Whisk Poems | Examples

TRADITION WITH PRECISION

TRADITION WITH PRECISION
A poem celebrating art and the artist… 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ancient hands weave the threads of time
each brushstroke a heartbeat,  
each hue a memory etched in silence.  

brushes dip in pools of pigments,  
the clay shimmers like the first light,  
each stroke deliberate.  

every whisk echoes the practiced grace of learned fingers,  
as if the brush speaks a language long forgotten,  
revealing stories layered in texture and hue.  

in chambers of solemnity,  
the old master gazes down,  
his eyes a reflection of trials and triumphs,  

his art is more than mere creation;  
it is an inheritance, a sacred dialogue across ages,  
a tapestry of tradition and precision.

Safe journeys

Good night my love adieu
Let the moon whisk away your fears
Angels will watch over you



Wordku: 5-7-5 words

AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Dreamland

     rose-covered blankets
        tuck infants in
     honey-tongued lyrics
        fall on soft skin

     eyelids so smooth
        shut ever-so-lightly
     angel wings soothe
        whisk away nightly

Jagged Edges

There are edges Time leaves in passing
      Some of them are jagged
 A few edges are grey and badly torn
Sometimes the jagged are also distorted
      and leave one puzzled, confused
 Some edges can cause disquiet
And we begin to wonder where they were
Were they there all along and not noticed 
      Or, were we able to ignore.
Did we simply whisk them from our life  
 Along with Worry, Sadness, Fear
    
But, sometimes, when we look closely,
Grasping Time from its rushing
 We will see colors behind the jags
      lilac, red, green, blue, amber...
 Some colors will simmer and pop
      Some colors will magically glow
 Those colors we would like to keep
      For they are filled with Hope.

Inflated with Infatuation

It took a face and a voice
to whisk her heart away,
Ever since she first met him
she forgot her work and went out to play,
Inflated with infatuation like a helium balloon,
She has been floating up, up, up to this day
"Is she truly in love?" You ask,
"No, and I'll explain why," I say,
Eventually, she will discover
who he truly is and wonder "Hey!
Who am I to have a knucklehead
for a boyfriend? That's not okay..."

Too Real To Be Fake

Passion lies not in fear towards cheer,
To conquer unknown gestures behind
Some rare laughter, but so insincere..
Those words, tongues twist around; disappear 
Until tears grow no link to being blind.
 
Fear of long awaited hope shapes care,
Set to beat tricks, lust stages alright
With pure intentions to outsmart stare...
That could lay hold on twists playing fair,
Till laughter couldn't shine bright; its light

And clinch onto tears that caress pain;
Driven by proposed fear's turnaround.
Will choosy purpose does actuate gain?
To cover up a seeming less stain
Not enough to stop laughs, tears expound.

Laughs powered by prospects of lost fool,
Timing brainy approaches cum risk
Of growing fearless life goals on pool,
Dim laughs could rarely survive by rule-
Sets standard fitness, fear barely whisk.

Still the Dust Sings

after  ‘The  waste  Land’,  by  T.S. Eliot

I met a woman on a glitching screen,
her face a whisk of pixels and prayer.
She spoke of shattered systems and survived code,
“The cloud remembers everything,” she said, "but forgets what matters.”

A rat hurried through my feed at dawn,
past memes and headlines, each a kind of omen.
I tried to fast-forward spring, 
but April clawed through my notifications anyway.

In a thread of ghost towns and tagged regret,
I noticed a cafe with no floor, only static,
A man sipped Espresso beside a socket,
charging his distress while waiting for replies.

Data rains in blasts, all prediction and pop-ups.
The Sun sets in Beta, 
and we refresh the silence, 
hoping for something new to load.

For then, below algorithms and ash, 
a bud breaks code in cracked concrete, 
muted, untagged, 
but blooming still.

Summer Aflame

Awaiting summer, new romance
When trees aflame sway  to dance,
Midnight wakes man's impassioned pyre
To whisk caprice into season's fire

Line Gauthier Contest

Sorta like This

Glissando sings ah Swag- Won
Call and Response

Rang dang
giggle ling
doffy dop ah doddle
mixin grooves and tones
gigging on-ah new-dell

Ding dang
can you sang
Giggy got a new won
say ya
say ya
Sweetie whats that is
whisk me
kiss me
sorta like ah
zookie


smiling styling
looking cool and dapper
knowing showing
sangin, sangin
concerted music
chatter
see mi music
groovin all ah-round
it's so lovely
cute and cuddly
beautiful music sounds

Dheeze dheeze
Jingle dheeze
singer sing
that one

Dheeze dheeze
swagga dheeze
dance til the
music's done
please please

Jingle dheeze
singer sing that one
Please please Jingle dheeze
dance til the musics done

Actual Axion

Axion, gone actual?
Energy low? Mass?
Sing within us all, moon full!
Shine in colored casse...

Opopanax, gears a-grim?
Young people these days!
Teeter on the crater's rim?
Success always pays.

Tamarisk tree, waking up.
Dreams from this one fly!
Covenant of drinking cup?
Do not deign to die...

Squirrel in deepest burrow?
Not this day, O my friend!
Fields with salt a-furrow!
Broken past the bend!

Winter snow, thy undertow.
Cold, take hold. O spring;
Which way leads to warp? Which woe?
Serpents, how you sting...

Gold on floor of old ravine?
Better leave it there?
Yellow eyes in skull, thy scene...
Press but don't despair.

Hope, tragedy. Rail or risk?
Horror, right this way!
Hell and Heaven, in a whisk!
Hatchet, who to slay?

Angels, demons, sacred art?
Cherries taste a-tart.
O explosions, tear apart!
Arrow, seek the heart!

End Times, tunnels, breath. Wind chimes.
Doubt, do not fail now.
Doom and Death dance on the dimes!
Best not to ask how...

Black Birds Flying At Walmart

Black Birds Flying at Wal-Mart
I see them gather, flock on flock,
At 7:30am sharp, they start to squawk and talk.
The sun peeks up, the horizon glows,
The air alive with cackles and crows.
Their feathers bristle, sharp and black,
They soar and dip, they dart fourth and back.
Their eyes, a yellow shining disc,
Reflect the light, a golden whisk.
The parking lot, their chosen stage,
They flutter, and fly in trees they engage.
Heads turn left and then to right,
When they fly the sky turns a speckled night.
They peck at crumbs, on scraps they dine,
Their steps in rhythm, a sequenced line.
Among the cars, they dance and sway,
When humans enter their territory they fly away.
From tree to light poles they take their flight,
Under the Walmart’s neon light.
Upward they rise to poles they glide,
On top of Walmart’s walls they nest and subside.
On the back of the wind, they wheel, and turn,
For insects, food, their hunger burns.
The Black Birds gather on shopping carts.
Masses of Black Birds flying at Wal-Mart.

mellifluous euphonious

Muscadine Sauce
2 Lbs. of muscadine grapes or
6 cups halfed grapes
1 1/2 cups of muscadine grape juice
1/2 cup of strawberry wine
1 tablespoon of ground ginger

2 T lemon juice
1/2 cup of sugar
1 teaspoon of cinnamon
1 Tbsp. of cornstarch
2 sprigs of rosemary
mix l in a pot bring to a boil whisk until a sauce is made set aside.

roll store bough sugar cookies and line a muffin pan
let rest
filling for cookie
2 cups softened creamed cheese
1/2 cup of mild creamy goat cheese
2/3 c of sugar
1 tbsp. of vanilla
1 egg yolk
4 tablespoons iof butter
21 tbsp. of cultured butter milk powder
3 T lemon juice
1 teaspoon of salt
mix well and pipe into the muffines and bake until cookies are done on a low heat.

severe in a bowl with vanilla icecream!
ganish with rosemary!

Mothers Day 5-11-2025

Thoughts whisk me away to a foregone time,
when things were peaceful with much less crime.

Of a Mother who never complained of tired back,
from a ten hour day pulling a twelve foot sack.

She had six children and still worked in the field,
her sleepless nights worrying she never revealed.

A tub and rub board always kept our clothes clean,
we got new duds at school start and not between.

She used a sad iron that she heated on the range,
that kept jeans pressed for a twice a week change.

As older one’s grew up we quickly left the nest,
and all helped mother through each life test.

Mothers day retrieves thoughts of my first lady,
and God called her home at the ripe age of eighty.

God blessed our family and all life wasn’t bad,
because we couldn’t miss things that we never had.

TRY A LITTLE KINDNESS

To make a light and pillowy kindness soufflé, 
you need:   two cups of generosity
                 a tablespoon of compassion
                 a teaspoon of melted tenderness
                 and a packet of goodness

Combine the generosity, 
compassion, and tenderness.
Mix until it has an even consistency.
Whisk the goodness and pour it into the mixture.
Cook until golden brown.

Once it has cooled down, serve it charitably.
There is plenty for everyone.

Leave a Message

I love you little Bluebird 
Here's bidding you sleep tight 
I'll dream about your pretty face 
Until the morning light 
And when I wake I'll dream some more 
Sweet dreams all through the day 
Some whisk you off to Paris 
Some where at home we stay 
Some place us in a postcard on 
Some mountain or some beach 
With total peace and quiet... 
Somewhere out of reach

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