High above the clouds, a
magnificent, giant rainbow
named Roy stretched across
the sky.
Unlike ordinary rainbows
made of light, Roy was made
entirely of delicious, fruity flavors!
His bright red stripe tasted like
sweet strawberries, while his orange
gleamed with zesty tangerine.
Children looked up with watering
mouths as the yellow stripe rained
down lemon- drops.
The bright green band tasted
like crisp sour apples, making
everyone twist up their faces.
Sailors on the blue ocean licked
the air, tasting waves of refreshing
blue raspberry slushy.
The deep purple stripe at the
very bottom wrapped the hills
in a rich, grape- jelly mist.
Birds loved flying through Roy,
coming out with feathers smelling
exactly like sweet watermelons.
Whenever the sun shone through
a light rain, Roy would host a giant,
sky- high taste test.
He was the most popular bridge
in the world, bringing delicious
smiles to everyone below.
I appreciate that many love it
And want lashings on their meal
Scattered over soup or curry
(I can’t see the appeal)
It’s popular and I recognise
To you, it may taste fine
Peppery, on your tastebuds
‘Delicious’, ‘divine’
But for me, it’s bitter, nasty stuff
I’m sorry, I must conclude
(Because my own tastebuds insist):
Coriander isn’t food
.
i were told
it'd all change
fromg
mine raiment 'to
taste
touch
i'd be
sequester'd
'to
taste
touch
and chaps
now look here daddio
(("what"))
uhh
what color are them thar
chaps
")
Flourished and nourished,
hair locks resembling branches,
I gaze as it dances —
when blowing, he looks glowing.
Twenty years had passed,
but still, I last.
I may have ripened,
but I'm still the same berry, same fruit,
slightly fragmented, a little indented,
not demented.
You got a sample of me when I was at my prime,
taught a few tricks — oh, to replay our time.
Let me discover what you have learned;
still, I yearn —
like the eternal flame, I burn.
Do not read me as if I come with the label “handle with care,”
I am more than able.
Only sixty-five, still alive!
Round-bodied, the taste of sweet and sour —
come and devour during lunch hour.
Do not guzzle — sip slow,
take the time to enjoy this aged wine as we intertwine.
Oh, how you've practiced —
glad to discover upon this mattress.
Night Tastes Like
Night tastes like:
Hot, black coffee
freshly perked.
Dark pumpernickel bread
fresh out of the oven.
Sweet black licorice
stringy kind of course.
A thick slice of
Mississippi mud pie.
A piece of dark chocolate
slightly bitter.
Dark bottom shoefly pie
made with black strap molasses.
The sense of taste can
heighten our sense of
imagination.
*shoefly pie is Pennsylvania Dutch type of pie made with molasses*
Who knows his mind, may not his good,
Who knows his good, may not his mind,
Rare is a learned with good heart,
A drug that works, tastes well’s rare kind.
_________________________
Translation |26.10.2024|good heart, good mind
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. A man that knows his mind (maneeshhinah) may not know his good (hitaishhinah). He that knows his good may not know his mind. He who is learned and of good heart is rare. As a drug that works well and is also tastes well is rare. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows:
Maneeshhinah santi na te hitaishhinah,
hitaishhinah santi na te maneeshhinah |
Suhrat cha vidvaan api durlabhah nrinaam,
yathaa aushhadham svaadu hitam su-durlabham ||
the cat was Rubenesque
He was rotund
He was round
He was stuck up
We thought he was hilarious
He had expensive tastes
Insisted on only the best treats and foods
His wives were not laughing
Winston tastes good like a knock knock cigarette should.
See the USA in a Chevrolet, visit Dinah Shore along the way.
But be sure and be toting some Chesterfield Lights.
So we can be sexy and sultry on these winter nights.
The Marlboro Man is waiting just around the next bend.
When you see him, blow some smoke rings up in the wind.
Cigarettes are sensual, and they will make you look Kool.
Have one lit up and ready at all times; it is the 50's cigarette rule!
navel oranges
fell into a grape vineyard ~
viva sangria
.
Listen to mine
lip's slip
chickie
From
breast
Unto
thighs
"It may
taste like chicken
yet you
wiggle like
jello
causing mine
poetic
tongue's
wild"
We all have very different tastes
In books and art and food,
In where we live and what we do
To lift a sagging mood.
The way we dress, our travel plans
And when we sleep and wake,
Our politics, religion
And the purchases we make.
What’s right for me most likely
Wouldn’t work as well for you,
So each of us must choose our path
And do what we must do.
A million options wait in life
But most we will reject,
Though somehow some might overlap
And we will then connect.
“‘Walden' is so indigestible that many hungry people abandon it because it makes them mildly sick, each sentence being an anchovy spread, and the whole thing too salty and nourishing for one sitting.” - E.B. White
I want to write you a poem
that tastes a little bit more like
orange slices, cooked with brown sugar
and covered in chocolate like
you used to make every weekend
that we would eat with coffee
every morning when you would
sleep over, slowly making
our way downstairs after
a long night of me reassuring you
that you did in fact turn
the stove off and that no, we won’t
get robbed in the middle of the night.
But I don’t know how to cook
and much less how to write a poem
that tastes as sweet as your love.
HEART’S GARDEN
What plants you grow
In your heart’s garden
Depend on the seeds you sow
What fruit you bear
In your heart’s garden
Depend on the kind of care
If the flowers grow bright
And the fruit tastes right
You can put your mind at rest
But if weeds you’ve got
And the fruit should rot
You haven’t done your best
Though the Lord is the One
Who brings rain and sun
And causes your garden to grow
You must plant and till
And do His will
Then His love your garden will show
Copyright, Kathryn Search
Mine, full of old clutter.
But cultured!
Mahogany chaired.
Mantel-clocked.
Beneath whose framing's gold
As quaintly curved Age-locked
Grand pictured.
Laughingly echoed through
By contrast
Placing a price on
As worthy
Is this: of an open plan's
Nouveau riche buying spree.
Does not last.
TASTES&DESIRES
take form
feeling
inibited
but unchaperoned
authenticity
shaping insights
& sensibilities
an unfathomable
enigma
security
recalled
remembered
proposed in
dreams
devotion
ensuring
desires awakened
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Sub Categories
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.