"baklava" poems
Crazy passion fast deep soul kiss warnings word breathe reckless love devastated desk art struggle pinstripe attempts drunk ghost lost wind beauty hunger soul smile elegance latte knowing containment bond ink shallow identity measure chaos stumbling darling life dance frenzy sweat hole paper haunted only dreams ****** vandalized scars Achilles proceedings bare deep still pain inside lied courts darkness wind step empty rocky soul whisper eyes alone wrapped inside Athens love smile abuse truth lies time mind bungalow knowing liar violated Pandora’s entanglement flashbacks ****** self-preservation private suit weakness baklava hide lips ******* played deserve hold earth destruction haunted coffin judgment dreams hands eternity sleep sunset lips hidden kissed desire champagne stars taint lovers fallen what **** PR glistening intense echoes seeing taste depth care finally beach rolling salt binding heat lost quietly resumed park come believe myself arms world you skin love stranger now
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Our private bungalow
Leading to the private beach
On the Saronic Gulf
Turquoise water
The smell of pine trees
Chilled Champagne
No one else just us
Totally alone for five days
Mesmerised by the Sunio Sunset
The vibrancy of the Plaka
Danced to the early hours
Under the Island stars
Ate Moussaka and Baklava
We talked and talked
No phones
No net
Nothing, no one just us
We held hands
Like young lovers
We shared intimacies
Never done before
I believed your words
Your intimacy
Your need for me
Your desire
Your love
And then
In the darkness
Of our room
A Stranger
And the struggle began
I gave you my love
You took that trust
You tore me apart
Filled my head with all your lies
Abused my passion
To suit what you wanted
My life rearranged
You manipulated how I saw myself
How I saw others
You played with my feelings
You abused my anxieties
Made it hard to be with anyone else
You took my faith in life
A Stranger in the room
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne
the bakery made them at his behest
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later
rush hour was madder than usual
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?
the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well
his fiancée came to him that night
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest
the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Golden, flaky, and so crisp
Layers of flavour
Lemon, honey, cinnamon,
tangy syrup drips
chopped walnuts, almonds,
whipped cream crown
Fork!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
I want to split you in two,
tickle your cherry stem
& sprinkle you with sugar drops.
I've thought about marshmallow,
some vanilla cream
on top of your lemon tarts
& rolling my tongue
to spread it.
Honey dripped onto your flower
would be tastier than flaked-baklava,
a little whipped cream
& nuts would certainly
finish you off.
But I do dream of stuffing your pastry
with my creme-filled cannoli.
That would be the ultimate dessert,
don't you think sweet lady?
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Insignificance is a relative term
The pessimistic thoughts that pass through our heads…
The thoughts that say:
We are not good enough,
We do not matter,
We are insignificant
These are all just thoughts
Controlled by you
A person,
Who can make choices and decisions,
And although you may not be able to change the world as a whole
You can change those insignificant little thoughts
Because a person is more than what you think
They are one of seven billion, but how big is seven billion really?
And the world that you truly live in is made up of much, much less
So the next time you think you aren't enough
Remember that it’s you who controls whether you feel like enough or not.
And when I feel like I’m drowning and I can’t breathe during the day,
And all I want to do is crawl up in a ball in my house and cry and feel and be left alone
I have to be reminded how much I’m worth
Because even if we don’t know it,
We are all worth something
Even if sometimes we make mistakes
Even if sometimes we hurt ourselves to let people know we aren't fine
Even if we feel like we’re nothing
We aren't
Because although the world is a hateful and horrible awful place full of ignorance and judgment,
There are still lights and halos and happiness and there’s laughter too in there
There’s babies being born, people getting married, and random acts of kindness being done
There are cookies and baklava and puppies
There are young lovers and happy children and sweet singing
There’s music and art and love being made
And although the babies may be still, the couples may get divorced, and the acts of kindness may be empty
The cookies may be burnt, the baklava old, and the puppies dead
The young lovers may break each other’s hearts, the happy children may grow up and the sweet singing stopped
The music may be sad, the art distasteful and the love not true
It doesn't matter because all these things are part of life
And all of these things were done by people
And you’re a person
So I’d say that’s pretty God **** awesome.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
A frangipani candle,
Sandalwood perfume
The shimmer of the shadows,
That light up the room
A hard covered book
With a silver inscription,
Warm jasmine tea,
Baklava from the kitchen
Soft red lipstick
And a robe of white silk
Dark lash rimmed eyes,
A bath of rose petals, floating in milk
Sweet drifting music
From the balmy outside,
The chirping of cicadas
And the whisper of the tide
Gentle gold jewellery
Which can carry you away
A feather pillow on the wooden floor,
The start
To the end
Of the day
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
you might have to stare into neutrons
to un-bond the Marmaduke con
your large doggerels are farcical in a feline fashion.
what harm you do -
fondles the rabid scabies
of our scathing
debutantes.
we are
an affront to the baklava
where the syrup is fierce
and yet the spirit
is amber
locking swift Hymenoptera
into place....
you might have to stare into space
to see me...
but be me,
and you might
gain a wee thing as fabulous
as when we bent knees to no god
but had demons
in our **** larceny.
you polished the rogering,
you foggy bogged
the biscuit.
had your druthers whisk
the cinch a
bit.
till we nipped, went.
had our coffee
spent.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
She is so sweet, so very fine.
Pure succulent honey drips
from her moist layers,
my face covered
with chopped nuts,
********
her waves,
her trembling,
overwhelming,
I could eat her forever.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
Lunchtime stroll = ugly couples, prams pushed by youth, smell of corn on the cob,eyebrow maintenance, baklava.
Dull train update: man who looks squeezed at both ends, like an accordion, with glasses, a lucozade bottle half empty, lady appears perplexed by a crossword clue (but it may be sudoku).
Clouds outside seem to cover the black to white spectrum.
Dull train update: a sign, a lyric repeating itself 'an even cash flow: this cannot be underrated', the cranking of metal the smell of meat.
50/50 weather.
Left foot, loose lace
and canned laughter follows him everywhere but he feels nothing, inside he is empty, save from a series of ropes and pulleys that control his movements.
The parents are being pushed in the swings by their offspring, grown men in nappies crushed up in bulging prams. Cats eating dogs. Humans ******** on pigeons. It's all a bit weird today.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
Rays shine
warm breath on my neck
golden light in my hair
Here comes the sun
Catapulting life into overdrive
while smiles glance off
rain dropped tulip petals
and the outside of my spoon
scooping red delicious
watermelon dripping from
My fingers
My lips
sweet sticky
like baklava
or my mom
when I leave home
affection caressing our
words and tears
Honey filling our eyes
as we look back
once more
to see if the other
is smiling or crying
or both
Summers remind me
of transition
coming home
going home
So many homes
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 2:55 PM UTC
I've been told
there's a place
called Heaven,
where the sea
meets the golden desert,
mountains rise up
& tall cedars kiss the sun.
And in this place,
anise-spirits flow
& pistachios grow
in abundance.
Angels exist there,
honey-flavors drip
from their pretty mouths.
One in particular,
has the sweetest lips,
like baklava,
I am intoxicated.
They sing to me
songs of hope
& I am swept away,
swept away to that place
along Mideastern
shores.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
I kissed my lover here,
Sandwiched between the smells and the sells;
Turkish delight and baklava,
Over ripening fruit,
Roast, moist meats in sourdough,
And him, heady, ready and in my spell.
So excited, we both were,
To be kissing, at last,
Surrounded by delicious.
All these succulent wonders,
But I wanted to eat him,
Eat him, with my eyes, my mouth,
Savour every moment
Every morsel, while I could.
Lost to me now, my Prince of Feasts,
Do you ever wander, among the fruits and flowers,
Hoping for a glimpse of me?
Do the scents and sounds evoke
The ghosts of us, kissing?
They do, for me, every time.
I close my eyes, and salivate,
Longing to devour you again.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
It’s been long since I last have some to drink
The goddess of liquid muse no longer recognizes me
Silently taking my inspirations away as punishment
Words no longer flow like rivers after rain
Oh melancholy how I miss you
Or is this just pure sadness and emptiness that’s speaking?
Can you still label it as melancholy if you don’t find delight in it?
Oh how I miss the good old days of painless melancholy
I’m trying desperately to vent, to rant ,to find someone who can depend
Maybe you can but it's likely not going to make sense
My troubles are a thousand layers of Baklava that I didn’t bake
Everything is a phase I know but time don’t exist when you are on a trip
I’m playing this game of life like I’m in junior varsity again
Thought I had it all together, what a fool’s paradise did I live in?
Short fused, restless anxiety; agitation running like a ticking time bomb
I say “Hi, how’s it going?” with a smile but the inside is ******
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Curtains thick as carpets
shut out the courtyard, neighbors, society.
She’s a gentle, cane-walking woman.
Posture of a question mark. The cords of her neck,
withered stalks as she peers up at me.
From eye to jaw a scar like a dried fig.
The world has run roughshod over this woman.
Pointing at the baseboard heater, she folds
arms over chest, shivers in drama.
“Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
With screwdriver and flashlight I kneel on a rug
woven with exquisite patterns of dangerous beasts:
dragon, eagle, serpent. A nudge on my arm.
Holding a tray of baklava and apricots, she says, “Take.”
In a minute she’s back with a tiny cup. “Take.”
Brew so thick that if you spilled, the coffee
would not splash. It would shatter.
Soon my belly is grinding like a coffee mill.
And the heater is fixed. I kneel over the baseboard,
rubbing my hands in a pantomime of heat.
She takes my face between her fingers.
She beams, nodding her head.
It’s a thank you, but more.
Be nice, she seems to say, and conquer evil.
Opening the door, she sends me outside
with my tool belt and work boots
to the bright sunlight of California, USA.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
5 X 5
sitting in that chair, once more,
that chair that is my picture of me...
One:
The bay laps quiet rhythmic hellos
knows better than to ask,
just graciously accepts,
one of us says Hallelujah,
and the other, Selah!
a torrid summer of morose and illness,
lingers still, and here I am, cosseted,
comforted by familiar comfort foods,
baby waves, the gentlest of precision-crafted currents
of air, all together a baklava so sweet,
one could forgo forever eating,
but never, writing of them, to you
Two:
Crumpled tissues,
absorbers of ****** fluids,
crumpled poems,
absorbers of mental fluids,
evidence of a body and soul's
dismal anguish, creativity extinguished,
weeks of weak, months of morbid,
were the pretense that a lovely physical shelter exterior,
could ever successful well-mask the human upheaval within,
as if a summer tan could disguise the illness exposed in his eyes
Three:
Sun of moderated fall heat enters via the nostrils,
crimping the bacteria of depression,
that come from an overrun immune system,
a summer of discontent for the summer man,
who has been encapsulated by the suicide
of a man he knew only from his humorous artistry
am I better? some. healed? of course not...
but here I begin a summation of my silences,
that came with no explanation substantive,
for which I formally apologize
Four:
Four is for me, a self-addressed postcard,
way past the point of clean slates,
I am a blackboard with years of dust cumulated
from scrawls, equations, mistakes,
and here n' there a teachers favorite,
a large exclamation point!
decide that it is perhaps time
to relearn how to write poetry for pleasure,
wipe that chalk dust off some,
not for pain disclosures hall marked,
though the pain must be played through,
today, a new season starts and my record,
unblemished a perfect 0-0
Five:
Why 5 X 5? No idea!
this is how it starts for me,
a title, a notional emotion,
a horse rider with a head,
but no body attached,
no direction home,
and the words, disassociated,
pulled together and now there are
five babies tendered for your
care and consideration,
perhaps even,
for your pleasure...
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
When it was time to leave (for you to go)
You found me in cross-hatched darkness
Stirring sugar in the smallest cup
Standing on pebbles of acrylic nothing
The syrup coated my cotton-pink fingers
Snakes of cold air clicking along my spine
Sweetness nestling into baklava layers
Elbows bare and cracking
How long did you watch my shoulders break?
Gelatin soft bones pulled by lack of gravity
Obsidian hammers pounding against my skull
Negative space swirling in the sugar bowl
I am only as small as I think you are
You are largest when I don't know you at all
I can almost feel the salt of the wind in my eyes
But you've told me I lie worst when I'm all alone.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
.
f
i i l i
l of l
o i l o
f o f
i f i i
l l o l
o f i o
f l o f
i f i
l i l
o l o
o
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
snow never comes early down south
if luck kisses our brow maybe
an inch near the Epiphany
those days we huddle near the windows
wrapped in wool and hot cocoa
baklava bleeding honey, our eyes
nailed to the fences watching cardinals
red wings flapping like poinsettia petals
a warm breath on a chilled grey sky.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
Living in the City may clip your wings.
But there’s baklava, so….
You pay more to live in a cube
with a longer cube MacGyvered
to a money pit shaped like-
a square.
It’s all the rage
how you are.
II
When you formally meet your first guitar
you get sunburned.
III
Now you eat noise and incidentals. like profound Chicklets.
But your shadow’s sweet-tooth is another way to adventure
from your cavities, with sea shanties from False Hope
Or Narwhal hymns in bright typhoons
Like glass lipids
Burning in earnest
Where the sun
Has a brief chill-
In the panorama of
Your undistorted
Will.
IV
Like riding a bike
with Imaginary Legs-
That Believe that you
Actually Have
A Bike.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 8:28 PM UTC
A most heavenly dish,
Oh so thick and so rich,
I'd most certainly gain a few pounds.
With each welcome bite,
A most sinful delight,
The eyes in my head would spin round.
I'd open my jaws,
And grab with mad paws,
I'd have it all please make no mistake.
The noise would be great,
As I sat and I ate,
All the wonderfully delicious cheesecake.
But of all the choices that I could make,
From pie to baklava or even cake.
I honestly don't think that these are the best,
The dessert I love most is the one I call ***
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
Gentle seas reflect light near the island of Brac
Local men tender their allotments early in the morning
Swifts start to dart about
A local lady carries herbs and flowers down hill to the restaurants
Old men gather for coffee and cigarettes
People carry bread and cherry baklava from the bakery
The butcher's door is always open, he is working hard
Tourists sprint about in a hurry
Kids play cards as if it's the 1970's
Ladies show off dramatic tattoos on their backs
Walking down the steps to the beach
I sit near the outdoor shower and relax, getting ready to dive in
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 5:31 AM UTC
apparently alcohol is
a problem,
in the european states...
i'd love to know
what the sugar rates
are like in arabia...
there must be a
baklava anonymous...
a diabetics anonymous
no one is speaking
about...
baklava?
great with milk...
esp. at 1a.m.
filter ******* wafer-thin
paper-crust that makes
the doughnut shy
and curl away into
dough...
the only people who
made the pistachio worthwhile?
apart from the ones that
salted them and made them
into gelato?
the sand-niggers /
camel-jockeys for sure
with their baklava:
sugar lava:
or sugar tiers...
whatever,
i'm drunk, the milk's running
via gulps and the pastry
iz.... d(ee)-vine...
who's to argue?
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
This one has high yellow arches, white columns,
ornate gold fixtures and massive paintings of
Olympus; featuring nymphs, gods, goddesses,
animals wild and docile, mermaids and angels.
A huge chandelier sending colourful stars all around
as we follow Paul to one of the great dessert tables,
rich with various cultures, sweetness and spices.
"It doesn't feel right to eat without our guests of
honour..." Sue says.
"I'm inclined to agree with Sue." Yidna says.
"A few small snacks won't hurt," I chuckle. "It's not
the main course meal. It's just something to bide
the time."
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Agreed." Kim picks up a small porcelain plate and
fork and we all being to fill our plates with
small sweet desserts; Sue takes a chocolate
mousse, Yidna a slice of berry cheessecake,
with me and Kim taking some baklava
with a side of whip cream. They went to sit
down as I browse around the drinks area.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
It is then I noticed King Brandon
with his notebook and pen walking towards me.
"Queen Lyn," he smiles.
"King Brandon," I chuckle. "It is good to see you!
I see you were so focused on Pauls paintings."
"How can I not be? I've always loved the
representation of Greek gods and myths.
It's always fascinating to see how artists see
them. How we all see one entity, one embodiment
differently through words, painting, chalk or pencils."
"We are all Pygmalions in our own right,
as you would say," I smile.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC