Long Tastes Poems
Long Tastes Poems. Below are the most popular long Tastes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tastes poems by poem length and keyword.
Gorgeous gobbledygook in a babe’s mouth
— masticates with angelic appetite.
From your mouth to his hearty-grumbling ear,
the stomach of his mind chews up the light,
spits out uncomprehended-oatmeal curd,
but favors the cadence of rolling tongue.
The surge of warmth in the sound of “Ma-ma,”
and often the playful silliness, strung
on a baby’s beads, tickle the tired lead.
Like an emaciated bear, he points
to the people and things he longs to pop
in his potato-famine mouth. His joints
well-oiled, never spoiled - the silver spoons’ croon.
He tastes the bittersweet of maturity.
Hears the crude erupting sounds in their vowels,
ferocious consonants - he chants with glee.
He knows not the shock value but learns quick
by the unhinged jaw drop of his mentor.
Did they think he would not repeat such pluck?
He spits out appleseeds - wormy encore.
7/31/2021
Anything You Want
Sponsor: Chantelle Cooke
*Pluck - guts, nerve, fortitude or persistance (definitions.net)
A young black boy stands at the border of a dream and reality.
In his hand he holds a peach, half orange, half red.
The kind that tastes sweet when you bite into it.
The kind that punctures and bleeds if you hold it too tight.
At times, it reminds him of home. Other times.
The darker side of what he sees when he steps outside,
laws, invisible borders, even police that don’t remember his name,
but remember what he looks like. The color of his skin.
He takes a bite of his peach. Its juice fills his mouth.
Some runs down to his shirt. Sweet as the parts of freedom
that we were promised to have but not allowed to taste.
As he stands outside his house,
he remembers what his father used to tell him.
“Take your time and savor every moment. Don’t eat until you’re completely full.”
Just enough satisfies your hunger.
He takes another bite, sitting on the front porch.
He sees the police ride past him,
eyeing him until they were out of sight.
He takes another bite, seeing the world as a giant prayer
begging to be answered.
A man walks down the street
covering his mouth as he coughs.
The rest of the neighborhood kids play down at the other end of the street.
After he finishes his peach, he rolls the pit of the peach around his mouth,
savoring the rest of the juice trapped inside.
He knows that some promises aren’t meant to be broken.
But just like his peach,
there is no border between being small and fragile
neither is there between when the sun rises and when it falls.
The police ride past him again,
this time asking him where he lives.
The pit sours in his mouth.
I was musin' yesterday about things I cherished as a boy.
Simple things, yet in my parochial world, things that brought me joy.
Anything from apples to Zweiback and so much more,
Could then be found down the road at the local country store.
For a quarter I could buy a straw hat to stifle summer rays.
Seems all you can find to wear are baseball caps nowadays.
Ah, to savor the taste of that old-timey original bottle of Coke,
Though the tingle in your nose almost made you choke!
Were there soaps other than Lifebuoy? I never knew of another.
'Twas used quite often to cleanse my mouth of filth by my Mother!
When it was a nickel pack of gum you had a hankerin' for,
Black Jack, Beemans or Clove was available at the local store.
When I could cadge a nickel from my hard-workin' Dad,
A Clark, Bit-O-Honey or Powerhouse candy bar could be had.
How I savored Walnetto caramels so delectable and chewy,
And choc'lit covered creams, delicious but oh so very gooey!
I quivered with excitement openin' a box of Cracker Jacks,
Anxiously lookin' for the simple prize, never mindin' the snacks!
Alas, such simple delights that I enjoyed as a lad are now lore.
I reckon tastes have changed - such things don't abound much anymore!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
"The Thrilling In-Between"
Touched
Soft cerebral
warm breath
paints dusky the warm place
whispers across satin skin
laces come undone
on the lost floor fallen
her skin runs like a river
under the velvet of
his beckoning windows
she’s a mystery
as he tastes her
boundaries
between the
districts of
stay or go
Sliding hands
over a new map
uncovering secrets and
their uncharted territories
they're both deep
hidden-wells
he doesn’t want you
to feel ill at ease
she thinks where’s
the thrill in that, please?
genuflecting on her knees
Manifesting forbidden
apples is Eve
legs entwined around
Adam’s farewell green leaves
red cherry rose
lips to drink in
another’s soul
to taste and
Touch his
Soft cerebral
Moving ever closer
they dance the
Thrilling In-Between
two smiles evolve
conjoined flames
their largeness
in life grows
Burning hot
their sensual world
sanguine
immolating
cerebral soft
like a river
flows
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
https://youtu.be/6h_WMDMvlcQ
Molly Bloom's Soliloquay,
Chapter 18,
"Ulysses" by James Joyce
https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/j/joyce/james/j8u/episode18.html
“Her veins flowed with liquid poetry. I stole the words from her mouth with my kisses.”
Lost thoughts in a network of pine cones.
Thinking thoughts, glomming on, ruptured…
I tried to write something inspiring as-
The electricity of hopelessness churning out dust bunnies.
Alive.
You know what’s inspiring?
Glass orbs, wooden bed posts, and trains.
They just hold still, or move a lot.
All of us are:
Butterflies with pancake batter wings,
Witches brew that tastes really good.
Lost thoughts in a network of pine cones.
Just like the energy of holding back the splatter.
Like bones who have nothing.
Or muscles that are enraged.
A witches brew with pine cones and no magic at all.
Tastes as good as surrounded by sparks.
We all hold still, or move.
Relax as much as a brain in a socket.
You know who’s inspiring?
Anyone of the people who escaped like electricity.
Made me wake up feeling inspired in some witches brew, rough, slobbery way.
Alive.
Lying here between the folds of an uncaring sheet
A thunderous blustery evening calls me from sleep
Tracing shadows on dark walls through desperate eyes
Counting minutes on a clock’s reflective markings
Rain drips from altered eaves steadily, slowly falling
In syncopated patterns on damp grass clippings
Teasing my mind in the endless possibilities
Of what my desires, even at this hour plead
Your image finds me, still and silent
Questions come in long sentences
Breaking down dreams of distance church bells
Wondering if we truly could be, together
Will you ever find love again, could you
In the arms of one who imagines your beauty
Tastes your lips in midnight thoughts
Feels your skin on chilly twilight sighs
Of this I write, not because it is who I am
But because it is what I was meant to be
Poetically entwined, metaphorically wrapped
Draped upon your heart in phrases of collected verse
Read aloud as a smiling sun approaches
Whispering your name over the horizon’s wonder
Echoing of this affection that drains my soul
And longs to breathe you for the very first time
From my pen flows lonely ink
In lace-like frilly fonts of an italicized nature
Curling around these words penned in the dark
Hoping you see, hoping you read, hoping…………
Sometimes life feels insipid,
like a meal cooked in a hurry__
no spice, no warmth, nothing to hold on to.
Maybe that’s when we get stuck
inside the straight lines of prose.
Sometimes life tastes heavenly
as the nectar of god in the paradise__
sweetness, fragrance, vitality, purity,
radiance all wisely compacted.
Yes, a poem is the nectar;
It slips into the heart quietly.
And for a moment,
we forget the noise, the weight__
we remember we’re alive.
Prose fills the stage of the universe
with the curtain fallen,
characters talking without words,
no emotion, no variety, darkness prevailed.
Those who love the fragile beginning of a verse
know how a single line can open a door.
Poetry grows like the way trees do—
not all at once, but constancy;
It bends with its own fruit,
it pleases, it heals,
and somehow becomes sweeter.
It is kindness in thought and diction__
a small drop of honey
that keeps the wandering heart from leaving.
My muse is on fire, she burns at the stake
guilty of poetasting, and glaring mistakes
Inferior rhymes with old Monoku outtakes
blaze all around her, as embers are raked
Badly blistered syllables, spark and flake
Whilst lacklustre stories, continually bake
A bard fans the flames, but he too’s a fake
for mincing his own words, with juicy steak
Making ado about nothing, soliloquy spake
Glory to the Efilist god, ha! give me a break
A dedication of respect
for rendering down a bard
# # #
However unpalatable
and repugnant the suet tastes
# # #
From March madness to April fool’s
digesting copious amounts of insipid tofu
# # #
Only to wipe it off
in an all encompassing
persistent vegetative state
By
David Kavanagh IV
He can normally smell a rat or two especially as
They rattle their cage when leaving the ship
Tastes defeat when they have won another day
Cuddles their clever escape of untouchable glory
The scent at the food bank tickles his hungry senses
Christmas choirs herald another day on the street
Before he digs in the trash for flavours of injustice
Compressed in a doorway he nudges his squeeze
Poverty exudes a strange fragrance of survival
Soundbites of austerity jingle in a jar bell of loss
He savours a few mouthfuls of leftover curry
Pinches his skin to decide whether he is still alive
His nostrils fill with indelible whiffs of rotten flesh
Voices in his head compete for a walk on part
From the take away menu distastefully priced
Then he doffs his cap and lets go of the rope …
13th December 2019
JOYFUL JONES DIVORCES THE SEA
Tenacity of oceanic roar,
Davy Jones hammers each chord.
Embryonic fish, fracture in exploding bubbles.
Opulence anchors heavy, on seabed chest with ill afford.
Whales spew foam from nettled lips,
Throwing tail - haphazardly splashing.
Blubber of sperms bleed precious oil whilst
Knotted nets with jigsaw teeth - recklessly hashing.
~
Lighthouse green and placid starlight blue,
Gentle sun warms the skin with clouded sin.
Jones plugs up the bottomless pit with fingertips
And takes this island of caribbean water out for a spin.
~
The magician’s fish feast pulls at the banquet’s cover.
The velocity of vortex lashes kit and kin with vertigo,
And salts and peppers this treat with staring eyes.
What more can this torrential downpour bestow?
The finger of God tastes the bitter sea…
He writes his name on a wall of water.
Spoiled stink, of seafood bait wades -
As the Lord Hushes up his son and daughter.
Kim Rodrigues © 2016