"flavorful" poems
To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC
The air thick with dust
Cows roaming the streets,
Flashing lights and loud noises,
Children laughing an playing.
Houses painted in sickening colors
sarees tumbling from the waists of women.
Amazing, flavorful, mouthwatering food.
Family and friends, celebrating festivals
color in the sky and all around
Though there are things both good and bad,
I love my homeland and I stand proud.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Intro:
Start with a hook sharp enough to catch many fish.
Move into a broad outline of topic.
Add some examples to peek the interest.
End with a sentence that captures your thoughts.
(Start the way you feel it should be).
Body:
Flavorful topic sentence to open paragraph one.
State in detail specific examples and definitions.
Follow with a reference or two,
This keeps suspicion off you.
Keep same format for paragraph two and three.
(Continue on the feel that increases how you started).
(Or retrograde and start a new direction).
Conclusion:
Wake the reader back up with thesaurus found words.
State again the reason for your thoughts.
Honing specifically on what you want to say,
Without of course bringing in new info.
End with a memorable sign off.
(End with completing your thoughts).
(Or start a new idea entirely),
(Not leaving enough room for explanation).
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
I'll play thief
To the home
Of a rich man
And steal
Malt for my
Bitterness and ale
For the happiness
That was kept
In the mug
Of paupers.
These ingredients
Are a lot cheaper
On sidewalks
But mansions store
The most flavorful:
Bitterness
From the source
That stings
On the plate
Of paupers.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties
without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway,
raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake,
unmarischinoed.
I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much
syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off,
saw people tie the stems in knots,
I had the impression, I think, that if people
had to do all the things they do with cherries
to make them flavorful, they must be really
**** straight out of the bag.
I made my mind up that they were unpleasant
and I would have nothing to do with them.
Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries,
which my mother loved, so I wanted to love,
I could at best eat the chocolate around that
thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid
wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry
and not the coveted prize.
So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail
party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled
at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working
my way around the stem and coming awake
to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years?
They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy,
something wealthy people indulge in and so not really
belonging to my world. They beg for the company
of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared
and doted on. The keep revealing themselves,
on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me
to try something else that I have never tasted,
like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself
naked, without judgment, even at the innermost
feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why
they say making love for the first time is giving away
your cherry.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
I frequently read my old poems and
feel my glass heart splinter with impatience
and demand why my muse escapes
my passions, and my talent must
sleep cold and lonely within the shadowy crescent
where an oil-fire’s tongues dare not lick.
Then, when face with banal, bittersweet
mimicry week after week, therein
braces a bothered stirring of flavorful
jumbles as aimless as houseflies bouncing
against the window blinds.
And, once again, my poems,
with their phoenix lifestyles, breathe brave
gulps with scarlet-robin-breasts puffed
with gung-ho vigor.
Where the poet’s rhythm takes on equestrian
expression along the staggered verses,
bequeathing shine to syllabic shine
and stealing pop from pursed, pronouncing lips.
Each doting word may kiss and nuzzle the
splinters that recognize a cut so rare
that this world’s physical balance would overturn
with no presence of such wondrous oddity.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 5:10 AM UTC
upstairs
with
a
3am craving for some shisha smoke
the lemon lime and melon mint
to share a double apple
and mix it with that cinnamon
to be not quite faded
only relaxed enlightened
to not lose the experience
remembering the faces
at a later time still
the laughs and inside jokes
in midst the growing cloud
of flavorful smoke
we sit smile breathe
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
the lockers rife with clowns and the frittering of time as the ***** boys got ready to work their ***** minds down at the ***** factory and boast about ***** things too often degrading and unkind.
I tried to stay out of it
until one officious co-worker
had the gall to ask,
“what’s your preference in women?”
whereby, my response was,
“I see my women like flavors;
white women are too bland,
black women are too flavorful and
Indian women are a bit over-seasoned.
you need the right amount of spice.
Latina women got it but they cheat
so, I’d have to go with Asian women.
they’re perfection is unmatched.”
laughter emerged and rumbled
down the grey factory walls
where the metal tin roof had rattled,
the ***** air pervaded with rust and tears
and a mouthful of peanuts were spat onto a grimy floor
they laughed and kept on laughing
until their bellies burst
never have they heard such
a response like that before
and I just went back to work,
treading in the depths of my own conviction,
not really seeing why I wasn’t
being taken so
seriously.
Jun 6, 2025
Jun 6, 2025 at 11:07 AM UTC
The smell of oolong still speaks your name. In the tea and spice shop I drift among leaves and peppercorns, petals and sugar, I want to fade into the muted tones of flavorful hulls, curl into the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Pulling down the iron goddess of mercy, I realize the veneer of curled baroque leaves rest on a sandbag. Shadowed abundance, a pretty lie, hollow, futile. Too much like us. The Cheshire glimmers of what we could have been. What I always wanted you to be, and what you sometimes were. A small edge, tiny supply to fill my cup, flavor fading too quickly. Replacing the jar, I realize there must have been a last day I named you mine. The last time I called you boyfriend, partner—by our last talk, it was already finished, the last note in a fading song, off tune. I cannot recall the shape of my lips, the weight of your name, the tenor of my voice, the bend of my tongue, much less the listener. I still hear you, through the broken measures of a desperate song. You say you still love me, but perhaps I never told you, dear, I prefer coffee to tea.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC
a haiku I: carbonated water rocks
slightly flavorful
carbonated beverage
one liter bottle
a haiku II: ode to seltzer
in massachusetts
seltzer costs eighty-nine cents
one liter bottles?
a haiku III: read and recycle and stuff
NY-MA-ME-CT-VT
five cent deposit (960 mL)
**** haiku format…
you liars that isn’t a ******* liter that is less than a liter **** america for not adapting to the metric system.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
sometimes i feel like a citrus
lemon, orange, lime, or grapefruit
fragrant and flavorful
my insides bitter or sweet
and my outsides the exact opposite
high quantities of acid regardless
eat me raw
press my juice, i make a great 'ade
you may also preserve me in a marmalade
sometimes i feel like an apple
do not call me a crab tho
a globose pome
my outside has smooth shiny skin
my inside is sweet or **** yet soft
my centre contains seeds arranged in a star-like manner
i make great pies
but i also pair great with cheese
my versatility allows me to please
sometimes i feel like grape
growing from the woody vines
my flexibility is far and wide
raisins, vinegar, oil, and wines
i prefer to remain in a cluster of friends
im afraid to venture out
because i need them to sustain
sometimes i feel like anything other than me
i am tired of looking in the mirror
i have grown weary of what i see
so i pick flora and fauna
inanimate objects
weather and time
space and place
to rectify my existence
in some way that i can relate
at least when i list fruit
my belly aches with delight
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Comfy seats, yellow walls, hot coffee and Chai tea.
Tall tumblers filled with ice, and faces warm, quiet and friendly.
A rugged sign hangs just outside, to welcome those who are hungry.
If golden treasure lies inside, this Naked Egg is such a treat.
Now's not the time to question taste, you could pick at random for goodness sake.
There isn't an item on the menu the wouldn't make most clean their plate.
Sidewinder fries await inside, a torte, a Florentine, a bean.
The whole farm perhaps for your appetite, or a western omelet smoked with cheese.
New deli items await your taste, just choose your meat after a certain time.
And if your cup is ever in need, they'll refill your teapot every time.
Don't be a hot mess, just order one, and you'll be happy that you've come.
To be at the Naked Egg you see, is to see how flavorful life can be.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Puff the magic, drags
Of flavorful liquid smoke.
Trendy e-cig pens.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
The lady in white turns and my gaze runs over her, I was taken aback—
This mysterious woman was like the missing puzzle piece of the black and white picture lain out in a lack of color. She is a classic beauty. Her face has all the sharp angles and the perfect pout of her red up-turned mouth, but it was her eyes which captured me.
They are actually… Actually, the color of a persimmon fruit and like a persimmon fruit; which is very flavorful if eaten at the right time of year but very astringent if eaten wrongly. This woman’s redden eyes churn with a sweet taffy, a chaotic intent bubbling below.
The sound of her mystical voice drifts towards me like glass wrap in sensual silk, poised to strike but yet a feminine edge to it.
"Hello..."
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
the rain never ended yesterday
the thick ice that covered the world
was obstinate and refused to melt
on any condition but its own
the ingredients were on hand
in pantry, kitchen and desire
for Peanut Soup Senegalese
but melancholy was as stubborn
as the ice out doors
three sweet potatoes peeled and chopped
one onion peeled and chopped
one can diced tomatoes with liquid
one and a half cup crunchy peanut butter
half teaspoon cumin, cinnamon, allspice, salt, black pepper
three tablespoons olive oil
water
desire
over medium heat roast the spices in the olive oil
add onion and stir to coat; cook a couple of minutes
add sweet potatoes, tomatoes, salt and pepper
add water to barely cover
bring to soft boil and simmer for forty five minutes
or until potatoes are soft
remove from heat and let cool for ten minutes
with a hand blender, blend until smooth [careful]
add peanut butter, blend by hand until smooth
simmer over low heat for fifteen minutes
serve
recognize that the melancholy of the day still persists
but is much more flavorful
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
He eats me up like a dinner at a five star restaurant
Can’t deny that my taste is flavorful
No need to make reservations
When I’m all he’s craving for
Devouring this feast
Had to tell him to slow down
The plate in front of him wasn’t going anywhere
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
Lots of cheese
Tomato sauce
Can't help but think
It softens loss
Take a whiff
Flavorful bite
Starting to feel
Nirvana's in sight
Can't put it down
One slice then the next
And when it's gone
I'm thoroughly vexed
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 2:57 AM UTC
Elect, select and write it down!
Stare at it for 60 seconds, no more,
Then write the first thing that comes along!
It matters not if it is
Inferning or just churning,
Cold or hot,
Matters not to anyone
On this site,
Even if it is explicitly ***** (alriiiiiight!)
Hell, matters not
Even if it is absent from the
Dictionary's stock!
Matters not
If it is two or letters twelve,
** ** ** reserved for Santa Claus,
Rambunctious, reserved for his Elves!
Put, pick a word and work it well,
In fact, give it hell!
Squeeze it, free it, and when you're done,
Just leave it the fk alone.
Milk it for all the silk
In it,
And if its only cotton,
Turn it in to cotton candy,
Which rhymes with dandy,
But I refuse to use that rhyme,
But thinking about using randy!
Put, walk, nay, run
That word, now single,
But soon to be married,
Upon whatever you write,
Chew it up and spit it out
After, but a solitary bite.
Taste it,
Run the tongue's buds upon it,
Make it a flavorful word,
Then fool us with the saddest funeral dirge!
**Vanilla passed away today,
The Chocolates, mourning, both, dark and white,
By celebrating and laughing long into the night...**
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Do you smell that? The rich, smooth aroma in the air?
An omniscient amalgamation of flavorful anomalies
Ooh, I like it! What could it be? I haven't the slightest...
A persistent, wayward poet writes lonely words in the night
You mean like...? Oh dear me, shall I check the time?
Do you remember our last nightly adventure?
How could I forget? We must check the time! Quickly now!
Alas, our worst fears have thus been confirmed
A midnight poet, the most unpredictable form of writing...
Do you suppose the poor soul has had any coffee?
Well, I should hope so! What ever shall we do?
Naught. We let the pen run it's course, and in time...
But the destruction... think of the mayhem, woman!!!
Leave the poor thing, it's already a shame it's awake
No! Lay your weary head down, fellow poet, and rest...
Hollow, the best ideas remain trapped in mind during consciousness
Hogwash. I will not be hornswoggled with temptation
Though, I am correct to assume that you understand my reasoning?
Night-Write are the right-writes, yada yada yada...
So you agree then, do you not?
Well, of course! However, a midnight poet should never be left unattended!
Then we will write in the morning
Then so be it
Are you coming?
Go to sleep
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
Clear Skies Vanilla
is the only soft serve
on the days we have no clouds
and none can be seen
floating on our horizons
it is our seasonal choice
that we wish could come
all year long,
could be as predictable
as Pumpkin Spice in October
or Eggnog in December
even uncelebrated Baseball-Nut
springs up at the right time.
If only our skies could
be the layers of a sundae--
a limited selection
that always comes down to
hot fudge, nuts,
with a defrosted cherry on top--
then our decisions
would be made for us
we could never
be wrong.
Instead we deliver
Icy Thundery Blueberry BubbleGumy hard serve
on those days--
too complicated to understand
too unwilling to shorten their title
too difficult to be simply BlueGumTuesday
because the sky,
too mixed up to be...Blue.
We raise our scoop
for each serving to dish out--
with them we learn our taste
what calms our nerves
and how to evaporate the rain,
because when we get
to have those cloudless days
we'll have the day
to be flavorful.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
I live in a city of salty people.
We are all
at times
mean
crass
goatish
people. Like grains of salt
in a salty sea-
-or a salty lake.
but, we are not ever
boring.
we may be salty
but we are doubtlessly very flavorful.
we have more personality
and *****
and character
per square inch
than most of the cities in the world.
most all the cities I have been to, anyway.
anyway.
I am a salty son of a *****
at times
and I have discovered that I
need
a grain of salt in my life.
cold mornings.
a shot of whiskey.
Something to push back
against.
For fighting fake conflict is just
flailing.
I’m trying to tread this
salty
water and keep oxygen in my lungs
just like all the other mouth-breathing saps in this salty pond
pushing each other down to get a breath of fresh ozone and carbon monoxide
and I guess that means I’m fighting
for something.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
I am as strong as I want to be, because right now I care more about leaning out and taking in as few calories as possible. Losing the pounds in order to gain 'em back, you know? There's very few questions that truly have a right or a wrong answer, and I believe that with 98% of me. Sometimes a right answer simply means it is socially acceptable and a wrong answer is the truth, so in that situation you'd want to throw away your moral compass, clench your jaw, and hope that the lies that come out just result in pearly, shiny teeth.
you take a sip of something and it tastes like, ummm.. bad. it tastes like deceit, but that isn't totally possible (OBVIOUSLY), so in a literal sense it just tastes like the Coca Cola syrup that didn't have any carbonated water mixed with it. It's sweet, flavorful, but kind of tastes like it could erode my car engine in a matter of seconds, you know?
I feel the sip deep inside of my body, I can feel it trailing down my esophagus (is that what it is?) or maybe just my throat, a tube to my stomach and then to parts of me I better just not try to name out of fear of sounding stupid. fear of sounding stupid drives the majority of things I do, but that's okay, because at least I don't sound stupid.
the sip gets caught in the pit of my gut and I start to feel uneasy. I probably should have looked at the bottle before sipping it, huh? I probably should have asked for a detailed list of ingredients like the responsible wanna-be-vegan I should be? I call myself a wannabe most things. its just the person I am.
I take a seat because I don't feel good. this is going to hurt, this is going to land me in the hospital probably and might take a whole while to get over. this is turning too literal and I'm trying to beat around the bush, so ill just tell you about the time I took a sip of a coke can and a bee was inside and it flew around in my mouth for a solid 5 seconds before I managed to open, spit, and scream. that could be poetic if you really hunt, like I waited 5 whole seconds to get the monstrous bee out of my ******* mouth, I just sat with a confused look on my face for 5 whole seconds!!! thats a whole giant metaphor! I still swallowed the Coca Cola and it tastes like ***
IMAGINE THAT people- poison only takes like poison once you've swallowed it.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
TOMATO CHASE
Now....
Out of season
They're reddish
Uniform in size & shape
Firm
And flavorless
In season
They're RED
All sizes and shapes
Firm, soft, some just right
And flavorful
Yesteryears
They were magic
Like the transformation of a caterpiller
The little yellow flower
Gives way to the tiny green marble
Stalk n stems grow bigger
Marbles grow larger
The green fuzzy rough stems
The scent
That wonderful smell
So unique to the tomato plant
They turn green to red
Some even get incubated on a sunny sill
When it's time
Knife reveals seeds and red splotched juice
And the TASTE
A taste that fades with our age
That TASTE that we chase every summer
Close
But never a ringer
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC