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
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!
Discriminating palates
garnish salads with shallots
But when eating croquettes
avoid mallets
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
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.
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
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.
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
I wonder:
is one man's ballad
invalid
word salad
or a plant-based substitute
for veggie palates?
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.
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
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
Fresh cherries, red-ripened under the sun,
Are picked in the orchard, plump and succulent.
And blueberries plucked from bushes in the wild
Are mouth-wateringly tasty when crushed in the mouth.
Absolutely delicious when used as fillings,
In brimming-over tarts, or between pie crust layers.
Or dusted with sugar and crème poured over,
Enjoyed separately or with combined flavours 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 satisfy our palates.
ambient autumn skies
pulsate prism rainbow palates---
I sip on liquid horizons
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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