"dainties" poems
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes
That beauty which without door lies,
Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so
I might not all thy pleasures know,
Yet, thou within thy gate
Art of thyself so delicate,
So full of native sweets, that bless
Thy roof with inward happiness,
As neither from nor to thy store
Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starv’d
Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d,
Whose prayers have made thy table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board,
Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
Had only been thy volary;
Or else the birds, fearing the snow
Might to another Deluge grow,
The pheasant, partridge, and the lark
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing ox of himself came
Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
And every beast did thither bring
Himself, to be an offering.
The scaly herd more pleasure took,
Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all conspire
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
Through every room, where they deride
The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
Like suns within, keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their light
To all that wander in the night,
And seem to beckon from aloof
The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh’d, he will away,
He’s faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty find
Both from the master and the hind.
The stranger’s welcome each man there
Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here;
There’s none observes, much less repines,
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the door
T’examine or keep back the poor;
Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been
Made only to let strangers in;
Untaught to shut, they do not fear
To stand wide open all the year,
Careless who enters, for they know
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such,
They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.
2.4k
There are certain things -a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three -
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the SEA.
Pour some salt water over the floor -
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That's very like the SEA.
Beat a dog till it howls outright -
Cruel, but all very well for a spree;
Suppose that one did so day and night,
That would be like the SEA.
I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me -
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the SEA.
Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could -
Or one that loved the SEA.
It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With 'thoughts as boundless, and souls as free';
But suppose you are very unwell in a boat,
How do you like the SEA.
There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb 'to flee')
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the SEA.
If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs -
By all means choose the SEA.
And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then -I recommend the SEA.
For I have friends who dwell by the coast,
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I'm with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the SEA.
They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree:
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the SEA.
I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool,
That skirts the cold, cold SEA.
2.3k
When Hagar found the bottle spent
And wept o'er Ishmael,
A message from the Lord was sent
To guide her to a well.
Should not Elijah's cake and cruse
Convince us at this day,
A gracious God will not refuse
Provisions by the way?
His saints and servants shall be fed,
The promise is secure;
"Bread shall be given them," as He said,
"Their water shall be sure."
Repasts far richer they shall prove,
Than all earth's dainties are;
'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love,
Though in the meanest fare.
To Jesus then your trouble bring,
Nor murmur at your lot;
While you are poor and He is King,
You shall not be forgot.
2.2k
When You and I
Waylaid in wilderness
And the path is lost!!!
I shall shower
My love on you
Everyday, in new ways
Love dainties host.
My soul into you
I shall pour.
Each part of body
Will be an island tour
With loving glance
My heart will click
The choicest kisses
In silken shades flick.
On every island
An age will be stake
In each age love’s
New flavor and shade
Sometimes as lotus
I shall bloom
Sometimes as
Jacaranda zoom.
Panorama shots
Of love arcades
Flowers and trees
Make cavalcade
In it love’s sweet
Fragrance blows
Love birds tweet
Lilting music flows.
From age to age
We shift our stage
We shall bind ever
To new cage
Where pain and hunger
Do not strike
Life unfazed
By price hikes.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
Despite impending loneliness threatening to suffocate me, one optimistic thought came my way as I strolled wearily homeward today from my work at the library.
Some compensations for isolation might prove as written in the following list.
1) I am not required to retire to bed or awaken at any given hour.
2) I possess the rare ability of being allowed the choice of my own meals and also the given time at which I prefer to eat, whether it be meager or hearty portion of vittles. Perhaps I may fast from breakfast altogether, and then again may feast upon indigestible dainties such as doughnuts or fruitcake upon retiring, accompanied by a novel of my given choice.
3) I am free to write poetry or from such to refrain according to my mood.
4) If I spill my tea or bread and butter falls onto the floor, who cares?
5) Nobody can demand me to clean the house even if it looks quite untidy.
6) If I sing or hum out of tune, there is no risk of anyone laughing at me.
7) If I fall into a trance of reverie and am out of touch with reality, who can upbraid me?
The list could go on and on interminably, but to sum the matter up, in short, I can most thoroughly indulge in all my whims be they ever so eccentric in tranquil solitude with no threat of a wife to nag or henpeck me. I am free to cry, laugh, sing, daydream, talk to myself, and every other foolish or wise thing a healthy man might crave to accomplish.
Thus musing upon these blessings, I strolled homeward with a lighter heart despite life's insurmountable obstacles.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
I laid beside thy gate, am Lazarus;
See me or see me not I still am there,
Hungry and thirsty, sore and sick and bare,
Dog-comforted and crumbs-solicitous:
While thou in all thy ways art sumptuous,
Daintily clothed, with dainties for thy fare:
Thus a world's wonder thou art quit of care,
And be I seen or not seen I am thus.
One day a worm for thee, a worm for me:
With my worm angel songs and trumpet burst
And plenitude an end of all desire:
But what for thee, alas! but what for thee?
Fire and an unextinguishable thirst,
Thirst in an unextinguishable fire.
1.3k
There are certain things--as, a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three--
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.
Pour some salt water over the floor--
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That's very like the Sea.
Beat a dog till it howls outright--
Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night,
That would be like the Sea.
I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me--
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.
Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could--
Or one that loved the Sea.
It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With "thoughts as boundless, and souls as free":
But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,
How do you like the Sea?
There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb "to flee").
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.
If you like your coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs--
By all means choose the Sea.
And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then--I recommend the Sea.
For I have friends who dwell by the coast--
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the Sea.
They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree;
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea.
I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool
That skirts the cold cold Sea.
1.4k
This is the feast of heavenly wine,
And God invites to sup;
The juices of the living Vine
Were press'd to fill the cup.
Oh! bless the Saviour, ye that eat,
With royal dainties fed;
Not heaven affords a costlier treat,
For Jesus is the bread.
The vile, the lost, He calls to them;
Ye trembling souls, appear!
The righteous in their own esteem
Have no acceptance here.
Approach, ye poor, nor dare refuse
The banquet spread for you;
Dear Saviour, this is welcome news,
Then I may venture too.
If guilt and sin afford a plea,
And may obtain a place,
Surely the Lord will welcome me,
And I shall see his face.
1.3k
Fairies and fancies
and flippant romances
and all things bright and gay.
Cream cakes and choc flakes
and raspberry mistakes
rise up in a spiralling fray.
Blue skies and greenflies
and warm-sugared apple pies
and the scent of freshly cut hay.
Strawberries and Ice cream’s
and mouth-watering Nectarines
succumb to the heat of the day.
Golden-crust pastries
and honey –drenched fig leaves
made in the old-fashioned way.
Piping-hot dainties
with oak-coloured bases
that refuse to come out of the tray.
A gaze up above to a snowy white dove
sees the sky go from golden to grey.
From twilight to moonlight,
from moonlight to starlight
the end of a beautiful day.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
I.
We are a young pair enjoying
An exchange of pleasantries
over aromatic tea and pita bread.
The ancient sun above has surely seen
Many times betwix youth, enamoured courting.
Beside our plates lemon halves are dripping
sour juices into the bright napery thread.
You've brought chocolate sweets,
Fruits for tasting, and sublte flirting to stir my chest.
And I've packed wine bought cheap
Some dainties and humor
To cause peals of your laughter to reach
High up into the bright blue heavens.
II.
The sun is readying to rest
and I lay, head in your lap with
face shrouded in your curly hair
as you plant your sugary delights on my lips.
The nights distant bright lights
flare as you lean comfortably into my chest.
The only sounds, our beating hearts
and our soft smooth breaths.
Broken only by soft whispers
Of ardent words that settle and rest
In our souls and minds.
Desires exposed to the dark night
Until at last we must say goodbye.
III.
Late that night I
Recall ever detail, every moment,
From the sound of your laughs, to your coy flirting.
From the way you fed me, to the way you began kissing.
How my finger locked with yours.
And Your faint perfume rubbed into my pores
Leaving me inhaling deeply for the scent.
I fall to sleep, ever nerve yearning for more
I sleep, desiring you once again.
IV.
An afternoon to remember,
And an evening to never forget.
For many a time like that we
In younger days spent.
Even now, that sweet distant memory
Remains ever pleasant.
Even now as my days increase
I remember our untainted
Enamored admiration.
Even now as I fall to time,
The one thing on my mind is you.
I recall of that sweet youth.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Radio Transmission---Static
Quantum---Tunneled
Cycle---Depart
End Transmission.
With twists like a dying withered thing,
my senses are dulled,
my senses are dulled.
Vaccumed slowly in a first kiss,
the taste of another is potent;
curious you hold fast.
Spiralled into thick pitch,
envision the veil of a muslim woman,
impenetrable,enfolding.
A form rises and waits in the void,
she prepares to receive, to overcome,
to swallow and consume.
Wooing you, gliding about
whispering to and fro
at once ravished by words,
your presence evokes her.
A substance flows through
puckered moistened lips
inflamed and permeated with longing.
Embraced by ghosts lips,
tangling you, while pecking
at cloak, face and body,
siphoning life.
Tingles upon the flesh,
lend to ******* never quelched.
Her words:
"Delicious mate lounge with me,
partake of my sorrows, my intimacies.
One cannot revel alone, replace
the fickle before you."
You languish; absorbing
pungent flavors.
A masked perfume laced
with sufferings.
This longing gnaws,
within the organs of men.
Beating and pawing
against the tissues of the mind.
Kneading fences around the skull,
encasing it in its grip.
Following forth,
lips will seek
lips,
hips will ****** against
hips,
arms will encircle All.
This net will count its catch
when caught, feeding
the glazed fervor of greed.
Stabbings of hunger
seep from your coiling tongue,
elongating, wrapping around tidbits
served aplenty.
Dainties, morsels, spoonfuls, sips
and bites,
these are the helpings evident between,
chompings, gurgles, and slobberings.
Meat suckled from the passages of your teeth.
Becoming a porpoise thing
without definition, moving layers
of corpulence and indulgence.
Before long, you incite wrath;
your skeletal companion eats you,
a banquet of your own making.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Tell me a story about all the lost people
all the lost people in chairs.
They sit and they cry
all while wishing to die
and look up
and nobody cares.
Their bodies, they cover the rooftops
for they fling themselves high in the air.
They lie there in shame
for they realize all was a game,
and it gives them, oh such a scare.
Where are their raspberry Tuesdays?
They have fallen from the passage of time.
Where are their rum-raisin Fridays?
They have oozed from the last of the slime.
Our fancies and dainties are dust on the ground.
We incline ear towards decay, yet it don’t make a sound.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
[Sonnet #107 to SouthHampton: "...thy monument/When tyrents' crests and tombs of brass are spent./"]
(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXIX)
What ho! Write of the violets like t'avail
My soul of cherished hours gone far, far hence
Upon the crueler rending of joys thence,
And Life's dear fabric as it were, and pale
As aught excuse, read Shakespeare--in betrayl
Wisked off, as how those lines rouse for intents
Sweet minutes lingring oer the violets, whence
I lisped "...and Death to me subscribes--"(sans bail).
Lo, I can see all now as twas (in poor
'Scuse, eh?): blue skies sae warm, and silver dew
Just melted off the shadowed clover, fer
Those minutes I bent down and mused, while too
Thus fingring purple dainties winds would stir
Across sans kissing...and why now anew?
01Feb18c
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
Musa stands for banana
But his name sake was Furhana
His headwear folded like samosa
Not to be confused with mimosa
Yet the fold was like Koya's head towel
Even the fantastic Ayamu's downwell.
That said: Koya heckled with his sickle knife
Never failed in the field to sit and file
The blade to trim out the hedge's tendrils rife
Closed one eye to see the fence's profile
The cutting-hedge technology of fence
Continued without denouncing offense
Rarely reaching any end, the dense
Fence talk gains again as every day commence.
Beauty creation was his faint inclination
At the entrance of the tea plantation
Stationed near to the police station
Part of his task unasked in the division
Was standing and talking to the man on the bike
Talks like, the strike, the Labour wages hike,
How to dodge a strife for a fair bounty
With words coated with 'chondy-chandy sugar candy.
For its said, he can wear any colour, I-uhml-green or P-yellows
To send jaundice or dainties to the Poor-fellows.
The talk prolong as the baron mellows
Till the madam's call comes from the bungalows.
Back to Musa, sorry for the interruption, he was left behind the lines...
For names of Mayan, Maanu and Jaanu make a beeline
Like Beebi and Kaybee, maybe the guy too, sounding Shanghai,
All are bonanza, for a due stanza.
Musa chirped with chops of English
And fizzed out the name of fish and dish
Proud that he worked even with some British.
Once he mumbled the name mom and mummy
To call out his humble wife to introduce
The visiting chummy colleagues, over there.
Her numb eyes goggled out of a slimy shawl to reduce
Her head to a crummy Kameez that beleaguered on her.
Not knowing what his trendy husband is telling,
And why he is calling her before them, Asia instead of Aisha!
His friends knew her trouble and told her its alright
And that made her feel she is the same Ayichumma on her own right.
Once Musa stumbled on the name 'chips' at a shop in the city;
Ordered the same along with other civil society
While seeing it packed, he grumbled for his stupidity
And burst out, "O, just the Koya fried banana, that's aplenty in our vicinity".
The shopkeeper gave a laugh,
And there, Musa left in a huff!
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC
Not by random will these Faces compare,
These Sovereign Dainties blend just for you
Though slaved, willing to burn a Worthy Stare
And apt to earn your Felicities true
After all, Honour deserves worthy besought,
Worthy as Valued as Mulligan's Cat
Forchance, win your rare and clawful Grace wrought
Your Link once Opened by Reservation's at
Yet for these Faithful and Endangered Few
Whose Active Translation misunderstood
Tend the Forest still; And tendered the Hue
To filter your Baby's Innocent Good.
Perhaps on my Mind's own Weather debate
Your Judgment the Sun; Your Jury the Rain.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
no vacancy, i said
finger pointed toward my head
_
and yet that night i huddled cold
with you every blanket sold,
and every lamp that warmly glowed-
blackout curtains took the place
of floral dainties, window-graced
so come the morning sun's bright shine,
i might forget it once was mine.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC