Palates Poems | Examples

Papaya

Papaya, passion fruit
Pulp, gorgeous honey-rain
Painted skins of sun gold
Praise your calypso crown
Pungent tropical rhythms
Possess soulless palates
Present for my colon

Cultural Crux

Is there anything you root for in our garden now? 
Must I cultivate it to make it grow? 
Can't seed so many plots, I know.

Is there anything you savour in our melting pot now? 
Seasons changed, and our flavours compound, 
True essence to distil.

Blinded by what familiarity steeps 
You know our brew only too well, you see. 
I taste bitterness, you drink me.

Remember, 
The days when cultures were raw, 
Just fresh and jubilantly spicy?
Where exactly did that zest go? 
Preserved, yes. 
Unspoiled, no! 

Simmered away as steam from a kettle, 
Aromas mingled over. 
Vaporous, hardly distinguishable.

Whatever happened to our cultural bouquet? 
Trying to bottle it is so hard.

Is there anything you relish in our feast now?
These days our palates just don't know. 

We're still simmering.
 Taste! Taste!

Neither Cricket Nor Croquet

   Discriminating palates
      garnish salads with shallots
    
   But when eating croquettes
      avoid mallets

One Pound Fifty

sun tanned unevenly, foxed
grimy fingers caress bruising
pounded by day's narration
churlish in onyx, was its hint
over feathered combs, see, 
of flicked, creased pages
buried, stained words
were never read
while cold rooms grow colder
an author's sweat for nothing
stemmed the reader's keen
though skimmed at best
and your dilated pupils
captured out-of-breath palates
so I travelled second hand
yesterday, for just over a quid

Love

Even though you may not be looking, always believe that love is cooking.Quote - Poet’s own
Bake love each day the whole of your life
Mixed with fervour and all kinds of spice
Everything you've ever hungered for
Hopes, dreams, wishes and all you adore.

Stir in measureless ardent passion 
Sprinkle on top some sweet compassion 
Simmer slowly on the lowest heat
‘Til your heartbeats are on the increase.

Then turn the temperature way up
Whilst drinking wine from the loving cup
Prepare the aura ready to eat
Soft music, dim lights during the feast.

Tempt palates with a special delight
Of afters that please the appetite
Just as we need food so we may live
We’re all in need of love to exist.

I hope you will test my recipe 
It truly has done wonders for me.

Toronto

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

Christmas Memory

Cardboard boxes, full of surprises;
celebratory treasures rest,
beneath the evergreen branches; 
bold stacks of color.

Bellies smiling, hiding 
delectable, culinary delights. 
My heart swells with joy, 
while our palates dance a waltz.
Emotion rides on clouds of serotonin.

Christmas builds
another miraculous memory
and the old year, ends with elation.
My taste buds are sent sailing on a warm sea, 
of cocoa and cinnamon spice.

The Fifth Season

When I dream of sun graciously leaving the scene,
I could feel how crueler in these-days he has been;
Hasn't the dear summer said his grin-filled goodbye?
Why, then, is the naughty sun still high in the sky...? 

From hot, days and nights have turned hotter and hottest, 
Hot breeze has changed into melodious flautist; 
How long will the children play? How long we must work?
Why the day that dawned long ago, does not turn murk...?

Crows and pigeons on water tops, often take dips,
Each love bird in cages each minute water sips;
Ice creams, though so cooingly wet tender palates, 
Heat beats the crowns of our heads like many mallets...!

Peal of thunder; cloud-to-cloud lightning; no rain yet,
Consensus betwixt summer and monsoon seems set; 
Dog-days, like fire and pans, have come and gone,
Why dryness within, yet, is lingering alone...?

Roses fresh; mild mist; spring though seems arriving near,
Prickles and pains from foot to head I greatly fear;
Midst magical moist muggy muttering movements, 
Fifth season, like sense fifth, flows free and innocent...!!!


08 November 2022
The Fifth Season Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco

Meatless Mondays

I wonder:
is one man's ballad
invalid
word salad
or a plant-based substitute
for veggie palates?

Robust Battle

Some say this pie is criminal,
mozzarella drenched with pineapple; 
Pizza to devour or throw 
euphoric or a waste of dough; 
Two palates, one robust battle.

Paratrooper Stu

Plunged to terrain plagued, tasty female options 
Surge of adrenalin pulses choices unsuitable 
Piquant aroma pulls him closer, allure accosting
Sentient favours solacious flower so beautiful

Hurtled descent drops watchful onto hillock haze
Swayed seed laden willow heads have halos
Hedonistic impulse picks silken stems with craze
Seraphim surround a torn aura in dewy daos 

Preordained mistake palates spasmed heartbeat
Shrews drawn to Stu allude to transformation 
Prurient dripping pores warble wanton indiscreet
Strident serpentines permit desire incubation

Heathen has escape, wrapped parachute harness 
Preparing his tortured innards for due launch
Hazards bring unbridled enthusiasm for newness
Pride hides a tarnished ego, attempts reforge 





11th February 

Whenever waking, 
Lady tailor making

Truth and Love

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 –

Cherries and Blueberries

Cherries and Blueberries

Fresh cherries, red ripened under the sun;
Picked in the orchard, plump, and succulent.
And blueberries plucked from bushes in the wild,
Mouth-watering, tasty when crushed in the mouth.

Absolutely delicious when used as fillers,
In brimmed over tarts or between pie crust layers.
Or dusted with sugar and crème poured over,
Enjoyed separate or combined flavors together.

Blueberry pancakes and cherry waffles for breakfast,
And muffins, bursting inside with juicy, sweet goodness:
Tops and stumps or sliced lengthwise, then smeared with butter,
Exuding fruity aromas to quench our palates.

Cloud 9

ambient autumn skies 
pulsate prism rainbow palates---
I sip on liquid horizons

Cornucopia

In Classical Antiquity, “Cornucopia” means plenty,
A symbol of abundance, nourishment overflowing;
That was my Mother, a Cornucopia for many,
In her lifetime of service to others, without crowing.

Evelyn was many things, but "Master Chef" by definition,
The magical commissioner of a welcoming kitchen;
Where small talk ensued, as heat was applied,
Every recipe and dish, using taste as her guide.

Location mattered not, twas her home or yours,
Or a campsite somewhere, Mother loved the outdoors;
And the tools of her trade, simply counted far less
Than the magic she used, to sooth and to bless.

Like Christ on that hillside multiplying fishes and loaves,
She defied earthly science, mouths fed by the droves;
In volumes that satisfied even neighbors, and friends,
Our pets also royalty, their palates too cleansed.

Between meals our long table, was always reset,
Place settings in waiting, cleansed and well prepped;
‘Cornucopia’ describes best, our dear precious Mother,
Prepping meals now in Glory, for our loving Heavenly Father.

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