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Edward Clyde Aug 21
The lavender pie he swiped from the tables
gave way to many creating tall fables

they ran down the corridor, looking for more
giggling and romping until they were sore

running through the library and lush gardens proper
leaving behind nothing but messes to the topper

he and his friends saw no end in sight
until one of the staff gave them a terrible fright

"you'll leave The Gem Hotel with nothing but haste
before I send for the constable to come and lambaste"

it seems peering eyes had thrown things awry
when the dishwasher had seen him pilfer the pie

they hid in a room, large and ornate
so large in fact, they could not berate
as the echoes of the mob could be heard from their gait
their fates to be held by a simple-something they ate

the friction was taught, so tight it could tear
until one of them noticed a phone behind a chair

"quickly, I have a plan" he said and rung the front desk
"we bewail our actions, were nothing but pests"
"meet us out front and we'll put this to rest"
"How will we know this isn't a test to best?"
"I'll be in the window with no other guests"

So he stood in the 2nd story window with defiant disruption
as the crowd who had gathered went into full bore eruption

cheers and wails a mixed bag of admiration
as rumors of the scamps had swirled from the situation

his friends slipped outside as he looked up at the sky
"All of this over a little purple pie?"

This is a poem built from a book I'm writing called lavender. The story takes place in a grand hotel and follows the misadventures of a motley crew.
yeah, the strawberries probably weren’t fresh enough for this.
and yeah, the crust was a little tougher than i meant it to be because i just. kept. kneading it.
can you blame me? i needed it to be uniform. smooth.
and yeah, maybe i used too much flour in the dough. Maybe it was a little too dry and crackly for your taste and maybe mine too.
but you ate it, right?
you ate it even though it was sour and dry and tough.
you ate it even though you would have done it differently.
you ate it even though i know you don’t even like strawberries.
or pie.
Äŧül Jun 12
Where were you all this while?
Enough of this unending search,
Am in dear need of your love,
Rising is our sun with every sunset.

May you always stay happy,
Your youth is contagious.

How young I feel with you,
As a teenager boy in love,
Not so mature or secure,
Dancing on the floor of your dreams,
Systemic diplomacy we must practise.

At long last, you have walked out
So elegantly as an angel of the East.

Cusp of my affection awaits
Unto eternity for meeting you,
Poverty of heart now disappears,
"Softly," you say, holding my hands.

Forever trusting who I shall be,
Of uncertainties it's a bet so risky,
Risks of heartbreak and depression.

Yeah, baby, I'm here with you,
Of course, I'm here for you,
Unless death does us apart,
Richness it imparts to me.

Awesome emotions in our hearts,
Speaking them out with simplicity,
Speaking them out with truth,
Effing our steps towards each other,
That is how we can be happier,
Sweetie Pie, oh my dear Mitali.
My HP Poem #1855
©Atul Kaushal
Toast Ghost Jan 2
Is it wrong?
To be so sad
About something so happy?
Why can't I understand?
That things end
That I'm less and she's more
Welp oof I wish I wasn't such an emotional ***** geuss I'll die than
Poetic T Dec 2019
Our words may age,

                  but the pie of meaningful thought

                                      is always fresh..
Antino Art Dec 2019
It's all about timing.
Or loosing
track of it all
while waiting
until the sepia-tinted end of
an autumn day together.
It's the time we poured
into an otherwise empty shell
made of crust:
sugar and flour falling into place like
minutes savored in sweet company,
like aftertaste.
It's the sound those ingredients
make when spun,
when licked off of fingers
as our handmade batter
takes on the color of a setting sun.
And unlike bean burritos from Taco Bell,
what's hidden inside is real and won't let us down.
It lifts us up like steam
from an open window,
the kind we create from within
as our excuse
to gather around a table
before winter arrives.
It has our voices baked inside,
because one does not eat
the whole thing in silence
by themselves.
No, the recipe calls for people:
not their likes of its picture
on a social media feed, hashtag foodporn.
I'm talking about
the delicacy of human presence
divided among kindred spirits.
It's the air from childhood
that we breathe back in
when we're home at last,
with only so many slices to go around
before the timer on the oven
and it's gone.

It's us, still hungry after
the feast ends in the absence of
Mark Toney Nov 2019
My kitchen time ending, dishes drying in stacks
My family is telling me it’s time to relax
In the background are voices urging me to stay
So I pause, wait and listen for one more lovely thing
That my friends and family might say...

My kitchen is filled, with the smell of fresh pie
Made year after year, from old and new recipes
The air fills my lungs, with the smell of fresh pie
My mouth wants to eat every pie it sees

My mouth wants to eat like the child
Who experiences pie the first time in their life
My mouth wants to savor fresh aroma of pie
From the oven before cut by the knife
To boldly eat pie like the person who won't let calories get in their way
To eat, through the night, like an inmate released the next day

I go to my kitchen when I’m good and hungry
I know I will eat, like I’ve eaten before
My kitchen is blessed with the smell of fresh pie
And I’ll eat one more
12/8/2018 - Poetry form: Lyric - Inspired by "Prelude/The Sound of Music" sung by Julie Andrews and written by Oscar II Hammerstein / Richard Rodgers - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks  and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ******, a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
A Simillacrum Sep 2019
Someone like me told me,
"You have to get involved."

Someone like me told me,
"You have to use your voice."

Someone like me told me,
"You're a disgrace
      to your people."

I said back,
"I can't argue that."

I think, what's
the point of getting mad?
I've been called worse
than a delusional man

in women's clothes.

I think, what's
the point of the pitchfork?
I think, what's
the point of fighting language?

Someone like me told me,
"You're part of the problem."

Someone like me told me,
"You've been brainwashed."

I said back,

I think, what's
the word I'd use
to describe you?


And that's okay--
Funny even,
when you're angry.

You're funny
when you're angry.

Ha      Ha      Ha      !
they told me i can't be an identity politician.

whew! dodged that pie to the face.
The geese are a honking loose thread across the sky. I can hear them in my wicker chair like they're sitting right next to me and I think their voices carry at least as far above as down below. So loud. The sound of changing seasons on the wing. You'd think a goose-whisper would be enough to keep their conversation going, but no. I need to hear them in my wicker chair too, apparently. I kinda like that. Maybe they are talking to me. Maybe their sounds are like street-songs for strangers, or God-praise, or apple pie cooling on a neighbor's window. Maybe they made something really pretty in their hearts, and it's so big they can't keep it down their noodle-necks anymore. And so they're singing it out, for the whole world to see, like a big grin, and it's just perfect that I hear it in my wicker chair, it makes it even better, and that's why they're so loud. It could be.
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