Long With a pinch of salt Poems
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How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die
Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry
But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death
The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth
See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene
Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens
Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail
Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale
These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk
Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked
Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts
I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash
Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree
Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see
Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged
Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage
Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square
Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare
What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist
When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist
Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise
Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids
If your going to post propaganda, to further some game
Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained
By
David Kavanagh
Taken with a pinch of salt
Invisible to the naked eye
Should you wish to be unique
Bare your soul be exposed stripped
of flesh down to the naked bone
Stand alone and out from the
robotic crowd marching in
synchronicity
Depth and truth is what you seek
Then be prepared as more often
than not
It's stark and bleak and afterwards
can not nor never again be taken back
thereafter
So too likewise are the consequences
of being woken up in a state of panic
Wondering where the world you once
new has gone or ever was
What in fact now the future holds in store
As friend's are few now that you have
crossed over the great river of divide
And sadly the grass is not as green as it appeared at very 1st glance
Unique in simple terms is having the
ability or being able to look at
something from your own perspective
From the outside in and seeing it
for what it actually is
And not what other's want
you or need you to believe it is
So best at least you be forwarded
of the danger and the pitfalls
Uniquely ostracized , criticized ,
persecuted , lambasted labeled
deemed abject
And when all is said and done all
that you have and are sadly left with
afterwards is you yourself what you
know
Being sneered at by a waiting seating
you then condescendingly saying
Your usual table Sir party for 1 dinning
alone again I see
You know the type of passing
comment that a human droid would
say thinking it to be found a witty retort
As apposed to a sarcastic person who
is able to think outside the box and
instantaneously reply
Yes i am ever sorry but I took your
wife out yesterday and your mum
was busy today
A perfect example of what distinguishes
the truly unique from most other's
Always nice to be away
From people like you
Who are stressing me apart,
Don’t you think so?
Whatever,
Just in time.
I was thinking deeply about
All that happened in my life,
Since I met you, I will never forgive,
It hurts too much,
Hope this party will remove such thoughts.
Have a great time,
Comments and feelings reserved,
Showering me with your weekend lies,
Coz you are fading away gracefully,
I know how to please myself.
This is the time when
We gotta take coffee
With a pinch of salt,
I love you percentile,
I don’t give a damn
What they are going;
I was driving when you beeped,
Talk to me before I walk
Into the cave.
after each sip of coffee
her lipstick stain blurred and deepened
just like her untold stories
fought for, finding ways to
come back to life,
reshuffled.
scars she had inside,
scratches she sealed with a pinch of salt,
were the silver shadows coming back
to taunt, to haunt,
to suck her soul to the bones?
oh, to smell hazelnut fragrance
again and again and again;
did she find solace
through the masochistic pain?
little did she know
she was the remaining teacup water slipping into a drain
after a rain.
drowning in the void,
trees scarred by a lightning strike on a purple night.
the fire beside her
looked extra orange,
stairs looked extra grey.
the voices inside her head
kindled a new trembling fight.
same old disgust,
forming a heap of rust,
here, there, and everywhere
feeling a force of upthrust.
was it windy enough
to scatter her into dust?
shall she
discover herself buried beneath
the twirling tides,
leading to roller coaster rides?
no ifs,
yet remaining buts,
splicing the even thoughs
with discarded thoughts like driftwood.
only,
only if she had the audacity
to turn the rock into
thirty shades of blue and blue.
only if
the chlorophyll-less leaves could photosynthesize,
the vacancy,
perhaps,
wouldn't crash like tsunami waves.
she's just her,
her and full of her;
quicksand blooming beneath her feet.
up ahead,
the melancholy hill
whispered,
she owed herself
a meeting with the stranger wearing her skin.
Emotions in motion
Emotions in motion,
Changing from frozen to broken,
To joyful and delirious!
There are words to be spoken.
I’ve been up and down and messed around,
But now I am found in the dirt with her.
Her love gives me wings and lets me fly in the clouds;
Her love brings me crashing down into the dirt.
I say to you on this cold dark night,
The pain inside your heart will be gone by morning light.
I don’t believe you, myself; I have already seen you lie.
You told me I’d be happier; you said it would be alright.
That was only spoken in anger; take my words with a pinch of salt.
I just need you to believe in something;
If it goes wrong, that’s not my fault.
Oh my God she is beautiful!
So is a Goddess I must impress.
Her wings have fallen off now;
Now I see her for what she truly is and it leaves me depressed.
I was afraid this would happen;
She is a memory now, soon to be forgotten.
Love is a wrecking ball to the heart
And all that was beautiful shall become rotten.
Jealousy makes you fear your lover;
Afraid they will go off in search of another.
Shame and pride shall never be on the same side;
One body has one, her body has the other.
And oh my God her body; let me be bold with my thoughts!
The touch of her upon my body; her face to my touch.
She made me smile, so I shall make her smile too,
Because when all is said and done, she is loved.
Is she good or is she dangerous,
I just can’t decide.
I wish I was a robot, without feeling,
Then I would no longer feel the need to smile.
I am sad because love has always been without care.
I am a coward; no surprise there,
But I want to be courageous and feel love again.
I am confused and only feel weariness;
But I am happy she is my ball and chain.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
SWAN SONG OF AN OLD-GUARD TRUE-BLUE TORY
I am one of the last of a dying breed,
I’m an antique true-blue Tory.
I grew up on Super-Mac
And ‘the Land of Hope and Glory.’
In Rab Butler I once found
A man both mild and sane.
Ted Heath I took with a pinch of salt.
Maggie Thatcher caused me pain.
Her politics were tough and right,
But I found her style too brash.
She was less concerned with social need
Than she was with sordid cash.
John Major held his horses.
He was middle-of-the-road.
Perhaps he was a shade too nice
To fit the worldly mode.
When Cameron came, the rot set in.
I mean that referendum.
Why dabble with these dubious things?
There's no reason to defend ‘em.
Theresa May did what she could
To sort out the Brexit shambles
But failed at last to free the land
From the consequence of gambles.
Boris Johnson ends the list
Of Tories hale and hearty,
And, to boot, as I do fear,
What’s left of the Old Tory Party.
To Liz or Richi falls the task
To clear up after Boris.
w=Were not the better place
if he had kept to Horace.
Is the land I loved so well
Now the land of grope and gory?
Woe is me if I must close
With heavy heart this story.
To make a limerick oatcake
Five spoonful of wheat flour it`ll take,
The first, second and fifth spoons of 7-10 syllables must chime
With a rhyme that flows smoothly through all times.
The third and the fourth spoons of 5-7 syllables are bound,
To hold to the same sweet final sound
To each other with the same air,
Though quite shorter they surely are.
Then one adds a cup of powdered milk grand,
One cup of rolled oat of a noble brand,
Half a cup of sugar one must weave,
With a pinch of salt as joke that readers shall believe.
Let `s not omit drops of vanilla, a spoonful of baking powder,
And half a cup of butter before bringing to a knead proper
By adding a cup of liquid milk, a little at a time,
Leaving the knead for a while to shine.
The knead is checked for correctness,
Rolled in little balls, flattened with sharpness,
Then placed on a preheated buttered pan
And set in the oven, eight minutes each side, to turn grand.
Is the feather touch of a fast flying bird eternal?
Does a tinge of tap of a butterfly turn love-journal?
Feelings fluttering like passersby do not come to stay,
Feel it with a pinch of salt and walk away, anyway...!
Though the gentle breeze of the seashore has warmth much to give,
Does it, like a constant companion, come with you to live?
My sentiments are often like my tea cup and my lip,
They have iffy brushing and pressing only when I sip...!
Passion and compassion has abruptly drawn out restraints,
Can't I, when you occupy my private space, have complaints?
If you, in the name of love enter in heart and break it,
Do you think, for your skin deep love I will myself submit...?
Love is love, finally. There is no alternative truth,
Should I, for the sake of your lies trust all that is uncouth?
Bye, bye, my deceiver and dissembler, my hypocrite!
Let us, like the train-tracks , move forward, though not split or slit...!!!
15 June 2023
What's Love Got to Do with It - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Anderson
Poem- Salt
Poet- Aditya Aneek
Reciter- Shimul Mustapha
In a book fair, theater, cafe, on the first day of Bangla calendar, around the festive Valentine day
An ordinary boy is he, if one overlooks his insinuating efforts to catch a glimpse of her attention
She, as per beauty and diva goes hand in hand to fashion and attire, fits entirely an adjective
In a flock of Butterflies, among a group of youngsters, The boy is an utter misfit, an outlier
Even though he, a lion heart, approached her one day at last, “Will we have tea together?”
With his brave proposal in, utterly astonished she pondered for a while,then surmised, “let’s go.”
Sitting with her, face to face, he had a butterfly in his stomach
With his dry mouth, he sipped his cup of tea and then, “Waiter, please salt, here.”
With astonishment in her face, she asked, “ Will you have salt in your tea?”
The boy answered, “Yes, I was born around the seashore, along the salty foamy sea waves.
Once I have a sip through the salty tea, I see my village, picturesque
And the faces of my parents, floating around with the salty foamy sea, floating far.”
Silent a soul, she, heard the boy, and then replied
"I have never been to the sea, my home lies there in the mountaintop."
There, the subtle clouds touch there in the gentle most surreal, as a feather of a bird
The mountain and the sea, closely knitted there, day by day, a story , dense in heartfelt warmth
Then a marriage, a nest, at last a duo, aged through the grace of time passed.
The old man, before dying, handed the old lady a letter to request, “Open once I‘m gone.”
Once he died, the old lady, opened the letter, It had this written there
"I never could take tea with salt, ever
A startled one, I, stumbled in mumbling then , with salt, to ask sugar in stead
And then had an immediate cover up story of that type, to en wrap.
And so, had the forty years follow through with cups of tea with a pinch of salt.
The salt tea made by you is sweet."
The old lady went to her neighbors one day. They served her tea.
She asked, “ A bit of salt, please.”
Astonished, the neighbor asked, “Will you take salt in your tea?”
She replied, “Yes. The tea with salt is sweet.”
Before I begin I must sprinkle some muse
The main ingredient for the words I'll choose
I'll add in some metaphors with a sprig of thyme
Then I'll add in two cups of rhyme
I'll then drop a pepper into the pot
And slices of sadness to make you tear up
I'll even add assonance, perhaps just a cup
There will be passion as the poem gets hot
A bit of personification with tomatoes I'll then stew
I'll add a teaspoon of alliteration too
This dish will be spicy just by default
I'll sprinkle my similes with a pinch of salt
With limericks, a dash of humor is thrown
Hope it will tickle your funny bone
With syllable count not a vowel to waste
My poem is cooked please take a taste!