"morsels" poems
who knew that in about
4 years time,
or maybe
10,000 years lost in
10,000 multi hued tears,
id be on the same trip-
dancing to the same
shimmering inner grove as before-
braiding fresh cut
flowers-
delicate genital-hands, unfolding in prayer
into my subconscious mind
or perhaps into my hair-
saving colored prism fragments
of knowledge or nonsense-
digesting intoxicating
incense smoke into the
deep throated green streaked
laughter chasms
that are my lungs-
spinning vinyl, spun mind
unwinding, undulating
through string music-
contemplating the sunset's sweet
immaculate form, reoccuring
and balancing itself right outside my window-
dressing in shells, bones,
and beads; kaleidoscope fabric dripping from
the ******* like mother Kali in a Fellini
flick-
peeping out at heads slinking down
the ****** pavement streets-
my hairy angelic form grooving
intensely, spastic-
body flung, strung out in
hot patterns of
mirrored arms and legs-
brain brew bubbling; wicked, fantastic-
limbs waving and grabbing at
tangible tasty morsels,
smelling strongly of indigo
and patchouli-
the East smiling on me and
my intrepid journey to the ocean city-
head thrown back in
tranquil madness-
pipe smoke curling like
ancient hound howls from the corners
of my lips-
smiles spread like insanity, a wicked disease
lost in the forgotten finger painted
confounds of creamy
****** milk consciousness-
basking in lamplight
of the golden glistening
Now.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
His army perched above in trees,
Watching the front become a feast,
Who wins, care not, in the least?
"The cawing clan of Koronos..."
The thousands black they view the fight,
Staying late for supper -feeding at night...
Picking tender morsels in illumed moon-light,
"Swarthy minions of King Koronos!"
Corvid follow Man wherever he may go,
Feathery tomes of knowledge their treasure trove,
The messengers in the House of Jove...
"His static barbizon Aves; Koronos!"
There are many kings who come and go,
Becoming part and parcel in a wicked show,
But none of them will ever match the Crow...
"Engrosser of the dead; Koronos!" *
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
We are human
We fight for freedom.
Gender equality,
Peace between the races
And for the end of all wars.
Yet, we have sold ourselves
To mental slavery.
Concocting an idea of beauty
That evolves
Each time we get close enough to grasp it.
We consume morsels
And curl our frail bodies over the toilet bowl
Stare into the mirror, and
Smile.
For between our thighs
we have carved, a gap.
We paint our faces
and hide the artwork that lies beneath.
We are enslaved by ourselves
And in turn we enslave society.
But, we are human,
We fight for freedom,
Gender equality,
Peace between the races
And the end of all wars.
But we neglect the wars going on inside us.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
5.3k
I've been running on empty
Skipping on dregs
Cycling on morsels
Jumping on egg
shells
It's time to recoup
regroup
renew, restore,
build more
reserves
Surrender to slumber
And swerve
Away from activity
Simply
pause,
And deeply breathe.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Aching with melancholic memories,
The sea stands, Freedom carving her wings, Beholden to nobody.
Each wave destroying the remaining morsels of empathy that she still harbours.
One cannot imprint themselves on water,
But footprints are etched onto the sand.
Here's a little secret though- the sand is but swallowed by the sea.
The colours contort from one gruesome grey to another.
The days she is blue, the beast lies dormant,
Waiting for the black to raise its ugly head.
So free I think,
Water turning to fire, defined only by her existence.
Everything pales in comparison, the sun, the sky, the clouds.
But then I realise- what is the sea? Where are her colours from?
She is nothing but a reflection of the sky.
Her moods influenced by the clouds.
Free? I laugh.
She is captured.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
In 2019,
I want more.
Want more sunrises
More rolling out of bed with a purpose
More afternoons curled in a love seat
I want a garden
inside me and in my backyard
More friends
More nuzzles from dogs
More oceans
More allowance to make mistakes
After all, you were brave enough to try.
More stillness
More belly laughs
More love letters
More sway in my hips
Cool breeze on my lips
More looking in the mirror to see my smile
not the width of my thighs
More finding shapes in the clouds
More moments that leave me breathless
More life
All the painfully messy beautifully chaotic morsels
dripping from my chin
In 2019,
I want more.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.
there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.
there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.
with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
I feel it: that hardy rumble-
Melodic waves. That beat:
A hearty surge shifts, crumbles
Time’s thin ice sheet.
Melt.
Excited- a series of burst
quivers- sweet hormone floods.
Flames gathered- Flames dispersed
In rippled bouquets- Incandescent buds
Bloom.
Shimmer soft, gold arched sail
Breathe, ribbons dancing twist.
Float moment’s nervous inhale,
Pursed lips shiver, a subtle insist
Dealt.
Time’s tick rings a splendid quiet
Drags silent- seconds’ clever caught.
Tagged, weighed, a balanced diet
Slowly savored morsels, I ought
Consume.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
There are vampires, but they like to feed on blood and they do it because they have to, to exist.
The werewolf has to feed because it is in their nature and meat becomes their prey.
Zombies are cursed and that is why they feed the way they do.
But me, I do what I do for the sheer pleasure of it and you would be shocked if you knew how many people like me were out there in this world of ours.
You see, I am what you would call a cannibal and if you even tasted human flesh, then you would understand how it is an amazing required taste.
And the fear of my victims makes that taste so much sweeter, the mingling of their sweat is just mouth watering and they just so much better when they have to feel pain.
Mind you, heavy smokers can be a bit annoying because you get that smell of nicotine in the air when you fry up their lungs.
There are so many of us about, have you ever wondered about those exclusive restaurants where you find it difficult to be able to book a table.
Where if you order the sausages it has so much great flavour and the gravy is just so delicious.
Next time and look around at those regulars that always seem to get a table, that look is not the expectation of the food but the wonder of what you might taste like.
I've had it all, Indian, Mexican, Chinese and nothing seems to beat a nice English roast.
But never complain to the management because the next time you might find yourself on the menu.
Sooner or later we are going to get you, we might cut you to pieces as you are still alive, because as I said before, the flesh tastes so much better that way.
Maybe we could boil you alive like a lobster, I've done that so many times to my victims.
I know the neighbour was having some problems with some teenagers but they have disappeared now.
So I decided to celebrate and have a barbeque and invite everyone, the food will taste like nothing you've tasted before.
Yes I'm going to invite you over to join us, we would love to have you over for dinner.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
*It resembles a snowy mountain range
That white crumpled sheet
Elegant in its simplicity
A Realistic model
Of peaks and valleys
In my admiration
Of this honest
Piece of art
Artistry spawned from life itself
Dexterity by the cosmos
I nearly miss it
The truth
The veracity of the exhibit
The message
I stop
I study
I look deeper
A torrent of understanding
Pours down my soul
The last morsels of dignity
Greedily gobbled up
By my awkward gaze
A piece of art
Lays still on that hospital bed
Alone*
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
Fleshy is such
a nasty word.
Like ******
****** is a nasty word.
It's also a nasty action,
but it's one of those
rare, rare cases
where, where the word
is as bad as the action
(biologically speaking).
And if you combine the two:
Fleshy ******
it's almost double the nasty.
It's like math.
Except gross
(biologically speaking).
What's a biologically and how does it speak?
Maybe we want our science
to speak for us
because we've run out of thoughts.
Maybe we need our experiments
to show to us
what we're afraid to depict
ourselves.
Our brains are driven toward creativity,
while our world is driven
toward tangibility
(biologically speaking).
Maybe we're just left with facts
because opinions are scarce,
and we're starving,
clawing away at the morsels of Nature
instead of the meat.
biologically speaking.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 12:56 AM UTC
You grow apples in the orchard
And tomatoes in the backyard
Both will be sown in the days to run
To ripen underneath the sun.
Come the season of the harvest
When your heart is at its earnest
You will pluck the morsels from the vine
And climb the tree 'til you swell your spine.
But winter, like the raging horses
Goes creeping like the darkest tempest
And let you do what needs to be done
To bring home just a single one.
It's quite funny but it's true
What these two things will do to you
They will just lie there side by side
To give you freedom to decide.
Which is which? You'll start asking
Here and there they'll go beguiling
Both are succulent, both are red
Both are fruits in the book you've read.
You will put one in the basket
And throw the other in a casket
To rush back home without a track
And leave the guilt behind your back.
An apple rolled on the table
It was the choice that you made able
It looked sweeter, that's what you think
It's bigger and would never shrink.
But as you took a bite it bled
The rancid juice it ever shed
And worms crawled out to sing your death
As you grappled your one last breath.
Alas! You lay in that coffin
While the soil crawled down and mud crept in
Seeds will drink your blood and sprout again
Red tomatoes you wish you would have taken.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
O Toro, my Toro!
You bring me no sorrow!
Just you on a plate,
O my taste buds can’t wait!
Atop a small mound of rice is where you beautifully sit perched,
I know that my whole life it was for you that I’ve searched!
The light dances off of your gentle pink hue like a star,
A phosphorescent culinary delight is what you are.
I embrace you with chopsticks, eyes closed, and place you on my tongue;
And your flavor ********** that proceeds keeps me feeling young.
You’re creamy and buttery in all the right places!
You ended up here with me only by God’s good graces.
Onto my tongue melts your morsels of fat,
Rich decadence coats my mouth and my inhibitions go flat.
I can’t ever get enough; I want more, I need more!
Your soft savory texture hugs my mouth and warms my core.
I swallow you wearing a smile unlike any I’ve worn before,
Your gentle ocean tuna taste lingers and leaves me wanting more
O Toro, my Toro;
You leave me and my appetite so Zen,
And I’ll be dwelling in our memories until we meet again.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
The Equestrian
When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right
Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise
Xin
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
On Loving You
I thought of a thousand reasons
why I shouldn't love you
I made a tally
a little score;
I thought and I thought
and I thought
only to know
how now I
love you even more
So Much Love to Give
A lifetime isn't enough for loving you
I have so much love to give
And if I could I would, my love
Just to love you
Another life I'd live.
Vintage Wine
Rich golden peaches
Bottled in a vintage wine
Heady
Sweet
Overwhelming -
This dear love of mine.
Like Chocolate
Gooey
Molten
Mushy
Warm
I melt like
Chocolate
In your arms
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
As if I’m going to wash my sins,
by finding a substance so viscous - to annihilate the acid
that seeps through me.
Perhaps it’s you refilling my first glass,
which is dried up by 11,
and replenished by 5 past.
Must I keep forcing it down my refusing gut,
so I can bare the stutter drooling,
crumbling, out your teeth.
Till I’ve sipped needlessly on your lies
and fell drunken on your delusional fables.
Now I’m slurring in my nights,
awoke, still high on your acid.
Eyes are bulging, bloodshot
from you firing bullets of your decaying burden.
-
As I walk I stumble,
diverging around solum streets.
Crows peck at my skin, to prompt me at sunrise.
Now and again I revisit
the morsels I had collected from the bottom of your chalice.
Savouring as I gulp down my regret.
Desperately urging to be hungover your reveries
one last time.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
Day by day,
He feeds me the manna of His Word.
Piece by piece.
Morsel after morsel.
Until I find I am craving more.
For nothing else can satisfy
my thirsty soul,
like the Bread from Heaven
of His Word.
Each word...
each morsel of light and life...
nourishes me in my inmost being.
Nothing else on this earth
comes close to satisfying.
I cry out "Lord, I want more!
For nothing else can save me, heal me,
deliver me, like Your powerful Word."
He answers, "Come, my child, you are
invited to the Feast,
to feast on Me, feast on My Word,
and find true life."
Empty from the broken cisterns
of the world,
I come to His Feast.
He feeds me the manna of His Word,
piece by piece,
morsel after morsel.
Until I find I am craving more.
Until He has filled up
my empty soul.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
Snowflakes fall to the earth like suicide jumpers.
And I laugh because if I don't I have to listen to the silence.
Or worse.
And I laugh because I don't want to hear myself crying.
Waiting for icicles to form, and splinter, and crack under their own weight --
These are the games that plague souls;
Wishing away the snow with feet planted in blizzards,
Staring at the moon and trying to bathe in the last dripping morsels of sunlight shining onto the earth.
I lay buried so far beneath laughter and snowflakes that I am too cold to touch.
Touch me and scatter the blisters on my tongue,
For words are only dipped in honey, but it cannot hide the hollows inside.
And here I am, like a snowflake.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
It's easier to wallow
with no additional weight
It's easier to swallow
tiny morsels stripped off the bone
It's easier to swallow
when you submit to fate
It's easier to wallow
when you decide to walk alone
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC