"bowlful" poems
I reemphasized myself again
this time straightening my back
to become as tall as possible
to intimidate and deliver the
words like heat seeking missiles
aimed for earth’s ever-beating
heart and before I could begin
I heard a baby giggle
this made me giggle
and the whole bowlful of crowd
laughed along with us as I let
the doves flutter out of
my hat
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.
I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.
I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.
I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,
“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.
So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.
Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
Muddled yet accountable.
Sober yet lively.
Impassive yet doting.
Mixed bag of traits
define him.
Bowlful of big hearted fondness
he carries to embrace all.
Conviviality and amiability
are his favourite words.
Pile of rendezvous,
easy reach outlook,
entangles him in a maze.
Still an apple of everyone's eye and
quite a loved soul.
Being you and always there,
with joy I proclaim,
cuddling happiness and ease.
Best of our camaraderie,
brimming with our fond memoirs
is yet to be savoured.
Attachment and affection remains,
Love, regard grows each day, to remain forever.
Blessed to have you brother, friend!!
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 7:22 AM UTC
After all these years
when i step into
the land of rye
i can still hear summer
its most authentic heartbeat
roar of the machine takes over
from the rasping scythe
cutting through stalks
when the grains are harvested to the barn
they'll be no more painful stubble at the feet
after many years
the summer is still so **** hot
i like it just as before
the season of mellow mango scent
and pleasant earthly aroma of barley
though all beings are a little deflated
no one wishes to light the flame
at the moment i miss the dense woods in the distance
because that's where cool breezes are born
i appreciate the hospitality of the cotton and corn
they keep bringing the joy of maturity
flowers are exceptionally generous
they keep painting the landscape
standing on the fresh verdant ground
let the rainstorm clean my dusty soul
summer is the season of zeal
i will extract the poetic fragrance
on every lush green plant
so that folks longing for a peaceful mind
can get a peaceful lyrical feeling
across this summer
i especially like the other side of the water
where i can dance with the shy lotus
this summer i've gathered
a bowlful of poems to read
with you.
Nov 21, 2022
Nov 21, 2022 at 9:23 AM UTC
And each morning as she slept
I'd take her a tray of poetry
A croissant of commas warmed from the inside out
An ounce of assonance
A cup of freshly squeezed couplets
A bowlful of rhymes
That inside she might find
Our promises of forever
The memories we crafted together:
I’d take her a teapot of
The little things we’d forget
In the busyness of daily life
I’d take her a knife to spread
across the toasts we’d host
To the moments we cherished most
To our victories and our regrets
And every morning as she slept
I’d place a kiss on her head
As I placed beside our bed
A tray of poetry,
The words she so carefully, cordially, candidly
Composed out of me.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
Centered on the table, there sits a bowl
Filled with the fruits of a rainbow of shades
Colorful essence erupts in my soul
Maroon, chartreuse, rose, goldenrod, and jade
Ignore the mouth watering sensation
Caused by a vibrant banana - yellow
I cannot give in to my temptation
The priceless jewels lay silently, mellow
I gaze at the fruit in perfect rapture
Stroking my fingers against smooth cherries
Such sweet gems have my attention captured
I eye the dozens of bright, plump berries
I soon discover a fate so drastic
The flawless bowlful of fruit is plastic
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
Woe to the Apathy
Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in Aso-rock,
You dignitaries of fraudsters of Nigeria,
To whom the poor depend on for stocks.
Woe to you who are apathy in Africa ,
And to you who feel safe in America,
And then weep hard in their prison wall,
Now, is their calaboose a-mourning mall?
Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in ritual-wealths,
Yet, you die young and rot in Hades ever;
As your casket drop amid beast of maggots.
Woe to you who are apathy in many states,
And to you who reign terrors daily,
And to bowlful drunkards and fate-pests,
Your feasting and lounging will end sadly.
©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
»» 02/07/2017
>> 11:57AM
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
*I could be anything the way I wish
A bowlful of food an empty dish
A blade of grass or a redwood tree
But I want to be the way you want me.
I could be anyone the way I wish
Furrowed forehead or smiles that please
A heart rigid or a mind that’s free
But I want to be the way you want me.
I could be a face covered with veil
A man of dogma or with free will
Kissing wind or a stinging bee
But I want to be the way you want me.
