"palatable" poems
The shades of gray are nearly infinite-
mirroring attitudes regarding our sin.
Degrees of separation give distinction
to human perception of ugliness within.
Living now in this ‘Age of Information’
has not made life much more palatable;
visible is God’s Truth and Satan’s lies,
as individuals determine what’s palpable.
Gobs of available data doesn’t translate
into experience and useful wisdom directly.
Real sapience, is shown by the Holy Spirit,
when the ideas of faith are under scrutiny.
Biblical principles enable all to overcome
corrosive powers of intellectual pollution;
however, personal change, only occurs when…
one has the mindset for a Heavenly solution!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 2; Phil 4:4-8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
......was a freezing morning.
no rooster woke me....i opened
my eyes at first light of dawn,
sipped hot coffee....my thoughts,
recalling....traveling, with the swirling steam...
turkey wasn't done yet,
but, hours before, table was already set...
while awaiting guests,
I leant on the counter...my head, to rest,
i looked outside the small window
and was greeted by a full moon, aglow...
there was so much food on the table...weariness
was healed by laughter...conversations touched
on weather, politics, food...they refused to end,
glasses sparkled with bubbly wine....sliced meat
was arranged on a big tray...baked sweet potato
with caramel smelled, tasted good...broccoli rave
was green and spicy...i didn't know potato salad
could taste good without meat!....coffee and pies
came next.....the dogs, communicated with their
eyes and paws...socializing, too, like their masters,
i saw what was left, after slicing the plump roasted
fowl...a skeleton, still with thick strands of meat, and
the palatable stuffing made with onions and prunes.
dishes were washed, kitchen was back in order,
after showering....everyone rushed to their beds,
yet, i had to peep out the window, one last time...
the full moon, still was upon us...confirming its
presence....a long time witness to the moments
we celebrate........encouraging our moods,
our thoughts.....our hearts.......even when
it's not a thanksgiving night..
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 23, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Soothing, sensational,
elegant as the harp,
Semblance, integument,
covering of the tarp,
Ebullient, vivacious,
precision of the mind,
Vehement, appetent,
keen & one of a kind,
Perfervid, chocolate katydid,
desirable & luscious taste,
Delectable, ambrosial,
palatable & consumed with haste,
Sybaritic, voluptuous,
enticing to the senses,
Libidinous, hedonic,
enriched untightened hinges,
Efficacious, puissant,
robust delight to the eye,
Potent, consequential,
immeasurable symbol of the sky,
Pulchritudinous, gorgeous,
magnificent as the autumn sun,
Resplendent, vivid, lustrous
as a diamond-lithographed gun,
Sympathetic, affectionate,
condoling soul of a angel,
Altruistic, benignant,
warmhearted with no mangle,
Serenity, tranquility,
composure of divine peace,
Harmonious, amicable,
placid as the slow moving creek...
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
**** SAUSAGE!
*** and drugs and sausage rolls.
When once them drugs did get me.
*** crept up discreetly.
And bit me hard upon the ***
The sausage rolls were palatable.
At times, I had the munchies.
Them drugs were very pleasant.
When I was rather young.
Now at fifty years old.
To take them drugs.
I would be bold or rather stupid.
Bring on ****** cupid.
Much more ****** fun.
The *** is bearable now and then.
But only with some weird men.
Always find the wrong uns.
Guess what?
A lesson learned.
Leave the drugs.
Miss not the ***
Make sure them sausage rolls ain't burned!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
I have missed your company.
Enveloped in strange faces,
The only coterie I keep of late
Is that of your overwrought descant.
Oh, James Douglas.
What happened to your dream?
DO NOT DESPAIR,
FRIEND
The words you once transcribed
Your intoxicating,
Or was it intoxicated
Ragtime
Linger in the subconscious of a generation,
an unnoticeable haversack
Traveling
Seeing
Traveling
Watching every ounce
Of the determinate world
Seeing
Acting as
The portmantoligism of my conscience
And what is left of my intellect
Until I realize that my
Crippling loneliness,
Is the only palatable fruit of disillusionment.
See, Christine?
Anybody can use big words to write about the 20th Century.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
The glassy clear water does not know.
But it will soon no longer be so pure.
My brush is running out of time.
I must finish the stroke of color.
The task of keeping the color alive is difficult.
The color once as vivid as the sun, is now of an older paper.
The fading of yellow.
The color once as rich as the most palatable grape, is now of a sickly bellflower.
The fading of purple.
The color once as alive as the fish in the pond, is now of a dwindling flame.
The fading of orange.
The color once as striking as the sky, is now of a mountain with no wanders upon it.
The fading of blue.
The color once as atrocious as the fresh blood from a crying girls arms, is now the discolored water she lay in.
The fading of red.
The colors start as beautiful possibilities.
Yet we always dip our brushes back in the pure water to redeem our admired colors.
The fading of colors is the not the fading of excitement.
It is the fading of accustomed standards.
The sun wanted change of scenery.
The grape longed to be big.
The fish desired to view others.
The sky aspired to change with the sun.
The girl begged for relief, she begged for the standards the fade.
The fading of colors.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Forget the onion and all its layers
thats obvious
You are undeserving for such a cliché
So I invite a different perspective
Think of a base, flour and egg kneaded together like I need you,
so dense in identical morals
Folded with mirrored ideology of future fortuity
Dipped sensually with a sauce so thick,
Thicker than blood or water,
Blended as one to create a sea of red as deep as our hearts pumping vitality
Sprinkled softly with the most palatable, mouth watering mozzarella
Each placing full of utter affection,
Long lost stares while you sit innocent to me feasting my eyes upon your moreish persona.
The only quandry we must face is whose decision that day of toppings to showcase
Who gets the chance to tease additional flavours, delicious tasters
To open eyes to attributes unseen before,
Hopes set high to electrify taste buds
Wanting the other to crave more
Ingredients brought together for a flavoursome pizza
You are my hawaiian
As i,
Your meatfeast.
Opposing trimmings
Eachothers 1st choice
One anothers perfection to quench their dying hunger
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC
#
"They've outlawed it, you know.."
"Outlawed what, Sweetie"
***"The Unknowable--
that which cannot be defined
or easily explained away..
That which cannot reduced, down
in to something more palatable;
Or maybe diluted-down
in to that which one could drink
..without it bringing some form
of dis- comfort"***
She is looking down;
Woven into her hair.. all things
edelweiss, suddenly begin
their wilt
..and all along the waterway
are those coming towards her
to smother
.
You will hold on, my Beautiful
*(or maybe even turn to face
for the first time, with loaded gun)*
--But Beautiful girl was never meant
to go loaded
*(..And her beloved Rooster Cogburn said
that she's no bigger than a corn nubbin)*
My beautiful girl
locks and loads, anyways--
Because the Mason-jars
she was forced to pour it all in to,
were never made big enough
to contain it.
There's a small stall at the swap-meet..
on Thursday and Saturday mornings,
she rents a space there
Her wares, true liquid Gold..
*(when a jar becomes sold
no hidden-thing will be needed
to sustain it)*
. . . . .
Quiet hearts are never meant
to reveal themselves
Some words (in this world)
were never meant to be spoken
You'll see now, beautiful Angel--
that this Rare-Jeweled heart of yours
is not the only-one,
perpetually Broken
Some gifts, the world
may never be ready for.
Lip-Kissed,
may I be the one
to help get that
un-ready World, ready--
*(so very well fed
yet still;
so very slowly, burning)*
Some beautiful Heartbeats
are so very much worth dying for
***... And I, myself ;
I am turning..***
#
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 2:17 PM UTC
I taste the brightness
Of citrus when she smiles,
Almost like a sunrise.
I taste something mournful
When I remember our midnight conversations.
Blackberries, dark and bitter,
But as the tang fades,
The stain remains.
People say crying tastes like saltwater.
Yes: the stale sting of sweat on my palms,
Tastes like graphite and desperation,
Like expired mangoes,
And a voice that won’t stop talking.
I remember the ache of
Evenings, lonely and suffocating.
Mornings that I still wake to
Where I dream of breakfast and
Treat myself to black coffee.
It sounds like a braggart king’s
Biggest lie, the taste of death.
It tastes like showering in the dark,
Like metal and blood that won’t wash off,
Like black coffee when I would
Rather have Cheerios.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
YOU
Ignore the weeping wounded
As they wallow in the mire
YOU
Fear contamination
Of your heart's desire
**Kudos
Respect
Acceptance**
YOUR
Palatable poison of the day
Knock
Knock
Knock
*"Have you seen my courage?"
"Is it coming out to play?"*
"Not today Poet
For your words are all but dead
Maybe ...
Next time
Stick to your principles
Instead of rolling over .... playing dead!"
"You have a voice
Use it
Stand tall
Walk tall
Walk proud
Believe what
YOU
Believe in
Not the needs of this faux crowd!
"I thought you were a Warrior
A God amongst mere men
But ...
When the push
Came to
The shove
YOU
YOU
Divorced yourself from Zen
"So here is my dilemma
The knot tight inside my soul
Was this just a one off?
Or will
YOU
Always roll
Always roll on with the 'in crowd'
Irrespective of the
THOUGHT
Or will
YOU
**Stand by .... what you believe in?
Stand by .... what you've been taught?"**
"Fakes & Phonies
Two a penny
Cut no ice with me
But ...
For the record
I will state
My name is
MARIE-LOUISE
Bathsheba was just a bit of fun
It held me in good stead
But now ...
I feel the time is right
To lie her down to bed"
"And as I lay her down to sleep
Silently close the door
I know she was a lot of things
**But never a poet *****
She always held her principles
In highest of esteem
She was an individual
But still part of the team
Can you my friend
Say the same
With your hand held on your heart
Or will
YOU
Stick your head in the sand
then try to pass it of
as
ABSTRACT ART!
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 8:50 AM UTC
The digs prove the existence of eternity.
Lucy joined millions of years ago.
Thats a long time to be in eternity,
But that's hardly eternity.
Her relations don't bring flowers,
Or trim the grass.
They stopped mourning years ago.
Perhaps hours after she died.
Eternity is a long time not to talk.
Love doesn't really stay in your heart forever.
Forever? Too Romantic a notion.
My eternity began at conception,
And I'm in no hurry to continue.
Neither should you.
It's a long time.
Will someone or something
Find forty percent of my bones down the road.
There's not enough time to fill eternity.
Remove it from famous sayings
And we have no comparison
For love, duty, time and beauty.
Can we really see it
In a blade of grass
Or in an hour.
Digs don't prove reincarnation, resurrection or spooky stuff.
Just eternity.
Silent. Non-existent.
Imagine a dove swooping down and brushing our world
With one wing
Every thousand years.
A soft or palatable swipe.
It's all the same.
Every thousand years.
After a period our world eventually vanishes.
Every mountain and ocean – gone.
Skyscrapers and swimming pools – gone.
Boulders and grains of sand – gone.
And the animals of ground, wind and water,
And earth itself – gone.
Eternity begins with the last brush
Of its wing.
That's a long time to be dead.
A long time being quiet.
I read endless poems about eternal love
And self-destruction,
Only one theme defines eternity.
Death.
The digs have proven it.
Lucy was found alone,
No lovers' bones.
Death wins out in the eternity theme.
Constant and sure.
And that's a long, long time.
Don't dwell on it.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
I’m sorry I took a month to respond.
I’m late because I didn’t know what to say.
I say “I know this is still really painful”
but what I’m really trying to say is “I’m sorry.”
And by “I’m sorry” I mean
“I’ll never forgive myself for the pain I caused you.”
Caused us both.
And by "us both" I mean this was hard for me too
because I’m the one who had to make the decision.
And by make the decision I mean I’m the one
who had to take a real, hard look at us, you know?
I’m the one who had to tug the thread
and feel the unraveling in my hands,
and watching the unraveling in your eyes,
and do the unraveling of our life.
I’m the one who had to face what neither of us would.
We hadn’t had *** in months.
We were newly weds.
And I’m sorry we were newly weds.
We should’ve been newly broken up.
And what I mean is that
I shouldn’t have married you in the first place.
I shouldn’t have planned a wedding with you.
I shouldn’t have said yes.
And what I mean is that I felt the burning in my belly
that night you asked me to choose you as my knight,
and to assume the role as your queen.
And by burning in my belly I mean I knew
even then that my “yes” was tentative
and that it felt more like a “maybe”
and that maybe I wouldn’t go through with this at all.
But what do you say, other than an emphatic “yes,"
to the man who has loved you for a decade?
And what I mean to say is that the “yes” wasn’t mine.
It was theirs
and it was yours
and it was ours,
but it wasn’t mine.
What I had was “no.”
Because what do you say, other than an emphatic “no,”
to the man who has tried to love you for a decade?
So my “no” sounded a lot like a “yes” that night
and I’m sorry I got them confused.
And what I mean is that you deserved better.
Not someone better than me; that’s not what I mean.
What I mean is that you deserved courage.
You deserved all of the courage
I let hide behind the moon that night,
and all of the courage
I tucked toward the back of our closet those months,
and all of the courage
I swallowed in favour of a more palatable flavour that year.
And what I mean is that I should have said “no.”
That you deserved “no.”
And all of this is just to say that I ****** up,
and that maybe I was stuck in the Upside Down
where weakness looked like strength,
and absconding looked like leaving boldly,
and “no” looked like “yes,”
and “I do” sounded a whole lot like “forever”
didn’t it?
“To my love, forever”
I said.
Emphasis on the comma before “forever”
because I never could pass up an opportunity to be pretentious.
And what I mean is that
I’m sorry I got your ring engraved with “forever”
when “forever” meant more like a year-ish
and I’m sure as hell positive
that you haven’t felt like “my love,”
have you?
And so I’m sorry I said “forever”
when what I meant to say was “not ever.”
How freeing that would’ve been for us.
And by freeing I mean I could’ve saved us both from this mess.
From this d-i-v-o-r-c-e that we now have tattooed on our hearts.
And so I’m sorry I didn’t say all that I meant to say.
And that it’s too late to say any of it now,
because now we’re strangers,
but what I meant to say that day is that
I love you
and
I want to leave you.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
#
Nearly everything worthwhile
has some form of a risk attached to it,
and the things that we want most,
often come at the greatest cost.
The less the cost is to us,
and the greater guarantee of no risk..
the more palatable
and placating the result becomes.
A jewel such as you need not
embed itself into dirt
in order to try to feel comfortable,
secure..
asleep.
#
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
These poems are an extension of me,
A pressure valve to keep my mind from exploding,
These poems are sieves catching grotesqueries
To be turned into something palatable
Poetry somehow doesn't pop without pain,
Somehow inadequate without lurking demons
Fueling passion and longing and fury
These cataclysms are documented and catalogued,
These emotions and stories memorialized,
Their existence in the world a fossil record
Of memories too precious to lose
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
People will try to read you less
When you have said the truth
As truth is not always palatable
Stand your ground like a rock
Face the inclement weather
Winds of change will bring respite
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Insane some, wild some
Show some
Right then, they them
Palatable Showmen
High hold, glimmering gold
Unfaithful men of bold
Hypnotic beads of satin,
Women of exotic
Crippling scars at birth
Becomes this fellows worth
Odd...
Melodies of Nightmares
A mirror, a hole - of Human's participating role
Amused, by Truly our fears our utter disgust,
But under the tent one feeling robust
Hidden in intoxicating luster
Mildly prompting the feelings of pride, and a condescending guise
Under the Fabricated tent, there's a disgrace
We feel beauty, oh how I, the better man!
