Victuals Poems

If I Get Shipwrecked

choice of victuals to be stranded with
Beans, macaroons, fudge,
Cinnamon rolls, sugar for coffee
If I get shipwrecked

A Christmas with Loved ones

Lord show us the way
That we can best celebrate your day,
Should it be fun
For all of us to feel as one?
Or should we be sad
Knowing that we may at times have been a little bad?
May we please drink,
So that into depression we do not now sink,
Aware of course
That too much imbibed turns our chatter into morse.
How about the food,
Or would too much eating be quite rude?
Forget that thought,
As we need consume these lovely things we bought,
Also these folk
Will badly need the victuals for all the
alcohol they soak.
Sorry - now back on track,
Forgive the decorum I so very clearly lack;
But it is a joy
To share this feast with loved ones and on that I shan't be coy,
For while it is your day,
There is one further thing I must now say:
It wouldn't be the same
If we didn't come together in your name.
Thus please forgive any transgression
During what will surely be a long and roudy session,
For we toast but once a year
In the presence of so many we hold dear.
Hence let us raise our glass,
Before yet another Christmas simply pass,
To hail your glorious birth
And such a great excuse for this unbridled mirth.

Frying Fridays

One more day before the weekend?
Awake early to do errands and befriend
Those Jesus loved or wants me to ...
Alas, with struggle, I managed to do

Now, as I recall the hard work, no lunch
Still, I didn't fry, the heat,  the time-crunch
The body older, my faith bolder ...
I consumed water, juice, no other
Victuals until after six, this evening
First posting consumed, no cyberjoking
I ate the clock, very time consuming
Wendy noticed, when we wanted seconds
Prayed, thanked God; His grace abounds

I Shall a Mighty Hunter Be

"I Shall A Mighty Hunter Be!"

“I shall a mighty hunter be,
The King of Kills, by God’s decree!
Savannahs always guarantee
a vantage camouflaging me.
  
I’ll lie in wait with sharpened claws
… until her keys unlock our doors!
My human’s finished many chores,
including patronizing stores

for meals to place inside my bowl.
Meow!  Dispense the chicken whole!
Provide the victuals!  That’s your goal!
Prepare some veal, pâte´, and sole …

Since after feasts I sleep a lot,
I found myself the perfect spot
to dream of feather wands and plot
to catch that fast, red laser dot!”

-     -     E. V. Wyler     -     -

A Caribbean Dream

I’m sure I was dreaming.
I could never afford to travel
To the most beautiful island
The world could provide.

Yet there I was swimming 
In warm clear aquamarine seas.
Out on the sand the view was stunning.
Houses built on the sea itself,
An aroma of shellfish and chicken
Filled the pure air.  I was hungry.
But I had no money, dressed in a bathing suit.

Someone called me and I was offered
A plate of aromatic food.
I ate it slowly, savoring delicious victuals.
Then my newfound friend took me for a walk.
I saw purple crabs scuttling sideways
Whilst at the edge of a forest
So lovely and tender, some mousedeer
Were pasturing quietly in the shade.

Then I realised how hot the midday sun was.
And I woke on my bed, sweating.
It was bliss to linger under a shower.

Mundus Novus

Devoid of old qualms and ruing sigh
Wing your arc for purer stratum high,
Past's mortal morsels I urge forsake
For dainty victuals sage angels take. 

As mighty Retribution's brooms sweep
Away avarices that now huddled weep,
Your best plume beyond trite ethers ply
Into loftier climes where finer eagles fly. 

Viral cloud your heaven-sent comrade is
If you’ll hit hardest with no goofing miss,
And task your swiftest flappers out of Old 
Woods into pristine joys of the New World.

Eternal Kindness her illuminator holds
To undim cumuli's ill-bivouacked folds,
And Divine Treasury total expense pays
Till the last of your wise-wayfaring days.

Soar whilst sagest angels' soirée lasts,
As fierce Retribution's viral cloud casts
Nebulous guiles to outsmart hardy foes,
And Kindness her aiding flickers throws.

What If

What if..

What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon 
Mommies whisking to kitchenette 
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines 
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today 
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines 

What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon 
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries 
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips 
Some heading for evening tales

What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening 
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix 

What if; it wasn't a lockdown night 
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore 
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list- 
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms

What if; it wasn't a lockdown 
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins 
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust

Sorry

Every day I come to this platform and stay some time
This is full of sagacious, poetic victuals stage  
Without any experience, I hold the wise weapon pen 
Slightly can fill my hungry weak heart
Coz such rich protein is harmful to my brain-body
Whatever in the time of leaving every day I discharge some brain wastage

Without thanksgiving, this coming and leaving every day is immodesty
I know! Yes, sorry for my egoistic character
Feel proud always still the platform allows me to stay every day

For my ungrateful mood, I feel extremely sorry
But the bad habit of mood won’t be changed in me 

Thanks
Thanks a lot everyone
Sincere thanks to all the respected, revered poets and poetess
Those who have given precious time to my writing, read, commented and evaluated
Thanks also to those who didn't have time for my writing,
Thanks to those who will give the dearly time to my brain wastage

Earth's chest is now infected with an unknown risky virus
The natural body of the earth is now in unsafe sick amorous

The way to get well being unknown and have to stay home like a prison cell
So, stay home, stay safe

Thanks again everyone


22.06.2020 Chattogram

Variety

A meal with lots of choices
Is the kind I like to serve
For everyone will find,
Right from the very first hors d’oeuvre

At least one food that’s tasty
Since variety allows
Some tidbits to remain untouched
While others earn some Wows!

It’s hard to hide displeasure
If the items on your plate
Comprise a gastric palette
Made of victuals you hate.

The choices on my table
All are geared, though, to my taste
So whatever guests don’t finish
Surely will not go to waste.

Braggart Batons and Sombre Sorties

In my mind somber sorties unfold
When morbid movements scar a hundredfold.
Normalcy dead, transparency scared
Empathy bearded, intransigence endeared. 

In my mind sordid scenes grow cold
When vulnerable voices no longer hold.
Brash brands undead, harsh hustles prepared
Phantom forces deployed, evil enamels ensnared.

In my mind torrents of tears no longer dry
Victory vessels victimize, vile victuals bereft of shame fly.
Flies on excrement multiply, sties of scorn sniggle
Spies of blame bloom, pies of putrefaction giggle.

In my mind orifices and offices of ordure spy
Voices of Hades hustle, choices of straitjackets sigh.
Worms of wilderness sparkle, whiffs of death dodge
Squids of insanity soar, weeds of vanity splurge.

Friend

 

 “Friend”

He, who would in utmost haste
Avail himself to a sumptuous fill
Of savory victuals of every taste
At your expense and to his thrill

And would in his claim, be a brother
But, at your fortune’s slightest downturn
Shared memories, erase without bother;
Your supplications, if at all; utterly spurn

And, who only before you would beam;
Behind you, sneer and hope you’d fall
His heart, a knife with a terrible gleam
To slit your throat, if to him, ever you crawl

Such, should never in mistake be
To one, whom you’ll to his calling append
A title worthy of one who would not flee
But, will with you, your storms contend

Jan.10, 2018

Morning Breezes 2

When morning breezes bring on the shivers,
and the thermometer is in the teens.
Your head stays buried under the kivers
while the farmer pulls on overall jeans.

When wafts from the kitchen wake your pleasure
with fond smells of bacon and egg victuals;
reflect on what great degree you treasure 
a busy farmer's early rituals.

The House With the Golden Windows

...for the Rev. Eric Shirvell-Price
    

Morning; the child awakes, 
steps lightly across the threshold 
to the courtyard.

The wndows of the mansion 
over the glen ablaze with sparkling 
brilliance draw his gaze and 
peak his curiosity.

Suited for all-comers with sturdy 
leggings for his Big Adventure, 
he takes on the day, as brave as good 
King Arthur on a mission for the Grail. 

Striding forth, his heart is beating 
like a drum as he tarries by the river 
to bathe his feet in icy water, wolfing down 
the victuals prepared by a Queen. 

Trudging up the hillside harder than 
the journey down, wearying now his steps 
are measured. He needs to claim his dream
though his eyes now see dull sockets where 
the blazing should have been. 

Depressed, he sits exhausted to weigh 
the reason why. As he turns, hungry for home, 
his heart is leaping, for basking in the radiance 
of the slowly dying sunset is his own bright shining 
dwelling, windows glittering like burnished gold!

The House With the Golden Windows

Morning... the child awakes, 
steps lightly 'cross the threshold of his front yard. 
Windows of the mansion o'er the glen ablaze 
with sparkling brilliance draw his gaze. 

Suited for all-comers, with sturdy 
leggings for his Big Adventure, 
he takes on the day, as brave as good 
King Arthur on a mission for the Grail. 

Striding forth, his heart is beating 
like a drum as he tarries by the river 
to bathe his feet in icy water, wolfing down 
the victuals made ready by his mum. 

Trudging up the hillside, harder than 
the journey down, wearying now his steps 
are measured. He longs to claim his dream 
though his eyes now see dull sockets where 
the shining should have been. 

Depressed, he sits exhausted to weigh 
the reason why. As he turns, hungry for home, 
his heart is leaping, for basking in the radiance 
of the slowly dying sunset is his own lowly residence, 
its windows glittering like burnished gold!

What Need Have They

Many believe that a troubled soul
is the true muse of the true artist.
That misery and anger brings out
the words, brush strokes, of creation.

I don't know if that's right or not,
e'en though it affects me deep -
but I find it strange that most
don't ask why such may be.

The only answer I can conjure
is actually yet another question.
What do the happy have to create?
What need have they to make, to escape?

In part, I have trouble agreeing,
for I have written wonders
in times of relative ease;
or so I've been told.

I have walked gaily through spring,
and spoke of dewy fields of clover;
arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects,
irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse.

And yet I can also see it, in part,
for my thieves of one's breath
were in times of onerous strife;
or so I've been told.

I have trudged below naught but clouds,
and spoke of grey days and black thoughts;
distressed, disheartened, dejected prose,
regularly presented to my downcast sight.

I believe emotion, good and ill,
can be victuals for the right muse.
But I concede the point that comparatively,
what have the joyous to escape, through art?

• Short Victuals Poems
• Famous Victuals Poems
• Best Victuals Poems
• Read Victuals Poems
• Long Victuals Poems
• Victuals Quotes