Gold upon gold,
half-hidden upon the burning aisle of earth.
Sickle points raised heavenwards,
where mountains belch loudly from the grass
of spontaneous repasts...
Gold, subtle and cream, posted
for the illumination of half days,
when the moiety of stolen glare visits
the eye of the world.
O Gold,
shine on!
You increase my pulse with that gleam,
so breath-taking, like the birth of a mirror.
Sickle of gold, pierce this gloom of distress NOW!
Fall into my palms silently like a Darling’s lone trinket.
Come as you are!
Bring what you like.
A childhood favorite!
What you like to make
Memories of past repasts
Share yours, come together.
Expect some chaos, banter, disagreements.
Expect polite dislikes.
Revel in serendipity.
As such, these Potluck Repasts
Delight in no fuss sharing
Spontaneous togetherness
Connecting folks to share a meal.
This time of the year
when the cannas sadly droop,
Ma is saving kitchen scraps
from recent repasts
for a hearty winter soup,
and decorations go up.
Too early I think
with the Christmas ornaments
for commercial purposes
slighting Halloween
and Thanksgiving gatherings.
I shall complain bitterly.
No one will listen!
Some say I am Mister Scrooge
I can stand only so much
happiness and joy,
cash registers dinging loud
facing the mad shopping crowds.
Each year it gets worse
when the cannas sadly droop,
and Ma saves scraps for the soup
decorating starts,
and I complain bitterly
but no one listens or cares.
Written September 12, 2022
The greatest Poem I ever wrote…
the one I just laid down
The one to last a thousand years
deep in the lost and found
With words familiar, feelings stained
in blood from echoes past
My pen left bleeding on its page
—as quietude repasts
(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2018)
in summer it's bright
the gloom is shuttered indoors
behind the curtains
balmy summer nights
eating outdoors in the breeze
simple dishes bliss
the warm summer sea
beckons beach goers to swim
honey syrup sweet
already it's hot
shade ominous in shadows
welcomes sea breeze gusts
repasts of summer
after long winter gruel
gush exuberance
such fun in the sun
is stirred and spurred by summer
heat makes the blood flow
winter dies with you,
summer endless afterlife
in heaven or hell
winter color blind
daubers everything in drab grey
summer colors in
The stories I could tell and having told
of trials which would led thee upon a well worn path
within the skin and to the core the soul
through torrid memories of the long lost past.
I'd speak of Joseph whose passions prompted bliss
of kisses deep within this form of Eve
of baths with gentle hands, where my soul heaved
as fingers traced each mounds earthy contrast.
And so that, days pleasures not bow to nights repasts
I'd share with you a tale of sun baths in rye fields
laying au naturel in hip high grass, as caution yields
to tender taunting's upon an oh so, rigid mast.
Truly, I'd say for bold I am, and never cold,
the naked truth should never be, left undersold.
She sits among the flowers on the ground.
A young flower amid a bed of thorns.
Genteel on this conspicuous platform,
with flowers gathered closely all around.
She baptizes with water from her hand,
then prunes the withered from this flower stand.
Unity is there among the weeds,
that strengthens fading petals on their stems.
Cultivating roots, distributing seeds,
elegant blossoms for her diadems,
with sweet nectar for all the birds and bees,
luring repasts from ancient recipes.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.