She stepped lightly
Amid the golden reeds
Glowing, this nymph of
Riparian leisure --
Barefoot and scantily
Covered breasts, whose
Jutting pavilions twice
Blessed swayed and
Swelled as the marsh
Tried breathe, exhaled even
Deeper saturating its own boggy
Savors, fixated then
Upon her naked thighs
Exposed for the silk
Curtain had parted revealed
Luscious droplets clinging, slipping,
Slippery sliding my heart a slush
Of primitive desire --
You do not beat the Devil
By hollering at him, punching
Him in the face – that’s what
He is, violence, physical and
Spiritual discord. You do not
Beat the Devil by heated protests,
He feeds on your discord, relishes
Your fevered pitch. You don’t
Beat the Devil by binding him,
Throwing him into flames – He
is flame, pain and suffering. He
Joyfully savors every lick and
Subsequent ash. In fact, you do
Not beat the Devil, the Christ
In you must be risen to bear
Righteous arms. Take the battle
Upon yourself, make yourself
Arbiter of the Lord’s justice
And you will lose – He will
Defeat your lesser ego for that
Is his inlet and base of operation.
Shut Him out, do not give him
Any power for presence – and
God wins. We all win…. As my
Dearest Friend said, "Resist
Not evil."
Mango’s most fruity floral sensations
Angelic purée mixes vexing vibrations
Native-born flushes lush bright red heads
Got it going on, the tongue it savors
Orgasmic orange organic fruit flavors
Crèam de la crème
Always in our humble home, a win
Kudos praises goes berserk
Easter Sunday’s desert!
Reminiscing, my mind's tongue savors it today.
I wonder what made it taste so good that way.
Could it be that custardy layer near the top?
Every time I start to think of it, I can't stop!
Perhaps, it was the browning of the skin?
Underneath, was it the rice-filled heart within?
Dare I find a recipe and try to make it?
Do you think, Mom's secret, I can only fake it?
I just need a phone booth and a dime.
Next, her number in the sky or a ladder I can climb.
Good heavens! I cede another memory to time.
A symphony of spoons,
a poised poke of fork quartet prongs,
the clatter of knives
resounding, rebounding
in a chamber of diphthongs.
The boil and sizzle of oils,
crisping the chips, tempura and pakora to brown.
so biting the crust
makes the cracks ring out loud,
then softens to an ooze.
the slow chewing flows
into a sing-along song,
as the tongue savors the juicy flavors.
A slice of ripe lime, bright green
a gentle, slow pour of warm wine,
draws out two vowels to sound as one
as the mouth rounds on every morsel.
The steam sighs, rising up in spirals,
from the feast that hums and mumbles, low and strong.
Each bite a voice unfolding—
a choir of chew and tongue, sung
savoring the diphthongs
in each mouthful of potpourri chowder.
Summer sighs softly, pausing to watch the golden days slipping away,
When the sun trickles through the gently trembling birch leaves,
Whispering of growth and ripening, the enchantress transforms the fields,
Into gold woven from corn, swaying in the rhythms of bountiful harvests.
White clouds gather, like storms waiting to unleash their song,
She gathers new bluebirds in her warm heart, singing with their harmonies,
As the light fades, like that comma of silence between day and dawn,
She savors this moment before autumn plants its frost upon her cheeks.
A dance of time, a pause between seasons, a dream of the gentle equinox,
Where time seems to stop, and nature weaves its silent story,
The whole world takes a deep breath, captured in the beauty of a fleeting moment,
Summer retreats slowly, making way for autumn to sing its symphony of leaves.
Seasons Now and After 8-11-25 Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pause Between Summer and Autumn
Summer sighs ~ she pauses to gaze on days
When sunlight drips from feathery birch leaves
Whispering of growing large, ripening,
Enchantress turns maize to fields of spun gold
She sways in rhythms of pregnant harvests
Only seen in dreams of the equinox.
As white clouds gather, like storms in waiting,
She gathers new bluebirds in her warm heart
Singing with their harmonies as light fades,
Like that comma of stillness in between
Daylight and dawn, she savors this moment
Before autumn plants frost upon her blush.
"People expect all stories of abuse
to be loud and angry
but they're not.
Sometimes they're quiet and cruel
and swept under the rug." ~ Trista Mateer
When the sky sips wild thyme,
and the sun savors swells of zenith,
like the sakura essence of spring,
I feel beyond the blushing blues,
the bruised silhouette of victimized wind,
fighting the heinous heat, while barely breathing;
for she did not ask the soulless predators;
familiar fangs, disguised as servers of diamonds,
to steal the innocence from her starry night,
staining the air with bleeding grief,
now the horizon sits ~ a silent spectator~
to a virtue stolen, left to ashes and dust,
of heartbeats soaked in crimson tears...
Walls breathe insistent hunger,
red as the inside of a split pomegranate,
richer still where the tallow has melted,
slick as the fat from a burnt offering.
Scarpia does not eat.
He savors—sounds of gristle
snapping in the next room—
—low, wet gasps—
body writhing beneath unseen hands,
a melody of muscle breaking.
Tosca stands, spine locked,
as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color
of a mouth left too long in the sun.
He watches her throat move,
slow, careful, like a deer
scenting iron in the air.
A scream glissandos through the walls.
Scarpia wipes his lips.
His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine,
gesture toward the door—
an invitation, a demand—
a sermon delivered without breath.
Tosca does not kneel.
Not yet.
But the feast has begun,
and the host holds the fermata.
(note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)
Our love is like a bowl of curry
Sour and salty, then sweet and spicy
It lingers and savors slowly
Explodes a burst of umami
Perhaps the lemongrass and lime
Gives aroma of our passing time
What is life if you're not mine?
A lonely shrimp floating on a brine
It is often misunderstood
A healthy meal doesn't taste so good
But affection that is unwooed
Is unreal as cheap fast food
As I took a sip of tamarind juice
A peak of pleasure it produced
My heart melted and infused
Knowing your love I'll never lose
This is our love story
That sees beyond taste and beauty
True love shall never hurry
But waits until it's ready
The beauty of the evening,
The blushing horizon in the west
I adore much the taste
Of sugary sweets blended
In the black coffee
In the mug of beautiful evening
Moistens my thirsty throat,
To alleviate an exhaustion
After my daily affairs.
The glow of appealing eve
Freezes to the stark darkness.
Thin cover of Black Satin
Sets nightly all over my body.
The cool and soft warmth
Of my subconscious body
Spins the deep slumber.
My whole body are then senseless:
By the immeasurable beauty
Of my beloved.
Warming me up at a snail's pace
Plunges to an iridescent dreams.
After having dinner,
Nice reflection of the glowing eve
Switches into gloomy night
I clean my hand and mouth
And feel me cozy by the leftover
At the edge of my dinner plate
Midnight snacks sparkle
Like diamond inside the coal.
The midnight snacks
A few pieces of food desecrates
As the complexity of my life
Tastes saline as the ocean water do,
Comes out frequently
Of my dehydrated throat
Something more pleasant savors.. .
*
Missy Sue makes malted milk shakes
and she savors marmalade,
macaroons and snickerdoodles
and sweet souffles she has made.
Sue is messy slicing melons,
strawberries and mangoes too.
Sue munches seeds and celery sticks.
She mixes meats, making stew.
Milk chocolate -mouth-watering,
sweet and marvelously mild -
satisfies Missy Sue
mainly if it is Swiss styled!
I remember Cupid’s scent when December stars sailed,
above vast seas of scars rippling with past mistakes,
awaiting the euphonious moon to croon and tune melodies veiled.
But will the skies in blues be the muse, casting dews of jasmine bright?
For when shadows rise, darkness looms and blooms in lotus-filled lakes,
erasing the old memories of ink, imbued with rose gold light.
Maybe the waning essence of sage flavors savors the colors of amorous art,
where twilight twirls and swirls to silent confessions that time breaks,
oblivious to the periwinkle rhyme placed from your soul to my lilac-laced heart.
Though they come in the same container
And each on its own is a taste sensation
Not everyone savors the different flavors
In a Neapolitan nation
In my kitchen, there's a treasure,
scrumptious dinner, it helps me prepare.
Under pressure it combines flavors,
Serves proudly, mouthwatering savors.
This wonder made of stainless steel,
Shines like a star among my utensils.
Rice, beans, soup, or stew,
Ready in a flash for the whole crew.
Safety valve and rubber gasket,
Ensure this helper is not a threat.
Though it shrieks like a train,
This gadget is a faithful friend.
I rely on this device a lot,
As it gives peace to my heart.
So, here's to the pressure cooker's plea,
Transforming ingredients into a glee!
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