Only because it's not our face
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
A TOUCH OF HER
A touch of her is like a touch forever, honey is **** sweet, but she's sweeter than honey cumb. Adorable, palatable, unforgettable her memory is. Bringing bliss to my heart ♥ -C9fm
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
"I can't do this anymore."
She said as she dropped
the razor from her hand.
The cuts on her hand were
as deep as her love for him was.
She sat there weeping all night
thinking of how she could reverse
the time and heal her wounds.
The night was as troglodytic
as her heart.
She clenched her fist tight as she
heard it whisper in her ears.
A very familiar voice but not
palatable to hear.
A voice that sounds like an elegy.
Her world spun at the speed of light
when it said it's stuck to her.
Her hands started trembling as
it was latched onto her.
Nails so long and eyes so red
she couldn't stop the horrendous
voices in her head.
As soon as the firebolt struck
the ground the wolves started
bawling, the fiendish and
diabolical sky started mourning.
All she wanted at that
time was to be free of that
unendurable and inadmissible
pain but the depression which
came in the form of Mephistopheles
did not let her empty her vessel.
As the long abominable and
atrocious night passed she was
found lying on the floor breathing
but not alive.
She was completely shattered and
broken into tiny bits but
with every tiny bit she still
loved him.
That was the night she realized
what it was like to
live with depression.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
when I told you I was *****
I was drunk and sad
and you said
that you were so sorry
and held me as
I cried into your shoulder
you still look at me funny
you're conscious
of your hands
and voice
of whether you
reveal too much
conscious
that you shouldn't treat me
any differently
that our awkward
bus stop talks
and
empty locker-conversations
are palatable
and that the alternative
isn't
but
I wish you'd bring it up
because
I think
it feels
immeasurably worse
to move on
when we've made
such little progress
moving anywhere
that is
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
*appearing without warning
gently viscous in her flow
oblivious of her potency
infusing the atmosphere
breath of anise laced honey
tasteful in her subtlety
gifting sanity gracefully
a willow swaying on hilltop
palatable sensuality
a playful elegance
colors the uncertainty
in her whispered concern...
are you sure?
make no mistake...
this is a poem of love and libation*
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Every dawn is pregnant with aspirations and anticipation
It’s only at dusk that we are in limbo,
Fraught with a polarity of purpose and possibility;
and a duality to self and the soul.
Every dusk comes with its share of positivity blended with negativity,
Practicality speckled with spirituality,
Optimism dusted with cynicism;
Possibilities punctuated with improbabilities;
And a reality rendered palatable through rose tinted fantasy.
Every dusk is witness to a purging of the unwanted and unnecessary;
And plays host to a catharsis that cleanses and calms the soul.
A bittersweet end to what could have been, would have been, should have been.
Every dusk is a pregnant pause of what can be and what will be.
*Inspired by a series of images captured at dusk through my lens, in different parts of the world.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
Prompt: "Write about your best and worst meal."
Title: "Cathartic, Culinary"
Alt. Title: "Purgative, Palatable"
Worst
Once I was taken to a room of my own invention,
led by the faceless, fearless constructs of my mind.
Waiters served the table my thoughts and
words and past actions and then I was forced,
or rather, compelled by hunger up on my product--
talking seventeen years of chow!--I talk.
I was sick within minutes, the self, food dribblin'
my mouth, managing to empty my bust cheeks
by a slow slurp every few chews. That was horrible.
But by the end of a month, I was full, fed, and finished.
I attribute much of my success hence from this act.
Stomaching one's self, as it happens,
is the hardest part of the human condition.
Best
Once I ate the supplies of a marooned island-castaway
just to speed the process, and once I licked the tears off
the face of a bereaved poet only to spit it in her face.
I think I will tell you another culinary anecdote though,
one which will expand upon my worst, the first.
Like picking at scabs, the nose, too, yields results.
I gave myself a nosebleed. And what did I do?
Ha ha, I raised my head to the ceiling, the roof,
the skies, to God and his cruel intentions.
Ha, I laughed, ha, I did. I thanked him for it;
and head up-turned I let course, I drank.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC