Unseasoned Poems

Stepford Ice

‘Normalcy’
has its
depression
built in

Mundane
and ill formed
life hiding
from sin

Each day
like the former
unseasoned 
and bland

With time
in the freezer
hope frozen
— and canned

(The New Room: April, 2025) 

Generalizing People is Ignorant and Unkind

Inez is haughty and stuck up said they
I did not care, decided to meet her and stay
Having heard their strange ideas before
They stereotyped people forevermore

All Africans are this, all Irish are that
All redheads cook with used lard from a vat
All older women eat bland unseasoned food
Their generalizations are simply ignorant and rude

I met Inez who was a delight, not stuck up, just shy
Had supper with her and her lovely African guy
About people I always make up my own mind
Generalizations are ignorant; most are also unkind.

The Tempest's Flail

Epigraph:

When Sailors go to Sea,
and seek distant lands.
As every man Knows,
The Reaper's at Hand.
So, that's how it Goes
and that's how it stands.
When Sailors go to Sea,
And seek Distant lands.

On thirty-foot waves,
Now rides their plight.
The scraps of shorn sails,
By low lantern light.

Most steering Gone,
lost at last sight,
Would the ship founder,
or float through the night?

A tempest Hurricane,
was the battered ships Bane.
all souls' thoughts the same.
Would the shivering Timbers,
Capsize or slip under?
Which Sum would become,
Old Davey Jone's Plunder.

On thirty-foot waves,
Through crest and vale.
The old Salts knew Why,
When the unseasoned Paled.


The Tempest Flailed,
throughout the night.
They pumped and bailed,
for their Mortal Live's.

Then they went on,
in eighty knot flail
No rest or relent.
When the Tempest Assails.


The sinking ship survived,
with All soul's alive.
As the crew rigged Mast's,
Land Ho! A Sailor cried.
Thank God at Last,
Piped the Bo' Sun's blast.

The Weight of Love

If asked, what could I live without?
Love would not make my list – up to
my ears in years of loveless hearts,
cold to the touch, insensitive to the
word...life without love seems deathly
absurd!

In fact, on my scale, compared to each,
love far outweighs even death's unseasoned,
tasteless reach: taking everything while offering
nothing in return – to my mind, the flavors of
love, always worth every risk of terminal 
heartburn....

The Pond Gulls

The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
  the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.

Foundations

The house I wrote in
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.
The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
of a younger blood,
flood me
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.
Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now I am upholstered, a place
roomy enough
for returning younger words,
their brain dizzying songs.
revisiting, unearthed,
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving
from abandoned living-spaces,
from the forgotten foundations
of elsewhere.

The Kiss

That kiss is still moving,

lips pursed, migrating in time
until my own lips pucker
sensing bubblegum lipstick.

That unseasoned taste of young lips

now wayfaring and rekindled
within a hundred mature women.

Landfalls, rainfalls, waterfalls,

all that falling into willing mouths
as if we were parents to each other,
a consuming need 
to nurture and be nurtured.

Then those savage collisions

where blood is the thirst,
where lip to lip, fevered senses 
are ground into ash or embers.

All those lips perfumed with honey,

bitter root and raw moonshine,
all exploring ways to drown.

That first sweet kiss

still moving on, as a question
in transit, transient, yet as deep
as a desert succulent
or as light 
     as any other wild flowering.

Saluting Salt

Sprinkle of grit in the creases of faces terrestrial
Depravity aided by YouTube love advice tutorials
Doll eyes gloss lips curvaceous torso ubiquitous 
Entices spiceless meat frozen with unhappiness 

Piled minuscule crystals emenate white vibrance
Pull unseasoned cuts to sea salt tumult violence 
Dishes missing piquant rub their raw in welcome 
Against uptown gusto, ditch wrinkled wearisome 

Screen learned psychology reveals men on X- ray
Seduction refined script, - precise final edit essay
Melting snow merges with meat, stinging and yet
Mounts a powder poured alternate animal to zest 



      6th March 2021

      
      (not for Contest, as didn't stick to syllable rule)

You Were My First

one after the other
all my mistakes i did with you
took life for granted
i was unseasoned and naïve
yes i should have known better
but i was young and foolish
it’s been a long time coming
i should have told you long ago
i have regrets and i’m sorry
but can’t turn back the hands of time




AP: Honorable Mention 2021

Posted on March 28, 2020

Younger Rooms

The house I wrote this poem in 
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.  

The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
these vernal chimes of a younger blood,
flood me now, 
now in my narrow redoubt,
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.

Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now look at me.
I am upholstered, a place 
roomy enough for a younger poem,
for returning to younger words,
finding ghosts in the spaces between them,
breathing through vowels,
with their open lungs,
their brain dizzying songs.
Revisiting

underlining, unearthing 
blind roots, simple cyclic thoughts
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving 
from freshly abandoned living-spaces
places excavated 
from under the forgotten foundations 
of elsewhere.

Mercy

Pumps my heart to see you take a 180 degree turn,
Lumpen and thinking of the wonders your acts had
done to me.
That a life is made sinning against the creator.
It came, yes it does of a divine warning against
being cloud by the nipples.
When the hormone is crying for it,
And age couple with the society vibes are not
helping.
Then daily longing can't be made whole,
Comes, the declaration of sin upon my neck,
For love yet unfound has glued me beyond my
space.
In the heat of anger my creator is and danger is at
stake.
Won't I loose my crown to this unseasoned voyage?
...in you dear divine I ask for mercy,
for the most loved has put on the crown of vashty.
Making life miserable even to share a thought.
Like Hannah I make my plea that she answers
soon,
Or at your will let there be miracle.
That I will stop my act and Lucifer will not be my lord.

Conspiracy Dearie

every existent conceivability
aflush, for you, wise magistrate, disposable.
in comes reason:
out-gums reasonability.

you
are so 
full of 

delightful spirits of unseasoned giving.   

the turkey disrobed
stuffing        eagerly 
cranberry 

(sauce)
you have smeared christmas 
on your face because

you rolled the paper ripe for wrapping.


12/13/2018

Regrets

atone for unseasoned blunders
for hearts bruised midstream
impassioned regrets amiss

in soulful waves of intent
on through the night
launch healing vibes

intoxicating perfumes
on a summer breeze
reach dormant minds

to dispel blemishes
spoils of the minds
cleanse and absolve

to wake fresh in the morn
heights of lungs imbued
with lofty mountain air     



AP: 1st place 2021

Posted on November 12, 2017

Together As One

Eighteen or eighty,
  my age the words hide

Beginning or ending,
  a life or death slide

My breath stays unseasoned,
  its truth zero-sum

A child or a sage,
 —together as one

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2107)

A Love Forlorn

My love’s as hated as an April snow,
When newborn buds are touched by Winter’s kiss,
A barren stroke which grays all greens that grow,
An unrequited love which springs amiss. 
Unseasoned fancies must I put to sleep,
And outward show that which I should not seem,
With silent sighs my split heart’s contents keep,
To unlock life and joy in wondrous dream:
Our love may burnish out the fiery sphere,
Projecting softened light on Dian’s globe,
The tuned sounds may sweet the atmosphere,
The more fool I to dwell in dreaming’s probe.
		My spirits oft make oceans out of drams:
                To bark and trade my heartstrings but for grams.

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