[contest 1408 : Premier
Brian Strand
1.9.25 : Placed 7th ]
POT filled with buttery butternut soup
OKRA sauce sprinkled atop chilli hot ~
TICKLES our tastebuds on rosy cosy spot
Pushing the envelope outside the box
if only here to accentuate
the many ways in which
emu may emulate
by delivering nutrients' benefits
and what's more
help repair with anti-aging hydrate
yet won't clog your pores
they herd the birds in a mob
not a troublesome job or task
with ladle fire pit pot and hob
'How is it collected?' I hear you ask
as allegedly good for the skin
anti-inflammatory emu oil
is scooped off the bubbling surface
when they're brought to the boil
Smoking toking you must be joking
it's a bust I just don't need an altered sense
of time and space or on choking
a mind-numbing feeling of euphoria
as I am happy as a clam
(thank you ma'am)
for as you two while under the influence
of lethargy-inducing external stimuli
proceeded in search of smokeable weed
a.k.a., a whole lot of pot
a joint venture indeed
the words I heard by you bemoaned
when about to go driving were
'No left turn unstoned!'
I'm forever chasing rainbows
pretty rainbows in the air
they're so high way up in the sky
they are but my dreams
which all fade and die
altho' fortune's hiding
I'm dreaming dreams
I've looked everywhere
building castles scheming schemes
tho' born anew their days are few
and yet as the daylight's dawning
like a sweet butterfly
they return in the morning
there's one at the end or so I've been told
but will I ever find my own pot of gold
Anapest!
Intro ---------------Coda
and all inbetween.
Très chère Mère and
La porte de Mon Père
are proposed names for the Restaurants.
There a 40 piece Orchestra can
perform.
Seating and dining
areas separate.
Two Restaurants in the same building
and a deal with the Bed and Breakfast 1/4 miles down.
The Three doors Down Deal
will inspire a more family oriented feeling.
We'll let the ballroom be
used for alternatives
but it will mainly be scoped toward
the Familest of Show's
with the best French and French
inspired foods in
America!
From the Eclipse tp the Pink Moon..
the waist bands and C-areas
are ah waiting..
Against the side fence,
four long planks of wood
ascended like steps supported
on pillars of old red bricks
serving as a stand
for my Grandmother's collection
of potted plants.
Cuttings from exotic species gifted
by friends, passed down family heirlooms
harboring memories of past lives,
feathery ferns and plump bellied cacti
battled South Australian
frosty winters and the baking heat
of a summer sun.
All throughout my childhood
they were sustained by love,
flowering on the cue of seasons
and erupting into green
in a yearly miracle of renewal.
I had this odd notion
that each plant found root and drew
from a medium beyond mere soil,
that a strange symbiosis existed
between plant and a human soul.
Not one succumbed to heat
or cold or fell victim to disease.
They grew as a constant, helping
to hold up a wall that gave
a safe and solid perimeter
to our lives.
When my Grandmother died,
they died too - at first
escaping notice in the shadow
of her passing. It was later
when bare spaces drew attention
to their absence and added
to the list of what was missed.
Time heals grief but memory
excavates the loss.
If a watched pot never boils,
why am I looking at the steam from the pot?
Then I burned myself.
Success is like a pot of soup:
Think about making a pot of soup
You put the ingredients in
Boil them for a long time
It seemed like nothing was happening
Suddenly the sweet smell came up
That's where one may wear its smile
Success takes time to accumulate and grow.
A pot am I made some two decades back,
Baked too but not enough,
In search of a good kiln
To rid some half-baked fluff.
And then to set sail
In this ocean of life.
Why?
Go far without getting drowned,
Someone is waiting there for me.
Who?
Not sure, I’ve to figure out
Nor I know who he is,
Nor why waiting he is.
When will you be fully baked?
That is my question too.
When or if ever.
_____________________
Free verse |21.01.2025|poet, ocean, life
Poet’s note: Poetry, like literature, arts, philosophy, science etc is trying either to find this world, other things, or one’s own self. Yet, one is unable to do so beyond a point. A poet feels inadequate and the underlying pain of his gets reflected in his creations as an echo of his struggles to search and find out.
Smoking Fire pot
Of men of gods
Feasting on the fears
Of mere mortals
thirsty souls
Grasping on
sipping patience
of dawn of dusk
a tale of myth
a trial of will
tampering minds
tricky with tickling time
probing souls
Patty’s perfect pot of piquant chili hit my pallet hard
It is hot, tasty, sharp, tangy, made with grandma’s lard.
What a strong zesty kick, this chili has, my stomach laughed.
My own chili is less provocative, less biting, by maybe half.
There is a secret ingredient, my aunts told me but she will never tell.
We went through Patty’s recipe book after she went to heaven to dwell.
She had one entry in the chili that said “secret ingredient –one spoon.”
We have been seeking this ingredient since Armstrong landed on the moon.
Adding spices of sage, cinnamon, thyme, rosemary, and other things.
Patty’s recipe has remained as safe as the treasure chest of kings.
Maybe before we die we will figure it out my mother suggested.
She is gone now, and Patty’s champion chili has not been contested.
Life as a whole can be so tragic,
And never will you witness magic,
Emotions change in a blink of an eye,
You start off happy and end with a cry,
Loss of my loved one this emotion was new,
Like it's tipped in a pot stirred up like a stew,
Then it's poured in a bowl picked up with a spoon,
It's what you would taste,
The worst you'd assume,
The more that you take,
And the bigger the portions,
From the pot that now feeds you,
The new mix of Emotions.
The pot
Tat killed my great grand’s thirst
That reared all who lived before me
That produced our water
Water sweeter than honey.
The pot
She valued more than gold
It was her favourite
Because it was passed to her
From her grandma.
The pot
Is a generational pot
Passed from one generation to another
But now it’s no more
What am I going to leave for my granddaughter?
The pot
That I broke with my carelessness
I know the one who passed it to me is now annoyed
But anyway, I will tell her
It was too old and it had worked for long.
The pot
What if I glue it?
Won’t it link or become a puzzle of a pot?
What will my jajja say about the pot?
I’m confused.
You don't need to swear and cuss
Making such a big loud fuss
Calm down, take a breath
You are scaring me to death
I know your angers coming through
Because of what he did to you
You are mad and really shaking
Your anger is hotly baking
Into a burning black pit
From this disturbing violent fit
There's smoke coming from your head
There is not a single shred
Of peace or calmness down inside
All your nerves are badly fried
Stewing in a pot of hatred
Too far gone to even shake this
Your bloods like a pot of water
Boiling till its even hotter
Than the suns rays shining down
There's a madness all around
Circling you in a heat
Until you are too far beat
To repair the damage of
A sleazy cheating awful love
Oh gaping chasm of misfortune
A sign of council extortion?
Roads not fit for purpose
Driving makes us nervous
Neglect of civil responsibility
The cause of such hostility
Oh pot hole why so terrible
Our roads are just unbearable
What future for these holes?
Maybe roadside fishbowls?
My rage is like a rabid wolverine
I shall write today to the queen
Dear Queen Camilla Parker Bowls
Please send folks to mend our holes
Related Poems