"truffles" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
In the New Forest my Base had discovered
The Rites of Pannage those Back-Breakers do
Sows and their Cousins their Instinct recovered
Took a Year's Break from Storage and Stew
Which Proud Members chose Estovers on-edge
Then for Dessert from their Month's Turbary
A Better Concern than Motors bred at-stake,
A chance for their King to pay his Duty
So, my Conqueror, tell me that Ballad
Or must I force that Verderer to Sing
With Acorns, Truffles and all Nuts at-hand
Till he spits out the Seed which bore my Ring.
Tell you what. This Porker you just provide
I'll relish its Pudding and wear its Hide.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
once again she has mastered the art of getting stuck in the same empty room
the one in which she ends up in after a rough night
the intoxicated water streaming down her throat
and down the most sincere part of any women
flowing through every blood vessel
he grips her thighs
she accepts the hand shake
the welcome
the greeting
instead he is the one coming in
she serves tea coffee and truffles
around the house she is the tour guide
she opens the door to a room with double locks
as she is putting her clothes back on
he leaves
without a uttering a simple goodbye thank you
or ill never forget this
as she walks back into the room in her mind where he first sat
she notices the dust on the full plates and glasses
coffee untouched
tea untouched
truffles going bad
and she thinks to herself
how could I do such a thing
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:49 PM UTC
who am i?
what am i?
is my identity determined by my actions?
so that makes me a girl who'd rather write than live
and takes in life about as well as a siv
but is that all i am?
because that excludes the laughter
the offkey singing
the mediocre horn playing
and my lack of praying
or is the only me who matters
the one who is seen
through a million other eyeballs?
she says i'm a talent, a bottomless pit
a good friend, one you'd want
a girl obsessed with times new roman font
someone who's all the best parts of salty and sweet
but tell me, if that's the truth
then how come my phone isn't blowing up with calls?
am i little else than the me in the mirror?
two little tired chocolate truffles
unruly dark hair
skin that doesn't know what to be
all contained underneath a makeup mask
it's difficult to put a label on a person
while also taking time to imagine them complexly
to call me just one name ignores the best and the worst
the person in love with language
also uses it as a weapon to attack
the girl with a chip on her shoulder
never wants to look back
inside of me is a multitude of ladies
pretty preppy ladies
singing show girls
nifty nerd chicks
to choose one and ignore the rest would be a sham
so maybe i don't know who i am
and maybe that's okay
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
Rich, dark soil after rain
Fresh brewed coffee with just a drop of cream
They want sky blue, aquamarine,
Or deep forest green,
But all I can give is brown.
Smooth, chocolate truffles
Hot cocoa on a bitter, snowy day
A ten-year-old boy's mudslide onto home plate
A freshly washed teddy bear
The world tells me these are not beautiful.
Instead they want a polluted, grey sky,
Or littered grass.
My eyes are strong bark,
And sturdy oak.
They are ancient roots reaching into fertile soil,
Out of which sprouts life.
Brown is all I can give to you.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
My pen, the shovel, you have one too,
that digs for nuggets,
of gold and finds coal.
Messy writing shuffle,
pen and ink, hug its
place on my paper soul.
The trick is like finding truffles,
writing to spread the fungus,
add heat, duress, be an atoll,
and
you may
produce a gem
a diamond in the rough is
still a diamond.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look so tasty
Chocolate eclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things
When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
I am reading poems by Billy Collins:
AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective,
A sampler, as it were
For the Books and Brew;
Our monthly selection.
Nine manly men
Meeting for monthly meals
And book-talk
And politics
And, of course, good beer.
They like nonfiction,
I like fiction.
Richard Hughes,
British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said:
“All nonfiction can do is answer questions;
It is fiction's business to ask them.”
Still, my repertoire has expanded:
Nike shoes.
Civil War.
Institutional racism.
Opioid addiction.
Rafting the Grand Canyon.
Climbing mountains.
With Baron Von Humboldt.
And now this:
Poetry.
Nine manly men
Reading poetry to each other
While sharing a meal,
One lovely poem after another.
You can't read a book of poetry
Like you consume other books,
Fiction or nonfiction.
The table of contents:
The lid of a box of exquisite truffles—
A map of pleasures contained within.
You look at the map,
And make a selection.
The caramel truffle
Is not the coffee truffle.
You look at the map,
Make a selection,
And bite!
The crusty chocolate cracks!
The darkness melts,
Floods your mouth with taste.
Then the rush of caramel!
Flavors, smells sloshing
Swooning with sensate memories.
What? Turn the page and read another?
Reach for the coffee truffle?
No. Linger with caramel;
Luxuriate on aftertaste.
Is that a note of citrus or salt?
I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
The Creator of
Edible love
Sent from above
Its the candy I love to make
Muffins, truffles, and cake
For the art is why I bake
Don't even try to lie
The sweets you can't defy
Espresso Brownies, pumpkin pie
With all certainty
I am so glad to be
A maker of pastry
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
There's an ineffable urge
to sidle up against
masculinity; to allow his
mercurial fervor to unleash
these lascivious outbursts
of lust that dwell inside the
depths of my soul, ravishing
him with hungered passion;
tasting each sinewy muscle
pulsing with flickers of
want, like a savored sweet
chocolate truffle, indulging
slowly in every part I can
entwine as he shudders
with each lick I inflict
lingering in his aftertaste....
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
t'is a seasonal custom of us,
**(you did notice that us
is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)**
that in December, not November
when turkey precedes...
I take my slip of a gal
for a big bowl of pasta
and white truffles from France.
the eyetalian waiter knows
he made the sale when her eyes,
crinkle wrinkle when I ask,
upon which pasta
does the ristorante serve the
white truffles from France?
fettuccine, naturalmente!
in ritual grandiose,
the mushroom grated before our eyes,
shavings and specks scattered and disbursed,
part one of the us in c-us-tom done.
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup,
not just good enough, but a treat,
and I did not from truffle oil eat
nor speak.
two thirds of the way,
part two, I say, hey!
you know you don't have to eat the whole thing.
with eyes adoring,
she fesses up her tiny tummy was full
about half way through.
but she knows
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
hate to waste the money,
that comes so hard.
part two is the part of the c-us-tom
she forgets about, but the part that
she really loves me for,
so who cares how much truffles cost,
as far her eyes are concerned,
they crinkle wrinkle at the taste,
of my remembering part two.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Shoppin wiv Albert.
I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.
He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
There you were, with chocolate all over your fingers
And a huge grin plastered all over your face.
You plopped those truffles into your mouth
As if you were a starving child,
Eyes shining, like it was the first time you’d tasted food in weeks.
That night I heard you crying
And when I came into your periwinkle purple room
You had chocolate all down your cheeks
As if your tears weren’t made of salty water
But rather, salted caramels
Melting down your burning cheeks.
There you were, looking so small buried in your mountain of a duvet.
I hugged you, and squeezed you
Told you that if I could, I would serve you chocolate truffles for every meal
With chocolate milk to wash them down.
I asked you what was wrong
And you said you didn’t know.
And you still don’t know.
And still, when I sneak in to kiss your cheek
When the lights are dim and I think you’ve fallen asleep,
My lips meet chocolate tear drops,
And my heart sinks because never has anything so sweet
tasted so bitter.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
I just found
some
chocolate truffles
NO!!
I'm not sharing
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
the night is alive with flavor
:)
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick **** the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.
I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.
But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.
Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
A merry forest pig was he
he woke up very early and hunted until three
snorting, sniffing, the air he's whiffing
never is he ruffled, only focused on his truffles
He goes **** rumping
grunt, grunting for truffle - O's!
Wild he runs and trots the greeny forest
with a jolly jig he wriggles and digs
his cloven hooves moving dirt like lightening
hunt, hunting for truffle - O's!
When at last he finds his gourmet morsels
a squeal is heard and fly the birds
clear from the forest, a happy hog
a squealing song of treasures found, his beloved
Truffle - O's!
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
Don’t you just feel like something is missing
Like a breath of fresh air that leads to reminiscing
About that time where you were kissing
The one wondering if there was something missing
From him from her from you, not sure, and it leads to some hissing
From rattle shakes to rattle snakes
playing games to laying blame
The venom quakes through
it mistakes you for them
You can’t take truth, but it breaks you and your heart too, you pretend
“No, there’s nothing missing” shifting from the kiss thing
to not even being your own friend
Reality reflects that fact back at-you like a sneeze
but a metafive couldn’t even bless you, please
So you just go on with the metaphors
missing a piece to the puzzle
As you tussle with the metamorphoseasons
Your metamorphoseizing with abundance of reasons to struggle
life is like a stagnant puddle
life is like a box of chocolate truffles
without a picture key to tell me what’s inside
as I workout my faith like a muscle
Playing with similes
hoping that if I poke an eye out it would at-least make you smile, or simle
Atleast if I leave the left "I" out of simile, it makes a smile
but it simultaneously left "I" out from We
So humanity would be without me really being me
so smile! Please!
Wow, so that means I am insisting that dismissing my being
would’ve been freeing if only my simileing would bring smiling
but with my being goes my meaning
thinking that pretending would be freeing
when its only impeding
leading you to realize that nothing was ever missing
from anything at all
But its up to you to make the call
Noone can convince you of the truth, but you
Noone can do what excites you like you
No two can be you, you know its true
Use the earth as your womb to begin anew
Because the world needs more of you being you
its okay to be you
Thank you for being you
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
close your kohl-rimmed eyes
hold me tightly,
let’s dance, cheek to cheek.
c’mon, beggars have dreams too!
leaning to kiss your imaginary lips,
i taste
laced in your occidental tongue,
chocolate truffles and grapes of Montrachet,
which bring an angelic smile to a moonlit face.
scribbling a needed epilogue
for a sultry tune
within the confines of my jello heart,
i curate a dream,
a simple dream for no one to know or see,
but you and me.
© 2021
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 8:01 AM UTC
I had too much wine
He ate all my white truffles
That crude selfish boar
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 1:42 PM UTC
Does the reading of the day,
Trinkets and truffles and all,
Sweeten the taste of clay,
The rust, the blood, the brawl.
Tremendous the power of,
The firefly in the apothecary jar ,
When the pompous lid above,
Sits illuminated as the star
How sour the noble bell,
Rings for those who would be on the seat,
Trained on their bottom as it swells,
Mocking and ruling the masses on their feet.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
*There is no way for you to know it, but
For me to say it, write it like I mean it,
A revelation, a firm oath, telling things like:
"My stubborn heart is a parked automobile
Waiting to be towed away by you."
Because the word "Wait" can be deceiving.
To lie at our Homeland beach in the summer
Of 2017 could mean patience or indulgence.
To fall in line on a counter could mean
Paying or just plain getting.
And to sit at a bus stop could mean
Going home or leaving things behind.
And so this pen tries and tries and tries
And (because King Jehoash stopped short)
Tries and tries and tries some more
To be a decent bouquet of flowers
Or an acoustic cover of a love song
Or a bag of truffles I never once tasted,
Though you don't even notice.
Dearest, I'd rather pursue you
With all that I got knowing full well
That I can possibly fail than to stop short
And spare my self from shame.
I cannot go half-hearted. I'm all in.
And I'm here to win your heart.
So help me God.*
© 2017 J.S.P.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC
by Sara L Russell
(For the casualties of Manchester Kennels, 12/9/14, 21:05)
Old trusty Bob, sure-footed in the lead,
Truffles and Sandy bringing up the rear;
And all the others, with no faith or creed,
Yet representing all that's loved and dear.
They run along the path to Paradise
To where no faithful hound need ever die;
A playful eagerness lights up their eyes,
As clouds and gliding seraphim go by.
Garlands of stars and quasars light the way
The scent of incense lifts their spirits high
Nobody shouts commands to sit or stay;
Freedom is calling from beyond the sky.
Saint Peter tells each one "Rest easy, friend;
Your earthy suffering is at an end."
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look tasty
Chocolate éclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things
When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC