"unsalted" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
#120715 #4:30PM
Just a thought,
To where **everything’s ******
Eyes in leer – flameless –
You are Beauty.
Open eyes, open skies
Open realm, open lies.
White as snow, I was
You’re the apple in spells.
As I lived, I have died too.
With rustic munitions,
You gashed my heart out.
With your circles in hoax,
You murdered me.
A sunless morning,
A moonless night,
An air so humid,
An unsalted oceans.
For in time so impeccable,
Befuddling in misdemeanors,
You’re the Beauty who’s a Beast.
Just in time,
Forgiveness is an erudite.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be--
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
"Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
"Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
3.7k
Growing up,
There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls.
Realizing
She was surrounded,
a plastic society,
choicelss.
Simple figures. Thoughtless taste.
Molded forms.
Unseasoned cuisine.
Unrealistic ideas.
Unsalted frenchfries.
Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks.
Growing up normal,
No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet.
Brainwashed
convinced of being un-proportional.
No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess.
Whispers about "that girl"
Not listening, but hearing
every
word.
Lesson learned
Chained to the plastic society.
Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed.
No "styled hair," no "big eyes".
Chained; foolish concepts.
Attempting to escape the prison worse than death:
alienation.
Bring it on.
Darkest places, broken rules,
done being molded, through being fooled.
Always considered "that girl. Breaking free
from this brainwashed, plastic society.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Chicken Soup
A bowl of chicken soup hot and steamy,
The clear chicken broth, not white and creamy,
With noodles and chunks of chicken afloat
Its good for a cold and for a sore throat.
Companion in age and childhood friend
Its lunch time and we're together again.
Once I had soup with sandwich baloney
Now, its with unsalted crackers only.
Doc tells me I have to watch what I eat,
So from salt and fat I have to retreat.
But let me impart this one, little scoop:
I'll never relinquish my chicken soup.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:36 AM UTC
There's no one who bugs me, irks me and makes me mad.
There's no one who hounds me, pesters me and irritates me.
There's no one who angers me by forgetting special occasions,
or forgetting to call,
or gets unsalted butter rather than salted at the grocers.
Only You.
There's no one who makes me roll my eyes
with his twisted philosophy, illogical excuses and faked innocence.
There's no one who makes me purse my lips in disagreement,
when he comes home from so-called overtime work,
smelling of cigarette smoke and whiskey.
There's no one who makes me bare my teeth with exasperation,
when he doesn't talk when I want him to,
when he seems to not listen when I think he needs to.
Only You.
There's no one else who knows to buy me tulips,
when he's trying to ask for my forgiveness.
There's no one else who sings "Wonderful Tonight" off-key,
when he sees me in my most tattered pajamas,
with my hair standing on end
and my cheeks and neck crawling with rashes.
There's no one who cooks a meaner chicken soup,
when I'm sick and force-feeds it to me in bed.
Only You.
There's no one who kisses me in the sweetest,
most breath-taking way in the park,
in the rain while we're jogging.
There's no one who makes me laugh
with his spot-on impression of my favorite comedian,
while watching a home video on date night,
and sharing a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
There's no one who makes love to me in such a selfless,
most gentle way, making me feel like
I'm the most loved, most special girl in the world.
Only You.
There's nobody else who makes me love him,
who makes me want to keep loving him,
in all his perfection, all his imperfection,
all the things that make him a man.
There's nobody that I am most willing
to brave all the storms with,
nobody I desire to grow old with,
and give all of my self to...
Only You.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
The waitress said she didn't have any paper
As she took orders and names and personalities
And wandered
Tables ands kitchens and free bread
54 wants less water
Tom needs more water
Vinegar allergies and detailed taste
Unsalted saltines are a fountain of youth
As she takes my name and phone
And never calls again
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Sad sunflowers sigh,
As they dry their eyes.
The sun has gone away
They bow their heads
Heavy with sorrow.
They'll meet again tomorrow.
During night they rest
Taking a break from smiling.
Tomorrow kids will come
To take their seeds away.
A few of them will die
But most will be alright.
Some petals will tear and fall
But still they will be fine.
They smile at the children
Despite of the pain they feel
It's a pleasure to be noticed
Even if they 're using you.
Sunflowers sunny petals
Cover them in manes.
Sunflowers unsalted seeds
Help them stay together.
Their fields of gold cause awe
To the people which stare.
They will come back tomorrow
To look at the flowers
And their golden hues.
-3nwlry
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
And although
they’ve spent
nearly 25 years
cleaning the same
sex-less bed sheets
every two weeks
and have used
the same blue soap,
the same rusted spoons,
both believe
another’s body heat
may be more comforting.
To her the morning coffee
cools quicker
than it used to.
His conversation
reminds her
of unsalted grits.
She sees the lines
beneath his eyes and
wants to tug
at them like zippers.
She’s contemplated
****** even.
At night he touches
himself. He moves
blankets off and on,
side to side.
He awakes wet.
In the morning
he looks at her and
wonders why
she stabs at her eggs.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
*Seven years ago, I knew you.
Present day, now I don't.
Gaps in time.
Never retrievable, unbelievable
nearly how much passes by.
But here we are, so transfixed again.
Seven years later, and yet,
it doesn't seem to matter.
Feelings rise back like the sun rises in the east.
Simple, yet meaningful chatter.
We met in our youth,
whimsically and pure.
Two young souls, we lust;
in a splendidly serendipitous summer.
We met again without intention,
without mention of something greater: fate.
Memories of you wash over me, your name resurfaces.
Hypnotized by the pull, you reach out for me.
We truly met in adulthood,
filled with newfound awareness.
Two souls, we fell in love;
laughing about silly arbitrary things
like swiss miss hot chocolate,
bonobos, salad dressing and coated spinach. (I want whip)
Sharing stories of our crazy college days;
Together, getting caught with our clothes off,
to watching love birds in a courting ritual.
Recalling conversations - "what about a mastodon?"
through intense concentration.
Walking along the unsalted deep blue,
I wish we could have stood there forever,
side by side, hand in hand...
We couldn't of course, not pragmatic;
the bitter cold became problematic.
Gusts of frustrating winds, a hail of bullets.
Misty eyes and whirlwind romance.
I reached back too far, arched and overextended.
Agreements altered and amended.
Haunting words of imperfection,
and collection of unretrievable memories.
We met in our youth,
whimsically and pure.
Two souls, we lust;
Seven years, I'll see you later.*
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
don't spend time talking about insane nonsense
that have no worth , like unsalted salt
that hold no use but to be trampled on and lost
mouths speak sentences...
....stop think , collaborate thoughts
speak words of gold that cannot be bought
speak life to those who seem dim and distraught
use words to build someone up when others may not
speak less , don't loss your head
don't give in to insane mumble
for they only profit negativity
and just not good for you piece of mind and clarity
treat words like swords or beautiful dances
or like skillfully woven fabric or sweet romances
resurrect the words that live in old scrolls
that collect dust , oh words of gold
and wrap them on your finger for memories collecting
keep them close to your heart forever perfecting
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Keeper of the better places,
Take my soul,
Into the skies unfamiliar
Gazing at earthen seekers,
Why is not where I am,
Where is why I look,
What is where you are,
When is but a sun's tear.
All I am in hopes and expectations,
Unsalted under heat,
From whenst I came
Is home to my spirit.
Star,
A new home for the weary
I plant myself in many skies,
The dream I became,
Seeking a new sun....
Hope.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
**“for when the mind has no solution to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement, the poet’s desperation equals theirs”
The Bus Poet Stop “The Glass Shackles” ^
<|>
~this one for Eliot York, who gave us a great gift - opportunity~
§§§
The mandated city buses are largely denuded of passengers,
so the drivers, peruse the enriched, enforced silenced life of the
streetscape, and as they pass, call-out a fisherman’s plaintive wailing,
“here we are, where are you, do we exist?” Too few nibble “I am!”
Bus Poet Stops, stumbles on an older writ, now seemingly prophetic,
once again, he is back, living in a glass shackled confinement,
his 16th floor perch, besmirched, the mirthless empty outside well matched by the isolation inside him, a new kind of shackling bereft.
For these glass shackles are not new, but different, the glass is poorly blown, cloudy, pockmarked with air bubbles entrapped, useless
for fresh breathing, many containing a question mark, some ask
what, others when/where shelter, all, harsh pleading tones, why me?
“For when the mind has no solution” poet wrote in twenty eighteen,
unaware that this predictive value would return to rent & render mean,
his composure, no longer a savior, now he weeps copiously for thee,
those that he, in prior life, came to save, now too, another faceless face.
no, no!
Your writing saves self, and a thousand more, you infiltrate, penetrate our conjoined quiet, giving name to each of our unsalted tears, no fear poems that make us say, Merry, Merry to us all; God bless us, every one! Bus Poet head-hung, shamed, pained, looks away, mask-covers-gratitude.
Rough and tumbling times, we discount ourselves blameless, but voices
say time for gifting varietals of solace mysterious, this! is your business!
words, instruct to touch, to transport us on a poet’s bus to Delirious,
enable arrival+survival to destiny’s destination, “for all, a good night!”
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 2:08 PM UTC
monsters have shoved their claws into my ambitions
you have turned my body into butter
unsalted, not the good kind
my arm reminds me of a tree carved my young men,
hungry to be remembered and to leave an ugly mark
dripping like sap
i feel like Jenny
“dear god, make me a bird, so i can fly far, far away from here”
because i am ******* sick and tired to being forced to look forward to telling my excruciating narrative,
like pulling my nails from my nail beds
and remember, it is my ******* story,
not yours,
it will never be yours
i am not your final girl
i am not even your girl
and i hate to break it to you,
but i never will be
i am the daughter of Khaleesi, and Aaliyah, and Beyoncé,
women who have walked through fire and have come out the other side, unscathed,
women who continue to take no **** form anybody
the world is a *****
but over realized,
so am i,
yet more than anything,
i have been the cattiest ***** to myself for years ,
and i’ve finally decided,
i am ******* fed up with taking my own abuse
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
Woe to you, unfaithful witness, did not even Enoch portray your endings? Falsehood friending's shall overtake homes of love...
Look above,
Oh shalllow man, doth thou not knowest the one who holds thy keys to hell and the grave? Continue in thine way brutest of beasts...
For weeping, and gnashing of teeth shall uproot you.Gomorrha once again...
Media trends, you live and compass by, for thy universe is in parrel you mut of dirtied hands...
Seven golden candle sticks do palm in his hands, as your temperature shall arise!!
Humanities own suicide...
Thine estate's shall fail, skin turned pale by your own nuclear fusion, dust bowl intrusion.
Filthy rags shall be your soup bowl, while the homeless you give no home, haveth thou not heard of charity? What disparity!
Clouds you are without the rain, your the salt of the earth, yet why art thou unsalted? For don't you know your savour isn't there?
Murderer's, complainers, do you seek thine own lusts? For repentance is a must, when the fire's down below!
Howl and moan you speaker's of evil dignity, for thy pride and thou pity shall you muster up in confidence, all countenance..
You mock, though doth not receive, bury your own for you shall grieve,
Your own futuristic nightmare of course!!!!
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Not alone
Have family and friends
They are busy with their own lives especially this time of year
Thankful for being a poet and a writer
Bless December Bluebirds
Bless ducks, geese, and turkeys roaming free in the most unexpected places
Squirrels seriously overfed with bananas smeared with almond butter
Along with a variety of shelled unsalted nuts
Rain circles and raindrops
Sunny days
Walking twenty five miles a week for the ASPCA on Charity miles app
Being a loner is fine for me
C@rainbowchaser2023
Dec 11, 2022
Dec 11, 2022 at 1:39 PM UTC
The waves feel so distant this winter
I remember the sweat on my back
The long summer days
July was a quiet unforgiving god
She burned the tips of my fingers
Taught me something about humility
Nowadays I feel like some back road
Caught in the middle of a snow day
Unsalted and forgotten
I hope this ice melts away soon
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
last year's hangover
Morning Star blind
without the ride
of imbibing libations
words bled dry
in powdered thought
desiccated emotion
won't rehydrate unsalted
and I just ain't in the mood
shoulda had that drink
winning every battle
lost in war I can't see
but scars burn deep
courting failure
with fear
why fight fate
in altered perceptions
that are all real enough
to feel
in a world where the
only thing concrete
is thought...
bled dry
in last year's hangover
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 7:27 PM UTC
While four hauled on ropes
with all their might to heave
the vessel the rest of us pushed
as hard as we could for it to slip,
over rolling wood stems of nearby
centenary trees, cylinder boles cut
collected and positioned neatly
on the beach. Feet sinking in sand
scorching skin for what could have been
the last time, ingenious procedure
to ****** the mended old ship
at sea, once more to sail where winds
would blow her, hope would lead her.
Little did we know the two would take
us far into nowhere abandoning tars
to the mercy of blistering quiet.
No gale no direction other
than sudden calenture affecting
all the crew the captain miles
away from any coast under
hallucinogenic revelations
delivering abreactions
unexpected introspection
resulting in acquaintance
with self. Until storm was greeted
with joy mouths wide-open
like kids sticking tongues
out to seize drops of unsalted
fresh water after seven
days of compulsory ***
depletion. Invigorated a new
battle introduced its imminence,
waves as high as ancient temples
were the rival faced
while lowering sails to survive
unwilling to surrender yet
searching for land
through reluctant biting lashes until,
the last billow we saw captured
us and closed our eyelids,
forevermore.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 6:11 AM UTC
beer and whiskey
meat and potatoes
working class
no umbrella drinks
ingredients i can say
country and western
rock and roll
black and white
no shades of gray
closed on sunday
the big three
cigarettes and beer
ladies and escorts
afternoon baseball
no night games
pitchers hitting
players spitting
doctors smoking
***** magazines
45s and 33s
life delivered
eat at home
no school breakfasts
station wagons
Christmas cards
Community dinners
Fenced in yards
Chicken pox parties
Buying with cash
Bonfires while camping
Trophies to winners
Church Christmas Pageants
Father/ Son Dinners
Plain not unsalted
Till Death us do part
Meat and Potatoes
Whiskey and Beer
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 9:41 PM UTC
The rain on my window has no idea that I think of it as fat unsalted tears, as I watch the flow from ashen discontented skies
It cannot think or reason why
I feel this way
About the foggy endless grey
that fills my head
The heavy sense of brooding and unsatisfying dread
Maybe tomorrow the sullen rain will drain away
But not today
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 7:36 AM UTC
Dear Dad,
I've been dying to tell you that I'm gay
tucked away in a box of my childhood toys
you'll find almonds, cashews, and unsalted peanuts
your first son and I are not alike
my favorite color blue, his green
synchronized like gears in a clock
I too am drenched in sweat
I have your oversized cotton t-shirt on
the one I wear to sleep
I rewatch the video I recorded of Gustavo and I
locked and intertwined
in a shape that's unsuited for your eyes
the same blood running through you
your father and his father
is the same blood that runs through me
resilient, strong and wild like an untamed horse
Hasan, our shared name, my signature
it's similar to yours
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC