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Needless, pose a question:
Miracles save themselves...
Long in the tooth, looking for a blessing
Worlds to weigh, with the voice of what delves?

Minus the stone
The rue of visits and cares...
To awaken in the arms of harmony
History to a dare, to lend the kindness of what fares?

And doted upon, like a dream can feed...?
The spareness of speed in the eye, of what will
To sakes aled, and meant, to be the end of all in heed...

The pout of summation, to which we will know intimation?
Praises be, cares see, the coming order to a least...
At worthy faces, in a common hope, to live the life of sin?
Like a weary lover was, the only force of decency to cease...

Of a silent offer, of season and risk...
To these calls of opportunity, the mated chance
Of cause curious, and questioning the weight of a reason's wish
Paced with the passion of deliberateness, is a wish a saving, romance?
For cares and mystiques sayer, all set in a polite circle...
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2022
a taste of frozen snow
how about pistachio
chocolate fountain
or vanilla chateau
could be strawberry fields
maybe mixed
with honey and wine
or collected from
the lower slopes of
confection perfection

call it what you like:
Cornets with Cream,
perhaps like Agnes,
Queen of Ices,
wading deeper
into blissful sugar,
back and forth
in endless
flavored dreams
I wonder how many calories are in this poem?
Raven Feels Nov 2021

bribed the day light to catch me
to welcome the dark night quickly
careful heels
afraid would sting would peel
to the rough ground's coldness
wore this covering black dress
walked on a damaged fate
all in the name of an elegant slate
silent walls no comment
a posture to the moon sent

the perfect hair scattered
my own self compliments flattered
alone for the mirror to be impressed
smiled and the reflection takes a guess
waved for the air
to feel attention somewhere
on that eye
smudged ink lines
vanilla hangs in the atmosphere
memories do nothing to fear

                                                           ­         --------ravenfeels
Con Sep 2021
I found my favorite part of life:
in all its randomness and uncertainties,
we always find our favorites along the way
and we personalize those for ourselves.

It's lovely; we take our own scraps from everything
-- may it be genre of movies, delicacy, fragrance, people --
piece them together,
then own a wholeness that we are.

Although, wholeness is just a euphoric concept;
Some people may feel it, many may be patiently building theirs.
Being complete is a great feeling but it's ceasing life.
Be quirky and wanting -- this is the beauty of life, after all.

I love listing my favorites as much as waiting for the new ones.
This is inspired by the time in the past that I was told I will always be his favorite girl. That could change, but I so appreciate it.
Joanne Heraghty Apr 2021
Is this where it ends?
The pouring of words,
The same as the rain against the window.
Moisture to the grass.
Safely unlatching the gate,
The horses huff in the darkness.
The sky so bare,
But it reminds me of someone else;
Beneath his chin, beneath our dreams.
Is this where we have come?
To my insincerities,
To my lies, disguised as truths.
Half-truths, we will say.
Your arms an honour:
Your doors are opening,
But I am locked behind my own.
Is this where the road ends?
Cooped up for too long,
The light has escaped our space;
Casting shade in your eyes
And doubt on me.
With the road that lay ahead, breaking slowly,
Crumbling in slow motion:
So loudly, so harshly.
Is this where we end?
Individual thoughts on the unknown:
Opinions and perspective
The world went upside down when you spoke,
Tossing me off my feet,
The red of my hair the last thing I recall.
An inner voice spoke then:
The clucks and the chatters faded.
Until it all became void.
But this is not the first time,
This will not be the last.
Although, it is the end:
To the vanilla latte air,
To the inconvenience.
The pins on the map are all mine now,
The administration is yours.
I have no more debt,
And the circles never combined anyway.
The sun sets while we look away,
As always,
And then we drift off:
Into the abyss, into our own worlds,
Into individuality.
Until we find our voices,
And start again.

© All Rights Reserved Joanne Heraghty
Ariana Solo Nov 2020
A scopiferous brush defining an aquarelle vanilla sky

Coating the canvas in lilac candy - floss clouds floating by

Painting the heavens with stardust and every pigment of the universe

Depicting celestial fluffery with deeper words than any poetic verse

🌌 🌌 🌌 🌌 🌌
Scopiferous - Brushy; having a tuft or tufts of hair
Aquarelle - technique of painting with thin, transparent watercolours

Kamilla Jun 2020
As a love
Whom together,
The art of sin

Not of the wrongs
Nor rights
If the sweet cherry
Seeps or flows

A figure, yet
Merely a reflection
In fruits,
Not leaves

Vanilla cream
One robust
In darkness
And desire

The sensation
Of honey dancing
Upon buds,
Of taste

The willingness
To enable,
The expedition
And art of sin
Alison May 2020
✧She smelled of flowers and vanilla✧
✧Late at night you could hear her;✧
✧She'd sing to herself quietly✧
✧Just like her daddy always did,✧
✧If you'd look close enough✧
✧You'd see the tears in her eyes✧
✧And the storm in her heart.✧
✧She'll never admit it,✧
✧But she does deeply miss him.✧
I keep filling my real life pages with poems,but i don't post any of them because i have this feeling that they're not good enough..
Left Foot Poet Jun 2015

Vanilla Extract

under extreme duress,
word-boarding extreme,
she issues up reluctantly a true confess

her secret ingredient
in everything is
vanilla extract

where do you source this
in quantities so ample,
keep it well hid,
for all I see
after cupboard investigatory
solitary tiny brown bottle
shelved alone, forlornly?

wearing a vanilla smile,
that persists for quite the while,
she crinkly eyed laughs

“I extract vanilla
nearly everyday,
for when I awake to a
fresh poem from a poet
who loves me,
I draw all the vanilla out,
then feed it back to him
in the foods I supply,
so his poetry is for ever
Apple juice Feb 2020
𝖯lain, generic, and, sweet.
𝖲omething that just can’t be beat.
𝖳he irony of so many.
𝖵anilla is not of any.
Godly silk of milky white and an Understatement of unrequited affection.
𝖲he lies supine waiting for vanilla to pick a side.
𝖩ust above the rim of the cup,
vanilla built all the way to the top, with No mix-ins, an overscoop just for you, and a smile on the side too.
𝖲even o’three is what is going to be.
𝖲even o’three and a firm grip on me.
𝖸es the irony of choosing originality when its the exact opposite of what you preach
𝖤specially in between the sheets.
𝖨ndeed nothing to write home about
just a medium cup of soupy iced cream.
𝖠 flavor so **** sweet that’s sadly not for me.
𝖲weet memories in time.
𝖨’ll continue on
with vanilla on my mind.
Medium vanilla with no toppings.
How ordinary yet you aren’t like of any.
vanilla is you but vanilla isn’t what you are. Vanilla isn’t how you play vanilla is what you taste.
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