"appetizers" poems
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.
First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.
An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.
Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.
"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.
(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)
Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.
For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.
Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...
Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!
And then everyone proceeds to
die
from a split infinitive.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
The ******
Eye contact is key when giving a compliment
We give a compliment to the eyes
The hair, the lips, and most recently
the curves,
However, behold a beauty
Behold a gold mine
Behold an ugly beauty
Once consider to be so divine
most men speaks in tongues
as they feast upon this beast
a low carb appetizers
that never seem to please
white meat or dark meat
so juicy , sometimes sinful
a mystery, a blessing
this remarkable commodity can make one lose ones focus
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
The Equestrian
When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right
Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise
Xin
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Tamed by an ordinary spirit,
So blissful and so charming,
Love, that is,
Or is it lust?
Either of the two end,
With lacerations that spell loss.
A mere flesh wound, mind you,
These temporary frowns,
Caused by passing past smiles,
Are only appetizers to the main course,
A bite of taste and a sip of tears.
Like 1-2-3,
The sensations come as fast as “they” go,
And to accept these customaries of life,
Is to accept that there is no permanence,
When it comes to stimulation.
Revive this lost soul,
As it relied on the scents of “them,”
To feel something deeper, more wholesome,
After years of self-isolation,
Caused by the last one that came and went.
Love this lustful sense of loss,
I sometimes crave the morbidity,
To remind me that I’m still breathing,
When I lost myself trying to preserve,
That feeling of lust masquerading as love.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 11:54 PM UTC
Won’t stay too long
You’ll be glad that I did
Trust me
I’m just
An aggressive, bad kid
I see conflict where none exists
Peace in the nothingness
Warring with wretched warmongering
Mind’s abyss
Raised by the lioness
And the guerilla head hunter
The hungriest
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
You cut me into tiny pieces,
appetizers for your hearty appetite,
it feels like the same menu
I've been on forever
& I know the recipe.
Yet still I dream of
becoming a tasty dessert,
having an after dinner drink
with the right diner,
toasting the stars.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
I cut myself
to see the blood
the contrast of red to the white
surface
to check
if there is still a heart beating
underneath the smooth
finish
I cut my children
but they don't notice
it is more like mental cropping.
I cut emotions
into bitesize portions
they can play with
and learn to become good
cutters themselves
My husband is a cutter too
he cuts attention
into little appetizers of affection
and serves it around
wearing a big generous smile
the biggest pieces are reserved
for the screen
and the xbox controller
I cut myself open
online
words gush out of the open wound
luring predators to feed
on dangerous conversations
inviting the Devil to join
as I don't trust the angels
who once lured me into this...
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
While the raven sleeps
Feasting , in a climate doused in affection
Relying in the promise of a new tomorrow
While the raven sleeps
The sun parades across the sky
And I , am not just a seat at your table,
We welcome seats at " ours "
While the raven sleeps
We dine on the appetizers sprinkled in hope
The scent of the roses , the fresh lawn in the breeze
The little things normally overlooked in our surroundings
While the raven sleeps
The butterflies sleeping on my insides Dance ,
At the mere anticipation of her presence
While the raven sleeps
The dose of reality bathed in the now
intertwined with the walls of his nest
Hiding the lurking shadows of chaos that come to life the moment he wakes
While the raven sleeps
The morning star grows heavy
The skies start to dim
The moon peeks over the horizon
Bringing with it the realness of a hardened heart
The raven sleeps no more ......
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
I crave those days back when I could just look behind my shoulder
and I would see you lying there reading on my bed.
I wonder why I never wrote about how happy I was with you.
Those suppressed smiles that would tug upon the edges of your lips as you read my poetry.
I can still remember how your tongue brushes your front teeth when,
oh how you used to exquisitely say "I love you."
I never paid much attention to the curves of your form back then.
How the arc of your spine is the red carpet for the curve of your ***
How enticing your features were, when you lay bare on top of my sheets.
How the round edges of your lips were appetizers for the round brown eyes you had.
Your cute button nose.
Your chest slowly rising and deflating to match your breath.
I fell irrevocably in love with each time your breath exaggerates the fullness of your chest.
I still remember how the skins between your ******* would feel a lot like home
and truth be told;
I'm homesick.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
You came in black.
Drenched in black,
encompassing the night into your every move.
Sun or moon for each eye,
stars twinkling your feet
so that you can slip quietly in,
black holes removing all evidence of breaking in.
You crept slowly, surely
grabbing everything you found,
every little
secret, scar, soul shine
into that bag you clung to,
clutching it so that it hung from your back.
You passed my fire place.
Empty, with nothing left but coal and dust.
The fire once there?
Now long extinguished.
You shivered,
and continued looking.
You glanced at the kitchen counter.
Strewn across it were spices
and ripped up shreds of pictures
of all those loved.
Mixed into remnants of
entrees, appetizers, desserts,
too good to be true,
gobbled up too fast,
gone.
You shudder,
continue.
Finally, you find what you're looking for.
In the basement, kept in a safe right by where I slept,
you found it.
You reached towards me,
slowly, silkily took the key I had around my neck
as I sighed at your touch and unconsciously let you take it.
You twisted the key,
opened the safe
and grabbed the
ornately scarred,
worn down wooden
box that was held inside.
You opened the box.
Inside lay a red thing.
It resembled a minuscule
mauled, mangled, mutilated
crimson heart.
You sighed with relief and tossed the box and it's hideous contents into the bag.
You grabbed everything else you found and put it inside your bag.
Some were lead heavy, others too light...
Memories kept too long,
some fading,
some still fresh,
others just too strong of a memory.
You crept quietly away,
but not before you heard me whisper your name.
You looked away
like the coward you are
and left the house.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
People laugh around a plate of moving squid
They are served
abalones as appetizers:
you **** the animal out
and devour him.
Everything here is maritime:
Wheel, ring, buoy, compass, fishnet, gargoyle
I am illiterate for the menu,
but I devour the fish I pined for
Outside in the fish tanks some light is breaking
I see air bubbles rising.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
Cocktails
My folks would have cocktail parties
I remember as a child,
on Saturday nights in the city.
Cigarettes glowed, Martini’s flowed.
From the back bedroom, my sister and I
would listen to grown up chatter
as if some pearl of wisdom heard
would somehow really matter.
Kept awake by the noise,
we’d play a game of chicken
shoving each other round the corner
only to be stricken
with terror and embarrassment
as we stood in the middle of that space,
in our nightgowns and slippers
as if on stage, exposed, red faced,
and mortified, as the guests looked up
momentarily distracted from conversation.
With ****** expressions asking the question
“what could be their motivation”?
Then back to the festivities at hand,
paying no attention to the childish prank,
they continued smoking their cigarettes,
Manhattans, Martini’s - they drank.
As children we wondered
on those Saturday nights,
is this what grown “upness” is like?
Will we have to drink whiskey
and smoke Lucky Strike?
To have good friends and neighbors
Come to our parties
With trays of canapés and appetizers
Is that what will make us popular?
Happy, interesting, wiser?
We plotted and planned,
How our grown up lives
Would be different than mom and dad
It seemed silly to us to make such a fuss
When tomorrow they’d still be sad.
My folks would have cocktail parties
I remember as a child
on Saturday nights in the city
But the clink of ice, didn’t stop at night
It continued on through the daytime too!
Now wasn’t that a pity?
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
"twenty something"
When you’re 20 you’re simply
Knocking on the door of your twenties.
When you turn 21 you’re invited in,
But only to the foyer.
When you’re 22 you’re ushered to the table.
At 23 they begin serving you the appetizers.
At 24 and 25 you’re served the main course.
At 26 you learn how to cook the food.
At 27 and 28 you try cooking it on your own.
At 29 you accept the results of your efforts.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;
The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.
I was yet to understand blood.
When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.
In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.
There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.
I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,
they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)
In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.
So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.
And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC
Just touched down from Darwin,
2 hour layover in Sydney & I’m starvin’,
met a girl at the airport,
and invited her to dinner,
they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch,
but I’ve got a credit card that let’s me dine,
at almost any restaurant in any country,
on any continent in any dateline,
so I often invite,
beautiful girls and other fellow travelers,
to dine with me as my guest for free,
where we share stories over appetizers,
more peace stories than war stories,
more love than hate,
because when you really get to know someone,
you find you differ in less ways than you relate,
anyways,
there we were,
both on rest stops till our next stop,
two world travelers,
I’d noticed an engagement ring,
more than a modest sized rock,
but I noticed the finger on which it sat,
made the look a bit odd,
see she wore the ring,
on her middle finger instead of her ring finger,
so it was more of a fck you instead of a love you,
I asked her if there was a reason for this position,
she said it was because,
it simply didn’t fit on her ring finger,
that it was a simple mix up that was it but,
I suspected there was a reason that was deeper,
so I questioned her intentions,
why was she with this man but still acting like a free woman,
why was she speaking of “exploding like a volcano!”,
when she sees a man and feels an attraction,
about how she had a fantasy,
of meeting a beautiful Australian man,
on a beach and he’d teach her to surf,
and she’d ride his surfboard from the wave to the sand,
this was when I decided to speak up,
to tell her I didn’t think this engagement would work out,
that maybe tying the knot with a man was already a dad,
was not the best idea for a woman with no kids that liked to go out,
that maybe I was in a way,
an Angel of Divine Intervention,
and how every moment of our lives,
had led us up to that instant,
I told her no man owned her,
that her body was hers alone to control,
that life is too short to compromise,
that there is no moment other than now,
I told her that that was the reason,
that I didn’t have a wife,
because there are many women I love,
and to love only one wouldn’t be right,
how can I tell one of my lovers,
that she’s better than all the rest,
how can I tell any of the others,
that they’re not as good as the one that I’m with,
I can’t,
because love is not confined into the body of one,
love is free to love and do what love does,
and with that we finished our tapas,
and finished our rendezvous with cappuccinos and hugs,
back into the world,
back into the embrace of another lover,
back into the future,
to make more memories with more women at more dinners…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Slip out of your resplendence and magnificence
and break yourself into my suffocating skin
walk around, feel the demon eyes
carving out your back
searching for your heart
to crunch it in their pretty teeth
look through these tired eyes
let them rest on everything you’ve never seen before
heavy darkness choking this illuminated world
you don’t know what to do
because you feel like the world’s just going to go on
dragging your carcass along
sleep walking while everyone’s dancing
on your body, on your grave
because they don’t know that you’re dead
you’re okay, don’t worry
tell everyone that because
you’re hiding nothing
you’re happy on the inside too
but you know no one’s okay
because the truth can’t help us
until you’re paying money
for people to just listen
you’re trying to break out
because you hate being me
tear off your mind and throw it away
you don’t care if you can’t find it later
watch them move and follow them
because they don’t like how you do it
they’re doing it the right way
walk in their line, wait for nothing
have their praises as appetizers
and gag at their curses like aftertaste
and you’re not them, not like them
but you’re just like them
because everyone cries when they’re alone
and no one’s ever okay unless they try hard
and force it into their souls
wanna throw myself away
so someone can come and fix me
because i broke myself trying
trying to transform into you
fitting squares into little round holes
and breaking the whole to make it hold it
you’re tired.
you’ve had enough.
push yourself out
slip back into your own skin
fit your own head back on
and you still won’t know me.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
I am wondering if any of you out there , my Hello Poetry friend's would like to try out an idea of mine. It may especially appealing to those who have done collaborative poems. It is what I refer to as a Progressive poem. (some of you may have heard of progressive dinners, were you go to one person's house for appetizers, another person's house for main course , then someone else's for dessert.) This may appeal to someone's creative pallet without calories and be challenging and fun.
We could agree on a topic to write about and many 3 or 4 people or possibly alternate writing lines and blend it together into a beautifully creative masterpiece a beautiful blending of creative minds.
Any taker's out there on Hello Poetry to accept this Progressive Poem challenge. ( perhaps Mike Hauser or other's who have done a collaborative poem with me, or interested in doing one?) If you might consider please drop me a message on here.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Some of us
are just
a free meal to
Curious brains
Lustful eyes
And
Hungry egos
Know your worth
and become good appetizers
to the ones
who value you
Like a feast
from paradise
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 1:28 AM UTC
I want to rip off your packaging.
I want to feast on you,
gobble you up,
pig out on you,
and wolf you down.
I want your nourishment.
I want your refreshment.
Give me sustenance.
I want to nibble on your appetizers
and sip your wine.
I want your snack.
I want to close my fingers around
your strawberries and partake of you.
I want to rummage your confections and
lay waste to your delicatessen.
This is not the time for delicate bites.
This is not the time to diet.
I want handfuls of you.
I want to play with my food
and lick the bowl
for dessert.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
The many ways he is legal.,Legit and lit..
With 3 A.M to finish it!
He ever so slightly gives..
Her a passions mind hickey.
F.ck..up.. savory
Like shivering kisses mind hiccups.
unspoken...................................attention given.
Make's her shiver he's a mental ******** giver..
Make's her mind moist and inquisitive.
At the sign of any confusion.
It's his penetrative foreplay.
Its the lyrics used to seductively play.
Tools He uses..their selective differences.
Just before 3 a.m.
She floats adrift softly melting H.i.m.
Talking everything comprehensively through.
Rocks her mindful emotions.
Mind F**kin sweet potions.
non-trivial notions.
Following every word she's relaying.
All before the 3 a.m. relating.
By day he's catering appetizers of verbal compliments.
Sharing of the days events.
when they are away from one another.
They are texting each other.
By evening.........
his texting feels like gentle
whispering!
Making His next text something she's craving.
Neva leaving her guessing what He is doing.
Neva askin her wyd?
Mental interactions are tender touchings.
Mind F**kin.. A tender kind of existing.
As they both be falling.
By the time its 3 a.m.
Oceans colliding.. erupting.. exploding. mental explosion.
3 a.m. dammn she's already had many ******* heightened chills.
Body follows every moment. No hesitations so receptive.
They are such Intellectual souls..
The body is prepped it always follows.
3 a.m Anything Goes.
By 7 a.m exhaustion so good sets in.
Physical resting so sweet.. yet mentally he's ready with a grin.
Just to start a new day all over with her again.
by selinasharday 4-2018...H.I.M (he is mine)
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 9:28 PM UTC