I could be the man I thought I must
Winner in suspicion loser in trust
A narrow stream or the boundless sea
But I want to be the way you want me.*
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
They had waited on blankets, in cars,
to view the Chrysanthemum stars.
Instead of a pyrotechnic display,
The authorities sent them away.
A brief blast of frightening power
consumed at once many a flower.
It appears a computer malfunction
was the cause of the mini eruption.
The engineered boom had gone bust.
Makes you wonder- now who can you trust?
In the desert that night 'neath the stars
Jupiter, Venus and Mars
put on their free, nightly, display.
People on blankets, in cars
very seldom look up to the stars.
There a bowlful of wonder and light
goes sight unseen most every night.
The gift of a child's sense of wonder
goes unwrapped by these mortals down under.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
Colour is not the point,
like beams of light that
do anoint
the hour which I lay flat
and wait for rest, or at
which point in the dark
do I wrest it from a faerie light
or must I wrestle with
a bottle, pills to cause my ills to slip away and let the
pillow absorb my day, my worries, my strain,
where the engine,
has no off switch,
this engine sits on
top of me not purring
not whirring but
running rough shod
through me, I will not
admit to being sleepless, for by the time I write this,
you will all be in the land,
that I am jealous of, see?
Oh colour?
Which pill will I take,
I have different shades
for different days, and Hades,
waits for me as well, for one
of these times I may take too
many, but I am sparse would
not want to be left without any,
so those gates stay shuttered
as I wrap up and shudder,
through another night
where the next days, and days
dawn and I fawn over
my appearance, eyes with
circles dark, pale image stark
in a mirror, to the point, the clown
smiles back at me and asks
to be happy or not to be sad?,
I need sleep so pass a whole bowlful,
of sleep that all of you have too much of,
and push and shove
me
with
your
bed time stories,
nursery rhymes,
and lullabies,
in poetry and I will read what I need
to let go and let sleep
steep me overnight, when I will wake
up and pour into another day,
the literary love you have shown this poets way.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
i will stick to your teeth
am i spicy
or am i sweet
either way i will
bring back memories that
will make you cry
back when it was just
you and your little girl
and there wasn’t enough money
for a beach trip
but you still bought her taffy anyway
and the two of you sat on the
front porch
watching the world move by
and you gently washed the
taffy off your daughter’s face
but when your little girl
became too big to hold
when she squirmed away from your touch
and screamed about the bows
in her hair
you wondered where your baby girl
had gone
and it was hard to love her
because she was a stranger
to you
and to herself
and now your little girl is gone
leaving an arrogant
angry and impatient boy in her place
but ******
he learned it all from watching you
and now this boy
wearing your little girl’s body
eats a bowlful of taffy
trying to fill the black hole
that you left in the middle of his chest
is this boy spicy
or is he sweet
he sticks to your teeth
dries out your throat
makes your stomach hurt
and you resent him
for taking your little girl away
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Thank you for your patience,
carelessness imitating restraint.
He mutters something.
Words stumble through the air,
delay at my earlobe,
they dare not climb inside.
I won't ask again.
(Heartache is ghosts in the walls. Heartache is socks-on-at-all-times 'cause the carpet is gummed up with **** and little empty baggies stick themselves to the soles of my feet as I walk. Heartache is a few days here and there without power, a bowlful of dead fish left to stew. Heartache is bath times in mold, never being clean, when you'd rather let the pillow suffocate you rather than taking it off your ears and hearing the screams--you say you know pain, how could you know? How could you even begin to understand?)
I say thank you for putting up with me
regardless. You know I keep it all inside--
I know why you stir in your sleep.
If I were you, the guilt would eat me too.
For the sun always sets in front of me,
and rises from the back--
(Have I convinced only myself that you don't want me? Have I convinced you too?)
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 11:58 AM UTC
There's nothing magical about being intentional.
It's about the beneficial, not just the permissible.
Don't be mindful of the infinitesimal
But watch the frequency of every mouthful
Watch the size of your morning bowlful
And what you spread on a wholemeal bagel.
That way you'll find you'll be more healthful.
Although I should be a little more truthful –
I can get all emotional
And potentially inspirational
About my preferable, honey-based
Sticky sauce that’s truly capital (BBQ).
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC