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Taylor Apr 2014
And I sincerely hope,
that you cannot forget,
my cloud nine eyes and sugared lips.

My thin fingers on your chest, eyes flashing under neon lights.

I hope you cannot forget me and every sweet nothing spoken with damp hair and starry lashes.

And I hope everytime you touch her hair, you feel mine under your fingertips.
I'm too bitter over this.
Shaded Lamp Aug 2014
Our wedding was a waste of everybody's time
Though back then it did not seem so
We playfully argued about the choice of wine
Now neither of us can drink Bordeaux
The band that played Bittersweet Symphony
Should have erased sweet from the chorus
The wedding poetry was just wasted on me
And the waste of good thesaurus
But your choice of favors...
The sugared almonds
were simply
out of this world!
Ah well, such a long time ago.
I still hate sugared almonds
But I can manage a *good* Bordeaux.
Liz Apr 2014
Delightful march
breathes in on the sound of the swallows
chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade.

Daffodils brave the curtain call
and splash in yellow fountains which
powder the grass canary
and rich caramel.

Boughs of cherry trees burst
once more with indulgent,
fatuous blossoms of sugared coral,

Their marbled paper florets billow
in the gusts rising and falling like
the flocks of starlings.

The future is close, wide and happy.
Janette Aug 2012
Born to the night in the cry of wolves,
We are….inked lovers spilling secrets, under velvet skies,
Shrouding the night in silver spools;
The season of silver silence, hangs upon shades of silken soul,
This midnight offering, a white entice;
My hair shimmers brightly, a wet fleece of gold, of shadow and starlight,
And shimmering hues, emerald and sapphire breathe kindred embers into the bellows of passion;
Challenging the flame that burns; entwined....






Whispered intrigue lays in the crescent of moon,
In an eminent blaze of sweetest surrender
Unborn whispers lie entwined with heated petals, silken;
We shiver....I shiver,
I am warm arms embraced;
Your lips hard yet soft against my side,
The feel of flesh warmed to a rising flame...










The long moon steps into midnight;
My *******, full of your hands as candles, pour hard against the ebon fall,

Luscious to the hush of soft smiles
Steeled eloquence flows in ribbon ripples;
Winter sown, blood quilled, in midnights cast;
Cloaked in beautiful, shadow's bed a bouquet of lacy foxglove...














Eyes closed and deep of breath,
Moistness seeps the sugared flower,  and longing surges deep;
Shudder me wicked, drench me quick;
The wildness swirls inside as he moves like a shadow over my heart
His tongue eager to swim the gushing urge;
Touching, slick-slide, the soothe of smooth fingers slip past softness;
Lips cross, moist to moan me quick, sliding to quivers.
Thigh's whispering and heart pounding ,
Soft, the wind blows, tapping walls, fingers dancing
And shadow sways to moonlight...

Velvet-soft, the  sweet of tongue's mesh,
Fire burning,
The tips of breast's aroused by the touch of a slow hand lover;
Your tongue gently rolls, wet and burning hot,
Hungrily, it feeds diving deep, and sandalwood spires upon the malachite air,
And burning murmurs the silent song, pleasures
Your flame to touch me hot, softly hard,
Against the darting quivering rose, stokes sweet, the flame of conjure....















I weep as you strain to slay this huntress of indolent submission;
Descending into darkness, I squirm upon your touch, lifting my altar upon your hunger,
Eyes lost to ecstasy, the flow quickens from abyssal moans;
Overflowing with need, release bound by gold shattered stars
Suckling whispered thoughts;
With us, for us, in us, in dreams, in thoughts, in love
....And in....time my love..................
His rain, has become my decadent addiction.........where my thoughts manifest into tangible words, written slowly over his flesh........laced with twilights absolute surrender drowning, in the renewal of his liquid seduction....grasping, frantic starless wishes in hand....chasing shadows...I curl to myself, longing for your darkness...falling into a cradle of need finding myself ...rocked alone..... J
Xilhouette Jan 2011
On a tall glass
In quite a generous mass
Cold and fluffy,
Yet  somehow warm and puffy
Some praline, and nuts
With fresh banana cuts

Sensationally sweet,
Capable of a marvelous feat
of filling a stranger full
Otherwise, he won't be in a mull
Or in a daze
Just take a look at him in that sugared haze

Whether it's strawberry or mango
Or an orange doing the tango
I'd just like to add
That we like to go mad
Or we'd go for a scream
Over something cold, called: ice cream
Xilhouette © 2011
Haley Vlietstra Oct 2010
Funny men in tall chef hats
Marching about so wildly
Stone soup and humble pie
Main course and dessert delight

Give me a dose
And that girl two
Vanity, her dream come true
Narcissistic uncaring and cold

A mid-evil blunder
So daring and bold
Spoiled brats
And rotting Brauts

Sugared too sweet
Not telling the truth
The gossip
And all

The Court jester
The village idiot
He sinks to the bottom
She cheers to the top

It's amazing the wonder
The high school scene
The many things
That relate to its sheen

The short stout bakers
Making profit from weakness
Some goods so smooth
Some just the opposite

The geeks and nerds
Hackers and slackers
Jocks with jerseys
And rebels with rock

Serve up course two and three
Let's make it a festival
Just you and me
Vanity and sheen

Were just getting started
This is high school
This mid-evil concert
For four years we live it

A new melody
A new song
It's not the end
But the struggle

Is on.
I wrote this my freshman year about 4 years ago now.
andy fardell Feb 2012
shadows cast into clouds of sand as footprints leave their mark
voices so full of fun with not a care in this world
summer sun washed over by the crash of thunder
the sea shouting against the shells to your ears

blue whispery skies feed warmness to the skin
as weeks of a worklife pass to say goodbye
ice cream melted to cheeks as tissue lips from a nan
feed a childs cry
this is what we live for in a world so left behind

donuts sugared a thirst as sticky fingers lay ******
fish from an ocean battered or fried to the best ive ever noshed
sounds of the beach washed over me as grandads snores a snort ..
too much lunchtime pie i guess ..deserving resort
dreams of a past ...dreams of another

football played and dogs all wet scenes from a beach
alive still ...kids gone red
searing sizzles from a sun at its best as rounders run
or frisbee fetched
photo taken a collection booth ..memories made as dreams come true
dreams of a summer
dreams of a summer
Arthur Habsburg Jul 2018
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Going to Prangli island.
Lisa Lesetedi Jul 2016
What is to come? 

From a world where our children are given guns to play with, 

It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .

Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .

Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,

Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.

That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.

You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.

Sugared by sin,

Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.

What is to come?

From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.

Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.

It isn’t as pure as it seems.

Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.

There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.

So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image. 

The slightest difference is reason for war.

Be it the quantity of melanin

Be it religion

Be it Gender.

What is to come?

Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness 

We are our biggest enemy,

Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human 

What is the cure?
esridersi Apr 2017
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.

Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.

You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.

12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.

At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
pour Stellah, par sa idiot
caroline Oct 2014
i still remember my shaken up nerves, and god my shaking body, after our lips pressed against each other's for the first time. still, months later, my hands tremble when you reach for mine and ****** i can't help but kiss you and taste the names of our unborn children we've named, along with the rest of the plans i swore for you to never make with me. and it's crazy (or maybe i am) because i find myself wishing on 11:11, AM and PM, for "i do" to someday be exchanged between us two.
my mother always warned me about the boys with soft eyes and sugared words, but never did she warn me about the girl with long hair and cold hands.
andy fardell Jun 2012
The dreamy sea washed ashore bringing
little bubbles of life to its end
Children splashed and jumped as wave after wave fell in
Bucket and ***** at the ready as castles from the sky
formed from minds in youth and fairy tales
Cream at the ready as grandads cap retreats  
crisped from the comfort of his strippy deckchair he waits  
Mothers blankets blown from the wind held down by
a shoe to be lost and a stone found yet not cast

These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had    

Ice cream sounds calling at fathers request
Is grandma still yawning from bingo's night fest
a donut for mother all sugared and warm
don't forget Charlie as woof is all heard
A match game of cricket from children about
or footy at lunchtime sweet sand in your mouth


These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had  

Asleep from the sun and a sneaky quick pint
as dad tries to doze be free to unwind
A call for 3 strikes as rounders is found
hear grandad all snoring more cream to be crowned  
Tis time for a dip to twinkle your toes
to jump back a mile oh blimey its cold

These are the memories all children should have
a time when no phones when a time wasn't planned
No little computers to spoil the day
just fun and great memories of children at play
A time when your family all joined in the fun
a shame we have lost this to greed and the sun
Emmy May 2014
Trusting steady for flower petals floating on moonlit beams.
Fractured cracks running into sewn seams of honey-colored threads.

Layering sunlight of emotions,
Rip-tide oceans hold your boulder heart open.
Velvety warm blankets shimmering with lavender energy,
Of a silence unspoken.

A roar within of a constant fiery flame.
A warrior armored with stars and an army of willowy trees.

Song buds upon lip, striking a symphonic flowery melody.
Eyes sparkling, you captivate with an alluring smile.

Flowers intertwined within your raven locks.
Summer night of fireflies and dancing bees,
Forgiveness never a weakling of knees.

Soft spoken heart beats.
Sun-fire but shaded with purpling blues.
Steadying hands even though your lips may frown.

Ever present is the sleepy shadow of a sugared temptation,
That only the befallen will know.
A darkness muddled into the after-hours of dawn.
Self-pity wars that your feet danced into nothing, no more.
You let the colors become vibrant yellows, even greens.

A warrior surrounded by atmospheres of light,
Tinged with the milky blue hue of night.
Oceans come and gone but forever in your heart is song.
For Alyssa
Aaron McDaniel Nov 2012
My skin has been itching for three months
I’m not sure why this is addicting

I’ve crashed a car in my head 3 times today
My mental awareness consistently letting go of the wheel
The Anterior teeth of my mouth have started to yellow in disapproval
I’m not sure why this is satisfying

I’ve been taking toxic psychotropics in light doses more than twice a day
It’s warmth is comforting as the jittering and hyperactivity become null
Bags have formed under my eyes
If you were to open them, their roasted smell would overpower you with stimulation
Constantly on my toes for risk of Insomnia and Narcolepsy
I’m not sure why this is outstanding

Adrenaline is being forcefully factored into my body
If this is the bullet, I’m biting it after an appliance pulls the trigger
As the high passes, it ripples through my mind
An otherwise calm sea, tidal waves pound the shores of my subconsciousness
Vacuum sealed can are filled with awareness
Sleep has become a rare odyssey
Warm comforters are replaced with long trachea trips of boiling beans
I’m not sure why this is alarming

Double trips become tripled and troubling to my mother
Arguments over the hours I shall harvest from the night are increasingly frequent
Slow to roll out of bed in the morning
I don’t hit my carpet, I splash into sugared preparedness
In my backpack hides a cup full of GI Joes
I’m not sure why this is troubling

If anything, I’m drinking a medicine that prevents death by 10-15% for 13 years
The New England Journal of Medicine was happy to acknowledge my existence
Till they announce anything different, you’ll find me taking a mud bath
I’m not sure why this is disgusting

Tell me everything that’s wrong with it
Because from where I’m standing
There is nothing wrong with
Coffee
Sally A Bayan Mar 2017
Dinner is done
everyone's settled
the evening.....like the moon.....is full...
the weight of the night has itself eased into mine,
my expected moment of slumber...now distraught...
the Heavens are purpled
twilight drapes have fallen,
winds of March...bellow
.........my pillows
..............are hollowed
.......................by my elbows
......as a distant rooster crows........
i lie on my abdomen...legs swing back and forth,
catching inspiration, a word, a daydream...a thought,
i grab a pen falling, i grasp a journal, a book,
...............everything is within reach
but, not...the....long..................stretch
of hours....of a sleepless night...whence
....spiced...spiked...and sugared memories...
..........accompany me...and sail with me
.......as i cruise along this lethargic sea
'neath a silent dark, where aches are loudest
.........domed, by an unworded loneliness,
i am wearied by a flow, that is endless,
.....this minute...imagination is ceaseless
........i reach for my mug....but, it's empty
.........................i hear no liquid seething
this moment,  a dark sea, should be brewing....
this hour, verses must be a river, overflowing,
...enfolding, this cool and starry, starry evening...
.......i am caffeinated....even without coffee....

Sally


Copyright March 23, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(a nonsense poem, most of you might say
...... a new coffee poem...spun today...)
st64 Jun 2013
it will be, you know


1.
small bird
shivering

kind hand
covering

warmth
spreading

destined
for life


2.
her well-trained cats
at the door
         ants *always
spared (!)
         on sill
         with sugared saucer
poultry in the yard
collecting deep-yolked eggs
         making gooseberry jam
and sweet, strong tea
with hot milk
just for me

she taught me inner grace
and the real meaning
of quietness
        just birds chattering away
        whistling wondrous
        in fig trees
laden with heavy fruit
awaiting her deft hands

how I loved her so

accounting exams
interrupted
in sixth grade
sorry
she's gone, dear
dumbstruck silence
          they ask
          why I'm not crying?


3.
kismet peeps in
to embrace you
and kiss your brow

you try to sidestep
and stub a toe
knock your head


in the end:
full-circle prayer


que sera...sera




S T, 28 June 2013
special soul ...M M S



'recycling hope'

right about now
I really need you so

your candour and
protective love

bird flying
recycling hope
Sparrow Oct 2012
I once left my heart in the pocket of a saint
blinded by sunset light, drunk from midnight madness,
and falling into the monotony of broken dandelion stems and lost eyelash wishes-
I didn’t think I would need it much longer
The burden of rebirthing beats continuously
stamping out the keys
Of my empty piano chest –
As I held onto the breaths of broken warriors
Sponging the blood off their slashed

double
layered
skin

And praying
they could keep their fight for just

One
More
night

He never noticed the extra beat
added to the twitches of his time-ticking body
deaf from the ringing calls to heroism
only on the odd hours he didn’t have muffled
by the recipes of the women he’d saved
buying out bravery like it could shield his soft tongued love
leaving nothing but the clothes on his back
woven from stardusted bomb shelters
And
left over hopes
selling the silver lining of every breath he took
just to buy the next broken-bar girl a drink

He was a saint after all --

born from the innocent hopes I wish I still had,
tucked in the corners of sun-freckled smiles
and
Mothering seatbealt arms
and
Careless Carnival Food
the kind I know some of my soldiers withered against
writhing their souls from the bodies they had been straight jacketed too
prisoners of war stuck in the memory
of just how many calories a sugared funnel cake could have
did have
will have
add up to the self worth shot out of their chest
from last nights uncontrolled binge
of two apples and a cheerio promise ring

No,
he had never been in the middle of the war
never known the taste of blood
rusting in the rain of covered up skin
drenched in the salt water stings of failure
peeling away the scabs of
addictive adrenaline disadvantages
and mapping the battle plan of tomorrows attack
against an enemy so close
it was breathing the same air your lungs had not finished purifying

No,
his hands had never held the dyeing breaths of a comrade in arms
as they shook from the fears riding up their spine
praying the poison won’t take
praying the stolen bottles didn’t break
and that violent vomiting viguals
might burn just enough of the alcohol mistake
so their blood won’t have to curdle

No,
he had never heard the desperation
of sobbing secretes suddenly swindled
from between the lips of a girl who never wanted to remember
the night that never happened
one year, five months, fourteen days --
and three hours ago
her father had asked her why she never wore skirts anymore
and why she never brought boys over anymore
and why she never left her room anymore
and why her silent cheekbone cry for help never smiled anymore

No.

A saint is never found on the battlefield
never scared by the everlasting burns
of war paint psychiatric wards
and gun powder therapy sessions
sprinkled with the hope against hope moments that maybe
we’ll have a break through --

Like the ****** morning sun rebirthing the beats
of duck taped dreams
and
medicated eyes
and
catatonic lips --

I left my heart in the pocket of a saint
confessing the sins of the hopeless hospital it fueled
between our silent lipped kisses
squeezing out the stories of unnamed soldiers
between our woven fingers
and betraying my fear
in the tremble of my body against his –
I left my heart with him on the one-night-stand whim
that I would grow deaf to the sound
of TAPS played on my piano rib keys
and
blind to the specks of blown dandelion wishes

But I still hear the echoes of them
rattling against the stitching
of his bomb shelter pockets

and I wonder if he’s still searching for me
between the crumpled recites of midnight mass mixers
and
open cathedral whispers

because I still think of him sometimes
absent mindedly pick pocketing saints for smiles
but I’ve only found lint and regret
tucked in the corners of their heroic attempt
to protect the bruised hearts of the saviors
who haven’t quite yet found salvation
barnoahMike Jun 2011
Here Kitty,  Kitty,, called aloud the man~relaxing in his Lounge chair~while sipping a Slightly-Sugared Iced tea.   Here Kitty,  Kitty,,He continued to call~wondering where the curious cat~might have have made off to~THIS TIME..     Perhaps to the New neighbors~where boxes of all shapes and colors~were carefully~Disarrayed in the back yard~Just waiting for the curious...      Not getting any response from Kitty~the Man decided to PEER over ~the Neighborhood Alignment Fence~and Sure enough~There was Kitty!     Kitty was Springing~Up and Down~Like a YO-YO and Jumping from Box to Box.   Curiosity is an Amazing thing~Isn't it?    The Man seemed to be caught in a Trance~As he watched Kitty~continue to jump and  YO-YO !    What could be in those boxes?~that held such fascination?   Was it a Creepy-crawler~a Slimy-Slitherer~a Wise-Wiggler~a Dashing-Dancer~an Awful-Awesome~a Yelping-Yeoman~an Energized-Egrit~an Ugly-Duckling~a Fast Frog~a Gorgeous-Gargantula~a Social Secret~a Horrible-hulk'a Raspy-Rascal~an Insensitive-Iguana~a Jumping-Jackal ?     OR ,    was it simply the color of the Boxes ?     Look at that Curios Kitty~Jumping and Jumping and Jumping !      SUDDENLYthe Man~Totally overcome by ~Lady Curiosity~Bounded over the Alignment Fence~Dashed Promptly to the Boxes~Scattering them all over the Yard~Trying to Discover ~ "THE SOURCE" ..    Only ONE box remained ~after opening~All the Others!  NOW he would find the ANSWER!   He carefully approached the LAST BOX~Gently pulled it closer~looking for a way to Open~-------  Lifting Lid carefully~Slowly~KITTY~came Bounding out~All claws~digging and clinging to His chest~Was that FEAR~~HE SAW in KITTY'S  eyes?_  "AS His ALARM-CLOCK ,, Screamed out to Him"AWAKEN_
COPYRIGHT @2011   by barnoahMike         Mike Ham
glass can May 2013
sugared fingers, the smell of Chanel
and I am flushed on red berry wine

and the charms of someone, dear,
who I would like to call "Valentine"

la vie en la rose
this red stains lips pink and
I see in pink, everything around me

as I dip my nose to my wrists, inhaling

Sicilian oranges, Calabrian bergamo
Indonesian patchouli, Haitian vetiver
Bourbon vanilla andd white musk


I giggle coquettishly and I am blushing,

For these sweet nothings
mean very much to me
Rangzeb Hussain May 2010
White is the colour of my true love’s cherry cheeks,

White is the colour of my true love’s tantalizing teeth,

White is the colour of my true love’s foxy fingertips,

White is the colour of my true’s truly delicious dish,

White is the colour of my true love’s social scarf,

White is the colour of my true love's lyrical laugh,

White is the colour of my true love’s bilingual breath,

White is the colour of my true love’s playful pledge,

White is the colour of my true love’s flowery fragrance,

White is the colour of my true love’s decorated decadence,

White is the colour of my true love's delirious delight,

White is the colour of my true love’s sugared spice,

White is the colour of my true love’s secret shirt,

White is the colour of my true love’s purple pearls,

White is the colour of my true love’s shapely shoes,

White is the colour of my true love’s brooding Blues,

White is the colour of my true love’s wonderful words,

White is the colour of my true love’s dashing door,

White is the colour of my true love’s brilliant bedsheets,

White is the colour of my true love’s toxic treats,

White is the colour of my true love’s distant dreams,

White is the colour of my true love’s ring that glow gleams,

White is the colour of my true love’s guilty guile,

White is the colour of my bitter bile

For...

Black is the colour of my true love’s hardened heart.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Marigolds Fever Feb 2019
She’s talkin to cows again
Cattle candied side
Licorice fence
A mother hen’s
Cherry eggs
Chocolate fudge smears
On her legs
Slide over grape ice pond
Atop frosted clover
Sugared world beyond
Three soft cows before her
Describe the candied world
One says, “I produce chocolate milk just for me
A little bit of strawberry for she
And vanilla for all three”
Smooth Cocoa will flow
Sweetness will fill your pores
A crystal rain pours
Sugared quartz upon
Caramel whirlpools
Nature’s homemade molecules
Blueberry skies drip
Fields of lollipop
Glimmer rainbow sunshine
Sweetest Harvest
Candy wrappers fall
Wind blows them
Over by candy-wax waterfall
Marshmallow hikes
With chocolate pretzel poles
Strands of sugary pink glass fall From Cotton candy clouds
A new farmer’s way to plow
He says, “young lady
Do you vow
Cherish this nutritional place
And make it your Delectable space?”
“I do” she proclaims ~
“To make it mine
I have no shame
Only a request
Of cinnamon I suggest
A form of healing zest
Sprinkled on this candied land
Where you are I so happily stand
A powerful purpose
You will see
Your nose will thank you
I suppose
A Favorite of every herbivore
From a former land I will go no more
An offer of sticky bun
To sweeten the score
From here to the slushie seafloor
Of a confection land adored”
Marigolds Fever 2019
Darby Crosby Dec 2013
I wish that you would stop believing that the world is made of
Candy canes and lollipops
That may be the way it once was
But now the sugared sands that once covered this world are coated
In blood rust
And bear traps

I hate the way you see the dust on my windshield
You see it as sugar
And the broken glass to you
Is just a way for more to get in
You take a bite from a razored laced apple
And as the blood pours from your mouth
You comment on how sweet the apple tastes
You tell me that you know the world is covered in
Barbed wire and bear traps
And yet you have the nerve to warn me
Of their dangers
You who as someone pushes you into the open jaws of danger
You say “Sorry. Excuse me. Have a nice day.”

You crawl amongst the broken glass
Looking for sugar
And by the time you find any it’s too coated in your own blood
To be of any use
You say you know that
But it’s nice to at least know that it was there

You tell me to be careful
Walking proud with my head held high
Because the razors in the trees will find it easier to slit my throat
I tell you to not crawl amongst the thorns
Because they’re bound to lodge themselves in your hands
And get infected
To which you reply that the bear traps only reach so low
You say that the sugar coated world still exists
If you’re willing to brave an inch or so of suffering.
If you stay low enough not even the stray strands of wire
Will cut you deep enough to **** you
You tell me that I will experience pain
But if I'm willing to bend a little,
If I'm willing to swallow my pride,
The pain I experience
Will never be as bad.

And I hate you.
Because everything you say
Is true
Sethnicity May 2015
The Searching Yeti and UFO/
Stocked home love of youth and foe/
mysteries of deep, songs that bellow/
I'm waving wheat surrounding crop circle/
and I Am The Bed with Fibonacci flower
holding  on to summer showers


The hot oil tuned in chopped green thyme/
wrinkled strips sandy brown sugared lines/
tossed on foul fried, lemon and vinegar /
long or short  grain I'll be the same integer/
I Am The Bed of rice soaked in what you savor

The breath of air/
Vibration! Everywhere?
Pitter Patter Crescendo Flare...
Ready for rivers of precipitation /
before Pen and Paper dissemination /
I Am The Bed dried wide open
Streaming to the notion ocean.
/ in place of commas due to font type but you get the gist for all the structure & discipline readers. All critiques welcome!
Paul Celano Jun 2010
Sparkled ice cream houses
Sugared in reds and greens
Smoke of cotton candy
Windows of jelly beans

Grass made of lime candy
In dirt of chocolate flakes
Berry gummy flowers
With petals made of cakes

Sky of blueberry juice
Shredded coconut rain
Jelly filled flying birds
With a custard filled plane

Streets a sheet of licorice
With frosted center lines
Marshmallow vehicles  
Speed and shoot out sweet wine

People of ginger bread
Wave hands of cold dough
They pucker cherry lips
Sweet powder kisses blow

Sweet delicious world
Young new tastes, not old
Packed together as one
In a sphere sucker globe
©2010 Paul Celano
"Strange, I don't like sweets that much"
Mariam Paracha Jul 2012
Breathe in the freshness
of the arduously picked commodity,
That you hold between your lacquered fingers.
Don’t let synthetic ingredients
dissolve your thoughts
and obscure your vision.

The liquid remedy we sip  is drenched,
With pain and protracted nurturing
Carefully fostered
through inclement weather
drink in the story that comes with it
That fuels caffeinated conversations.
Refined and defined leaving us blind
to the painted secrets of lives that were once lead
different lives intersect,
different thoughts and opinions interject.

Leaving lipstick kisses on the porcelain skin
Sipping away worries and pain.
Inhaling the smell of impelling advice,
fragments of sugar coated anecdotes melt,
integrating within, interfering
with the raw, strong, sharp taste
that can pierce through.

the rare intense, earthy aftertaste
is tainted with artificial garnishing,
suffocating the fresh natural essence
neatly contained in the teacup
ready to serve and ready to present
taking shape of the porcelain guise

Don’t sprinkle it with processed collaborations
of sugared doubt,
Contaminating your imagination
Manipulated by dainty voices
Resonating in your head
Like the delicate teacup
You anchor with your soft hands
Weighed down by the overly sweetened tea.
No longer holding significance
of the vast fresh fields it sprouted from
Forgotten and drowned
in the voices of someone else’s drum beat.
cloudy vision reflected in the saturated tonic
you sip elegantly, pasting a smile
suppressing your own desires,
under someone else's acceptance.
Life's a Beach Aug 2014
A fear of crazy turned
Psychotic
****** Rotting Cakes
Dribbled sugared wax
And the birds spat out
Their alphabet
Out
Pouting expletives
At an earless void

Too Sweet
Incomplete
A single (W)hole

Freezer left to boil
Elizabeth Milnes Jan 2012
It’s always been just coffee kisses,
they’re all I have left to bring.
Overflowing mugs of latte love to spill on your hands, your lips, your heart,
Caffe mocha affection
laced with cappuccino hugs.
Iced or steaming, you decide.
Hazelnut, peppermint, French vanilla
(dulce de leche piquitos para ti)
warm espresso admiration,
americano dreams,
sugared and creamy to sweeten your tongue
served up with a coffee house smile—
bitterness hides in a candied disguise
but not today.
No sugar in the raw, no milk, no cream,
no sweet sticky flavors to trick your lovesick mind,
no fancy names to make you think it’s worth the cost.
Just pure, dark caffeine,
ground up this morning,
rich and smooth, but bitter and dry—
brewed with intention.
Just one coffee kiss, for you.
One plain black coffee kiss.

Take it or leave it.
(For G. H.)

Say, does that stupid earth
Where they have laid her,
Bind still her sullen mirth,
Mirth which betrayed her?
Do the lush grasses hold,
Greenly and glad,
That brittle-perfect gold
She alone had?

Smugly the common crew,
Over their knitting,
Mourn her -- as butchers do
Sheep-throats they're slitting!
She was my enemy,
One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me,
******* the rest of them!

**** them, the flabby, fat,
Sleek little darlings!
We gave them *** for tat,
Snarlings for snarlings!
Squashy pomposities,
Shocked at our violence,
Let not one tactful hiss
Break her new silence!

Maids of antiquity,
Look well upon her;
Ice was her chastity,
Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with ******* of snow,
Dames of much virtue,
How she could flame and glow!
Lord, how she hurt you!

She was a woman, and
Tender -- at times!
(Delicate was her hand)
One of her crimes!
Hair that strayed elfinly,
Lips red as haws,
You, with the ready lie,
Was that the cause?

Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!

WE knew that sugared stuff
Poisoned the other;
Rough as the wind is rough,
Sister and brother!
Breathing the ether clear
Others forlorn have found --
Oh, for that peace austere
She and her scorn have found!
Portentous enunciation, syllable
To blessed syllable affined, and sound
Bubbling felicity in cantilene,
Prolific and tormenting tenderness
Of music, as it comes to unison,
Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last
Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur
His grand pronunciamento and devise.

The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed,
Hands without touch yet touching poignantly,
Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee,
Prophetic joint, for its diviner young.
The return to social nature, once begun,
Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute,
Involved him in midwifery so dense
His cabin counted as phylactery,
Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt
Of children nibbling at the sugared void,
Infants yet eminently old, then dome
And halidom for the unbraided femes,
Green crammers of the green fruits of the world,
Bidders and biders for its ecstasies,
True daughters both of Crispin and his clay.
All this with many mulctings of the man,
Effective colonizer sharply stopped
In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom.
But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs
Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints
Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex
The stopper to indulgent fatalist
Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon
His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant,
She seemed, of a country of the capuchins,
So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed,
Attentive to a coronal of things
Secret and singular. Second, upon
A second similar counterpart, a maid
Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake
Excepting to the motherly footstep, but
Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep.
Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light,
A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth,
Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified,
All din and gobble, blasphemously pink.
A few years more and the vermeil capuchin
Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was,
The dulcet omen fit for such a house.
The second sister dallying was shy
To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself
Out of her botches, hot embosomer.
The third one gaping at the orioles
Lettered herself demurely as became
A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody.
The fourth, pent now, a digit curious.
Four daughters in a world too intricate
In the beginning, four blithe instruments
Of differing struts, four voices several
In couch, four more personae, intimate
As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue
That should be silver, four accustomed seeds
Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights
That spread chromatics in hilarious dark,
Four questioners and four sure answerers.

Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout.
The world, a turnip once so readily plucked,
Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out
Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main,
And sown again by the stiffest realist,
Came reproduced in purple, family font,
The same insoluble lump. The fatalist
Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw,
Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote
Invented for its pith, not doctrinal
In form though in design, as Crispin willed,
Disguised pronunciamento, summary,
Autumn's compendium, strident in itself
But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved
In those portentous accents, syllables,
And sounds of music coming to accord
Upon his law, like their inherent sphere,
Seraphic proclamations of the pure
Delivered with a deluging onwardness.
Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote
Is false, if Crispin is a profitless
Philosopher, beginning with green brag,
Concluding fadedly, if as a man
Prone to distemper he abates in taste,
Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure,
Glozing his life with after-shining flicks,
Illuminating, from a fancy gorged
By apparition, plain and common things,
Sequestering the fluster from the year,
Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops,
And so distorting, proving what he proves
Is nothing, what can all this matter since
The relation comes, benignly, to its end?

So may the relation of each man be clipped.
Sophia I Dec 2018
I would like to be the girl in white,
with rosy cheeks, and porcelain skin.
Plump and pale-freckled like a hen’s egg,
with a laugh like peals of golden bells,
and a jar of lavender on my windowsill.
~
In the dark and silent night,
I’d shine a lamp over the water
so fleets of sailors long starved of beauty
could glimpse the outline of my chest,
Hugged tight by ghostly silk, and flushed with warmth.
~
To wander along the sand dunes, barefoot with basket in arm,
To sing a long-lost melody so pure that cherubs think me their mother.
Meanwhile, greyish waves idly lull the townsfolk to bed.
In their sugared, posied dreams,
An angel walks quietly along a shore,
The girl that lives in the lighthouse on a hill.
~
Janette Oct 2012
Soft, soft this sigh upon the wind
When darkness
Falls...




Amaranthine love...
Misted lace, winding whispered veils
Of gold and blue;
Never-ending soul-lit perfume;
Pressed moist upon
The breath of summer's sky
So long ago...



Hues of yesterdays
When stars lit the sable'd night,
Dressed in ribbons of fire,
Their resonance,
Like crimson sutures
Across my heart...



Where whispers, soft, undressed me
To receive sacraments of desire
In sinews of nerve-ends
Burning loving breath
Across velvet flesh folded beneath
Your tremors...



In the light of your night
My body
Became yours...tender
... the curve of breast
Caressed by a silken pulse,
Soft...
...the eyes of damp surrender
Dissolving sweet as sugared petals
Upon your tongue...



And in this hour,
Surely you have heard my mouth
Part to ribbon your name in
The tightest corset of night,
Pausing only
To memorise the curl of
Smiles...tracing the lines
Of lips with closed
Eyes so that I might braile
This fiery feeling in the smooth
Shadowy halls of my spirit
always

Always........
Kneeling at the edge of your ocean...searching for the warmth of your arms
Lost in silent whispers...praying that your eyes will find me ... J
nivek Oct 2017
give me lemon to ****
yellow zest

wake me up
cool me down with - blue sky

the Sea calm
mirror mind

green pasture
crisp apple

honey dripping
drowned sugared.
Lucy Pullen Aug 2013
Two years of laughter and smiles
Two years of being worth the while
Of course for David it could feel like its been two years
Worth of Lucy's tears
You are my greatest friend
My love from the beginning right to the end
Battles fiercer than those of helms deep
But love that forever is ours to keep
And although when I'm angry I may look (and act) like an Orc
I do still love you more than a lot
In truth I'm more of a hobbit
Loving and loyal
(Not so much small)
Entirely devoted
To my David and my David alone
For you are my precious
My love, my only one.
No one can have you (not even Sauron!)
I'd like to see him and his ring wraiths
Face me and my one woman fury
Two years today we started a journey
And still today we are forever learning
That you hate mushrooms and sugared tea
90210, gossip girl, and feet!
But I love you and you love me
And may this journeys end never be
For I love you more now than two years before
And I know for sure that, this love will grow
14/6/11 until the end of time
I love you baby that's just how it is
There and back again
A love tale
By David and Lucy
So do me favour and keep on laughing
Otherwise you've wasted 720 days of minecrafting!
Chanel McCartney Feb 2012
Let me tell thee how I love thee,
Not with somber Joy, or fading Passion,
Nor with vile Calm, or dull Awake;
But with heart and soul and reason
With sweet sugared innocence, steeped
In the colorful waters of purity and kindness,
Where friendship reigns and soon thou creep'd
Into my dearest of dreams, unending bliss,
Forever loved and yet forever ignorant.
For my pleasure lives unknown to thee
Forced pleasantness and dejected I be.
All I ask is for you to grant
My freedom from this heavenly curse,
And give a gracious answer to this verse.
Frank Mar 2012
One white page.
One black dot.
One white page
with one black dot.
That is all.
You see it.
Good.
Now wiggle that dot.
Just a tad.
Watch it shake.
A single vibrating cell.
A fly in the wind.
Trembling up. And down.
And down and up and right and left.
It's a ***** smudge
ruining your clean page.
So rub it out .
With your pencil thin rubber.
But it dodges like a boxer's head.
A darting fish.
You want to get rid of it.
You want a clean white page.
Plant your rubber down.
A dramatic staff in the ground
cracks the white soil.
But it circles you.
That fly, that fish,
that blurred boxer.
That singular cell.
It circles your staff.
Your statement.
Magnetically.
A metal ball.
Orbiting your invisible eraser.
To erase the invisible dot.
But it is there.
Circling faster.
Wider.
Angrier.
Leaving a trail behind.
Too fast for the eye.
The sultry smoke of speed.
The slipstream of a cannonball.
The page is warped.
Earthquake epicentre on the A4.
Shook by the fault lines.
Jutting canyons drop down.
Ledges crumble and crash.
Sugared pie crust
hit with a hammer.
Everything collapses.
Invisible things are also under
the spell spell of gravity.
Hit on the head by invisible apples.
But it's not invisible.
It's not a cell.
A fly or smudge.
An agile boxing fish head.
A cannonballing canyon pie.
It's not even a white page.
Nevermind the black dot.
It's nothing.
Not a thing.
Not invisible,
but  the kind of nothing
that can't be seen.
Yet there it is.
ryn Feb 2019
Promise
and action
must go
hand in hand.


Because
sugared words
are much
too brittle.

— The End —