"peppered" poems
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes upon. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.
That is what it is. It is beauty.
I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?
That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
They enter the café just as some sappy pop song is playing
They order then immediately hug
Embrace
Swaying to one side, together, like the wind
Encircling the leaning tower of Pisa
Then teetering to the other solstice
Foot to foot, smile to smile, hand round skirted waist
Forearm resting on his tall blazered shoulders
This is forgivable in the young
Those teeny-boppers with defiant hair-cuts and posters
However, he has peppered hair
She, though voluptuous and tanned,
Must be in her 30s.
“Affair.”
My cynical devil snickers, between sips
But I sit mesmerized, and for the first time ever
Envious.
The chairs and the tables somehow seem more distant
The song now sounds as if it’s funneled through some crackling phonograph
The very light disentangles itself from stones
It’s as if a sky has opened up in my chest
Flying high overhead, one lone raven,
Its slow shadow
Gliding across my heart
Oh, how I miss you
5 states away
I see your smile on magazine covers
I vaguely sniff your scent on passing women
Yet you remain elusive - immaterial, haunting,
While this visceral assault
Leaves me bewildered - empty
An echo in a chiaroscuro cavern
Fading for thee
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sniffles as Ainhara gives her a
handkerchief which she uses to
wipe her tears.
"Thank you, guys," Lyn whispers,
giving them a weak smile.
'Well, at least she smiles,' Esshi
thought.
Ainhara has a bright smile. "My lady,
your lady mother gave Bael orders to
make this soup for you. She instructs
that you eat this."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Esshi pushes the serving trolley
to her Queen's side, she lifts the gold lid
and Lyn looks at the soup; steaming
kale in a beefy broth with chopped
peppered sausages, lamb cubes,
onions, garlic, mint chopped potatoes
and carrots.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Kale, really? I hate kale," Lyn whines,
gently pushing the bowl away. "I don't want it!"
Esshi and Ainhara look at each other and smile.
*'Still acts like a child when her lady mother
commands she eats her vegetables!'* giggles Esshi.
"Your mother says you must eat it, My Lady."
Ainhara chuckles. "It will help with reduce
your stress and help relax your body."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sighs and mutters under her breath,
"I hate it when she does this! She knows
I hate the smell of kale! I swear, I'm going
to outlaw the vegetable!" She held hers
nose up and huffs at the end of her
statement, making Ainhara and Esshi smile.
'At least she is in better spirits now.'
thought Esshi.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
It's not cute,
I don't find it funny.
The lack of concern for education,
And your glasses aren't cute either.
I'm growing quite tired of the lame leaders.
Expectation to teach the future generation.
The warriors, in a future of unknowing,
By the ignorant, traditionalist.
And I could sit here all day,
Catching glints of light off your hip glasses.
Peppered with egocentric, infantile remarks.
So cute
The lack of education
So cute
The lack of nutrition
So cute
The false profits; the obtuse teachers
So cute
Your hip glasses.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say **** you" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
The Peppered Pickle Clown
(Peppered Pickle Day)
This is a story you may not know
And it's banned in pickle town
It's about a peppered pickle
That became a circus clown
He started out his short life
Looking through a stained glass jar
Watching his sweet pickled brother
Become a kosher star
Although his peppered pickled life was sweet
This peppered pickle wanted more
He would join the circus as a clown
And be a smash that fans adored
At first it started slowly
No fans would call his name
But a peppered pickle as a clown
Well thats funny just the same
As time went on he made them laugh
They started yelling for him more
Then a show was given just to him
And a peppered pickle day was born
All the fans they ordered pickles
On peppered pickles they would gorge
Then one day there came a time
When peppered pickles they ran short
The peppered pickle clown knew right then
That it was time to make his mark
So he made a deal with Vlasic corp.
To put peppered pickles in their jars
Well Vlasic corp. invited him
To come take a private tour
They said that he would relish it
And be a cut up in the stores
They put the peppered pickle clown
In a clown chair and tied him down
They said it was for safety
As the belt showed him all around
The belt went slow when starting out
Picked up speed as it went along
The peppered pickle clown was sliced and diced
Vlasic didn't clown around
So remember the peppered pickle clown
When you shop at your home store
He gave his life for stardom
And thats why you now pay more
Today is peppered pickle day
And should be known the world around
Made famous by a sweet delight
The peppered pickle clown
Carl J. Roberts
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
She steps out,
Her pea coat peppered in cigarette ashes
Her eyes contain a mystery concealed by her dark revlon lashes
Her crimson heart shaped painted lips aren't enough to distract me from her blue sequin dress, Tightly draped to shape her perfect Pocahontas hips
God bless her sole,
It was too cold for peep toe pumps but venerating value was her goal
I felt foolish handing her flowers,
For when holding them next to her they lost all their vivid surrealism
"They're wild flowers",
I told her,
"California Bluebells"
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
My room is quiet
Blue curtains block out the world that lurks just outside
Waiting to hurt me.
8 pm.
I know that purple dusk is gathering outside my walls
The same way the bruises in my heart threaten to eclipse the sun.
I'm scared.
I don't look at the veins showing under my skin because they
Remind me too much of the indigo, under-oxygenated blood
That spills too often from my arms,
Reminds me of my father's face purple with rage
When I told him I didn't think I was supposed to be
In this body, wear these clothes, be this gender.
9pm. Navy skies peppered with stars I will not see again
Purple pen writing apologies to my parents
Heart pumping indigo, under-oxygenated blood too fast,
Knows it doesn't have much time,
Can't breathe, face purple, face blue,
Can't breathe, dark vision, indigo stars,
Can't breathe.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
next to my cup of hot bitter coffee
my bowl has a cone
an avalanche of heartache cereals
that is about to fall...
a plate of
peppered uncertainties omelet
beckons to be gulped and wiped out....
but, alas, i feel already stuffed
i can no longer swallow...
-----------
i decided to skip breakfast....
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Well Done.
She said, but don't ***** it up. Its a start.
How could I?
Your sauciness drove right thru my heart.
Will you please be my bottom bun?
Baby, you're my seed number one.
Sesame wants Sesayou
Tardy to your selfworth day party
Salty, and peppered with hardy haught looks
I've overcooked this simple match up
Maybe baby I'm plain ketchup.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
And all the armor, tagged and tied,
And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
And bed a thing to kneel beside!)
The bravest one stood tall above
The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love;
I'd naught to do but think, at night.
The bravest man has littlest brains;
That chalky fool from Astolat
With all her dying and her pains!--
Thank God, I helped him over that.
I found him not unfair to see--
I like a man with peppered hair!
And thus it came about. Ah, me,
Tristram was busied otherwhere....
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
3.3k
*Ever look to the night sky beyond tiring windscreen wipers?
They screech, exasperated by an army of droplets hurtling downwards.
Ever lean on the dashboard gazing upwards into the downpour?
Constant and linear; like how stars zoom past spaceships in old movies.
A whole universe of dazzling stars.
That's how she lived; her aura a universe peppered with light.
Light forever radiating towards captivated eyes.
Oh, she loved with a love unparalleled.*
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Dean and I loitered on iron horseback
Flaked with nuances and peppered with a keen stutter
Our jokes had weight
Weight creates a gravitational pull
Our jokes had a gravitational pull
My clone emerged in the rearview mirror with his girlfriend
Dean and I thought that was funny
They were attracted to us, for once
We got a bite to eat, my head, like a gyroscope
Universal karma
Revolving, self-stabilization
Into the palm of reconciliation
Forced by nature
With interdependence
A means to measure
And counter each sentence
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats
Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins
The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior
Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles
The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze
Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land
The land of things and endless breadth
This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams
Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Maybe it's just because the color of these hillsides
is a shade or two darker than the sky,
but I am unwittingly content with these fiddle strings,
nodding on the porch, under Christmas lights
on a rainy July evening, peppered with the scent
of apple cake and something smoky
while our bare feet are stomping to my grandfather's lullaby--
a familiar melody that I've never really known,
plucked and bowed, more sentient that I'll ever be.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
Treble, tunes and solemn symphonies.
Trouble, wrecked and poignant stories.
Classic harmonies and plastic picks,
Picking on strings and drumming sticks.
A tale as old as his peppered hair,
Brooding lyrics of his dead girl, so fair.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
05.24.12
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Now,
there is the contour of her upturned forehead
nosetip kissed by the moonlight
and shadows frame the shape of her eyes
soft wrinkles at their tapered corners
And my god, the color of them
I stare, squint
A misty night, but they are distinct even in the dark:
bronze beads nestled into slight furrows
gossamer, reflecting starlight.
The sweep across the peppered sky that we stand beneath
Chestnut disks floating in milky spheres
unmistakably hers
full and round, soaking in curiosity
handsome mahogany irises bound by the gold tracing their edges.
The way the light makes those disks look glassy
Semitransparent in the moon’s glow
How they shed their boundaries
shifting, swimming
layers on the eyelid horizon
They shimmer, and stir.
And now,
they rest their gaze on me.
I inhale
dare to step closer
The bustle in the back of my brain—
A hum, and the purr of pleasure at her beatitude.
Mar 7, 2023
Mar 7, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
How do you begin
to talk about trust,
when every thought
that swirls around in your brain
has additional questions
attached to it:
is it real?
is it made up?
is it rational?
is it an overreaction?
is it temporary?
is it permanent?
Tangled root systems
of the same questions,
for every thought.
And I haven’t even
started on
Feelings,
[that’s a different poem
altogether].
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when, for starters,
you can’t trust yourself.
Grow up,
with silence
and
shrugged shoulders
and
the helpless statements of:
I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t know,
in response
to all your scientific parents’ questions –
questions peppered with
“logical”
and
“rational”
and
*“you understand where we’re coming from
…right?”*
and
eventually,
every time you think or feel anything at all
and have no explanation,
you’re left with one question:
how can you not know?
how can you not know?
how can you not know?
-
Say a word enough times
and it starts to lose its meaning:
trust
trust
trust
trust
Is it even a word,
or just a lucky combination of letters?
-
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when you’ve been let down
not once, not twice, not three times…
well, what’s the point of trying to recall,
when you’ve lost count of the times.
It would be one thing,
if you knew
why you’ve been abandoned,
or why people hurt you,
or why everything gets to you so often,
[is it you or is it them,
is it you or is it them,
is it you or is it them?]
but it’s the not knowing
that makes you realize
that people as a whole
are:
Unpredictable,
Unreliable,
Untrustworthy.
You’re not usually too angry about it,
this is just Reality.
-
This is just Reality, but
it’s the not knowing
that kills you,
closes up your heart
in a certain kind of way
after a while.
Oh,
you’ll talk to people,
if you must,
say whatever seem to be the right things,
be the listening ear they need,
if that’s what’s required of you,
be good, understanding, kind, empathetic,
to the best of your ability,
but you won’t Rely on them,
won’t accept statements of
I can help.
That’s a different story.
-
If you can’t trust
People.
[Forget about your family, the ones who supposedly love you,
with their helpful advice of “get a job, be useful, it’ll make you feel better.”
Forget about the docs and therapists, the ones who supposedly make it better,
with pills or overpriced talking sessions.
Forget friends, the ones who supposedly are your support system,
with “I’m here for you” and “I can help” that lead nowhere.]
then what you are left with
is trusting yourself
out of necessity.
And you’re back to where you started.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
It's in the morning, at the rise of the sun, when memories float back to you and the remnants of your smile from last night reappears in the soreness of your cheeks and the tightening of your jaw where beauty manifests itself throughout nature.
From the distant tolling of church bells, tolling away in their perfect habitual melody, to the sounds of lovers silently waking one another and relishing at the sounds of their respected voices.
Its in this moment that the dream and reality mesh with one another. Never truly revealing which is which leaving you in a blissful ignorance peppered with false hopes and beautiful truths.
Its through the fog of your alcohol addled mind that a light appears and guides you to wonders untold, leading to a discovery of discoveries revealing a magic long lost to this universe.
Down the neck of a dark blue bottle lined with platinum flows my intuition and aspiration. Its now that i drink and discover a new reality.
Namaste.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC