"crisping" poems
Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out
to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married
to the vitality of what will be?
I don't say
it's easy, but
what else will do
if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on, cheerfully enough,
this and every crisping day,
though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Eyes meet
In the corner coffee stall
Flint and tinder
All this time
Hello there!
Scrambling
Words all tumble
Scintillating
Knocking tables
Metal legs airborne
Clawing madly
Un-crisping collars
Found you
On the garnet cushions
Back to life
Imagination spinning
Staring at me
Whoops
Having daydreams
Once again.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:39 AM UTC
There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.
Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.
There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.
There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.
It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.
When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.
An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.
Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.
Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
The girl in the black
bathing suit swims
through my dreams;
her orange eyes warn
me that summer
is coming.
An inescapable
swelter of air
threads itself
through the slats
of picket fences,
crisping insects
and terrifying
an army of black birds
bivouacked in the trees.
I hear the soft explosion
of hibiscus, red petals as
bright as belly wounds,
and the heartbeat
of the dog panting,
stupefied by the heat
of a relentless star.
Up and down the street,
abandoned children call
out from the bottom of
empty swimming pools.
I slouch in an aluminum chair,
trying to get black-out drunk
on warm gin and tonics.
The tidy rectangle
of grass around me
ignites in a legion
of slender flames.
I remember the dark room
and my father’s deathbed,
his whispered, final words:
dying is thirsty work.
I strip to my underwear
and fantasize about ice.
I pray for the neighborhood
sprinklers to spring to life.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
Awake still...sipping coffee this
unholy hour...i wonder how buried
moments can easily gatecrash into
my sober flow of thoughts, flipping
like pages of a book, blown by a
strong wind...i could smell dried rose
petals pressed between the pages.
i could also smell mottled pages
holding mottled memories...they
should have crumbled, be forgot,
but, bravely, they flash back, clear
as the rustling of bamboo leaves
right outside my window.....ahh,
the devil never sleeps...he creates
a stir at the unholiest of hours,
drops it like a bomb, disturbing
my calm universe;
suddenly, it's 4:00 am
i blink a few times to dismiss what
should be forgot.....then, suddenly,
it's 5:00 am.....more coffee.
the eyes watching bubbles from
curling, crisping bacon, strayed,
far from the skillet, but, focused
back, before the pieces got burned.
6:00 am now...breakfast time
for online class attendees.
in my universe, mornings are a
mix of sniffs...of coffee, fried eggs,
fried bacon, sausages, fragrant
gardenia blooms...not to forget
whiffs of good and bad memories.
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Good morning everyone!
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 13, 2021
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 1:14 AM UTC
You notice the browning leaves,
Early victims,
In midsummer
Late July and August
And they parallel our love
Crisping stale edges
Edging inward
Inward to where growing used to be
I blame the sun
The sun of truth
Blasting unmercifully on our greenness
And returning us to the soil
Of amorous compost.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
fifty trillion of them,
give or take an exponential few,
programmed to replicate, then die, ad infinitum
spawning perfect copies to ensure
molecular harmony
their perfection could not keep
their host from huffing on tar sticks,
gobbling bacon by the kilo, or worshiping the sun's crisping rays
until one of their eternal days, a perverse mutation occurred
one at first, then two, then four, then more
forgetting that all were once destined to die,
in a crimson clockwork fashion
apoptosis
the new invader would hear nothing
of this strange word, for it was the emperor of maladies,
its geometric procession a spinning spectacle to behold,
purloining space from the mortality hobbled trillions
evicted by cancer's kangaroo court
it will have its reign,
this galloping ghost maker, until
the host gives up the fight, and
that which fed its gluttony
will starve it as blithely
as the body gave it
******* birth
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
~
<>
*nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees
Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)
poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence
compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...
the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.
a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious
the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty
bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips
a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example
listen, see!
silently presenting,
this,
this!!*
a day that demanded perfection
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air
Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald
The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity
The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Featherlight suffocation
Leaden words weigh tongues down
Free range cage
Weary heart o mine
Sagging against restraints
Drowning
Burning edges
I wish to tell you these words
Things you've already heard
Pressed into my vinly tongue
Scream the same three songs
1. I'm fine
2. We're fine
3. Our relationship is fine
Scalded skin
Boiling showers
To soak the worries away
To thaw out this anxiety
The insecurities
Its just me
Not everything seems
As polished as it was
Love still graces this heart
Love is a fear
Fear of fading
Falling out
Washing away
A castle crumbled by surf
Grains slipped
Mottled rib cages
Curled under a blanket
A sembalance of warmth creeping in
Mock comfort
Shells rattled by your breath
Inhale
Exhale
Turned over in these fragile hands
Committed to memory
As if it would be the last
Another sunrise
Surprise
Another relief
A sight to hold dear
Throughout this day
Just inside the preferial
Of this skull
Just in my head
My head
My head
This fear that you'll disappear
Vibrancy leeched out of this shell
Skin crisping
Withered
What if
You were
Never here
Just in my head?
The Last letter typed
Given form
To nightmares at the prow
How is it
So easy to breathe now
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:46 PM UTC
This day you left me
And spring lost its flower forever
At early spring, young called never
Again in a low silent day,
I heard the crisping of a lost grasshopper
In a black and white glow dream
Far away from the silky moon sprung
There birds feathers were oping with high delicate
Though Pale petals were losing their pixel with pleasant
But the high divine melody colored the deep purple
Then another high spring fallen to light purple
Yellow flowers bloom on her pale face again
At Night mild murmur cools the heart of the passionate
And the Sunflower rises on the first shines of sun
Melts with a dream after a long winter washed
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
Autumn racing red and gold
behind half-open eyes of icy blue.
27th Fall. Step into cold
and race through
alleyways I've known.
A crunching stride, solitary breaths.
Staccato notes
banged out on sidewalks' grey scales...
...I'm every inch
of this softened ground,
these shoe treads, hieroglyphics...
...My town appends
its runic fate
onto
my story's granite page.
Crisping air, engulf my lungs.
Ensconce my face in drowsy weather.
Sleepy eyelids, sliding down
to Main & Dow Street. Watch me hover
along the margins.
These last 4 months of quiet aching
engraved in me come roaring out now.
Autumn streets stay silent.
And Kendrick Park
has whispered low
in bashful rustling;
I climb the boardwalk,
my thoughts are gilded,
responding slowly.
The breeze abates,
it's halfway warm.
Bellevue & Lewis
I am a statue;
smooth, cold marble,
still in November.
And, soon, the Summer comes with angry glares.
And, soon, this stony face will disappear.
These months will always linger in me.
Does my ghost haunt this place already?
I'll return here every Autumn when
October signs off on the Summer's death.
And I'll be tracing all your features with
forgotten footsteps' ancient hieroglyphs...
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
What would a soldier sacrifice
To lay himself on cobbled dirt,
That honestmen might vow by oath
To hold together the union?
His purse, his purpose, e'en his life,
Our knight would place on hallowed earth;
The silker, though, would rather beg
To hold together the union.
In victory's arms I sleep at night,
Beneath the fierce pharoanic sun
That built and broke the Umayyads
To hold together the union.
I traveled all the ancient lands,
I found no joy where'er I trod;
Ferns are green where rivers spring,
But lauded hills bear blackened soil,
And joy resides where dwelleth God.
The dawn of man is close at hand,
The fall of man is past its due;
The sword lies shattered in the sand
To hold together the union.
Cross-battles waged on crisping ice,
I won't for martial fame partake,
In fear that I would be obliged
To hold together the union.
Of mortal faith I haven't cared
But, lying now on cobbled dirt,
By faith, I solemnly declare
To hold together the union.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
kiss me
(says he, maybe she)
cut up on the sharpness
of lips
and teeth
she is that thing -
about plastic flowers;
they never wilt on you
and stay young
and beautiful
as long as you care to see them
kiss me
like real people
do
when they touch
don’t quiver
or glimmer
just bruise like decayed fruit
and bleed as freely
and the flowers,
plastic flowers -
smelling just as sweet
with sprays of perfume
sweating
ugly juniper fragrance
dripping
down spines
like dew
**** me*
she says, definitely she says
spread legs,
wide open eyes
to creep inside him
(or him, perhaps)
and she could
with her fingers
stop his breath
and she might
if the light
hits his eyes just right
burning flowers
smells worse when plastic
like explosives
like fat in a deep-fryer
crisping like
bodies in a burning house
- three bodies, two bodies, and a burning house
**** me*
like a litany
**** me*
like you promised me
**** me*
in fields of plastic peonies
*just
**** me*
and
you’ll love me
you’ll see
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
one time it was two am and i was outside a bar
when the air was just crisping from its summer bake
and naked trees matched shivering girls in micro-dresses
you asked if i lived in the city
i was a pumpkin-beer-drunken, kohl-smeared mess
so i grinned sloppily and fumbling, lit a cigarette
while i replied "for now"
how ******* mysterious am i?
i am patronizing this well-meaning boy in a polo shirt
but thank god for liquor cause luckily
he laughed and snorted smoke out his nostrils
"heading somewhere?"
i took another drag and exhaled
maybe for emphasis?
am i that ******* contrived?
"i'm thinking australia?"
there that felt sincere
did it look sincere?
and he asks why of course he asks why and now
i can laugh and say
"it's very far away"
because jesus christ i need to pretend i have depth i guess
i'm a mirage begging for substance
he taps his cigarette and grins at the ground
"running away from problems?" he asks, suddenly mischievous
i try to match his smile but i have to think fast because
i don't have the kind of problems that make you run away
my family is loving, big, rooted
my friends are devoted, they better me
i could stay in comfort if i had the patience but
my feet just want new pavement
and my eyes are snow-blind by now
so i demure, i think.
if that eyebrow quirk and downcast gaze
is what demurring is
captain morgan chucks my chin and i am
all smiles again
i stick the cigarette in my lips and spread my
arms wide
"i prefer to think of it as running towards different problems."
i smile the way i know shows off my dimples
because i can't help but be a facade
i guess he's charmed because he texted me a few times
for the next few weeks
until my silence
exhausted his interest
he failed the test marx talks about
no not that one
groucho
i don't want anyone who would want me
since i'd rather be a story
sooner a paper-thin memory
than an illusion revealed.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
I sit thinking, rocking, musing on the edge of the bed- perusing the colors of your memory blinking fractionally in my remote consciousness. How is it that when I probe tighter, more thoroughly into your visage, trying to define the shape of your face from the faces of my dreams you tend to hide more than ever behind the noise of my thoughts? But the instant I clip into happiness you are there laughing and hugging and spreading lightness on my plaster cast life. I suppose I need to forget this sticky fear of forgetting you. You shape my clay life, pressing deftly upon my mind and habits like a waffle iron crisping batter. I must not forget that I am too deeply stuck in love with you to ever bleed you from my mind.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC
Winter, now, from the upper pole
Turns back his face to close our warm escape,
While whistling low to minions cold
To curtain lands beneath his icy cape.
Green Summer's fled now, with her mentor,
Autumn, in a crisping coat of brown...
Fled southward to the vernal center;
While pale sister Spring cannot be found.
Unsettling old white-bearded man
Blowing icicles and snow,
Driving Seasons feminine
Before his storming blows.
Yet for all his windy work, how well we know
Now gloaming sisters shall return,
For Spring shall ever end the snow;
Warm Summer's glow and Autumn's burn
Return, return, return, return.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
Wise and wistful Njal perched pleasantly in the heart of Iceland
Vengeance victory and voluptuous vial veined through Flosi Njal as innocent as an infant
His demeanor held neither mediocrity nor morals but rather an emotion enthralled ego
Cooled cinders clog Flosi's heart to a stone To unfurl the expression in an utmost barbaric action
He recollects ways to reclaim rotten ridden revenge pondering upon which way will win
In one breath of fiery hell Flosi embarked his plan a sheepish grin gambled graciously on his hard face
The house engulfed in silk flames of scarlet the blood curdling cries of children never ceased
Onyx hazes of smoke of smoke danced on the top of the roof taunting the flames to devour more
Flosi's eyes excitedly enlightened in excitement his perilous plan appeared promising
He laughed lively at the feat the hysterical hollers of children was suddnely muted
Several silent minutes passed spirits of ashes resurrected from the charred house
The air was stale sparse dull life clinged to hold its existence
Bleached black bones held close to each other in a cluster combusted cloth clothed the cluster
Two tiny tinged skeletons lay in heavy heaps almost as if they were holding hands
But no longer did the embrace last no longer did the home host habitability
This sadistic outcome shed no tears for Flosi he enjoyed the revolting wrath of revenge ever so
He shadowed over the remains of bones and timber boastfully bubbling blissfully in excitement
kicking the bones like dry dirt Flosi continued to walk around the ash ridden land
His leather boots crisping in the hot coals his callused hands thrusting in the air expressing victory
He beaconed a shrill of success tears trembling down his face
Flosi has won revenge has ridden him once more
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 7:37 AM UTC
The past is the mirror to my soul;
I hold it,
Arms outstretched,
As a gorgeous, timeless orb before me
A spherical chromatic expanse.
The shadow ahead deceives me;
Sporadic pupilled photosenes -
Dim pinpricks in a fuzzy density –
Are all I am allowed to see
All that is revealed to me
As my tender heels crunch closer
Crunch closer on the Mason’s brittle way
His biscuitted remains.
I can now taste the dry crisping
Of the orange and brown
Gnarled, bare fingers stroke my passing being
This delicate vessel, afraid of the coming frost
The way immerges
And the orb illuminates the greyscale before me.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
the music of crisping autumn leaves under my feet
resembles the sound of the magic forest of my childhood that lives eternally inside me
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 4:35 PM UTC
"
Forged by Mom's tender hands,
In the fiery lair of the kitchen where I was once a squire.
We swayed our aprons like a hero’s cape,
Bravely marched through the crucible’s draconic breath.
We unsheathed our wooden spatulas,
Raised our mighty metallic forks,
And lined our legion of spices, ready to make the dish.
Like witches,
We simmered the water with salt from the Baltic Sea,
And oil procured from the labyrinth of shelves.
As we waited for it to rattle with bubbles,
Our sweat poured like the pasta we threw,
While we smacked our iron pan into the horns of the oven.
It screeched an ear-piercing clang,
And we retaliated with our hearts beating a battle cry as we started for war.
My general ordered me to lay a grease trap.
Minutes passed; it sizzled,
The pan fired back boiling oil,
But we stood like walls—unyielding, fierce.
Brave onions leapt into the fray,
Sacrificing themselves, leaving us to grieve in tears
As the battle raged on.
The onion’s bittersweet, crispy breath inspired the garlic to follow,
Crackling in courage as it joined the heat.
Soon, bacon met the fire—
Crisping, releasing the smoky guardian from the labyrinth’s depth,
While mushrooms from the Elven forest charged in the clash.
The holy grail of Filipino-style Carbonara sauce rained on the battlefield,
Uniting the fallen, boiling *** and all,
Turning the *** into a smooth, white, creamy ocean with a steaming, smoky, crisp aroma.
We scooped our pasta water and drained the rest,
Baptized the *** with silky, snake-like pasta,
Adorned it with grainy black pepper,
And sprinkled it with golden cheese,
A finishing touch for our dish.
We cheered in victory as we prepared the feast,
Our kingdom rejoiced in tears at each slurp and each lick of our savoury dish.
As laughter echoed and stories flowed,
Mom crowned me the Carbonara knight,
A token of triumph for a job well done.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 4:05 PM UTC
It was colder weather, when I left
Still winter in the bottom drawer
Photographs and birthday cards--
humming hard, December streetlights
still laughing at chilly footsteps
one-two
one-two
No three-four
Now wake up August heat undressed
Yeah, wake up next to skeletons
who "think that we should just be friends."
And--anyway--the bedroom's small
barely bigger than a closet
Fall asleep in sheets of sweat
claw for the ceiling
dreaming heavy
Awake. Wet pillow.
Tousled hair at 4 a.m.
And, for my part, the ceiling clawmarks
soak my dreams up, snow in sheet rock
spells your name
(I should prob'ly wash my sheets)
Though I'm often ****** on beer,
When Autumn comes, I clearly hear, through crisping air,
their wilting voices hailing
while I try to soothe the
drowsy year
But it's still cold and I'm still here
though "here" has moved
and every year is heating
so, I repeat, repeat, repeat
"What starts September
dies November
February ******* hurts
the same way as July."
The bottom drawer's still cased in winter
Skeletons still claw the doors
I sweat. I shiver.
**** I miss you...
Hope you're living. Me? I'm aging
Faster than I was before.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC