"confectionary" poems
Your caress is silky and creamy like butter
And my darling, I'm afraid that your lingering touch will give me diabetes
Your heart crumbles like flour when I press mine against it
And beads of sugar hang like dew upon your lashes
Maybe if I blended you up into cookie dough
And baked you at 350 for 15 minutes until you were golden brown
Then I wouldn't be afraid to stroke your resplendent face
Perhaps I wouldn't wince at the thought of pressing my ear against your chest
Just to hear your confectionary heart quiver
And there wouldn't be the slightest trepidation when I kissed your intoxicating tears
But I'm afraid that I'll leave you in for too long
And your saccharine core will harden and reek of soot
And with the slightest touch, you'll be reduced to ash
And your cremated remains will get frightened at the accusatory wail of the smoke detector
And they'll seek refuge in my oven's crevices
Never to be seen again
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
The Lollipop King, with his mighty staff,
Flavored all the colors of the rainbow,
Enticing me with what he has
To places where I must not go.
His lust-soaked pheromones masked with licorice
Entice the hearts of the fair maidens of the land.
While I too have fallen victim to his confectionary wishes,
Of this courtship and this romance became something unplanned.
I have now found my way into this lollipop dynasty,
Becoming another member of this sisterhood of sugar.
But the difference with me, if you’ll lean close, you see,
Quoth the Lollipop King, “I do not want to lose her.”
And always alone I’ll say to myself:
When will his time come to place me on the shelf?
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
Here come the confectionary clouds
Packed like powdered sugar
And
They
Drizzle
All
Over
Her
Hankering
Hungry
Heart
Little quicksilver has
A bit of a sweet tooth
And grubby hands well into
A box of Quality Street
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 11:12 AM UTC
it'd cut through my sour, orange moments, as my blue sheets remind me of you. My pastel mug wouldn't remind me of tea, but your confectionary lips in lieu.
Contrarily, I'd destroy my like for maroon and I'd never have my eyes red. I'd hate every crimson flower, and disdain every green. And I'll stay away from cherries and tangerine.
But loving you is not a condition, but an overwhelming actuality. Loving you is blue. Like the subtle and unchanging hue of the skies, the tint of the ocean and its tides, I will forever love you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
-Opening-
Some things are part of you
And yet you have no control.
Certain memories and habits are -
And my sister was just so.
On the morning of the funeral
Mum gave me a mint, a polo
I ****** it for a while
And felt the ‘o’
Dissolving into a thin hoop
Of mint on my tongue.
And somewhere in there was the memory
Of other moments spent
******* the ‘o’s of meditation
Years, sometimes decades ago.
There was no narrative to these memories
Save me
And during those moments that narrative
Could not see itself,
Or the relative position of its parts,
But moments do not need narrative
To be complete
Like Bryony,
I’ve found life to be
Oftentimes bad for me,
Like confectionary
And cut flowers
Short and sweet.
-1-
Bryony is now a rose,
But once upon a time
She was a mischievous
Kink in a hose.
At Kingswood Drive,
Ben and Bry on the same side:
“Daniel – help us out! The water’s stopped-
Look down the end and check that it’s not blocked.”
At last! A chance to be of use!
The baby bursts with pride -
Just as the hose unkinks
And sprays him in the eye.
-2-
Bryony ran away from home
To join the circus known as Camden Town
A world of orphans with piercings
Selling t-shirts to clowns.
I didn’t understand it,
Neither did mum and dad.
But we went to visit once, me and mum,
I must have been about six,
Can’t remember much,
But it must have been a good night –
Always is –
When you end up in high heels and a dress.
I was her little manniken
In a whole world of fashion.
-3-
“Dan? Pass my bag there with the moisturising lotion.”
I do so, and by return of post –
A vague memory of a smoky blond from photos.
I always thought she would be a model
When we were growing up.
I didn’t tell her until recently
When she’d acquired the cheekbones for it
But now her skin rippled
With dry amusement
At the notion.
-4-
At the hospice they admired
Her strong will and determination
To join the dots
Of visitors
With a shaky stubborn line
From declining throne
To the swing seat
In the garden.
“They’re lovely here.” She said.
They were not trying to change her,
They were helping her accept.
-Ending-
An ending fitting for a start
A rhyme she made me
Learn by heart
My earliest memory of her
Playing pattercake
And saying:
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
The singing birds may waken you in the morning, only to expose you to another day of uncertain disconnectedness. However, the late afternoon handling of newspapers could result in textured fingers and a black nose, whilst ice-cold rain pelts against your jacket with a forceful concerto of magical precipitation.
As you stand dripping wet, my indulgent adolescent of traumatic naivety, always remember that Popeye will be speeding hastily toward your confectionary impulses.
The dog behaved like a royal prince, as he gracefully licked ice-cream from the cone of his masters’ desire. Further Turkish amazement could be found in the palm of his hand, whilst snowflakes fell, and the tracks of police vehicles gradually faded during blizzards of the night.
Silence truly speaks across pink morning skies, as we gaze out of the window into resounding flights of fancy.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
she has produced a biscuit
that claims a Mona Lisa likeness
confectionary imbued with worth
far beyond a humble foodstuff
to be digested by a sweet tooth
novelty birthday gift consumed
likeness acknowledged in a minute
taste appreciated in seconds
party over
Leonardo lived with her as a mistress
never parting with his commission
of a merchant’s daughter
perfecting every stroke and nuance
haunted by that beguiling smile
she had him in her clutches forever
now the world lives for the minute
appreciates in seconds and moves on
there are no more banquets
just mere morsels
May 14, 2022
May 14, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
Timeless Poet
Who called me that?
Why make this line item,
A poem?
What means this timeless?
That
There is not enough
Time to elaborate all that I can conceive?
No, mundane, nothing more.
The POW poems arrive at all hours,
And we no longer care when and if you sleep,
For plain the answer, your internal clock, askew,
The answer already poetically enshrined,
Nevermore...
Did you deceive yourself,
As is your vanity customary,
That your scribblings
May last one day longer than your physical self?
Dddddelusionary, like confectionary,
God tasting for a few seconds,
Then it is just a song
Of get a long little doggies!^
Perhaps the phrase reversed,
The meaning peversed?
Poet Timeless.
Ah that's it!
Lay down your crafty pride, egotist,
On theTemple Altar,
It is already but a burnt sacrifice!
Before God, there will always be poets.
Yours the mantle to carry till you fall,
Then another man's children will lift up words
In combinations denied you.
They will take your scribblings,
Rearrange,
Just as you did, unawares,
There is nothing new under the sun,
Especially the illusion that there is
Something unborn yet to say.
Ah Poets,
Egotistical tools,
So easy to fool...
^ http://www.lyricsfreak.com/c/chris+ledoux/get+along+little+doggies_20209623.html
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
Rows of red, and blue and green,
Confectionary ordered pointlesly,
Only to fall, one by one,
Or all the large to the left,
and the small stacked up.
Coins in stacks of one pound,
Unless it's pennies, Then in stacks of ten.
Books piled, large at the bottom, towering up,
Pens lie in rows,
Invisible borders prevent touching,
Keys too untidy, remove from ring, arrange in circles,
Food cut into bites, counted and ordered,
Fridge ordered by food group,
Or colour,
Depending on the day,
Lighters in rows, standing tall,
Zippos together,
Clippers and disposables,
Flints in a pile,
Wicks in the little paper sleeve.
Fuse wire in the little round tin,
The one she gave me,
The one that opens with a POP.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
i fell in a sea of crystal clear honey,
sank to the deepest abyss
floating, swimming
through candy-coated dreams.
i get a kid's licorice kind of high
everytime you look at me
with liquid warmth, laughter, summer—
those beautiful amber eyes.
i'm caught in a strawberry avalanche
caramel popsicle knees melting in milliseconds
i don't know how you trigger
my hidden sugar rush obsession.
can i comb my fingers through the maze
of your curly cotton candy hair?
can i taste the chocolate peppermint fragrance
surrounding your atmosphere?
i'd give up my innocence,
to live in your confectionary world.
rot my teeth, stay sweet
be your blueberry cheese cake, vanilla ice cream girl.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
Blonde, blue eyed, suburban, two hundred percent American
the nation hangs on the perky point of your nose as your
corn silk corkscrew curls are straightened, and you fly to Paris
to collide with fellow shooting stars, but you never forget that boy,
although there are quite a few, lyrics recycling their smiles like
Splenda confectionary tissues. Your melodies are one note harmonies
on the discord of Romantic Middle Class Mediocrity, saccharine
apples in a shiny package for teens who haven't bitten life too deep.
But there is still a boy in a red pickup truck, teardrops and Tim McGraw.
The girl next door has a backbone of country strong and books filled with
silly, sweet, strawberry sodapop songs, slipping over herself in earnest
for the rawness of four chords about love, ends that spiral back to beginnings.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
I always told my friends to think of words as chocolate
When someone writes beautiful things
It's Galaxy, it's Cadbury's to me
You hold them on your tongue and you savour
You want more, it's sheer gluttony,
But people applaud you for that,
You don't get fat on words,
People won't judge you when you sneak downstairs late at night for a midnight snack of words.
You're still a size 12 when you've overdone it on the words.
And poetry? Well that's the best chocolate there is.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The first kind of carnival I encountered besides at the county fair was a huge one on the far outer reaches of the North Bronx on the way to Yonkers and White Plains call Freedomland.
I remember Disneyland and the black licorice drops there at the old time confectionary store. I hope to go to Disney World in my lifetime.
AS far as a regular circus I went to one when I was on a locked ward (we were let out under supervision) at the Lyons New Jersey UAMC. I was so desperately feeling like a failure due to confinement, and felt such hopelessness, that I contemplated joining the circus as a roustabout, but it seemed futile in the big picture, after all, I felt because I'd just be going from the frying pan into the fire success or lack thereof wise.
I think I noticed a certain clown looking at me out of the corner of his eyes and reading my mind there and letting me know I'd mad e the fright decision, and seeing a choice female acrobat stride by that reminded me that I wanted to start a family someday and stars of circuses are probably kept separate from the roustabouts.
I can remember going to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey circus with my mother as a kid and being thrilled at the taste of the cotton candy, the lion tamer doing his thing , the smell of the sawdust, and the ringmaster of that 3 ring circus and his whip. I was in awe.
In the meantime I was going to local carnivals and trying my hand with the pellet gun shooting sitting ducks that passed by in front of the king in the hall of mirrors, and going on the roller coasters and the Ferris wheel.
Later I went to the Barnum and Bailey circus as an adult and the trapeze artist, especially the female ones and , for example the parade of the Arabian horsed, thrilled me too.
I also took my foster son to a carnival and the sorta juvenile delinquent erstwhile deprived kid-he was, I though. I got a thrill out of him seeming impressed.
Enough of this, not that it's syrupy sentimentality, which I find enough in my poetry to have a sense of failure there but maybe kind of exercise in senility.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
I head out at the end of an Indian Summer,
To journey back through whispering sleet.
Green blades stand tall with
Tips bleached white,
air cradles my face
Walking through a path of confectionary houses
that float on the lakes of November.
Falling stars deliquesce in nearby tarns.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
He had His detractors - did Jesus
some aggressive,
while others were more subtle.
And these had more success:
with cute bunnies,
concealed eggs
and confectionary.
But, despite their best attempts,
the Story remains unfinished.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Your hands
sliding down
my pink cheek
ticking my neck and
grabbing my hips.
I cannot help
but to pull you
closer with each
candy coated
kiss.
Your voice is sweet
your words are absorbing
into my veins
like medicine.
My hips push against yours
wanting you closer
as I wrap you up
tight with my long
candy cane legs
You whisper in my ear
"If you knew what I wanted
to do with you"
We talk about being each others muse
but independent
enough to walk away.
And the beauty in this is that you haven't.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
She had a very sweet heart & a tooth.
Which one turned bad first?
You tell me.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
Your fingers like petals that fall upon my skin,
the aroma fluctuates on the membrane of
that which alternates between the
vessels
of what tells me to
gravitate
between the consequences of conciseness
and consideration. I'm whispered upon
to accept both realities..
But innuendos are the motions
that make me linger
on the words you weave within my heart.
Can you taste my smiles when I look at you
when your not observing.
They are a confectionary that is only visualized
when I steal an embrace when least expecting
my lips to collect candy from your thoughts.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Winter,
and with winter comes a girl.
She greets the weather as a friend
she has not seen since last Christmas,
grins as the snow
scrunches and squeaks
as green Wellington boots
on a wooden floor.
Two men walk past her,
reeking of yesterday’s brandy.
One has sloshed a lot
down his front,
a dark claret patch
like a seeping **** on his chest.
Someone is playing an instrument,
a saxophone,
and the sound
sprints fluidly along the streets
into taxi-cabs and terracotta
coffee-shop windows.
She smiles again.
One dustbin’s been KO’d,
trash trips out
in a puddle of colours
like unwanted confectionary.
A teenage couple are kissing,
their heads a swaying metronome
and the boy grips a Starbucks cup
with one limp hand as if to say
here you have it.
Evening gushes over her
like a rush of bad acne
but she loves the sun
as it pecks the cheeks of buildings
and the jingle from her phone
which reminds her,
the movie starts at eight.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
A woman is somewhat like
confectionaries.
If she takes a Twix,
be it one or both.
Well then, you are in luck.
But if she is a Kit-kat,
and takes every finger.
Then by all accounts my friend
who at best is a mar-bar at worse
a pack of Rolo's.
Well, you're not touching the sides.
With that in mind, the tongue is wider
and can taste a woman much better. :)
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 6:27 AM UTC
Lights flash yellow, red, green
You’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen
Your eyes shone recklessly of immortal eighteen
They’re luring, persuasive, hypnotizing
I am stuck in a cycle of us, and then me. It’s terrifying, but I could not hide
Behind walls I built; the cement had not dried.
I tried.
Tried to keep you away, but now you’re inside.
This vulnerability was not what I wanted;
I was content with loneliness, to me this is new.
You said I’m too hesitant, too timid. it’s true.
But I think now I’m only part me, and part you.
Pills- blue, white, pink
“Love is a mirage, a marketing technique. A concept that gives humans a reason to keep going, keep searching. It’s just ignorant hope, a made-up belief.
Dependency is unnecessary, I never needed anybody. Love is a confectionary lie
Attempting to sweeten the cruelty of life.”
Love is an illusion that I wanted to stay an illusion
Love was a transfusion of your mind into mine
An illusion that I screamed wasn’t real as you held me tight and my bones begged you not to let go
A concept that has arms and legs and walked up, knocked on my door and said hello
I know now it’s real, but I just wish it would go
Away.
Because you left with my soul, now I have no control.
Cause I gave you everything, and I have nothing left.
I know you weren’t new to this, a heart and soul theft
I have an uncontrolled tendency to imagine you somewhere far away from me, and I’m nothing but a memory. An out of tune melody that plays here and there.
And I hope you’re reminded of the one begged you to stay far away from her soul. but you broke in, took all that you could carry and fled.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
Curl my spine into candy cane curves
And crush my hands into ******* Jack shapes
Crack the crib of my ribs,
Crunching me– I cannot leave you!
Could you come closer
To this candid cadenza,
This carousel that carries a cavity in its creases?
Candy me, you confectionary killer!
Make me a caramelized, crème brûlée corpse!
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
your fingertips are coated with stardust
from the other day when you dipped into
the midnight skyscape as though
it were paint and I could smell it on you,
the faerie-light, confectionary sugar scent
of hazy dreams the color of moon-bathed water
i clasped your hands gingerly because
everyone knows that starstuff is sticky and steadfast
and you told me that the oceans don’t
follow the moon for the fun of it
i don’t remember much of what came after
because you had aligned your fingers so
precisely against mine that I could feel the remnants
of a thousand dying universes caught
in the creases of my thumbs
i soon learned that handsoap only applies
to the earthly, just like water doesn’t even
touch stains on the soul
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
body drenched in my sinning blood
lifeless hands fumbling to close my wounds
my body a cake, my inners the icing, my corpse is fuel to you
fingers tear me open and I hear him moan as my life concludes
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
Spread upon a table lays a white and silver table cloth, upon it are golden candle sticks lighting the buffet. Cakes and Pies laid out in rows, surrounded by cupcakes and sugar cookies. Grand maw's famous fruit cake is a centerpiece unto itself. All wonderful treats abound, enough to put a diabetic into shock just by looking at the table. So tonight we dine and indulge, on a feast fit for a Ginger Bread king. For tomorrow, we will feel the sugar hang over and curse our pallet for now we cannot fit into our skinny jeans. So in repentance we will purge, all the week long, high fiber low calorie meals designed to cleanse our colon and our soul, but this is only a brief respite from our culinary debauchery, for news years shall come and once again we shall binge out on too many sweets, only to be forced to the church of fitness by making atonement at the alter of pain so that we might fit into those favorite jeans before spring. We shall live in food piety, until another holiday full of treats tempts us again.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC