Mouthfuls Poems | Examples

Fire of Anxiety

I watched every twig, every stick,
carefully placed -
I watched

Every branch left its mark,
playing its part like a symphony—
melodies whispering notes of peace,
while harmonies voice the dissonant echoes of war--

So subtle

I watched
Every limb
dividing, thriving
slowly depriving every ounce of oxygen
from the air it never once tasted,
but now hoards mouthfuls as its own.

The period of starvation ends.
It calls, a sudden, about-face.
Melodies of peace and harmonies of war converge.
The time of devouring has come.

Sounds once calming,
lullabies laced with steel—
lulling into hypnotic despair--
disguised as knights in shinning armor
now set a fire. 
 
And I burn

I watched my wooden death bed crafted
by my own hands. 

The question remains

Will I continue to burn?
Or will I rise with the phoenix from the ashes?

Making Time

I like your tall shadows
and model village
I could talk mouthfuls for hours
Seeing your visage
behind the blue mountain ridge
was meant to be
by some ancient turnpike
i drink your muse
firing imagination

Cereal In The PM

My mouth coated with Coco bombs 
Washed with vanilla cream
Taste buds scream, as if they are exploding
Flavor that melts on my tongue 
And I haven't even added the sepia syrup
It turns my favorite cereal into delectable bonbon like bombs 
No spoon is big enough for the mouthfuls I bite into
Thick servings TikTok dancing on my tongue 
I love the African celebration
So, Coco Puff pass me a bowl 
I want to taste these puppy love kisses every morning
p.s. but nothing is better than my favorite cereal at night...

Yorkshire Sunset

million birds fly in
to high cliffs of yorkshire dale
puffins fish mouthfuls


placed 5th in the contest

Groundhog Early

A mild spell in winter.
Groundhogs have escaped from their slow dreams.
The hedgerow confirms,
their wide-hipped shuffling as they grub for vittles.

Evening brings one whistle pig to February lawns.
Yet the snow will return, the whimper in the breeze,
will resurrect itself as a howl.

Hey, back to sleep mother groundhog!
Keep the den warm,
small blind eyes are already sensing,
a home in your womb.

Go back and dream of juicy garden carrots -
munchable mouthfuls of daffodils.

- Queen -

                         Queen awoke from her moonlight dreams
                    Urdarwell her source of wisdom in tiny mouthfuls
                      Every noble drop has a meaning for her future
                  Earth's defender counts days spent in love and peace
                    Nightingale, bless the merry little bird that sings

Rural Ghosts

The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.

Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.

Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open 
in a denim haze.

Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.

Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.

Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.

~~~~

edit

Rush Hour

The morning has no narrative
to be deciphered.
The grey sky is simply grey
and the sounds reaching the ear
carry no meaning, just 
the noise of machines
and motor cars. Even nature
gives no eloquent speech
but allows each utterance to fight 
for space or privilege with cries
and discordant howls.

Clumps of people spill
from carriages and clog
bus stops with minds 
wired to worlds
squeezed through the window
of a tiny screen. 
The morning tightens 
and presses something
deeper into itself,
becoming smaller,
more difficult to reach.
Mouthfuls of panic hurry past,
unnoticed,
before being swallowed 
by automatic doors.

Buckle-Bunny

Another pair of cowboy boots
beneath my bed
banishing dreams of
a permanent man
right out of my head

They call me a buckle-bunny
but that sets too low the bar
for at the end of the night
I take home the rodeo star

He rides wild horses
and even wilder bulls 
I lap him up by the mouthfuls

Lust curls in my belly
when I spy the champion buckle
his laughter is sweet as the honeysuckle

An aging buckle-bunny is what I see
until the next cowboy smiles at me

City

The zealously guarded
Verdant pasture of
The city club
Attract like filings
To a magnet
A herd of undernourished
Hungry city buffaloes
Just as their slavering lips
Pull at the first mouthfuls
Of succulent green grass
The watchman and his
Trio of pie dogs
Barking in token defiance
Arrive hotfoot on the scene
Disconsolate the buffaloes
Gray shapes in the evening gloom
Wend their way out
Pausing to half heartedly
Pick up strewn paper
Throwing wistful backward
Glances at the sweet grass.

Glutton

Always the last to release his spoon,
Still thinking it rather soon
Or hand in the kitchen’s key,
Now letting the poor thing feel free!

The Unlikeliest to pity his jaw muscles,
In all restaurants, a piece of eternal puzzle;
Clearly prematurely visiting the pot
To pointedly pounce on it on the spot.

Often times, after a full tank
Euphoric about a freshly served meal,
For which his congested bowel doesn’t him thank;
Rather ashamed of his food-seizing zeal…
The mouthfuls mirroring a python’s swallows
And straight gulps for which in penury he wallows.

Fast becoming undersized are his shorts
Spotting tens of tears in their flaps;
To be soon discarded the recently bought
By  no means obliging him the gaps.

While for him labour waits in a repository,
Now and then charging into a lavatory
To later surface at the sewage department
All in a fleeting moment
For the predictable muffled discussion 
Minus future precaution.

Verse Is Never Free

Mouthfuls of air
     floating on
letter images
     of vocal sounds-
This inner tune ..
   a spontaneous outflow
of natural rhythm of
the cadence 
      of our emotions
in spoken words

Oh My Tomato Mine

ruby red tomato mine 
I visualize an hour to dine 
on a juicy, moist and fruity shrine
that sports a scarlet red-faced shine

kissing crimson sculptured skin 
a feast awaits this cherub’s grin 
gushing juice drips from my chin
garden grown flavors are home again

mouthfuls harvest a sumptuous eat
delicate flesh is tasty sweet
daily the tomato is a smiling greeter  
for a famished ravenous zealous eater

picture spheres that neatly entwine 
cherry red tomato mine
I have plucked from a gifting vine
licked rosy tinted flesh
that quenched me with refresh

Loosing All Senses

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

Multisensory Sanctuary

True and trusted octave colors
of and for HerStoried Earth
unfold again
for those who listen
with new eyes
for over-filled mouthfuls
of Indigenous Systematic Theology

With sensory experience roots
in sacred ecological relationship trees
remembering our left/right cooperative Time
before Wealth was capitalized,
suppressing EarthMother's interweaving health investments

Where
and when
and why
health is Earth's only sacred sign of wealth,
resilient theological systems
feed and water human nature's
robust right enspirited networks
signifying sacraments of co-operative wealth,
ecosystemic nutrition networks

True and trusted history 
retelling psyche passion cultures
of and for HerStoried Earth.

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