"teas" poems
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.
Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.
The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.
Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.
My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.
Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
The earth in which tired
city feet desire to rest on.
Plushly thick forests,
be lost and never found,
coating yourself in saturated
autumn leaves that
reflect the pulsing warmth
in the golden sun.
Your sticky honey,
rich and sweet pools in mason jars,
tempting to silver spoon scoop and
spur morning teas.
Or the mocha
in newly brewed coffee,
the bold and the cream
swirling inside your crystal *****
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Out of the Palace, into the Queen's
Garden. *'One that could rival King
Paul's Luciuscemian Gardens,'* she
thinks as she walks under the high
cream arches and Grecian columns
with ivy vines coiling around them.
She stands on the white marble
steps. *'Truly, this is the Queen
Mother's finest work yet...'*
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The young Queen Lyn spares no
expense in expanding her library,
filling it with leather-bound books
and scrolls, new and old. She spares
no expense when it comes to her
love for herbal teas, near and far...
But her mother?
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The Queen Mother is known for
her keen eye, fast wits, bladed
tongue and for her love for fashion,
gardening and a frugal nature.
*'Like frugal mother, like bookish
daughter!'* Ainhara can not help
but to chuckle.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She watches as the gardeners trim
the mint-green grass, beech hedges
and shrubby. But what Ainhara
marvels most are the flowers.
Pots of lavender and roses,
rosemary and mint are placed
around carefully, by the white
lilies, orange lilies, yellow lilies,
flushing lilies.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She notices that green lilies and
blue lilies; the gifts from Queen Yidna;
plants native to her Puhan Kingdom,
are in full bloom. They remind her of the
colours of the Seas that she, Esshi and Lyn
had sailed when they visited Queen Yidna.
*'Puhan has the calmest seas of the brightest
colours,'* She recalls how her Queen was
happy and relaxed then...
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
I was distracted from colors so bright
By the scrumptious cakes and chocolate bars
I walked through those doors, taffy past my height
Where I saw sweet teas and candy cigars
Bins filled with lollipops and gummy bears
Colorful gum ***** and chocolate coins
Chocolate dipped plums and delicious pears
Oh, how very sweet! The ache in my *****
One man so strange tapped me on the shoulder
“Hello,” said the man, breath scented of smoke
“There is more candy out where it’s colder”
I follow him out. He hands me a coke.
But to my surprise, no candy outdoors.
In the trunk of his car and on all fours
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
The Flower Sellers
Rushing with their bundles
The Milk Vendors
Cycling with their milk cans
The Newspaper boys
Sorting out their packets
The Morning walkers
Warming up and stretching
The Chai-walas
Pouring out their teas
The scarfed mill workers
Speeding for their shifts
The vegetable vendors
Carrying their head loads
The Suprabhatham
Flowing from a distant house
The night shift workers
Returning home.
The Municipality workers
Cleaning the streets..
*The city is waking up
Or did it ever sleep?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Lately I’m obsessed with the black and white photos of the world. The way they bring out the details you didn’t think you’d see in your life.
Lately I’m obsessed with the hidden greyscale of my life. The little spots or blemishes I didn’t know I had in between the cracks of my mind.
Lately I’m obsessed with knowing all I can know about how to forget my past. How to find those ancient remedies or dark coffees and fruity teas that will stop the pain in my heart for a little while.
Even though these obsessions seem so tiny compared to my big thoughts and wild dreams.. I can’t stop thinking of what’s next. Mystery lies on the horizon of my new obsession & how I will handle it.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
Old fellow old fellow
where for art thou old fellow
I'm in t'shed wi whippet and tin bath
his filthy from his walk on t'crags
you should ha seen him what a laugh
chasing through t'mud a plastic bag
Oh Fred you said it were too wet
to go a walking on t' pit top
your boots are caked in mud I'll bet
oh I bet thy breath sticks high of pop
Quiet woman can you not see
I'm as sober as a judge
so get yer back to makin t'tea
as I wash off me boots of sludge
She is the moan this northern lass
that makes me old heart flutter
but just one more word of disrespect
and I'll head in there and nut her
He is the pain makes me old heart ache
and the one that brings me t'laughter
but I'll **** him soon as look at him
if he don't respect that I'm a grafter
Teas on t'table drippings hot
there's fresh bread in the oven
by heck lass that there's real class
I love yer, yers a good un
So no Romeo nor Juliet
just honest homely folk
whom now the worth of mother earth
and the value of a joke
Let's leave em be in kitchen warm
wi the humblest of fayre
for Yorkshire folk are t'salt of earth
and I know coz I live there.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty
Expel my demons and watch them die with me
Satan Lord, Leviathan
Give my demons an interesting origin
Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems
Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians
Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten
Enthuse my self-destruction
Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes
Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees
Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks
Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers
Bring me Christians questioning their faith
Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah
Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu
Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly
Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew
Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles
Write to me Paris
Write to me Paris
I want to read your poetry
I want to read your mind
Sing to me Helen
Embrace me and we shall escape from torments
Heavenly and humane
We shall watch hipsters walk past us
Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas
Let Adam grow disgruntled
Let children laugh
If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish
Send me a djinn with evil in his heart
Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires
Send me an ent to lift me above my world
Send me an elf to love me for all my time
Send me a mountain to travel over home
Transport me to Germany
Transport me to Spain
Transport me to New Zealand
Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands
Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species
And devour the flesh of my find
Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind
Let me eat
Let me gorge
Then starve me
Show me Caligula
Show me Marilyn Monroe
Then leave me with Ed Wood
And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books
Which, of course, will bring her to love me again
Oh Lord Jesus
Lord of Hosts
Possess me so that I may live again
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
You smell like mint and freshness
And I am so sorry I don't
I smell like plants and cigarettes and herbal teas
And you are my everything
And I am your nothing
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Meet me here
at a quarter passed four
in the morning.
I'll be the boy
in the duck sauce t-shirt
you can wear your favorite
Lollipop skirt.
I'll have my my secret
Neutron bomb.
Your hips will be destroyed.
I'll pull my bright red wagon
and a handful of other toys.
I'll dance the flute
and play a jig
You can drink as many
Long island ice teas as you want
I'll be your rodeo clown
Your laughing hyena
Your pinstriped suit
Your Knight that you dream of.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC
The music plays and the espresso machines steam and hiss
Feet tap. Fingers type. Phone screens ******
Skinny lattes and peppermint teas. Soy chai teas extra hot.
Peppermint soy latte. New names for familiar poisons.
Flat whites. Cortados. Espressos and macchiatos.
When I grew up, it was just a cup of coffee…
Hipster coffee shops serving to the hip, the wannabes and the lonely
The woman in the leopard skin coat and the man with acne.
Credit cards are swiped and cash machines ring
The business of poisons is thriving in the city.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
The hallway has teal arches with
high grecian columns, each with
gilded gold grapes and vines
entwined, kissed by the light of the
several crystal chandeliers.
With enormous paintings on the
pale blue walls - several key
moments captured and framed,
and age in no way diminished it's
strokes and vibrancy.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I remember many times where
I had visited Paul and I
walked around his home,
telling me of his ancestors
achievements with a smile or a
frown on his face. "We can all
learn things from the past," he said
sadly. "And there's always things
done that we are not proud of. I
only want Luciuscemi to thrive."
"With you as King, I have no doubt
it will." I said with a smile and Paul
felt a little better.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
My feet continue to follow the
red carpet to the ball room as me
and my ladies pass many Luciuscemian
guards, all standing tall, lined up yet
all so courteous and friendly; dressed
in yellow military outfits, with red
shoulder capes. When I come upon the
end hall to the entrance of the ballroom,
I cannot help but gasp. Alive with so many
people in so many colours.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I could see the dining hall in the far back;
lines of tables covered in coloured silks
and with many dishes: sweet, sour and
savoury, meats and vegetables, grilled fish,
glazed ham, veggie rolls and many
fine imported wines, fresh teas and
many more. Large ice sculptures of lions
and suns stand vigilant as the servants serve,
people laugh, eat and talk. Some walked out
to the balcony, some watch others dance;
long and short, this ballroom is an orchestra
for my soul.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.
Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.
Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.
Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.
For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.
©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
She's blond, sleek, and hot--
Complaining about failing
A tough college course.
Busy barristers,
Make lattes, teas, and smoothies
On Valentine's Day.
She's quiet and shy;
Holds head down, sips a mocha,
Reads romance novel.
Nice, pretty women
Without candies or flowers,
Not looking for love.
Old, balding, obese--
He does not look too happy,
Wonder if he smiles.
Nice Asian features,
With a body to die for...
Still, she's not my type.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:44 PM UTC
I like to do those quizzes
in glossy bubbles that you
find
in Cosmopolitan and
Elle and
Seventeen.
Which girl should I be?
Should I
dump paper flowers
on my milkmaid braid?
Long skirts, long chains, and
Beatles on my radio
during their ‘Indian’ phase?
Should I
paint it all
black, strip life down to
a middle finger,
blare punk at full
scream,
and cram my toes in ratty Docs,
smash all emotion
into smithereens?
Should I
sugar-coat my mouth with
Maybelline, button up
collars, laughs, opinions,
read books on behaving
just like a
daydream,
sip teas, bake cookies, aim for
Ivy Leagues?
Which gilded box do I crawl
into?
Which skin to don
this week?
Which fashion editor-friendly
stereotype to fulfil?
Which girl should I be?
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
The southern belle , her spicy drawl , gift of gab and traditions .....
Gentle ways with a soft look , master of culinary skills , jams , mint teas and cobblers , prowess in garden , she is truly a magnolia with the scent of gardenia blossom .....
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
When she said, Don't talk to me,
She lost some of her voice.
Then I heard, Don't look for me,
She gave no other choice.
*Don't touch, I have no feelings,
You make my skin crawl,
Don't expect a pick up,
If you pick up to call*.
But I still smell her everywhere:
The shampoo used on her hair;
The bedsheets where we lay bare;
The fragrance of her festive tree;
Her aromatic herbal teas;
The lilies she could grow in sand,
Are sensational in my memory glands.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
We add speeches. Then nod our heads. We swim as if shipwrecked, but I wish we could be forgotten. I never have had you as much as I'd like, but I dream about your hands touching my face. We are like fish in prohibition, caged harmonies unbalanced by fake friends. I know your lullaby, I can't sleep it's ringing in my ears. Trust me and let us tie our legs together. You filled in my lines and have left me for deaf. I can't hear the words you've learned to lie together, you are intensifying and need attention. I can give you your spirit animal and sanctuary. Put your skin against my soft lips, your head pressed against my mouth, can you make a seashell out of your tongue, or wrestle an argument to the ground with the touch of your palm.
There aren't enough points for me to keep playing these games that I already beat you at. If I was half the dancer you keep telling me I am, then where do you keep your high heels, I've never seen you in high heels. Every time I see you push bangs from out of your face, or toss the strands from off your nape, I want to give you a crown that doesn't fear the pronouns that spells us two teas and our laptops sitting across from each other in the 1980s pour-over palace we remark on often. I collect stickers and old homework assignments. We both grew up with dolls, Playdoh, and Legos. You might only have one sister, but we both live in small houses filled with huge ideas. Homes of wit and sarcasm. I've cut ounces from your meat and I still can't sleep well.
I will steal your blanket, bedspread, and your pillows. Given the chance I will touch your ears, your face, and the lengths of your legs. But before we have our first to last kiss. Let me talk to Paul with this once in a lifetime opportunity. If he wants a life line he'll take this opportunity, and seemingly uncircumstantial; you recollect yourself in a Margherita and an advance that lands you to sway your ground.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
A little girl went missing
One dark but starry night,
We do not know what happened
Although, some think they might.
So many thoughts and theories
About what might have been
There is much fact and fiction,
The like you’ve never seen
It’s certainly a mystery
What happened to this child,
But one thing is for certain
The case must not be filed
It’s not about the parents
It’s not about the Police
It’s not about the rights or wrongs,
and where they had their teas.
It’s about a little person
A Grandchild, sister, niece,
And someone knows just where she is
You need to tell us , please.
Somebody knows the answers
They know its only right.!!
What happened to that little girl,
That dark and starry night ??
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
she opens a pack of
sheffield english type number five cigarettes
i rest my head in her lap
as she reads a french newspaper
its raining in paris and theres a girl there who is unhappy
dreams of romantic places never have sad girls in them
she must be a tourist
she sips some strange brew of teas
that has a heavy bouquet
loam and flowers..like a sweet wine
she suddenly laughs and translates a piece of the
french news for me
but i dont hear what she says
i only hear the rich beauty of her voice
i only hear the captivating beauties of her
i lean up and kiss her
she tastes of the sea and english cigarettes
i am lost in her essence and her her girlish delights
she pokes me and makes me look at a photograph in
the paris newspaper...its the sad girl
she looks english
that graceful beautiful elegant sadness
that only english girls can speak without ever saying a word
jezebel sips her tea and smokes her english sheffield cigarette
holding it like girls hold cigarettes in that dainty way
i forget the english girl and her sadness
as i lay looking into the eyes of this dreadlock hippie queen
janis joplin plays softly from her mp3
shes tapping her bejewelled toes to the ancient music
bachelors in literature she loves the written word
she has read everything ever written by anyone
she has read her way through forty years worth of poetry by me
and corrected my atrocious spelling along the way
this is morning in her arms
now you know why i am so in love with her
now you see why she is everything to me
she leans down and lays a single tender kiss on my cheek
and tells me she loves me
this is heaven
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
She scooted along the checkerboard floor
collecting ***** plates
& refilling sweet teas.
I placed a double-order of fish tacos
& sat right next to the buffet of hot sauces
just to watch her toss her brown hair about
from under her pink pussycat hat
& lithe body covered
in delicious ink
& piercings.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
There is an abundance of knowledge
That I’ve grown to know about life,
Such as how some green teas,
Brew at a temperature of one hundred and fifty degrees,
Or the way that hues of paint,
Swirl upon a canvas to appear delicate and quaint.
And lastly how my friendships are like little lights,
Illuminating the darkest corners of my life, bright,
And though my brain holds knowledge of,
All that I have mentioned above,
That that I knew not outweighs that of which I do,
Such as the way I feel about you,
Or how the hours spent with you feel so few,
And how every moment spent brings something wonderful and new,
I never knew.
I never knew love,
That my heart could race so fast,
To the melody of the piano instrumentals we listened to last,
Or that I would love the way your fingers run through my hair,
Or how you hold my hand and kiss my fingers tenderly with care,
I did not know.
I did not know love,
That the aroma of Amazni tea
Would bring countless thoughts of you and me,
And that butterflies to my surprise,
Would flutter within every time I’m gazing in your eyes,
Perhaps it is the way you say the word Chicago,
Or you have an appreciation for flakes of snow,
Maybe it’s the way you draw invisible lines on my skin,
I hope you know that this feeling makes me feel beautiful within,
And though I know of this now,
I did not know,
I did not know love,
That I had been waiting twenty five days shy of seven thousand-three hundred and seventy four,
To meet the one who would make me feel something I’ve never felt before.
He who understands of my fears,
And is comforting when I’m at the point of tears,
Maybe it is his entrepreneur set mind,
Or the way our fingers are entwined,
Maybe it is the way we write our own poetry with our mouths,
Or the way we are both not from the South.
It could be any of these,
But I do know that,
I do know love that,
I’ve learned much during these thirty one days,
And as I waltz and frolic through this endless maze,
The only thought I have of which is meaningful,
(Is this)
“I did not know that love could be this beautiful.“
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC