.
His words though highbrow smack
of pent passions, watering palates
and earthy scents. The wanting so sweet
no reality could fill the expanse, the
oceans of prose, the mountains which
jut provocatively, daring, inviting, the cleats
of man, use pinion and hammer triumphantly
upon the bounty of breast, the thigh of night
the whimper of dawn. Poet preen for your muse
Caress the unsullied parchment whiteness
in the hollow of my neck.
First Published in Pyrokinection May 2013