"palates" poems
My Frankenstein monster
erects in the dense night
a soliloquies of remedies
traced on pasted wall paper
It bids faster as the kites fly
high above the Himalayan
feeding respect to the sun
to radiate its vector rays
It whispers of this world
a spice of colours and patterns
a windy dainty silky road
wrapped with satanic ribbons
As the masses gather on the poles
to dance the mayday festival
the pagan gods shake the monster
their gold merry as the cloud chills
The bonfire embers and trembles
the palates vanish in the ashy wind
the crowds grow in bonded unity
the monster smiles in rhymed terms
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
This morning
Damp with it all
The purple tongues
Of the Irises
Threaten to speak of painful memories
She always loved the spring
That the Irises announced
Arriving on palates
Of green and violet
Promises of tender possibilities
But, the spring never really changed
Anything of substance and
Colors run in summer rains
Pooling into charcoal swirls
And the Irises died
With a vain promise
Whispered into tomorrow’s
Memories
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Some demons are born from malice
Sky rending hatred and blood storms
Such are demons of unending passion
Some demons are born from greed
Covetous grins and shifty hands
Such are demons of delirious nature
Some demons are born of desire
Coquette gazes and glazed eyes
Such are demons of temptation
Some demons are born from hunger
Thirsty tongues and soft palates
Such are demons of gluttony
Some demons are born from envy
Green eyes and clenched teeth
Such are demons of bitterness
Some demons are born of laziness
Slow movement and emotionless
Such are demons of apathy
Some demons are both of the self
Arrogant demeanor and fearless gaze
Such are demons of pride
All are demons, that come from oneself
But the true evil of sin
Is the self.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
Last bugle to blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
Old tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking will stop
After Midnight
The bottom will top
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Lost palates are cleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
Two stars for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
That voice in the back
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and churn
After Midnight
Lost vision returns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—creation redeemed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
In the wild
You are left to consider graffiti disasters
hatched from gypsy palates
Vanished in music through spiders
In a wilderness of orange viral light
Moths push from the lips of willow switch
Geishas who stargaze on
Matrimonial black powder
In our wilderness of birth the
Name of Fire is swallowed by moths
We are reborn in Geisha operas
Over the embers of burned invention
You sign the word for sand
In a lamplight hem
A voice skating chalk
Points over pearl
Its pitch wound in a white
Arched wax arm
Ticking the membrane
In her submerged bell
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
1744
The joy that has no stem no core,
Nor seed that we can sow,
Is edible to longing.
But ablative to show.
By fundamental palates
Those products are preferred
Impregnable to transit
And patented by pod.
2k
Monet, Manet, Morisot, and the tortured Vincent
a long century or more ago,
filled their palates with color,
their canvases with impressions of life, love and loss.
And we, the great masters of civilization,
have treasured these like newborn babes.
I wandered through the polished halls
of antiquities to see them—
some hidden even from the harsh light of day
to protect their precious prinking from decay.
I strained my eyes to see their soulful strokes
and wondered why artists carried such painful yokes
McMurtry’s ranch has no paintings
but sculptures from a vanished sea.
A quarter billion years it’s been,
and yet they’re here for all to see
Rocks carved by patient scratching time
and stock tanks covered with putrid slime.
No lilies float on pools of blue
and no guard carefully watches you
Their sentries are the desert rattlers
and the sun scorched prairie lands,
but these ancient masterpieces
are safe from filching hands.
When I kneel on hard rock soil,
I forget my daily useless toil
and dig in clean eternal dirt
with no canvases to belie the hurt
of gentle men who felt the call
to let their heart be seen by all
Monet, Manet, and Morisot
are now laid to rest, with their burdens set aside,
but their colors are a reminder
that beauty and suffering abide
McMurtry’s rocks no longer feel,
but who could say they are less real
than colors fading from the light
and lonely artists’ painful plight.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Our flesh makes words
which are caught
like peanut butter
on the roofs of our mouths. Trapped
by teeth
until they can be freed.
But they’re too alive
for our unmoving lips
and we’re choking
on the verbs that won’t cease,
the nouns that fight,
and the adjectives that breathe
and beat
against our natural rhythms.
We've got participles
dangling from our tonsils.
On our imperfect palates,
they form sentences.
Thoughts.
Ideas
that must be spoken.
Shared.
Heard.
These words that form
in the madness of our hearts
and bubble
in the heat of our cheeks
aren't questions,
suggestions
or even statements.
They are commands.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Leaves fell
p
er
p
e
tu
al
ly
as we
didn't,
BuT I (your ardent lo>er)
Choose to smite
the indigenous winds and
forests' unpledged palates with
: A Stony Subjection:
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Aching flesh calls
To aching flesh
Chests touch
Lips compress
Part
Wet tongues intersect
Clothing shredded into tatters
And scattered
Hesitation abandoned
Nails on hot skin
Lips leave marks on necks
A patchwork of red and pale
Never fail hips
slip inside
Two become one
As the fervor increases
Pheromone aura releases
And a story is added to the tower of pleasures
Vibrating
Pulsating
Slow rhythmic thrusting
Clasped
Grasped
Connected in four places
Pleasure painted faces
Individual palates blending
Pulling apart and separating
So that eyes can lock in ocular embraces
Unification of purpose
Invisible bonds reinforced
As tremors cascade from fluid cohesion
One thousand demons scream in the ashes of a dream,
As one, that were two, become Legion.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Red – the colors match underneath
the mashing of trashed feet. A bittersweet
scent swishes around our soft palates
until intoxication renders us useless.
The artificial artisan could’ve gone lighter,
but she knew it wouldn’t have been as
beautiful. I gasp and gaze, looking for the
fake signs that she had felt the same.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
I am the moon
Illuminating the darkness which paralyzes my trust.
At night is when I feel both familiar and yet not at all--
I could disappear. Evaporate.
I could Exhale slowly and become a living eclipse.
Am I the moon?
I am the owl
Sighing into the breeze with a long, aged heaviness.
Do you know how many lives I’ve lived?
I exist beyond illusion. Wait for me on the other side.
Tree limbs like train stations. Infinite platforms.
Am I the owl?
I am the farmhouse
Staring into the cul-de-sac with calm, focused intent.
Memories of nothing and pictures of no one come very strangely to mind.
I miss standing here alone. I miss the apathetic.
I used to feel only me.
Am I the farmhouse?
I am the wooden spoon
Stirring the *** filled with ancestor’s palates.
An unforgivable connection found deep in salt and simmer,
I taste a feeling I cannot find in another.
I wonder if I could hold a house together.
Am I the wooden spoon?
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
she cried on a day that should have been celebratory
and I did not have words
she danced an ode written to cumbia
she danced it out with grace
with verbs so fine
you knew she held the present
at every sway
she did not have words
we walked to food joint next to the bar
rolled out the English language
in exchange for sustenance
“what are words?”
I picked up our food
drunkenly shook out some lingo
and the grey-haired man on the other side of the counter
took a deep breath and stayed silent
“Are words needed ?”
the Kamikaze shots and the tequila made our tongues soft
and our upper palates dry
pouring only thirst, into our youth
and there,
eyes soaked in meaning
in a circus of incertitude,
the cold wind turned divine flurried our hair
“we do not have words.”
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:57 AM UTC
my husband, my lover
the man i hold dear...
you know the one
the sports zombie
who dress's so fine.
sauntered out to the back
deck and asked
"beer or wine"
as he is the chef of,
this evenings decline.
now, here is the conundrum
that often,plagues my mind.
wine, tonight, is not really, my palates delight
but beer, tho tasty and thirst quenching,
expands my quarters hind
and leads to wrenching and
writhing in midweek training or at least coniving
of how to be released from
exercise captivity
which way to go,
a cheeky pinot griggio
or a robust boutique beer.
which way, crisp chardonay
or mango ,belgium wheat,
micro-brewed pilsner.
oh, for the days
of the cask or the
slab of vic bitter.
when the biggest
problem was how
to drink fast enough,
to gather a blast.
the man mountain,
has become impatient.
....now i need to
make a decision.
so,with a women's precision,
i state with a smile,
wide and then wider.
"i'll have one of those
apple-pear ciders"
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Twilight envelops my being
As I gaze upon this banquet.
A banquet to tempt
the strongest of wills.
Philosophers think about it
poets pen poetic verses.
A canvas of impeccable beauty
to satisfy the most
finicky of palates
Therapy for the mind,
like a sanctuary of soft
gentle music to
replenish the spirit,
calm, soothe the soul.
Humbled by all this,
I feel blessed to have
been awarded this
loving garden to enjoy.
I am humbled by
this awesome
majestic kingdom.
Mountain ranges loom large
above the horizon
some with tops of white
snow capped crowns.
Moonlight now replaces
the reddish sunset.
I rise from where
I have knelt in homage.
For I have seen the
beauty of heavens gate.
this blessing I
shall never forsake.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
'Pets and Palates'
he had only two real loves
ducks and waffles
this was highly disconcerting
to his parents
who tried to distance their boy
from these strange affectations
by buying him a precious pet goose
named Berchunice
and putting him on a steady diet
of pancakes
and their various
international counterparts
needless to say
he didn't live to a great age
as a matter of fact
he died at twenty-two and a smidge
because while pets generally extend and enrich life
caring for a goose you despise
and dining on starchy carbs
seriously inhibits life expectancy
his passing was terribly unfortunate
as was the life his parents had forced upon him
if they hadn't forced these changes on him
had they merely accepted
perhaps
encouraged even
this love of ducks and waffles
their lovely lad
would have
efficiently and economically
solved global warming
in an effort to protect
the best interest
of his friends
the ducks
and in his downtime
he would have put
a major dent
in the world hunger problem
with a highly adaptable
waffle recipe
too bad.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
I start my day with cigarettes and coffee
smoke and bitter taste
it reminds me whats out there
under the porcelain eyes
under the grey skies
It reminds me, the love i desire
it's always bittersweet on the end
of our palates and we often forget
that taste, when we're looking for more
of the lust to fill our voids within the
tar filled dripping homes we call
our own **** souls
slipping time kaleidoscope spiraling rhyme
barefoot black bearing my soles to pavement
it reminds me to stay sane following that second
hand ticking around
porcelain eyes and grey skies
bitter coffee and smoke
you know it's gonna burn you
alive
oh but the sights those bright eyes will see
occasionally when the sun comes out
from those grey skies
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
dissonant is what it was.
that foreverness of din.
criminal—
aloft, eluding some captive way
of emphasis.
scraps of papers fold
and truth is rarefied. hammered
for its malleability is its common trait.
truth and always its never ever.
the men mumble words as if
oceans whirl in their palates.
the women hide their thighs
and think of fornications.
the children learn to pilfer
stray coins in the keep.
dissonance is what it still is.
there's a slow moon over the aubade
over the culled garden.
over the cloverleaf curve
in Balintawak. over no trove of truce.
caterwauling noises flailing
belch of automaton metal. mendaciloquent glower of lampposts
to die early, abandoning EDSA—
we cannot name figures any longer
of the same axiom, equation,
salt, crossovers.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
An architect of tile and stone,
mosaic played beautifully in natural colors of desert hues and corresponding twists of evergreens,
Super-heated heavy iron,
along sparks of arc that weld the mind to something infinite yet sublime,
Pastels,
blurring lines of what is real from what is seen,
on canvas unrealized,
Sculptured earthy clay resembling remembrances of more than simple glimpses set in stone,
Artistry of gastronomy,
purging old ideas and new-found taste to tease the discriminating palates of those inclined,
Poets reading widows tears in pouring rain,
outside well-lighted and closed laundro-mats in frigid airy nights,
Waiting to be heard and yet unrecognized in blue-grey hoodies,
Svelte voices and incantations that long for listening ears,
Writers writing about journeys and destinations,
each mile travelled and another respite upon their road, 'Poets, preists and politicians...their words are their ambitions',
Maybe someday there will arise,
a scientist,
that will surmise,
'All is one and one is all',
Then the bleats will not go unheard.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
I wrapped my lips
around your neck
Drank you down
kept palates wet
You left marks
I know just what
you meant
Bottoms up
choke the message down
Little girl
Do you wanna tear each other apart?
****** set
fire to my *****
Heart shaped x-ray glasses
Now reality is the new *** tape
We're all framed in
Oh,
The transgressions you keep rewinding
Because fantasies just slow you down
Oh,
When you wanna keep moving
find grace in what you're doing
Oh,
The progressions the soul makes
when it follows the
heart beaten
path
Oh,
Can you even last?
I know
sometimes
I can't
I just wanna get off one time
and not apologize
For spilling my guts
trying to center
Your settled half-emptied glass
When all you needed was a refill.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
THE GREAT COUNTRY
Adebayo Samuel Ogunleye~ The GreatQuill🖋️
Silent I wished to remain,
But alas, my speakfire cried aloud:
“I shall speak and speak—
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
With oceans of wisdom,
Yet wandering the streets of futility.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
Flowing with honey;
Yet honey for only a few palates,
While bitterness lingers
Upon the lips of many.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives so generously,
Yet lacks in abundance
The very things it gives away.
I sought to calm my speakfire,
But alas, it cried again,
Yearning to weep even more.
‘Speak on, speak on,’ I replied.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That suffered under its conquerors,
And after their departure,
Became captive to self-conquerors.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Bearing “Giant” as its title,
Yet, unfortunately fortunate,
A title that scarcely fits
Its present condition.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives you oromodiye,
Yet in return
Takes away odidi omo.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Which outwardly appears
Goodly bad,
And inwardly seems
Best at being worse.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Rich in countless treasures,
Yet wallowing in penury.
And so my speakfire speaks
Of that great country—
My great country.
*Oromodiye -- A chick
*Odidi omo -- (A child) Human.
E-mail= [email protected].
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
To the nights,
we watched stars bring life
to the darkness,
like blood through the veins of the Universe.
Where we sat
became the place to be,
on the sea of condensation.
Our glasses half full
our stomachs half empty
and our palates,
well adjusted to the flavor
of a moment in the making.
You could hear the distance
between breaths
as our hearts beat
like tides,
crashing upon the horizon.
feel the currents of the words we spoke
in silence...
For hours on end.
But that's how things were supposed to be.
Then!
Then, was a twinkle in the distance.
A smile in a shooting star,
pointing out that the lines of constellations
intersect with every crevasse
in the palms of our hands.
Then! we found the true meaning
in a sunrise.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
Why something rather than nothing,
millenary questions mankind dwell
upon whilst witnessing existence
of surroundings, mesmerising
phenomena. Enthralling vibrations
we sense, sparkling myriad colours,
sounds, shaping textures emitting scents,
flavours tingling baffled palates.
Wandering on metamorphosing soils
ceaselessly reflourishing in springs,
celebrated by pagans and mystic believers
the same, for the goddess we call nature is
the only revealing
itself before us with no veils.
Bathing in fresh waters, rivers
streaming from icy mountain tops
to endless oceans of white
salty minerals balancing life,
in the depths of which all began,
cells melding to engender species
of omnific varieties, beguiling entities
curiously exiting to wander lands.
Juicy fruits on branches of rising trees
erecting to shield, shading creatures
from the scorching rays of a brilliant
star, circadian dawning consenting
earthly presence to evolve, for eyes
to rise contemplating space, in time,
notice the sparkling lights
on infinite black canvas, wonder
what they are, mirific excitement
while perceiving a unique
peculiar consciousness encompassing
all that ever was is and will be,
for intuition to question in beguile,
Why something rather than nothing?
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC