Poem submitted to ILLUSKA: Illustrated Haiku Challenge Poetry Contest, JCB Brul, sponsor, 7/24/2025
*WE SIP HER MOMENTS
summer sails on seas
of sparkling lily laughter
we sip her moments
*Note: I published this poem at Poetry Soup on June 9, 2025. (www.poetrysoup.com › poem › we_sip_her_moments_1738034) then deleted it. Am re-sharing it now. This is my original poem
Celebration begins,
Charcuterie boards and
Chilled bottles of champagne.
Chilled champagne poured, served in
Coupe, flute, tulip glasses,
Creates bubbles and fizz.
Cheers, raise glasses and sip.
Put a little cardamom in it.
Spice it up!
Cloves are great for health.
Add that in too!
A pinch of cinnamon.
Wow, what a robust flavor!
Don’t forget Ginger!
Peel and feel the texture.
Drop it in!
Pitch black tea leaves.
It leaves you with a strong, but bitter sensation.
Hear those bubbles sing and dance while boiling,
Steam shoots up in the air out of the tea kettles’ spout,
like a rocket to the moon.
Yes, I can drink this to the moon and back.
A tasty concoction of flavor in this tiny little cup.
Simply just pleases your taste buds.
Stems from the country of India.
Spicy and yet so sweet.
Makes your day complete,
rather than incomplete.
Under the summer heat.
Or embracing the streaks of cold air,
while wrapped up and gulping,
then saying: “This beverage is just one of a kind”.
Like a dried-up fountain, I sip from my shadows,
Dusty memories, like forgotten books on shelves of dreams,
I swallow my existence, like a sea of silence,
And let it flow, spread, dissolve into verses.
I would like to open my heart, to sprinkle my blood
On the white paper, to write with the venom of melancholy
And to see how each word becomes a stiletto for me,
Deeply embedded in the flesh of readers, in the flesh of the world.
I need life to feed my death,
To feel how each breath becomes a verse,
How each heartbeat becomes a rhythm,
An echo of ancestral sadness,
And how my soul transforms
Into a river of murky light,
Flowing between rocks of pain, through valleys of longing.
Even if it kills me, I will scatter into words,
Like a rain of shooting stars,
Like a wind that whispers the forgotten names of ancient gods.
I need it!
Even if it kills me,
To feel how each letter absorbs my life,
How each sentence feeds my death,
And to know that I have lived, that I have existed,
In an ocean of words, in a universe of sadness.
I need it!
Even if it kills me.
Even if it kills me!
QUAFF OR SIP
In days of old one drank from a flagon
Some were even embossed with a dragon
Yet more recently, mugs then emerged
And demand for matching items surged
Whether in tin, porcelain, or plain china
Some potteries’ items could not be finer
Later, tea drinkers in the Victorian era
Affected, bought cups that were dearer
Like doll house items, cups got quite small
And they offered hardly a mouthful at all
We know small teacups are not the same
So perhaps a cuplet is a far better name
Sheer mere pure simple
I feel that my solely only
Perceptive beloved read me
I need to keep sipping.
Water, and it needs to touch my tongue first.
So that I can feel the water flowing inside me.
Which brings life to my fingers and toes.
As if the water is blood within me.
And cools the numbness that is normally what flows through my veins.
Sometimes, I need coffee.
We all need coffee sometimes.
In the morning, early, so early.
Earlier every day.
Sitting, and sipping.
My hands are touching a cup.
I can feel, I can feel ceramic.
Cold ceramic.
So I don’t die.
I’m saving my life.
Sitting here quietly.
I’m saving my life every morning.
Sipping, as if every sip is a breath.
Sipping.
All day, I’m sipping.
Eyes that have alluring Shine,
There intoxicating be filled with Wine ,
Those crimson marks on the glass..;
which the lips touched....
felt like a sip of kiss |
@brokenangel03
For such a large intimidating dude, he has a dainty sip.
We were tiptoeing around him, hoping none of us would slip.
He is a bruiser of a bear, probably weighs eight hundred and two.
He’s been nursing that martini for an hour whispered my cousin Sue.
i sip those coffee irises
which beckon my core
sans a resounding wave
or bawdy utterance
the strong, robust urge
a breathless yearning
i stir that drink
with a flirtatious cream
i lean into his cup
the grind of healthy soil
a tasty, deep, romantic bean
those eyes ~ my twinge
a loving cup
pours into every kiss
the slide of lips
the palming caress
oh how those eyes dance
in throes
the thrill that wakes me up
stirs him to sleep
content beneath the sheets
those coffee irises
hidden from my view
i’m totally taken
8/1/2022
A love story in an Andalusian grove
that belongs now as a last look
at a cat-scan.
Beneath that olive bower,
she sips a glass of La Rioja Alta.
He looks at the scan.
He keeps looking at the scan
hoping to see vineyards.
The fruit he sees is dark
and the vine pale.
He raises a last glass of wine
to her.
Our gossipy lips
Have a shutting zip:
The flying words we quip
We can their wings clip
And the speeches we hasten
On some muteness fasten …
Come the killing desire to gossip
Find some diverting juice to sip
Or restraining wisdom grip,
So that our tongues wouldn’t slip.
Our lips Gossips richly moisten,
As listeners’ eyes fully glisten:
But victims empower to raise hell
By hundred times A Warning Bell.
doves lade the sky like stars
the snowy white peace
a starry night released
over San Xavier del Bac
the cactus fruit and prayer
alive in sanguine petals
the mission gold altar and pews
absolved en pleine air
i sip my keepsake coffee cup
2/11/2022
In the desolate domain of eerie milieu
under the ebony opaque sky,
on the murky hideous landscape
the nocturnal creatures prowl and try
to stalk those who can’t see
the nightriders slither in the sly
from the sinister forlornness of the wild,
the unwary they craftily descry.
With the arcane acumen concealed
as ominous feral creatures they lurk,
like sordid silhouettes of evil menace
they stealthily sneak in the dark
into the quintessence of your life,
crumbling it down going berserk,
they sip from the chalice of night
your soul’s ambrosia in darkness stark.
__________________
January 21, 2022
Contest : The Chalice Of Night
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
Gentility of crystalline lace
taps upon my frigid face
a dance to tongue, snow sip.
1-1-2022
Enter the 'Bite Size Poem #31' Poetry Contest
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