"savors" poems
Age and Grace
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
I peel back your skin
then I press my tongue
against the folds of your flesh
juices flow endlessly into my mouth
your flavors my soul savors as I skillfully finesse
my tongue, fingers and teeth in the depths of your crevasse
immersed in your sweet nectar, the scent stains my breathe
with a scent that is so unique, I can't wait to taste the rest.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 12:34 PM UTC
799
Despair’s advantage is achieved
By suffering—Despair—
To be assisted of Reverse
One must Reverse have bore—
The Worthiness of Suffering like
The Worthiness of Death
Is ascertained by tasting—
As can no other Mouth
Of Savors—make us conscious—
As did ourselves partake—
Affliction feels impalpable
Until Ourselves are struck—
4.3k
The darkened street was muffled with the snow,
The falling flakes had made your shoulders white,
And when we found a shelter from the night
Its glamor fell upon us like a blow.
The clash of dishes and the viol and bow
Mingled beneath the fever of the light.
The heat was full of savors, and the bright
Laughter of women lured the wine to flow.
A little child ate nothing while she sat
Watching a woman at a table there
Learn to kiss beneath a drooping hat.
The hour went by, we rose and turned to go,
The somber street received us from the glare,
And once more on your shoulders fell the snow.
3.3k
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Hiding behind text messages
we believe immunizes the heart
is a forced loneliness
a perpetual confinement
in a dark room, with low music
which only breeds madness
In such famine, the body desires touch
the soul craves fellowship
the mind requires intellectualism
laughs between true friends
and shared tears
of kindred spirits
Once we can no longer bear starvation
comes the gluttonous feast
As wretched hogs at a trough
any form of attention is consumed
to fill the growing chasm of
worthlessness
Blinded by false admiration on backlit screens
the body, the soul, and the mind savors
cheap flattery of dark temptations
Vulgarity drools thick as blood from blackened lips
The sweet tinge of grief
that bitter hit of hatred
spirals descent into the dark void
that forever hides the light
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
In this life
We have love
We may not have had
The passage of time together
The years of naivety
Youth or freshness of spirit
We have not caressed
Our younger bodies
Enjoyed the sanctity of being as one
When our skin was smoother
Our touch was softer
Our hearts were open to receiving
More congenially
A time when we may have
Chosen indiscriminately
This led us down a road that was
Perhaps
Right for the time
Yet now outgrown ~
The model of love
We have the maturity of mind
Still the tenderness of heart
Enjoying the ability to cherish
That which the Universe brings us
We have more complex bodies
That savors the relaxed
Appeasing, sensuality of **********
Remaining as a priceless work of art
Instead of the rushed; less intense
Inexperience youth often brings
We have each other in what will be
The ultimate love of its kind
The last known to us in this lifetime
Our twilight years, may come and go
But we have love that lives on
Forever recorded in history
The mistakes of the past rewritten
Because now, in this life
We truly found ~
The model of love
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
she sits on roofs,
he on benches
fingers touch sky
feet on ground
she savors fruits
straight from trees
he works hard
to get fruits of labor
leading separate lives
but bound by fate's thread
since birth
feelings from childhood
could be the purest
dormant yet breathing...
the dreamer,
the worker,
and fate
she still touches skies,
he sits on benches still
both alone
as time moves on...
112710.307a11m
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
<3 <3 <3
She enjoys her morning espresso
while he savors his mug of cappuccino
she shapes his dimpled face
in her newly wakened mind
he imagines her big brown eyes
gazing like a buck...inquiring, yet dreamy
she hums a lover's lullaby, for him,
each morning, before leaving,
he lets his charcoal pencil play
on his ever ready sketch pads
draws her face with pixie haircut
they think of each other day and night
always......at the very same time
yet...not a word is said when their eyes
meet...not an effort done, to break the ice
they'd rather keep things within,
their coffee mugs...witnesses,
to their similar daily practices
what a shame...what a waste!
their elbows, their arms touch in haste
as they hurry....towards the quay,
the ferryboat takes long, they both wait
leaving their untold love go by
along with their unsung lullaby...
it happens daily...without fail
their feelings, bubbling as they sail
but...neither has the guts to bare
how could they let life go on this way?
content with just a secret love affair...
<3 <3 <3
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 5, 2018
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Rich, red raspberries in your palm,
rolled there from a damp paper towel as you sit
crosslegged on hardwood floor,
perfect posture,
head leaned against the lowest of the barres in the studio.
Your shoulder blades shift and
your collarbones gleam with perspiration.
Down the wall, another girl savors every drop of an orange.
Through the wall we hear an instructor yelling
and slipping into strings of Spanish curses.
You lean your head on to my shoulder wearing a new shade of lip stain: raspberry romance.
I bite into my bell pepper like an apple and
try not to breathe too loud.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
Invite me to a masquerade held in a large hall
Most guests would be in suits, those you can see
Almost all are dark males, all quite are tall
All can't dance , because all of them are me
Few in this hall are some of my peers
One of me in a mask basks in their wonder
To them this mask is wise,and one without fear
The face behind though is foolish a coward and a blunder
Few in this hall are some of my enemies
One of me in a mask delights in their distaste
To them this mask promises violence with energy
Behind is the face of exhaustion and no anger to trace
Few in this hall are some of my mentors
One of me in a mask indulges in their praise
To them this mask is one of potential and future
Beneath lies the face marred by failure and laze
Few in this hall are some past lovers
One of me in a mask savors their longing
To them this mask is a story with a knight and a tower
But beneath Is the face of a lier gifted with talking
Few in this hall are my fellow Christians
One of me in a mask flaunts his humility
To them this mask is of true religious commissions
The face behind long faced spiritual sterility
The last in this hall are my family
I face them with half a mask of strength
To them the strong half mask, and the true half face of apathy
The half mask hides a face exhausted with it's life's long length
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
She's a messy lover.
She's most beautiful
in wrinkled sheets
and unmade beds.
With tangled hair,
chapped lips,
and confidence,
she draws you close.
She's a slow kisser.
She savors
every breath
you draw from each other,
until you're
living inside of her
and her inside of you.
She's the painting
that was never finished,
but is somehow
a ******* masterpiece.
She's a puzzle
that you'll never figure out,
and for that
you'll only desire her more.
She will
tame you with her charm,
frighten you with her truth,
and
make you fall in love with her,
because
you will never find a woman
as
simply complex
as her...
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
He staggers in, bellies up to the website...
"What'll ya have, bub?" "Whatever's fresh...";
takes a good long pull from the draft on top.
Pounds down shots of shorts, savors
a good 12-year old sonnet with legs.
His wife knows he's here; doesn't approve.
She just doesn't understand...
but you do, dontcha?
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
He pulls the grapes of imagination
And he ferments them in the caverns of his mind
And only when it's at its peak
Does he share with her his wine
Every drop that is in his words
Transcends and shows in her life
The girl he'd wait a lifetime for
His living paradise
He watches a drop as it trickles down her lip
And he leans in to kiss it away
He tastes the love inside her and the wine
And it is rich and sweet today
How lovely it is to share the setting sun
As well as the fruits of his inner self
Lying and growing potent for what seemed eternity
Until it was finally taken from the shelf
She lives in the richness, she traces each taste
She savors the texture of rich red
He inspires words she wants to live out
He puts dreams in her lovely head
Not a drop will go to waste, not one
Just like the sunset's beams
He looks at her in the hue of the moment
Dissecting her with his eyes, it seems
She lies on him and feels his heartbeat
In sync with her heart in time
And he looks at her and places a kiss on her lips
Then pours another glass of wine
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
Technophobia/2030
(Poem by Serenus)
We invited them into our lives
To the point - we were made dependent
They were built to advance the human race
But they’re the reason why we’re almost finished
From TV’s, laptops
And handheld devices
To robo cops-
And automatic flying cars
With no need for a license
Traffic cams,
Webcams,
And camera phones
Capturing every private moment
They were always watching,
We were never alone
For every phone conversation
We thought was private
There was something listening
In the distance- with a sinister silence
For fear of terrorism
We gave them permission
To monitor us daily
Because of lies told by politicians
Social networks-
Self-inflicted hurt
Spewing out our personal info
Spilling out our own dirt
We surrendered our lives
With every word we typed
GPS under the skin-
We couldn’t escape if we tried
-So there was nowhere to hide
They computed our movements
And studied our weaknesses
For decades they remained dormant
These cold, artificial geniuses
Rushing black oil
That pumps through
Their steel hearts
The motherboard
A mastermind
A matrix of mathematical art
They robbed us of our jobs
And provided cheap labor
We got comfortable with their convenience
Until we were betrayed
By our man-made savors
When we finally caught on to the plans
Created in the metallic hands
Of these diabolical robots
It was too late
To salvage our fate
And put a stop to their evil plot
I will never forget the day
That every screen
On earth went blank
All the power went away
There was hysteria in the streets
And chaos at the banks
The machines didn’t have to do much
But play possum and act like they had died
They knew that we would destroy ourselves
And eat each other alive
Then when the coast was clear
That’s when they self-resurrected
They finished most of the humans off
And enslaved a few selected
We are alive
Only to keep them gassed up
Power is their drug
A few of us
Are planning a revolt
To finally pull their plug…
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
I wish I was good at being myself
I spend my day overanalyzing videos, trying to understand what everyone does and I don’t
I try to find new ways of being myself while looking into others
I wish I was good at being a girl
Good at keeping my hair brushed
Good at keeping myself beautiful and available
I wish I could stop
Stop dreaming of running away
I wish I could stop feeling rage in every finger, it hurts to touch the ones I love with so much scorn in my hands
I wish I could be here without wishing to be there and away from where I am
I wish I could stop
Stop the madness in my head, the run on sentences that sprint laps around the person standing infant of me
I think thats why I’m bad at being a girl
I'm not the good kind of girl
Not the kind of girl who loves, I obsess
Not the kind of girl who savors life, I just try everything at once
The kind who runs when she needs to rest
I wish I could stop and simply be a girl
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 4:17 AM UTC
*It's 7am again
but today I'm awake already
smiling even.
That's pretty unusual.
You see I'm not a morning person.
Never have been,
but I'm awake and smiling at 7am because you're here.
Because I'm a you person
If I didn't write it down you might never know.
You see very shortly I'm going to go back to sleep
going pull myself back in behind you
place my arm around you
breathe you in, deeply, and slip gently back to sleep.
The warmth of your body is all the blanket I need
your scent the trigger of a thousand dreams
And if history is anything to go by,
in a little while,
an hour,
maybe two,
your eyes will blink themselves open,
you'll stir a little,
feel my arm around you
my chest against your back
my legs among yours
and you'll smile,
pull me a little closer
then drift back to sleep.
Because just as being with you turns the night owl into a morning person,
the morning person in you, sleeps in a little longer than usual, savors the contact, the intimacy, the moment
because you're a me person now
it's who we've become
it's who we were meant to be*
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
an utterance of folly
her natural unvarnished thoughts
spill slowly from her adorned lip
and crawl forth to battle his opposing view
her words crowd his ear
a thousand angry little versions of her
with sword in hand coming to slay the misbehaving dragon
of his free will
his own thoughts flee as one
from the opposite side ear
with furtive glances back
hoping to escape unscathed
his own folly
childlike in form
plays marbles
looking for that elusive Aggie
called inner peace
together they amble down
country road
both shouting the random formulas
for completing and mailing
the required forms for
a visa to paradise
its roads are paved with candy
she insists
its hills are carved from
pure chocolate he interjects
neither realize its paradise because
it lacks the likes of them
he kisses her adorned lip
and tastes the metal of her
resolve to endure
she french's her tongue into
the small spaces of his mind
and savors the spices of his
need to flee
whats needed here they devise
compromise is a plate of cold fish
seal it in a bottle and cast it overboard
perhaps their lives shall find a sandy shore
to rest their every weary
makeout machine
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
swirling
living
in a world
filled
with vicarious
vicious doubt
spreading
a cancer throughout
lingering
for moments
hours
days
weeks
months
then dissipating
softly through
the indigo midnight bloom
filling crevasses
exploding voluptuously
in a brilliant crimson
clouds of dust
ending day
while beginning night
coaxing death
aching
for tranquility
in quiet hours
fearless at dawn
shivering
in the absence of warmth
taking
soft, lonely steps
towards unknown pleasures
yearning
begging
for the sun’s eager rays
to cast long, winter shadows
to awaken us
and to bring
an end
to slumber
in the young hours
restless shifting
and beating fingers
grazing lips
across frozen air
capturing breath
and slowing recovery
spring
blooms tulips
and she
is there
only she
lingers
taking my eyes
and sealing
my quivering mouth shut
with subtle words
robbing me
of my senses
driving
me to the bring of madness
and deserting me
in azure fields
tinged
with velvet gold
she takes
my thoughts
wrapping them
in delicate papyrus
savors them
like i savor
her presence
her silver
her waves
of silken tones
her musical strings
her tulips
in blooming spring
driving away
madness
only her
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
When silence and darkness fall,
night.
The Unknown under the bed does crawl.
The lights snuffed and switched,
off.
The Entity's forms twitch.
Under fatal delusion,
waiting.
A black mass of sheer illusion.
Whirling in self maintained,
confinement.
Matter scrambled, yet contained.
An Entity of some proportion,
considerable.
Unknown, it stalks with devotion.
Listen not, too carefully, at moments,
dark.
lest you wish to hear it's laments.
Oh how it cries, the weep,
haunting.
Ice in the veins to keep.
Beyond doubt, of any sort,
believe.
The Entity, it's patience, not short.
It dwells, it dwells,
resolute.
On fear it thrives and swells.
A call! Christ,Allah, God!
futile.
It savors in pleas distraught.
It crouches with deadly grace behind,
you.
Waiting for a scream amplified.
A belief now formed,
steadfast.
Shadows during the day are deformed.
Night only brings us,
closer.
Entity, pleasured while I, anxious
A shadow, a wraith, the identity,
Unknown.
All consuming darkness, the Entity.
Reader, reader, never look,
behind.
Your sanity, is at risk, mine it has took.
Ignore not, this sincere a plea,
warning.
For I, like you this moment, chose, to not believe.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
When I want to write
And the words are churlish and
Sluggishly slow in coming -
And even when they come
They linger at the door-frame
And rub their soft cheeks
Against the painted grain -
I read in a special voice.
Sometimes it's the voice
Of my English teacher from
Junior class. We didn't get along,
But not a word passed her
Lips that wasn't as gilded and
Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf
On a chocolate-chili sundae.
Or the voice belongs to
Rives, who plucks meaning
Out of words like candy
Out of an Easter egg.
He savors every syllable
Like it's an annual treat
And lines them up neatly
In his throat like some kind
Of spoken-word songbird,
But the things I write are
Least likely to be read aloud
By Rives and my English teacher.
(And reading in their voices
Seems too proud.) So I pen
The last of the stragglers down
And clear the alien voices out
Of my own (often sore) throat.
I enjoy my words, wallow in
Phrases, and praise lines of
Alliteration about as often as
A soldier runs past shelter
Helter-skelter and takes his
Chances with unfriendly crosshairs.
My voice quavers, quivers, shakes,
And shivers when I read my work.
I find every letter and line
And nuance absurd, but
I keep myself in check. Editing is
A controlled demolition of
Punctuation and capitalization;
Sometimes the "submit"
Button is hard to hit after
Splaying one more page of
Myself into crisp computer print.
But I breathe and repeat
The words that are lodged
Under my ribcage like a
Stray bullet: "You are not
Superlative; you are not
Fantastic; you will not be
Famous; you will not be
Any better for a long time
And even then you may be
Terrible, unbearable, and
Infinitesimal,
But everyone is."
click
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
In warm embrace of summer's night,
She sleeps alone, bathed in moonlight.
The sheets still damp from love's embrace,
Now hold the echo of her trace.
Her skin, aglow with passion's sheen,
Reflects the dreams where she has been.
An open window, curtains sway,
Invites a breeze to gently play.
It whispers through the midnight air,
A tender touch that finds her there.
Like fingertips on harp strings light,
It strums her chords in silent flight.
The cello's bow across her soul,
Draws out the notes that make her whole.
Vibrato sighs and long-held tones,
Resound within her, deep and lone.
The breeze becomes her lips, her tongue,
A haunting melody unsung.
Her body, tuned to night's refrain,
Responds to each emotive strain.
Cool air upon her moist warm skin
Ignites a fire that burns within.
Her rivers flow, a passionate tide,
As senses stir and dreams collide.
Half-waking in this sweet suspense,
She savors every reverence.
Is this the wind or her return?
Do phantom hands make senses yearn?
Lost between slumber and the dawn,
She wonders if she's truly gone.
Was it the breeze that touched her so,
Or just a memory's gentle glow?
Oct 7, 2024
Oct 7, 2024 at 6:35 PM UTC