"savours" poems
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
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The sun-filled corridor
Burns brightly in the heat of
That ephemeral, sweltering season.
She sits at the edge of the hallway,
Looking at the other side wistfully,
Her eyes seem to be reaching out to the other side.
To just be on that side for one moment;
To be nearer to the light, instead of staying in this place
of darkness. Heart filled with despair, the streams from the river
Fall freely down her alabaster colored face.
Her hands reaching out, pleading for a warm touch,
A Valentine embrace; a Christmas kiss under the mythical mistletoe.
People with their eyes hooked to their silicate screens
Ignore her. Even she calls out to them for attention, but they don’t
Hear. Their minds are too far into themselves. They don’t care. Nor
They ever will, much to her chagrin.
The silence kills her the most.
It’s the antithesis of cacophony.
Would she rather a discordant note pervading
the entire room than suffering through silence?
She still remembers the day she lost her voice.
The day she felt that the world was coming to an end because she wasn’t
Good enough for the masses of mainstream people who never lose
Anything but hours of sleep.
This girl can’t lose sleep because she never can sleep.
She can’t feel anything. She can’t taste the sweetness of the chocolate logs
That stay on the table near the Christmas tree. She watches as her old family
Savours every dark, sugary, nearly sinful taste of it. She can’t feel the texture of
The wall. She can’t even see past the house. She can never leave. Not since that
Fateful day. Do they still remember their daughter? Has she become a distant,
yet inevitably ephemeral scrapbook remnant?
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Dreams flower in the silence of morning,
Fragile wishes
For tomorrow's tomorrows....
I feel his touch,
Tangible,
My heightened pulse
Aroused;
The wanton shivers,
Desirous and smitten;
The magma flows, deep in my soul;
Where his scorch of passion burns...
Embers sear, crimson,
Masquerading masked desires,
Dripping from his tongue's tip;
Sultry trickles graze upon my flesh,
A gentle sting, as fire-licks
His breath across my thighs,
A bite of ecstasy, murmur-whispering
Carnal need…
Imprints of insatiable,
Bind me willingly,
A fiery bandage
Piercing the scorch of hungry lips
Flaming my *******
With breath dissolved inside a kiss...
He savours the honey stream,
Branding his name upon my
Swelling, luscious pink…
Deeply buried
Arching into his mouth
Unable to contain the flame
Tambourines of skin seep ecstasy,
Ripen succulence untamed...
Kaleidoscoping emotions
Rainbow the thunder of my heart;
Milk and honey fuse,
Pulsing,
As rivers of love flood my core...
One love,
One passion,
One desire,
Bodies merging..........
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Clear skies are often coldest,
Tempests' temper seems subdued.
Sunlight skims the tiles of rooftops,
Stops.
Savours,
Admires the view.
The sky was never blue.
Obsidian haze and gunmetal days
Light the life we choose.
Blackened,
Slightly bruised.
Broken yet not dismayed.
Too long we have been walking,
Proud in our shroud of the grey.
My brother, my teacher,
My foe and my friend.
Our ghosts shall speak
Once more at the end.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
In the water that serpents drink and fishes mate in,
humans clean their pots.
The water drinks that dirt and oil,
it savours that hint of turmeric and burnt potato skin. It's a complete meal.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
The boardwalk hides the bloodstains.
Coveting.
He wrings his hands, licks his lips.
Savours them.
So many mottled sins.
They age well, so often forgotten,
But not by the boardwalk.
Oh, he remembers.
Barrels and barrels,
To sate his thirst –
The thirst of thousands.
Still, sate is quite the lie,
For, try as he might,
And though he certainly enjoys the quest,
Empty barrels salt the throat.
Taunt. Torture.
And he is always thirsty.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the *** city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
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She...she responds to a soothing bath.
He...he prefers a different path.
They each disrobe from the day's affairs,
the formal restraints they each do share.
Their clothes lay scattered about the floor,
both stand naked at a tiled shore.
She eases herself into this sleeve,
a temperate knitted liquid weave.
He guides the stream from it’s perched spout,
the water finding the perfect route.
His face is wet, his eyes are shut tight.
She prefers ambient candle-light.
She gently sponges her supple skin.
He grips the soap...oh, so masculine.
She contemplates his rugged terrain,
he puts his hands out to feel the rain.
His caress yields a lathery foam,
her fingers begin a downward roam.
He too diverges, or so rather,
deviates from the task to lather.
Much attention in just one region,
cleaning can’t motivate this legion.
His thoughts of her, and her thoughts of him,
nothing stops what’s about to begin.
Tremors start from her head to her toes,
a smile blossoms as she plateaus.
He feels the pressure stiffly increase,
it brings to him an immense release.
She savours the last rippling quiver.
His knees weak from such an endeavour.
They catch their breath, and resume their chores,
have they been remiss in these detours?
Excuse the news they misuse shampoos,
they choose to amuse with such taboos.
One can’t ignore in the aftermath: he takes showers
... and she takes a bath.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
The whiteness of the milky way
witness your name invariably
in the corner of chaos and order
Inside fragments of settled sediments
There are words that I await
to stream from the fountain
the base of the veined heart
Inside a core to be uncovered
Phrases that wish to be whispered
the nudges of intentions held back
collapsed and clasped in a clap
the ribboned truth that fades
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Pronouns and nouns of love and hate
Proverbs of the scent of your breath
The Jasmine that roasts your tongue
Let it's smell infuse my jumbled being
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Taboos and tattoos of eternal love
Traffic and tarmacs of the road travelled
The lavender that seduces your mind
Let it transfuse my animate system
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Songs and secrets of the bright sighs
Sums and seams of endurance
The cinnamon that spices your life
Let your kiss evaporate in my mist mouth
Tell tales of the indelible ounces
Nuances and notes of our untold story
Novices and nemesis of the unnamed race
The rose that savours your sweetness
Let your hands caress and weaken
As you tell the tales in indelible ounces
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
#1.....His Bearer's Plea.
What would it cost to send a million dogs to war,
Than turn my babes into raging Beasts?
Leave the Boys to grow and revel in age.
Leave them strapped to their mothers *****
until nature run's its course and calls them MEN.
Without guns,rage and War pivoting that stage.
Too many broken Boys parole as Men,
building bridges without appeasing the gods below.
Too many hold life at its helm,
boasting of nothing to risk or gain,
Inflicting Pain to ease their pains.
Too many were sucklings before Wars came,
cruelly snatching them from their mothers breast....
handing them guns when milk was what they needed.
#2...His Lover's Plea
What price COULD I have paid to save my lover's head from being Twisted with tales of war?
the man I once knew now resides in a realm of obscurity
dodging reality, dreading emotions, refusing one ness.
A man with hands now Cold,
my skin forgets the prowess they possessed in the past,
a gloomy present looms.
the man whose weaning I continued, now bites hard till my ******* bleed, the taste of blood he now savours.
Cries of war creased the tenderness off my lovers tongue.
What did i owe the earth to be robbed this way?
What kind of man will my children call father?
Well....What will it cost to send a million dogs to war,than deny our babes the privilege to wean until nature calls them MEN?
©Comfort Amiso Pius
2018-08-29
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
the rag man
sits under the freeway bridge
while it rains
a small lizard crawls out of
the sandy soil
its emotionless eye focused
the desolate day
breeds sand blown wind burned faces
a chill wind speaks its mind to him
and while he huddles within his torn coat
and with one eye bare to the world
watching for the rains retreat
the rag man eats slow
savours the fresh water fish taste
of his divided mind
waits for the rain to retreat
remnants of his life
cling to his pocket
lint covered photographs
dust filled half remembered dreams
he believes he carries all he will ever need for
the road he sits by that
follows the coast down into the sunny islands
where they say you can live on the beach
where all you need is a dream to thrive
each sound is the great beyond
trying to tell him significant moments of his day
no rattle of the chain to be taken lightly
even the silence has voice in the grand scheme
even if its single contribution
is futility of waiting
step boldly or timid as doormouse
but step kiddo step
the freeway is a river
upon which the concepts we call lives float
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
This Eminent Night paste your Birthday Bed
And once beyond the Lines did Celebrate
Which soon enough most Leavened Hands instead
Cry for your Return-on-Turnips belate
Yet come these Savours invite your Prunes wash
As far-fetched Dames sowed Yeast to spice their Grin
Hoping to raise each their Best Flavours cast
All the whilst One already placed therein
Which in her Form - her Greatest Gift offer -
Of her Warmth wrapped your Little Man hugs neat
And in her Jump - Nerves blew your Mind asunder,
Back-and-Forth rub this Hour's Hormones repeat.
Still the Candles blew; Ignored the Musky Air
Which both Cherries broke; As Predicted there.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,
The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,
Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,
Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Graceful dying
Graceful pain
Bleeding, begging, going insane
Happy hands move too fast
Angry beating will not last
Killing them to stay alive
Ripping out the cold blue eyes
Tearing into broken flesh
Still-beating heart held like a prize
Yellow teeth break through the skin
He savours the taste of his victim
While he licks at pools of blood
The Devil smiles at his sin
Crying for peace
Crying for rest
He looks upon them with detest
He glares and spits, and whispers "no"
And brings down the axe for the ending blow
He's the demon of your dreams
The monster in your fears
The one who smiles when you cry
And drinks up all your tears
He's that feeling on your neck at night
The eyes that watch you rest
And he's the last thing you'll ever see
While stabbing at your chest
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
I)
At year end oft, we think to say
Look back no more, as comes new day.
Some will see it with their spoons engraved
Though sadly, many remain enslaved.
But Hopeful ever, we press right on
As we search for good in everyone.
II)
In store and warehouse food is bailed
Urgent supplies for when crops have failed.
While shattered lives in tents on hillsides
Families caught in the refugee tides.
As earthquake victims lie underground
Courageous rescuers listen for sound.
Some must rely on drug-lord’s favours
In lives that no sane person savours.
Yet here are we in our clean safe home
From which we’re always free to roam.
III)
Complaining often, we fail to grasp
The richness of our situations
In truth we live in comfort zones
Free from terror and deprivation.
Whilst some no luck they ever see
Until in death at last they’re free.
IV)
And who should tackle such terrible woes
It should be us, plain as your nose
So we elect fine politicians
Who mainly only serve patricians
From whence they mainly are derived
Plebeians forgotten, of voice deprived.
For even though your vote was cast
And Bills you disapprove get passed
You only get to vote one way
And never really have your say
Your troubled mind creaks with unease
As those in charge do as they please.
V)
And in inertia nothing moves
The rut of hopelessness just proves
That though we feel the pain of others
Around this Earth we all are brothers
The comfort zone adapts to fit
The place within in which you sit.
VI)
Meanwhile, those victims still in tents
Await such help as we have sent
Which waits in ports in rotting state
While shares are argued in debate.
We did our bit they all will cry
But did that stop young children die??
©Joe Wilson – Those who are at the end of the queue, always…2016
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
We are heroes.
The voice of the voiceless.
The help of the helpless;
to a poor man,money
to a lover, honey.
We are heroes.
The suffering savours
Suffered to earn favours.
Our home is prison
for freedom reason.
We are heroes.
We blinded the sun.
Electricity our fun.
Hungry lion our pet.
Supernatural we get.
We are heroes.
The debunkers of high staff,
that turned people into chaff.
We give people liberty
from ambassadors of poverty.
We are heroes.
Like jesus we are the light
that shine in the darkest night.
We point out wickedness,
and pave way to greatness.
We are heroes.
The true friends of a fellow.
In rainy we follow.
In sunny we did the same.
We never shame.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,
The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,
Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,
Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Allured by the clichés of love
And fantasy,
She savours his fragrance,
Dipped with honey,
Every day and night.
With her lips laced with sweetness
And eyes screaming compassion,
She invited him in.
Pivoting on his perverted thoughts,
He gladly accepted.
just to start another round of clichéd
confessions.
-Khushi :)
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC
( Sonnet )
Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,
The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,
Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,
Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Eyes heavy now as the day comes to a close
The days tailcoats snagged on the evenings last light
My thoughts random, yet calm as the night invites me
I lye alone no comfort in my bed, save the moments captured in memory or the visions in imagination.
Some vivid, some hazed often slowed as my mimd savours the pleasures of the senses.
The voices of the day spill over into the night
I hear the soft voice, reading to me and picture ruby lips, their folds and creases giving flight to words.
Soothing my passing to sleep whispering now, as if to kiss my consciousness goodnight.
Then the voice fades, memories slip away and I am left alone.
Alone imagining, wondering.
Is that perfume I smell?
Can the mind really do this.
Am I alone? Or held in the arms of another far away. Do they hold me in their bed, alone, yet together.
Do they lye entwined, peaceful, as one yet not.
Are we ever alone with our thoughts
Our emotions seperated from consciousness and dreams
I hope not
Do you?
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
Made with fading ink, she was so delicate she
Played upon the page, ink was all I could see
Pretty delicate lines were etched but there was
Pity in these fragile lines I etched then paused.
I was falling in love with this woman on a page,
Cry as I might she was locked in a pencilled cage
So many imprints were erased redrawn within her
Flow she was all beauty became a confused blur.
Fingers shook not wanting to ruin this moment, it
Lingers in my heart, this picture I do wishfully knit.
Above I hover of her features, but she is static, still
Doves are etched on my heart but are silently fanatic.
Not able to lift a pencil she has captivated me I am
Fraught with delusions of love inanimate, I am her lamb.
Caught in her smuggled eyes where tears have descended
Thought is my savours as I realise and erase her it is ended.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
‘The time’s become fleeting and flying,
And rushing me off to the grave,’
Or so would say Roderick Styling,
‘It’s sweeping me on like a wave.’
I found his remarks so depressing
I’d walk on the side of the street
Where I knew he wouldn’t be walking,
On hearing the sound of his feet.
He’d corner me back in the office,
Unburden his pure misery,
Or catch me in field or in coppice,
To tell me his bleak history.
For often I’d find he was waiting
Wherever he shouldn’t have been,
I found that I couldn’t avoid him,
His whispers and chatter obscene.
‘We’ve only one life, so enjoy it,’
I’d counter, when he would begin,
But then he would start to destroy it,
By saying that life became grim.
‘The older you get, so the faster,
It races along like a train,
Is headed for certain disaster,
The end of the journey is pain.’
Then he seemed to age by the minute,
His skin became wrinkled and worn,
Despair, he would seem to dive in it,
And had since the day he was born.
‘You’ll not do yourself any favours,’
I’d say, ‘when it hangs on each breath,
For life will not gift what it savours,
If you’re so determined on death.’
But one day I looked in the mirror,
And saw what I never had seen,
The markings of age, like a river,
Were flowing, where once youth had been.
I tried to ignore it by sighing
That ageing was lending me grace,
But I could see Roderick Styling
Was staring right back in my face.
And that’s when I knew life was fleeting
I had to seize what there was left,
I sent him a note for a meeting
While I was still feeling bereft.
He lies in a grave in a coppice
A jagged hole under his jaw,
While I work alone, in the office,
He’d got what he’d been looking for.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;
None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;
No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped
Does she require.
Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay;
Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim;
Whether we leave to-night or wait till day
Counts as the same.
The lettered vessels of medicaments
Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;
Each palliative its silly face presents
As useless gear.
And yet we feel that something savours well;
We note a numb relief withheld before;
Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell
Of Time no more.
We see by littles now the deft achievement
Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,
In view of which our momentary bereavement
Outshapes but small.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
(Sonnet)
Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,
The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,
Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,
Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.
.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC