marinated pork belly
exudes decadence
my charcoal grill is smokin
juice drips from skewers
great appetizer
can’t wait to
bite
Categories:
skewers, food,
Form: Epulaeryu
~Running~ death steps behind ~ don't stop to tell how close.
Swallowing a clump of cacti. Throat skewers.
Aubergine blood clots. Cough, life's wick smaller.
Struggle effective so long ago, like swinging axes,
which kerf felled the tall tree and brought the timberwolves sorrows?
Can't celebrate on broken lips ~nihilistic providence~
the cancer of Hope eating body as it canonizes soul.
Roasting in this blue basilisk without a cloud over Hell,
lassoed by titian sands, shall our desert enshrine martyrs' bones?
Categories:
skewers, change, conflict, environment, freedom,
Form: Free verse
Soft lavash, luscious Sangria, savory shrimp, scallop skewers,
scrumptious lobsters, seasoned steak, sauteed spinach, squash,
scrummy lemon lady finger, strawberry shortcake, latte, lungo.
La la, lovely, lavish, some sumptuous supper!
Categories:
skewers, food, life,
Form: Alliteration
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
Categories:
skewers, art, perspective,
Form: Rhyme
A few wet, wind scorched leaves,
are pressed like Victorian mementos
upon the wooden walkway
The trees in this forested park are tattered,
or stand like blackened forked skewers
piercing the stark air.
Autumn fell too far, too soon.
Winter grabbed the sky and quickly froze it.
Now the odd leaf upon the ground
seems abandoned, homeless,
unable now to be anything
but the litter of yesterday.
A good day for wading through
the history of this changing season,
to watch those prematurely gray ghosts
hobbling along a pathway
seeking threadbare sparks of life.
Categories:
skewers, poetry,
Form: Free verse
[bard1]
To wit, sans pearl, mere grit and sand,
an irritant, sebaceous cyst,
expressive as a mongrel’s gland,
self-seeking randy churlish tryst!
[bard2]
Eccentric heel’s ethos raised grand,
eschews finesse, rough skewers gist,
a numpty dumpty, brillig panned,
thou frontal lob, now dully bris’d!
Categories:
skewers, conflict,
Form: Rhyme
Floating Market on the River
A Thailand tradition
Large sun umbrellas
And boat roofs or hoods
And Asian conical hats
A bucket of cracked brown egg shells
A grandma quickly whips up
Egg, oyster and fresh, crisp bean sprout
In rice flour batter
Raw and cooked food
Vendors sell garden produce
And cooked food
Prepared right before one’s eyes
Plantain, banana, bean sprouts
Breadfruit
Coconut sugar, syrup and fresh coconut
Poof- a cloud of smoke surround the cook
Another vendor grills meat on skewers
She makes chicken, liver and sticky rice
Tart and sweet star fruit
Steamed sticky rice, coconut milk , sugar and banana inside its leaf
A sweet Thailand tamale
A live band: saxophonist, keyboardist and vocalist plays for donations
Fried quell egg
Fresh and dried spices
Fresh and dried sea food: shrimp, fish
Grilled scallop
Cooked noodles
Cooked squid, prawn, crab and fish
Green papaya salad
Boat brewed coffee
Soda pop
Distilled water
Tea
Beer
Blood cake
Pork
Rice noodles
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
09/30/19
Categories:
skewers, fishing, food, garden, money,
Form: Free verse
Our annual sisters dinner at the Melting Pot. We pay to cook our own food. The shopping done by the restaurant. We climb into a huge booth, tell jokes, stories, sing funny songs about serious stuff — some sympathize, others laugh not understanding this is a true story. And we divide two bottles of wine.
the cheddar cheese
melts and devours morsels —
we pop into our mouths
Memories made, smiles exchanged. The waiter’s named David, who’s serving another David and he reminds me of a library book No, David, only I say Slow down, David. With one glass of Chateau Michelle this is a funnier joke.
sisters poke the pot —
assorted skewers hold meat
boiling in hot oil
Now I’m feeling like the holiday roast. This is one place that should only be done once a year. We talk some about kids but our families are mostly forgotten as we enjoy the adult bonding. Our sis-in-law was afraid we might add in shots. We did not but the food itself is intoxicating. After dessert we must make it to the car.
the yin and yang
white and dark chocolate
sweetens fruit and cake
12/17/2018
Categories:
skewers, food,
Form: Haibun
Most time is
unremarkable:
the conscious mind asleep
between stitches and scores
hoots and howls
sweet scents and fouls
hunger and bowels--
viruses needing cures,
shifting earth
and weather skewers
determining our garments
and directions…
even our intimate affections
a product of environment,
each a prison of sorts
Strange, yet God claims
not to lead us…
Categories:
skewers, allegory, analogy, inspiration, self,
Form: Free verse
You poetry reviewers sitting high on your opinions,
placing us on your literary skewers.
Stuffing us like turkeys, with synonyms and antonyms,
forbidding all clichés.
You roast our images and tear us apart,
then reject us by claiming, "you're just not avant-garde."
How can you really judge another one's art,
when we open up our soul, to expose our heart? .
Your words are harsh, and your critique vain.
You write sadistic views to bring others down in pain.
If we could have a glimpse inside your mind,
we would all be shocked to see you're literarily blind.
Categories:
skewers, satire,
Form: Free verse
:::Poetry:::
:::.~Africa~.:::
Africa my pride!
Land of the Lion...
Africa my light!
Land of the Nile river...
Africa my dream!
Land of the Kalahari...
Africa my song!
Land of the Quasa drum...
Africa my hope!
Land of Mqobothi beer...
Africa my joy!
Land of the Lagoon city...
Africa my love!
Land of Suya skewers...
For Africa,
Oiroegbu_official poet page on facebook.
Categories:
skewers, africa
Form: ABC
My broken words lie in tatters
discarding all that matters,
echoing the splintering sounds,
of this heart when it shatters.
Im floating down the sewers,
lynched by unknown skewers,
tossed and flung away,
into the bowels of today.
Still I refuse to beat my retreat,
despite the sting of the icy sleet,
and through the slicing rain,
I will sing a hopeful refrain,
picking myself up to stand again...
Categories:
skewers, hope, journey, life, lost
Form: I do not know?
You poetry reviewers sitting high on your opinions,
placing us on your literary skewers.
Stuffing us like turkeys, with synonyms and antonyms ,
forbidding all cliche's .
You roast our images and tear us apart,
then reject us by claiming "Your'e just not avant- garde."
How can you really judge another one's art,
when we open up our soul, to expose our heart? .
Your words are harsh, and your critique vain.
You write sadistic views to bring others down in pain.
If we could have a glimpse inside your mind,
we would all be shocked to see you're literarily blind.
Categories:
skewers, satire,
Form: Prose Poetry
A Pileated Woodpecker skewers through
The golden mirage of fall trees
Leaves dropping from frosted beginnings
Rush my glance towards his perch
Loud knocking races my blood
Fumbling with my camera
Never captured
History on parchment proclaims freedom
Offering hope to all who taste the
Coming winter
To all who taste
The
Coming
Winter
Categories:
skewers, nature,
Form: Free verse
So, you think my poems obscene? Read Catullus.
Graffiti-ed lavatories are more apt sites
for his scatological puerile poem writes.
Yet, today his leather bound tomes enthrall us.
Vicariously momentarily shot
back over two thousand years I get to watch
as he skewers harlots, fools and others such;
poetically, of course; who strut what they ought not.
Lesbia and her sparrow charm both him and
me, but she runs off with another; his sharp barbs
pursue. Now's my big chance; might my modern garbs
catch his eye? I'll boast he my poems scanned.
They don't; more's the pity. But he's so witty,
I fear he'll read my lines as merely pithy.
Categories:
skewers, on writing and words,
Form: Sonnet
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