Peppery Poems | Examples

Snapdragons

Snapdragons (edit)



One is a serpent on the wing, the other a butterfly.
Each belongs to species created from
tissue paper, water, and light.

When half-awake I can hear the droning
of their nocturnal flights,
amber engines rattle cut-glass hangers
as they lift off to carpet bomb our dreams.

Some are more wolf than dragon,
they form packs of loup-garou,
and snap at the heavy-handed
and too fleshy fingered florists.

Those not employed in directing
disbelievers toward dragon lore
retire to flower as urban myths,
their chiffon wings and origami faces
masking many a peppery passion.

Perfectionist Poet

Please pander to my
Perfectionism by
Pottering your purlesent
Peepers purposely past my
Permanently printed
Phrases of poetic poise

Pulling precious people
Past particular poison 
Pleases.
Pushing perfection points
Purposefully protects from 
Painful perception.

Perhaps a pedantic persuasion?
Perhaps a pen peaking in
Peppery passion or with
Personal poignancy or
Painted pastiche pictures of
Platitude?

Perhaps

The Red Train, to the north pole of course

To The North Pole Of Course  (Part Two)  
 
The farmlands, bridges and countrysides woosh by in a rush 
then vanish before my eyes at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour.
 My mind is traveling at the speed of Donner and Blitzen.  It goes through a magical hourglass only to nestle inside a cinnamon scented wagon that is infused with the clanking of fine china cups.  A peppery scent of hot chocolate perfumes the air and lands on my palate, sweetly.   
While I am being ushered forth into Christmas, I sift through time, backpedaling swifter than Santa's mistletoe kiss. 
I hear his rippling laughter and melt like butter.  

My extra sensory perception picks up the echoes through the halls of my memory
and I say to myself, " I think I'm going home, to the North Pole of course."

Nigeria Has a Wild Walter

Nigeria has a wild Walter!
A horse to hold by the halter
And drag to a Yoke-Breaking Altar;
Priests to hopefully alter
What The Devil about him did utter:
The Spirit Denizens of their water,
From there pounding him in a mortar …

Nigeria’s Euphoric Walter
Who fully kisses his daughters
And only last week a Hotel Porter’s 
Just to celebrate a peppery otter 
Which at first had forced out a mutter …

Always like this with Lost Walter
Known to often in Spirit falter 
And along walked streets totter.

Man and Dog

He walks toward me whistling merrily,
old, shabby, and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him,
he almost skips.

A peppery hound follows;
it slows and flops,
its muddy eyes meekly stoical.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.

The Man breezes past me smiling.
I think of a jaunty scarecrow-Fred Astaire;
his dog struggling to keep up
but huffing happily.

I walk on pondering:
that If time journeys like that
for all the young at heart,
should I skip more often?

The Flute Player

In the subway, a flute player,
at his feet, cents, and dimes.

He is young, skinny,
large peppery Adam’s apple
bobbing,
all sharp elbows and pursed lips,
an old time preacher channeling Bach,
not hell-fire, but more the flame
of creation.

At a distance,
watching him hunched over the notes -
too shy to stand in the presence,
I interlope; try not to intrude.

Is the breath in his lungs
from God or hunger?

God does not bother
with questions,
unconcerned as She is
with the speaker or the listener.

She does come with Her music however,
when I hunger.

Cheese

I don’t have a lingering doubt
That cheese is the gods’ gift to man.
It compliments other fine foods
Whether peppery, salty or bland.

There’s gorgonzola and Stilton,
Emmental, muenster and bleu,
There’s limburger, feta and Jack,
And hundreds of others, too.

When it’s cold outside and windy
There’s nothing as good for lunch
As a sandwich of toasted cheese,
Along with an apple for crunch

I’d rather have crackers and cheese
Than some kind of chips and goo.
And instead of a sweet dessert
Fruit and brie would nicely do!

Blue Plate Special

Blue Plate Special
David J Walker

Why is it I never
Eat as well when 
You’re not here

Even though I am the one
The lone man at home
Doing the cooking for no one
When I know that you’re not looking

A chicken fried steak 
Might find its way 
Into the hot grease 
of my frying pan

And there may be 
Peppery country gravy 
To go with the 
Buttery mashed potatoes

And Italian green beans 
And a brown and serve roll
On my blue plate special

And by the way 
I would die for
a slice of your 
Apple pie about now

Come home baby 
Before the blue plate special
Isn’t special anymore

When To Slap Your Customer

You’re to slap a customer 
Stubbornly sticking to a thousand
For an article clearly worth ten thousand
And he to it, not a new- comer:
Buyers, after receiving your warm Hello’s
Trying  to force out your hot bellows,
For which you could a head clout
And its owner disgracefully walk out!

You may customers slap
Who deny others a gap,
In your shop remembering The Armageddon
Or strenuously proclaiming’ The kingdom’:
Who purchasing spirit poison
And no more picking up what would one’s lips moisten;
One’s butchered interest hurrying to a grave yard
Ta later rise with The Saints, very hard!

You should a customer slap 
Or his knuckles rap 
After touching an edible 
And in minds this becomes indelible:
What could’ve sold itself before the fingering,
Another buyer’s decision eternally lingering…

Aye, the ungovernable customer
Making sentences and no comma!
Partly debating the price of a good
Partly eyeing your wife and swinging her mood:
Be ye right handed,
Connect your sparks-discharging slap to his left cheek,
For there it is urgently demanded:
The Peppery Hot for one full week!

Traipsing

He walks toward me, old, shabby and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him.

A peppery hound follows.
Now and again the dog slows and flops,
its muddy eyes question marks.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.

I capture them both in an intake of breath.
We have all been traipsing,
but these two are at ease with their path,
while I have yet to find one.

River Wye Weekend

You came in a beat up old blue Landie

with tales of sleeping giants on your lips.

It was your first night in the cottage

when the Wye was skipping over stones,

dividing the spiked water milfoil

with sacred Pumlumon Fawr sunk into the sunset.

 

We watched a heron draggle

in and out of the water crowfoot beds,

trusted we’d see muntjac or wild boar tomorrow.

Look, there’s a kingfisher, jewelled above the otter’s holt

and later a dipper, teeter-totter,

near the yellow-cress.

 

Watching frogs collared by ripples

we wish for a grass snake or polecat.

Skipping past horse-tail and great willowherb

you trace the sand martins with your miniature fingertips

while I collect peppery chives from the bedrock

and turn my once carefree soul to my stomach.



from 'Scratching The Surface' 2019
https://amzn.to/32GSMGl

Morsels of Deceit

Give the people what they want,
let them have it   quickly
The pot is on the boil,
hissing steam 
Desires of an improper seethe

Angry thoughts on a roil,
the patience of diligence dissipating
Hurriedly, they the cast the peppery vote
For they all savor a king:
they alova his sweet, dainty speech

A savior king made of decaying flesh,
provides a nasty tasting

An unsightly welcome
to a feast of fools
Reaching clamorously for their
salty tongue tools
Their left hand holds the fork,
the right hand grips the knife
And belly growls
silver spoon demand 
for the promised porridge
to be poured out    more than twice

They have a gluttonous delight
for deceitful meat
The richness of the spice
gives the poor, ballot-starved souls
a covetous appetite

They say it don’t platter matter, 
‘bout the color of the meat
But it seems the flavor tone changes,
when you turn up the heat

Give the people what they want ...
let them have it, poll quickly

Ever desirous for morsels of deceit — 
Put a knife to the throat,
when that elected, grin ruler speak

Political Music

Distant piano music,
or is it the speech of a banjo
unearthed from some attic prison?
Wait, do I hear a flügelhorn moaning, 
or is that a different conversation?

Brahms plucks at his peppery beard,
glissando and arpeggio flutter
into mountains of buttery mutter.
We the players and listeners
twist our ears into ad hoc rock bands,
countering the contradictions
through inaudible librettos.

Bless you, you fish-faced plods,
can't you hear the bubbles in your heads
how they practice and refrain -
echo-on as your own wagging 
tone-deaf tongues?

Tumultuous

Time to celebrate, from such great ecstasy, the ear feels peppery
Uncontrollable mob, the scenes of joy and happiness copy
Morality of men, permits adulthood to behave sloppy
Underrated chaos for fun and a good time to taste crispy
Lost short awareness and only to be found through microscopy
Too much of noise in this event that a thunder strike sounds raspy
Ultimate is the addition of madness, yet all is happy
Over the moon, mortal spirits reach but in clothing so skimpy
Under this circumstance, happiness is in need of therapy
Sounds so dangerous, can even overcome any canopy.

I Heard Not a Word

I heard bankshots last night,
sounded like vault robbery for sure
These startled eyes, which got rudely awakened,
saw some masked bandits
mute walking on a one beam teller ...
not cash registering one word

No safety deposit reassurances were heard,
only silent alarm 
breached security measure blurbs

On the latest Bankers Holiday,
I heard some peppery sprayed hotshots 
being airwave-pumped
in a high pitch, screaming tire getaway
Preying mantis scarlet quotation tread marks
on the glowing screen said:
"We only take more than you can pay ... 
blood money always got a dead air say"

Children of famous crooked faces
were crouched decibel low on a zip lip line,
tightrope beam teller
Proselyte pantomime pupils
moving their mouths a lot,   cat burglar quick
Using lip sync tools,
saying not a single word ...
Only giving a wily nod coyote wink

I heard not a word
uttered 
No, not one truthful word
spoken
during this brazen, public heist

As every lullaby lamb 
warm fleece slept 
with their pockets open last night

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