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Nool Nov 2018
I lay in a field of dew fresh flowers
And dream of sweet spring showers
Time and Time take autumn to spring
And a tree begins to grow from me
Now mist and dew are due to me
❤️
K Balachandran May 2013
1
Backwater nymph,
queen of serpentine black tresses
flaunting its coconut oil gleam;
envy of  leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains,
and lissome  maidens from the plains,
who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish.
Wearing hibiscus flowers,
on coiffure like hood of a king cobra,
your coral lips  silently speak
of hot peppery kisses,
waiting for me at shaded corners.
Your sultry body in me arouses desires,
that could only be whispered in your ears.
2
On a coconut lagoon when we met,
for the first time and spoke,
non stop, as if we knew each other life long,
I heard music in your words.
Oh! in the tongue you spoke,
I heard the cadence of a nightingale
ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds,
love had prompted us to fly above the storms.
Your  gleaming coal black eyes,
like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings,
that makes music, only I can hear,
you are a free flying lark,
above Kerala's lush coconut coast,
that extends from sea shore to the mountains.
3
*When we relished steaming brown rice,
mixed with clarified butter,
with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty,
cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk,
my eyes like two crazy butterflies
circled your face, a blossomed Champak
.

Mashed cassava and roasted squid,
melted on our tongues,
in a perfect culinary language
any one would understand without effort.
4
Your lips had cinnamon scent,
spice land's boons,
when we kissed we touched heaven
of scents and spicy tastes.
When our eyes fell on each other,
near the ancient synagogue,
the hay days of which is over,
a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,
    marked you different,
from the  the ladies of your neighborhood,
                                          surroundi­ng you.
How well you did pretend
that you have never seen my face before!

You have mastered love's cunning,
and all the wily tricks to cheat
the enemies of our fiery love
my Freudian mind perfectly understood.
Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite,
when we elope, in the last boat,
to *Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.
Cochin----(Now Cochi) ancient sea port in south western sea board of India, in the state of Kerala, South India,where,Greeks, Romans, Phoenicians, Arabs, Jews and Chinese used to frequent even before 1000 BCE,seeking black pepper and other spices. Cochi, it  is said had one of the earliest emporiums of Greeks,showcasing their best of  wares including wine in  containers called amphoras.
**Champak---A plant of Magnolia family with musky fragrented flowers(Michelia champaca)
*** Alappuzha--The lake district of Kerala
Algernon Jul 2014
we were playing catch and release at the lake
then going to the store to buy canned tuna
then learning how to tie knots:
latticework and basket weaving, promise keeping and lie making
securing one end of your thought
and anchored down by memory
and kept polished by time
but we keep playing catch and release
with our children
feeding them worms on hooks
and just as they reach the surface
"get back in the water"
we cry
get back in the water.
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
I was thinking that my life has grown boring, and that started me making a list of all the most boring things I could think of.  Never been to the Pocanos, but I do have pennies in a piggy bank But I wouldn't write with a Bic Stik if you paid me.
Stu Harley Aug 2018
their
voices
painted
a
bluefin tuna sky
while
we
hear
the
choral of the stars replied
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Every* fine* detail*
Getting  flushed the
blues inside the
red I phones
The lonesome blue
Ring my Rolling Stones
Waking up in [Blue Oceania]
Mama Mia bluesy jazz me waterbed

Hazy, not one yellow daisy
*hurry up your driving me_crazy
          In love like the
Foggy Day in London Town
The saying *New York like no other town

Forget about it Brooklyn is my town

Wearing your face with frowns
like a vine of tomatoes

Is it your time for Victories

Those rotten movies and
throwing those forgotten
  Love potatoes
At the Villa looking
out he's the Captain of the blue sea
My Alaskan blue eye husky
Meet Charlie or the Bumble Bee
Tuna fish

Saw the fog getting stronger
The winter is hazy don't be
the chicken of the sea

  She was spinning her mind into the
vertigo love is crazy
The crazy love''Hugo"
Hers and his E- ecstasy twin-mail
Hazy is just the way you feel
His strings azure blues power tie
She felt other blues what lies

Workout blues hazy spirit greys
She prays hazy winters of blueberry pie

Hearing the blues rush of water
The waitress taking his order
Inside her tasty fingers
The blues "*****" lightly stir
How she met his brother
But why? Don't you love me, Sir

Eyes of blues flower irises
Her blues pour crystal sugar
She turned her head surprises
Swarovski crystal bead
What was said singing the blues
Shades of deep sensual gray
The shapes of things Godly pray
How many words could
you possibly say
When you catch your breath
His eyes are bluer than your
Heart intense red his iron shirts
Got badly burned

Pumpkin Head met sesame seed
flatbread in the modern flat world
Eating a blueberry muffin top
Who has the open mind
Her blues boysenberries
Doing Hip-hop
By her nook pulling the blinds
How the blood stain her lips
Fashion art Chanel cherries
The bloodshot eyes
Caught her fire candle

Wonka" Blues house Coffee Diva

Hazy blown out of
proportion blue
"Hazy Just So" how do you do it
Do you go through her dreams?

Another brainstorm little
boy blue like a fairytale
So inviting love true lights
Just so in her beam another
enticing clue its never what it seems
Just because there is so much blue
Life shouldn't trick you just kick
off your shoes


Just Relax meditate your body flex
The Gulf of Mexico the blue sharks
Take a bite any kind of fish the
whale of a blue wish
The weather so many changes
crazy or not
Everything feels right
when you tie the knot
So hazy the winter to the spring and the summer flowers bluish morning glory September trying to remember the birth of all shades of babies wearing little boy blue but this goes beyond anyone's spirit colors come out the way you seem to see it so live it singing the blues-rock your waves in those velvet shoes
guy scutellaro Jul 2018
(precedes, Bob O'Malleys Wedding reception part one)

The 19 year old light heavy weight leans his muscular body forward to rest his hands on the top rope. He bows his head waiting to regain his breath as his lungs fight to force air deep into his chest. Bill Wain has just boxed four rounds with Red.

Harry, the trainer, gently pulls the untied gloves from Red's hands.
"Good fight, "he says, patting Red on the back as the fighter climbs through the ropes and heads across the gym to the showers. Harry hands the sweat soak gloves to Felix who puts one glove under his arm while he loosens the laces on the other 16 ounce glove. He makes the sleeve wider. "Do you want the head gear?" the old black man asks.

Jack Delleto shakes his head and pushes his taped hand deep into the glove.

The former welterweight champion of Nevada smiles. He glances at Harry and then at Jack. "Head gears unnatural and you can't use them in a pro- fight. It only gives the fighter a false sense of security, anyway."

"Like a condem," Harry says.

"What's a condem ? Are you talking about a fucken rubber?" Felix asks, a bit perturb. "What's a rubber got to do with anything?" Felix demands, not understanding Harry's joke.

"Well, " Harry drawls. "It's suppose to protect your head. It's not natural and just gives you a false sense of security.

"Are you fucken kidding me? Is that suppose to be a joke? Harry, I just don't understand your sense of humor."

Harry smiles and Jack is laughing.

Felix tries not to and then shakes his head laughing, too. "Man, that was the worst joke. How does that feel?" Felix asks Jack when he has finish tying the glove.

Holding up the glove, Jack rotates his wrist. "Feels fine."


The old man takes the other glove from under his arm, pulls the laces out, and holds it open. Without turning his head to look at him, Felix tells Harry, "Make sure Bill doesn't cool down, tell him to shadow box." Harry walks over to Bill and Bill starts shadow boxing. Jack pushes his hand into the glove. "Make a fist." Jack does. Felix pulls the laces tight and ties them into a bow.

Felix looks intently into Jack's eyes. "How does that feel?" He does not see any fear.

"About right."

"you look tired."

"I am a little."

"Are you sick or is it a woman." Felix asks somberly.

"I'm not sick."

A big smile spreads across the face of the former welterweight champion of Nevada. The face of the sixty-eight year old blackman is lined and cracked like the old boxing gloves that jack is wearing, but his tall body is youthful and athletic in appearance. Above Felix's eyebrows Jack sees the affects of twenty years as a professional fighter. He sees the thick scar tissue and the thin white lines where the old man's skin has been stitched and restitched many times. As he gives instructions to Jack, Felix's brown eyes seem to be staring at something distant and Jack wonders if Felix has chased around the ring one time too often his dream.

"I like your style, Jack. Get off first and don't stop punching until he goes down. You've got it kid, and not every fighter does."

Jack and Felix start walking over to the ring.

Jack wonders, "What is it I've got?" He asks.

Felix puts his foot on the fourth strand of the rings rope and with his hand pulls up the top strand. "You've got HEART."

Jack steps into his corner.

In the opposite corner Bill Wain waits while a concerned Harry talks quietly with Felix at the center of the ring apron.

"Will he be alright?" Harry asks.

"Bill's tired." Felix says, then he tries to explain. "It's not the money. I almost 70 and I want to go out a winner." He pauses, and then offers, "he can hit hard with either hand."

"yeah, but at best he's a small middleweight and he only moves in one direction, straight ahead."

"Harry, I love the guy." Felix puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. "He's like Tyson at the end of his career. He'd fight you to the death, but he wasn't fighting to win anymore, either."

Harry puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. "Do you want me to tell'em to go easy." Harry looks up at Felix, waits for an answer.

"I'm tired of sweeping the dirt from behind the boxes of wax beans and tuna fish. I'm sick of waitin in the rain to collect shopping carts. A half way decent white heavyweight can make a lot of money. It's not good for a fighter to practice holding back. Bill's a winner. Jack"ll be alright."

Felix reaches into the pocket of his faded brown and grey checkered pants. He hands the pocket watch to Harry so he can time the rounds.

Felix nods to Bill Wain and the he looks over to Jack standing in the opposite corner. He winks at Jack Delleto and whispers, "The Jack of Hearts."

Bill comes out purposefully out of his corner, circling left.

Jack rushes straight ahead.
Wk kortas Sep 2018
They’d found him, emaciated and tick-ridden,
Down near the docks on Smith Boulevard,
Surrounded by several fellow tabbies
Possessed of the apparent inclination to disregard any taboo
Enjoining them from enjoying one of their own as a hors d’oeuvre.
He’d weighed no more than eight pounds or so,
Closer to six if you scraped off the mats and vermin,
But he’d gotten over that in short order,
As his diet consisted of fried chicken livers
And any bits of tuna sandwich his owner might leave lying about
(Though Jerry Kiley was not a small man himself,
And philosophically opposed to the notion of leftovers as well)
So before long he became utterly Falstaffian
(As Father Maguire from Sacred Heart tut-tutted,
Why, that tom is three stone if he’s an ounce;
He gets any larger, and I’ll have to insist
You kick another two bits into the plate
)
And Kiley had to fashion him a bed from a milk crate
Buttressed with sheet metal
Taken from a vat at the old Beverwyck Brewery.

He’d lived well (Better ‘n me, Jerry often lamented)
Though too well, perhaps,
And he’d fallen prey to the maladies of the leisure classes:
Gout, diabetes, a wheezing which sounded for all the world
Like distant cows lowing in a fairly stiff breeze.
The vet had given him any number of pills and potions,
But it all was no match for his appetite,
And he’d ended up taking the gas before he turned five.

It was decided, in the course of conversation and consolation
At the North Albany legion post bar,
That such a kind and devoted soul
Deserved a send off befitting a noble gent.
A collection was scraped together in short order,
And a viewing-***-wake took place at Jack’s Lunch
(Just up Broadway from Jerry’s place.)
Vittles Tuomi made a jerry-built coffin
Fashioned from the now-vacant cat bad,
And John Itzo snagged some fake flowers and a crepe-paper bird
From the brim of his wife’s old hat
(They being perched on a can of tuna soldered to the box
With the intent of nourishing him on his trip to the afterlife,
Jes’ like the pharaohs, according to Vittles.)
As the services progressed, some of the boys floated the notion
That the guest of honor should (under the cover of darkness, natch)
Be interred at St. Patricks, but Father Maguire,
Attending the do as the feline’s ex officio spiritual advisor,
Gently reminded the prospective pallbearers
That His Grace the Bishop had denied burial in consecrated ground
For lesser offenses, and it was finally decided that burial
(It was assumed that he’d been responsible
For an unknown number of progeny, and it was also rumored
That he had a brother or twelve up in Watervliet)
Would be private and at the convenience of the family.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE:  This piece, such as it is, is built on the foundation of
an anecdote entitled “Langford, Prominent Cat, Dies” which appears in William Kennedy’s Riding the Yellow Trolley Car.  The anecdote is pithy and witty; this piece certainly is not the former and most likely comes up short on the latter.)
Johnny Noiπ Jul 2018
my white       goddess walks
                   the diamond glitter
                path to the  cosmic sun;    
  sights                             set on the center of my
                 golden                        heart's galaxies;
orbiting the fiery silver                  sun at the
                           center of universe
upon universe;          shining faces
       of trillions of feminine                     moons;
don't touch my cat;
my cat is sunlight    giving life    to all creation;
her fur in            sequin stockings;
red smile so sly;                  
                          licking         ­  delicate    whiskers
w/                  her sharp,            beautiful tongue;
   I am her tuna, gladly
don't touch             my goddess;
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!
James Floss Jan 2
The dead remain so
The alive not not so

Pivot divot when
Friends through end

Are still so; with or
Without tuna casserole
bekka walker Oct 2018
Suffocated by groups of women who take all the chairs in the outdoor seating at the coffee shop after walking a quarter of a mile from my parking space just to get my tuna salad sandwich and a mint mocha.
Listening in on desperate conversations, I’m staring at the poster wall advertising pictures of your face for a great deal of $599.99, all the while standing in an agitated congregation of people also anxious for their morning fix.
Suffocated by my own disdain for a city I once loved with all my heart.
It now eats me up.
There’s not enough space outside, and The City of Angels is asking me to pay rent to occupy my own flesh; slowly my soul is being pushed out.
Lying cheat--- extraordinary ***** bait, ink stains on my tuna fish, cold cream on an Eskimo, breaking glass w/Hazel O'Connor.

“Never lie in your prayers; never confess more than
you really believe; never promise more than you mean to
perform.”--  Fr. "James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson."
Rahul Jan 11
Rahul, Rahul, Rahul.
You loveless monster.
Do you smoke?
Because smoke is all that there is,
nobody sees your face.
Nobody knows what you look like.
A faceless ****.
Head drowned in sadness,
and the rest of your body shivers
like a tuna pulled out of water,
except you don’t die.
You do not die.
You are rather a vampire,
that **** on people's lives.
But I tried,
God, I tried.
Dragged your head out,
and ****** in all the sadness
from your lungs,
blew life in you.
I held you, and hugged you,
and held my breath for too long.
I kissed you with your stinking breath.
Do you even ******* remember?
When you kissed me?
And I danced?
You went back home to take a ****
and didn’t reply for 3 days,
and then said you can’t do it,
and wrote about me.
"we are all here to break someone's heart".
you said you're sorry
and then laughed on a joke you remembered
about a drowning man and his mistress.
I've had enough of you,
so here's what I'm gonna do.
dance on your grave and spit on your food,
because Rahul, Rahul, you *******
I'm through.
It was uncannily fishy that I got canned, from my tuna-fish-canning job, at the tuna-fish cannery, for tuna-fishing on World Tuna Day.

— The End —