"mulled" poems
Asking silly questions
About places I no longer live
And people that
Maybe should have stayed friends
Who really burned bridge
Both of us
No innocence here
Who really threw first stone
More questions that don't matter
Naked answers drained of endorphins
Let me be the honey sweet mulled wine
Take me to dinner with your Prada
White girl no *** pearly teeth
Telling me really
'All men are pigs anyways my darling'
Making me her plump little Sunday swine
'Shall I feed at thy trough'
Earns me a red cheek'd slap
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Dear Trusting Nurse-Maid, must we Speculate
The Favours your Leader asked has mulled
Far healing cry a tearful Reprobate
And supposed Cheerful Innocence has dulled
As soon as the Red Tabloid goes to Sin
And whips the Pink Horse we all fantasy
Your Prince suddenly squeezes on a Whim
Which the Next Frustration will testify
I envy you all. Despite Fashion's Change
Like Solemn Dakinis prayed for Support
Cry the Call for War; And within a Range
Mark him a Target then file my Report.
I have lost that War. And the Battle as well
Yours straight to Heaven; Mine a Journey's Hell.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
(- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.
Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
barely there, staring at a laptop screen.
Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"
((A baritone chorus of laughter.))
"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."
Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.
A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Mediocrity isn't my favorite flavor
But I make do
Tasting other sensations and qualities as well.
Like candied revenge,
And carmeled success.
But mediocrity is slightly different
It's bitter...
But not enough that it would ever cause me to settle
For something else
That was further from my seated reach.
It's also stale, at times,
As if it were left out on a bar all night,
To be eaten by others looking for, well
Anything.
As I bit down on mediocrity once more
I couldn't help but salivate
At the thought of achievement and drive
Memories of their savory aftertastes overtaking the putty being mulled about my teeth.
And I swallowed the paste.
Mostly to get the taste out of my mouth.
But as my taste buds clear,
And my thoughts drift elsewhere.
The idea that one more hand full of mediocrity
Might not be that bad.
Creeps into the back of my mind.
After all,
It is within reach.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
and inside lying fragments of it's history,
I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;
The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.
A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,
Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,
A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.
what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?
what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?
then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.
is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :
Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear
And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain
Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage
One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe
One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise
Warnings so dour
But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
1 am
I spent this hour getting drunk texts from a friend
she's the weepy kinda drunk and her spelling mistakes didn't end
I mean she's a great person but the bottle sees the opposite
2am
Went to get a midnight snack
made myself a sandwich because obviously I don't get any a--
peanut butter and honey
yes it tasted yummy
3am
and I'm still lonely
I've been listening to sade and her voice got me chilled out and *****
Mulled over a **** Sunday addition
started to toss and turn
with alarming rhythm and precision
4am
finally went to sleep
dreamt of my gf laying beside me
me just holding her like a teddy bear in a warm embrace
her loving lips locked with mine in a tender embrace
I was sleepless in Chicago for several hours last night
it might've been the cold I have, but I woke up not feeling too bright
now it's 11 34 and I'm trying to nap
maybe tonight I won't fall into insomnias trap
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
The faint smell of mulled spice lingers.
Soft sounds:
a television on somewhere
dishes clinking in the kitchen
footsteps, small and large.
Scattered pillows on the den floor
The occasional pine needle makes an appearance.
Textbooks, pens, paper, notebooks.
Everywhere.
Little white hairs stick to anything.
Carpet, usually stained, but soft.
Doors and cabinets that don't quite close.
Chipped paint.
Ribbons, ponytail holders in odd places.
Rustling, running, rattling. More running.
Music, and very loud singing.
An air of silliness, slight stress, hurry.
Sometimes sadness, but not too often.
Laughing, since we laugh at our strangeness.
An odd happiness occupies the space.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
At work Tinsel on the PC and lights scattered on the tree
Time off to spend with the family
Decorations throughout the house
Christmas Tree too big, needles dropping on the floor
Frantic last minute shopping for stocking gifts from the late night store
Wrapping presents, writing cards ready to send
Mince Pies and Mulled Wine drunk with friends
Laughter from the GrandChildren excited for the day
Elvis Christmas songs on in the car, set on loop to play
Presents opened in pjyjamas sitting on the floor
Lazy breakfast with the Kids, Grandchildren and more
Late meal on the day
Turkey, Pigs in Blanket, Roast Potatoes and veg, all the trimmings
Christmas Pud and Brandy Sauce
Turkey Stew and dumplings on Boxing Day
Meals shared with the family, everyone helping with the food, sharing the load and spreading the love as everyone should
Walks with the neighbours next door and anyone who wants to join in
Popping into the Pub for a welcome beer
Christmas Carols ringing out cheer
Board games out and playing begins, rules changing, shouting, laughing out loud, a bit of playful cheating can be heard
Wrapping up warmly with scarves, hats and gloves
snuggling up to the one that you love.
I love this time of the year - don't you?
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
There was a time we lived in those museums
mother, do you remember?
seeing everything from Art Nouveau
to German Expressionism or Cubism
There was a time
we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees
There was a time our winters
were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine
& our Spring
spent wandering the Schlosspark
There was a time we spent our summers
watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes
& our autumns in spacious cafes
& international bookshops
we talked the other day again
about the Russian one
how ever since we left home
we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place
it seems the vision of home never leaves you
just waits dormant in your heart
for something to remind you of it
just as now that Lesser Ury print
reminded me of our Berlin
& days of Love Parades & blissful freedom
I will not regret the journey
you made us take
because it meant
we got to live in heaven
there was a time we lived there
there was a time we lived there
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap
Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider
Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.
sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four
Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager
Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.
Don’t let this night end.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
"It is not strange to me that we are together now,
at this new beginning this, this white sand beach,
These eclipse black rocks, the sea breaking white foam on the shore."
You show me how two can be two,
And love as one, without sacrificing either one.
The pathways I couldn't identify.
Misunderstood in your thorny throne.
You showed me us. Racing towards the blazing dawn
The opening scene of a continuous film
The feral demons, and vile ghouls that covet the eyes
Flee in mortal terror, when I sing you lullabies.
All you have shown me.
No scrawled declarations of a madman can convey the depth of my feeling,
For you.
You showed me which laws to break, and I broke them all,
You showed me the pleasure inherent in living,
And I reminded you when you forgot this.
You show me your love.
I will show you woven tapestries from my loom.
In boxes presented with Much fanfare,
And others slipped into your palm in silence.
I will draw you in a thousand poses,
With charcoal, and chalk.
In our demon voices we will howl and curse at the day.
I will give you a spoonful of laughter,
That will coat your lungs, and let you laugh from your core.
I will share the autumn rains with you,
Soggy jewels, of wet boots, and a warming fire,
Mulled wine, and the scent of cinnamon.
I will show you vast fields of blue and red roses,
Mad in bloom, free in swaying harmony.
Uncut, free of *** and vase.
I will show you all of these things,
Come with me outside.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
I saw the news in obituary black and
alabaster-chamber white. Women mulled about
in shining dresses, all pinwheel-galaxy black.
The men’s suits: darkness-between-
stalks-late-in-the-cornfield black
The pastor wore a Cosmopolitan’s-table-of-contents
white stock in the non-air-conditioned
church. His sermon dripped on the bereaved
like hardening wax. A portly woman wheezed
in the second row. A first-roadkill-of-summer
red paper fan swayed idly in her left hand.
The coffin creaked, 4am-grandpa‘s-coffee brown
the procession moved outside slowly. The moment
was like when two trains are idle and one begins
to drift forward. From inside the other,
it feels as if we are drifting backward.
Backward to days before with the namer in his study.
He has on his 1862-edition-Les-Misérables tan
blazer. His wrists crawl out the undersized sleeves.
Above his roof, the sky milks over
to 4th- grader’s-scratched-locker blue.
A wine glass full of just-waking-up-seeing-steam-
waft-from-under- the-bathroom-door white wine
rests on his particle board desk. I want a 70s B movie villain
to bust through the door yelling, "I’m not sorry" and shoot him
with a chipping-paint-bike-rack-next-to-the-library¬ grey revolver.
I want the namer to be speechless, knock over the wine glass
and die with grandma’s-new-couch red pooling on his blazer.
The truth is my grandma’s new couch is this ugly
brown-yellow color. I don’t really know how to describe it.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
when i'm around you
i feel the slow paced bass line of the universe moving....
i can hear the galaxies turn
and the atoms cascade as waterfalls in my mind with your electric fingers tracing my spine.
I am lightning without thunder, but you are not thunder nor the rain.
But a swift wind accompaniment to my silent flashes,
Wrapping the electricity with invisible peace .
*Do you know how beautiful it is to have someone that want to work with you? To take you for all you are and still manage to find the beauty in what you dreamt to be your ugliest scars...
showing beauty in the dark....
( yes, it seems you too are another good one who knows the value of darkness...it seems many of us who seek this path do these days) *
---
We are
the shimmer of light that reflects in the deep hollows of flute pipes
echos around the womb like space of cosmos microcosm .
(I've felt love before , but this....this is not love as i used to know it..
This is a slow boiling , stewing and ripening with age mulled wine with toast and Camembert kinda thing )
----
Did you know coincidentally , your name is in the number 2013
and if i recall correctly ,
13 is the year i met you in.
It's charming how these clever little signals appear when i'm around you -
contemplating you they emerge , another experience.
........
But in my space , i see the purpose here too -
perspective.
Because when i'm with you , it's pretty much just you.
(and whatever room we happen to be in ) - sometimes other things do appear but they are easy to dissolve.
---
we put definition on the imagination , sharing and the quest.... and that's one of the things i enjoy the most.
Peace x
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
The mulled cider is spoiled
the drunken clown ran out of helium
the roses withered
sapphire's shattered
the paper is burned
your eyes dont shine
they dont sparkle
your arm is now covered
with scars brought on by a lover
write it down in the books
cause boy I've never loved another
the way I once loved you
a place in my heart
for a man of 420
my mistake
would be our fate
oblivious to lies
you then became
part of my game
two timing you
not my intention
took you out of my jar
of hearts past broken
but returned you there after my mistake
close up your scars
and dry your **** eyes
it's over now
don't call me baby
I've done you wrong
move on today
you'll do great
she'll love you like i did
but you'll be her only
spoil her silly
notice her quirks
she'll love you like i did
she'll love your embrace
she'll know your face like i did
she'll love your piercings, your tattoos
and even your car
c'mon kid you'll be fine
show off that smile
and those beautiful eyes
she'll be a **** toker
just like you
you'll laugh together
like we have so many times before
you'll love her as much
as you once lived me
she'll love you like i did
but you'll be her only
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
A Greeting across, Frost the Sweetest Cake,
An Offer for this Sentient to Heal
Dipped in Oil, then Light for your Merry-Make
Another Fresh Candle for Pure Heart's feel
And bring this Bide this Motherly Salute
With Prayers and Chants spring the Brighter Days
From Foregone Moments to Sharper Repute
With her the Daughter of Outstanding Ways
Plus Four more - and the Son of his Endow
Plomb himself your King for his Business fare
Though this Pill swallowed to remove such Doubt
Knowing your Thanks be mulled as I'm aware.
Still on still, Un-Condition pleads me by
Pray this Love I carry refuse to Die.
[HAPPY BIRTHDAY, M'AM LAURA!]
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
This is a note,
That I wrote,
With the finest nib.
Then mailed to you.
Which you read,
Then pondered,
And mulled,
Contemplated.
Then wrote
A carefully
Crafted reply.
You paused just,
A second,
Before pressing
SEND.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Sometimes-- I'm illness
-Breeding pores,
And 'yes' I can feel them.
When I cut through skin-
Searching for inner beauty
--as I've lost mine-
These fingers,
Squelch over weaving's and wraps
Inside-
It's warm red here,
Almost mulled wine evenings--
There's suppression on
Your blink-less face
In tearing lips,
Yet--
You smile.
As you feel my hands rummaging,
Through-broken-ribs in
'Hopes' of stroking lungs-
Only--breathless-slow-motion
Memories occur.
And instead I stab
That precious heart with
Unwarranted lonely,
I'm breeding-on-the-mess
I've made--
Staring-at-the-pieces,
I'd been drinking--
A carcass of iridescent beauty.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
As I wrote this footsteps upon the footsteps
fell, I ushered words to my little ones that
it was past the ruination of dreams if there
heads had not headed the times of slumber
as night is for sleep not running around.
But footsteps inevitably fell once again.
Anger feel upon a fathers brow as words now
ignored where sleeping head should have fell.
With tired eyes and the voice, you know the
one that tell those of younger age daddy means
business. And then there was silence once again.
But eyes whispered unto the realms of dream
to be once again woken by footsteps playing
upon the stairs waking others namely me from
my needed dreams. I glanced upon the stairs to see.
Without a murmur I glanced in rooms, and unattended
my first born where they were in slumber so silent I
could only just hear the faint whispers of breath as they
did sleep. then in darkness the footsteps louder than believed.
I awoke in the morning on the top of the stairs, a bruised
rendition of a child's footprint upon my skin bruised
and hollow. My daughter said in a mulled voice that
the child didn't like you watching it in darkness run.
I write this as a father who now has shivers as I write
this piece that the footsteps are within my room,
My wife sleeps my children do, but the footsteps don't
seem so innocent now, and I am not going to look behind me
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
TILL AIR, TILL BREATH
KISSED THE MARGIN OF MY LIPS.
TILL SOFT, TILL WARM
THE SPICES OF POT-POURRI
CLASHES TILL SOFTENED HANDS
TOUCHING MY FACE, STROKING MY HAIR.
HER VIOLENT PASSION FOR LOVE
EMPTIED IN THE CANDLELIT ROOM
TRANSPARENT WITH ECLIPSED HEARTS
MANY WITH ROMANTIC FIRES
MANY DEEP AND ELOQUENT;
EACH MATCHING THE COMPLEXION OF HER FACE.
THE COMBINED ATTENTION OF MY HEART
ARTISTICALLY MET WITH HER HAIR
FULL WITH MULLED CHERRIED WINE
LAVENDER, STRAWBERRY, GINGER AND VANILLA
AS THE SCENT
FROM THE CANDLES
ESCAPED THERE.
©Jack Aylward
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
You could go on adventures together,
Enjoying a hot cup of mulled wine,
Or just share stories sitting on a couch,
Having an infinite amount of joy
Spreading bullsh1t 10000 km away,
Finding secret codes, creating phrases.
Some threads work in close range,
Or they stretch out a far distance,
Tying with friends, new or old alike,
They melt the rock ice beneath,
Within the reach of your finite souls,
Exploring the walls of a finite home.
They bring fire in your heart,
Making it want more and more
Thirsty of the whole endless world.
Feb 2, 2024
Feb 2, 2024 at 11:24 PM UTC
With Google Maps
Of subway tracks
I walked into the world
To kicks and claps
Of Spotify tracks
I walked and bopped and whirled
Off to see my Meetup friends
To the show from Last.fm
It's sad I couldn't be Foursquare mayor
But at I least I got some XM
They wouldn't get me YouTube likes
But I managed to get some Snaps
My Facebook mood was kinda rude
So I posted on YikYak
Waiting, I swiped right on Tinder
Emojis, and flirting ensued
She sent me her Tumblr, I reblogged her gifs
I asked her to Kik me a ****
Waiting, I browsed around Etsy
Posted the cool stuff to /r/pics
Got x-posted to karmaconspiracy
Was all “NAH MY GF MADE THIS"
Back IRL, ran into coworkers
They asked if I’d go down east side
I mulled it over briefly and then
I simply replied
I'll do it for the Instagram
I do it for the Vine
My phones got charge
My credits got charge
Lets go and leave it behind
I'll see it for the Periscope
I'll think it for the Tweet
And as soon as I get my Watch
Maybe I'll have a heartbeat
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
*Your embrace, the sweet taste of hot mulled cider
touching upon my poetic soul like burning embers
Scent of sun's ripplings upon ocean's salted clean air
I hear a soft babbling brook, aside a majestic tower
A rhyme sung out in epical tunes of yesteryear
calling upon idyllic temptation's imagination
Swept away in the grasp of imperfect rapture,
zealous release of poetry's tenderhearted bliss*
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC