"peppercorn" poems
Electric sun twirls its lava skirt.
Slammed woks.
Peanuts, chilli, limes and oil
Feeding him its lunch.
Shelter to chilli cheeks and peppercorn faces.
The air can't move its obese body to the rivers for a dip.
Darkness is hard with sturdy edges.
Curtains made of invisible beads and threads hang over the night in silence.
They spill against the concrete under rough hooves and feet
For the night falls like tight heavy lids.
Dusk is a bruised tunnel of vision.
Candlelit giants blinking rapidly.
You don't speak
For the night is never empty
The silence never lonely
Stampede of restlessness surrounding
Grinning from squint to squint
Raising embraces and chance encounters
They scream loudly to frighten the dawn.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
I just tasted a memory. BANG . slapped me on the tongue like a freight train out of a rip in space and time,
of garlic and peppercorn chicken with jasmine rice , a clear broth and fresh cucumbers, a wedge of lime and chrysanthemum tea.
oh .. my mouth , how could you spring this on me .. when i'm so far from the motherland...
then they come thick and fast -
thai iced tea , thai iced coco , thai iced coffee , thai lime soda ..
papaya salad with sticky rice , Mango and coconut sticky rice , Roti with condensed milk and banana , coconut ice cream in a white bread bun with coconut sticky rice and peanuts, fresh fruits of rambutan and mangosteen for 30 baht a kilo......oh.....oh...who could forget the fried flat noodles , or the fried pastry's called explosion ***** oh... oh my
heart..... my heart...... my stomach... calls out to you , oh glorious green curry with roti , morning congee with little pork ***** and soy sauce..... come to me my dumpling and noodles let me lick the chillies and sugar off my lips , may i taste once more
the conception of such marvelous treats , unfathomable to the western palate , little sweet corn and flour discs cooked on a special cooker over a real fire...dried squid sold on the back of a bicycle , fried garlic with sticky rice , a pink soup !
I just had a taste memory
****
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Castelfranco Radicchio
wilted slightly
maintaining backbone
Aubergine Du Burkina Faso Eggplant
grilled in olive oil
fresh ground peppercorn
and basil
gently laid onto a delicate bed
bright green and fresh
Cour Di Bue Cabbage
Molokia Purple Sweet Potatoes
julienne and drizzled
La Vecchia Dispensa Balsamic Vinegar
aged 100 years
mingled with the brightest yellow
Amarillo Carrot and thin
rounds of a Jaune Paille Des Vertus Onion
offsetting the purples and yellows
with gleaming white –
art presents itself
as poetry
via recipe
in the fattest nation
Earth has ever known –
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
that leather skin beehive humming in the Hamptons
is just like the ziggarat ghettos of Compton
a fob on a boil on the face of your hidden face
and a stab at your entrails from the inside; commonplace -
Romans demure to your architect
you'll have your symmetries before breakfast...
let no one forget.
gorgeous ****** suns, gallant in emptiness
a horde of unfettered lovelies, spawning petulant ***** to other *****
a lull of ponderous, a bead of serene, swimming in hot pink mist
and peppercorn wavy gravy.
i slay these dragons to form new words
that Oodle your frenzy
and keep you
for mine .
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
Dogfish thunderheads whisper in Seagrove skies
after a dinner of Shiraz and shrimp with peppercorn skids
that filled me warm and these clouds echoing
in the water seem dark without the children
and their crab lights searching the shores
the foam crests roar upon day burnt toes
and I sit and I watch and I write
these words in a strained attempt to capture
Dads margarita redness and Moms new haven beauty.
Sister and I observe on this, mayhaps last trip
as a family lacking a bay, but we are full joyed:
we are contented in sandy sheets.
We are one, for this week, whole
and it is good.
Lord, it is good.
On Jordan's stormy banks we stand
Through the love of God our savior all will be well.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
wherever the peppercorn blows
and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
I have been in love since the moment I was born.
My mother was first and for a long time she held my heart.
At five she still had my love but so did Clint Eastwood.
That poncho wearing, cigarette smoking cowboy was the dad I never had.
In the sixth grade it was Stacy Smith.
She was my Wendy Peppercorn,
my Messiah,
my World Series Ring.
my love.
I made it to high school after
a few brief people put stars in my eyes.
In high school I met a girl
who took all the stars that had ever been in my eyes
multiplied them by all the stars in the sky
and put them back in my eyes, only for her.
Now, three years later,
a ******
excommunicated addict
I am in love again.
He is an author and he writes novels.
He is a novelist.
He is a genius.
He told me:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.
And I have figured that one out.
Until I have devoured him,
until I understand every single one of his literary pieces
I may not die.
I may not.
Until then,
I may love no other.
I may not die.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Period homesteads line Peppercorn Road , meticulous working farms of corn , cotton and sorghum cultivars , rugged gravel drives cut into dried , red clay ditches , Charleston architecture cooling her Summer residents . Double story barns with white washed brick silos , picket fences and blue ribbon cattle .. Sturdy Pole barns shelters surrounded in shamrock clover , the clanging of cowbells as Dairy cows return from her glistening fields ... Catfish feeding frenzies over field corn and evening mayflies , gas porch lights illuminate the family garden with activity in Summer well into night , Crowder peas and Fordhook butter beans , Okra and Butter peas harvested free of Red wasp and Bumblebees as opposed to hungry mosquitos , red chiggers and Crane flies ... Silver washtubs on hot , humid nights , the instant relief of cool well water relieving the pang of harvest .. The creaky screen door and porch ceiling fans , white rockers and good books ...Mason jars filled with sweet tea , hearts filled with adventure and young eyes with sleep .. Coonhounds sing to the ever rising gold Moon .. All was well .. All was most certainly well ...
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
Ubb drunk, millionth – strange peppercorn
blood shoot. I have found looking
through my skin dangerous –
like reading closer to a line on the edge of a book.
They give me milligram feasts,
balloons suspended from the slim
of my bank hand. When I look out
to the window, birds swim through my eyes
with a message from God
saying
*this is where you began
and we cannot change it.*
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
Off I go to the shroud of cover, in a deep far off avenue where body salts melt and white turns to black,
misread, misinterpreted and enjoyed by others @ my own expense.
sunshine, seashells and peppercorn bits
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
The house had an evil aspect as
It hung out over the street,
Casting a permanent shadow there
Where the market stalls would meet,
The first floor was half-timbered, with
The ground floor made of stone,
The windows were made of pebble glass
And the window frames of bone.
No one had lived in the house for years
Til the Robinson’s moved in,
A couple, straight from the wedding church
Where they’d cleansed themselves from sin,
They’d listened to all of the rumours that
The house had its share of ghosts,
But the cheapness of the peppercorn rent
Had influenced them most.
The house was built where a charnel house
Had stood in the days of plague,
Where later a debtors’ prison stood
Though its history was vague,
They said there had been a gallows there
With a trapdoor through the floor,
And the arm of the ancient gallows now
Was the lintel of a door.
But the Robinson’s had sailed right in
With a mop and a whisking broom,
‘In no time, it’ll be **** and span,’
Said Sally, within the gloom,
While Brad had opened the shutters then
To let all the light stream in,
‘We’ll flush the ghosts from their waiting posts
With a broom and a pound of Vim!’
They dusted down the old furniture
Left sitting since George the Fourth,
And turned the old oak table round
So the end was facing north,
‘But still there’s a dampness in the air,
And a tension that feels grim,’
Sally said, as they lay in bed,
And she clung, so close to him.
‘Are you sure that they can’t get in,’ she said
‘Now we’ve flushed them out in the street?’
But Brad was trying to understand
Why the bed was cold at his feet.
‘Why are the sheets so damp,’ he said,
‘And they’re cold, as cold as sin,’
Sally was shivering, fit to burst
Though the sun came streaming in.
They sat at the old oak table with
Their bowls of soup, home-made,
And Sally reached out to hold his hand
But he started back, dismayed,
The soup was thick in the serving bowl
It was still three-quarters full,
When a swirl in the murky liquid then
Revealed a grinning skull.
Sally shrieked, but she couldn’t speak
And Brad had held his breath,
‘We’ve got to get out of this house today,
We’re surrounded here by death.’
The shutters slammed on the windows and
The doors flew shut on their own,
And barring the pebble windows were
The frames that were made of bone.
The people out in the market heard
The screams at an early hour,
Looked knowingly at each other, said,
‘They have them in their power!’
And Brad was hung from the lintel when
They finally broke inside,
While Sally was dead by a grinning skull
In the dress of a new-wed bride.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Choose your standing
Between black and white entrancing
Spelling serendipity with a chance to unfurl
Then be brought to the world
Between straight line and curl
It's the closest you get to real life
If you didn't get it then
You just might do this time
Where the dove may go
Crow follows
In the blackest night
Moon doth shine
When the peppercorn
Falls upon the meadow in the snow
Then duality once again hits the spot
Take a walk
On the wild slide
Slip and uncover
The truths you never know
When you step in line
How the ivory
Shows the irony
When the ebony saves one soul
As the king hurries round one last corner
The queen cuts through to show him to the light
Take a walk
On the wild slide
Slip and uncover truths you never know
If you step in line
As we are one
One love as we are
Believe in the words
It will take you far
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Hello John..
Mr Phantom its been awhile.."
Do you remember what I am here for?
Of course!"
Lets see Phantom, Phantom oh here it is!"
Three bottles of Jack Daniels, And two Crown royles..."
And peppercorn spice, ground pepper, salt, course salt, cinnamon, and garlic spice."
Cash or credit Mr Phantom?"
Cash."
Thank you sir always good to see you.!"
Until next time soon my friend.
Sozen, Log 1212< Earth : On my trip back I am delighted to have Earth on my path home.. I always stop by to get the best drinks in the quadtrant alongside the best food flavoring one could find.. I have not yet found any place that can make such delights!! I will arrive planetside in 12 days...
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
‘To whomever it may concern,’ he wrote,
Hunched over an evening star,
‘This, my last will and testament
For you, whoever you are,
I leave your planet, the universe
To face an unthinking fate,
I tried to guide, but your priests all lied
And repentance came too late.’
‘I was the Lord of Creation, set
Each atom of you in place,
Designed and sculptured your godlike form
Placed heaven in every face,
I gave you animals, birds and bees
And fish in the waters deep,
Flowers and colours and stately trees
And that blessèd rest, called sleep.’
‘I took the rib of an Adam, as
He slept in my garden home,
And made for him a companion, that
He’d never have need to roam,
But now you treat as a chattel, she
Who loves, do you think it odd?
That man is born of a woman, while
A woman was born of God!’
‘I hoped and wished you would be content
With the home that I made for you,
I charged you just a peppercorn rent
That you would acknowledge my due,
But you turned from me and created gods
Of mammon, and things unclean,
You fought each other and played the odds
For you said I was unseen.’
‘I couldn’t reveal myself to you
While giving you all free will,
I hoped you’d do what you had to do,
Driven by good, not ill,
But how many false religions now
Have taken my name in vain,
Have turned me into an evil god
As my tears fall down, like rain.’
‘You’ve stolen my nuclear secrets, though
You wouldn’t know where they’re from,
And rather than make some godly thing,
You’ve manufactured a bomb.
So I leave you now to your schemes and fate
For you failed to reck my rod.’
Now heaven is closed, the sign on the gate…
‘Farewell, Best wishes, God!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
On a night like today, in a sea of shadows and whites, we ride thick on a camel toed carousel, tainted and unlocked, unkempt and hollow, we shake to the cores of your features, deep pallets of staining whites, we lay afraid and assuming, ready for something to roll deep beneath these peppercorn brownie sheets. We dive shallow beneath assuming depths. Angled, silver octopus, arms stretched below your sea urchin ways. I wait infantile, an ever aging fetus floating through your chromosomes, very full and very hungry. This could be a stifling kind of like , but here I roam, free abd unnerving lushing down your spine
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
hello,
butterfly kisses,
cracked peppercorn and earl grey
tea, never mind
your shaky fingers,
blue velvet touch in golden
mornings, you colour my
heart, you colour my little
life
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC