"whet" poems
School days in winter
Were such fun
Without a care,
When we were young.
At recess we'd slide
On ice,
Build our forts,
Duck and fight.
The firemen
Beneath starlight,
Would flood our schoolyard,
Whet appetites
For hockey games
Between senior classes;
We'd skate and shoot,
Fall on our *****
Such joy and fun,
And no one lost.
The bell would sound,
Then we'd toss
Our wet socks
On school room
Rads.
His and hers
Like banners waving,
Drying, hissing,
Choking, aging.
Impatiently we'd sit and wait,
Do our math
And conjugate;
The clock's hands,
Frozen,
Watched from
The wall,
At last the lunchtime
Bell would ring,
And we'd get bundled
Once again.
Before heading home
We're enticed
To slide once more
On hard, grey ice.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
I talked to a girl,
Who was texting,
On a white iPhone.
A quiet person,
forces herself in,
A conversation
with someone who isn’t interested.
Small talk.
Empty fluff.
Electronic letters,
Whet her appetite.
Chit chat is nothing.
Nothing more,
Than a pointless lesson,
On how to deal with odd people.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
Music is my heart.
Music is my soul.
Music is whole.
Music is...
The drums, the symbols.
The sticks, the beat.
That the rhythm of my feet.
Keeping all in sink.
Music is my body.
Music is my mind.
Music is what you'll find.
Music is...
The base, beautiful base.
Hear that artwork.
That's my hands at work.
Enjoying the rhythm.
Music is my presence.
Music is my spirit.
Music is the ultimate.
Music is...
The melody, harmony.
That's my voice,
Listen, it's your choice.
Please hear whet I say.
Music is my culture.
Music is my life.
Music is the afterlife.
Music is...
Music is my mind, body and soul.
It is my culture spirit and heart
It's my presence rhythm and thought
Music is music, and music is me.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Gold shed upon suckling gold,
The time of the bole blackens,
Of the dark mounted through dapple,
While in the sealed apple
The seed cradled toward cold.
A gold on gold spent,
Put by from an elm in its years
Now its gilded of days,
Over turf’s dishevelment;
Where all which is green sickens,
All the fresh shall be sere.
All which is green sickens,
And it is but for a time
Those embered veinings blaze
A year’s delirium;
Or neared of other space,
Unportioned azure shall close
One of more, and which is,
One which goes.
Let the little pupils that will,
Of vision, gaze for salt
To whet their gazing, wit
In one weather is high
From burrow and lair, by
Nether providences’ default
An all’s accrued.
And apposite, beyond
Such primer beholdings, has
Its long accounting known
The beetle’s morsel thus
Was rich, and the slug’s bed on
The oak’s generations, deep
Over the lark’s bones.
In slough of Edens fast
Wit in one weather shall stand,
While millennia nibble at
The sensual apple
Toppled it net,
Plenty in the palm of the hand,
And the fallen not fallen, not lost
From out its certitude—
For our unbeggaring
Has been gross. Few and late
To cherish an immoderate
Wish, hope’s calculus,
Love’s hope; few to miss,
From natural tally ******
In the lime-girdled space
Of choice, where alone
Man can abandon what
Is only his own;
And in cold and tarrying
Their rearisers sleep:
While to the granite cheek
Light’s purples bring
Infinite their ministering,
And past our finial
And ragged crests, to keep
Time’s ambient stood,
Propose horizons from
Their shadowy quarries; while,
In an unwandered wood,
Or under the indifferent foot,
Is let fall, let fall a fruit,
Through eternal leisures down,
For but time’s unravelling.
2.9k
I feel that I can not breathe
I’m in it now, way too deep
Life has been taking over me
Can’t even find words to speak
Whatever it is I have done
I regret to what it had to come
I always tried to do the right things
But every time it blew up in my face
Math sets up the equations to see
The highest probability is that it’s me
I mean, what else could it possibly be?
In the end it was me always replaced
They get to go on, while I’m a basket case
So alone and isolated is my place to stay
Said you’d always be there
But now I’m living in despair
And I don’t see you anywhere
I am seeing that you don’t care
Whatever it is I have done
I regret to what it had to come
I always tried to do the right things
But every time it blew up in my face
Math sets up the equations to see
The highest probability is that it’s me
I mean, what else could it possibly be?
In the end it was me always replaced
They get to go on, while I’m a basket case
So alone and isolated is my place to stay
And there’s no going back
To whet we used to have
There is no way forward
Life is ending, we’re at zero
Whatever it is I have done
I regret to what it had to come
I always tried to do the right things
But every time it blew up in my face
Math sets up the equations to see
The highest probability is that it’s me
I mean, what else could it possibly be?
In the end it was me always replaced
They get to go on, while I’m a basket case
So alone and isolated is my place to stay
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt
To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravished,
Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set.
here the admiring her my mind did whet
To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;
But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,
a holy thristy dropsy melts me yet.
But why should I beg more love, whenas thou
Dost woo my soul, for hers offering all thine:
And dost not only fear lest I allow
My love to saints and angels, things divine,
but in they tender jealousy dost doubt
lest the world, flesh, yea, devil put thee out.
2.5k
All things conspire to hold me from you–
even my love,
since that would mask you and unname you
till merely woman and man we live.
All men wear arms against the rebel –
and they are wise,
since the sound world they know and stable
is eaten away by lovers’ eyes.
All things conspire to stand between us –
even you and I,
who still command us, still unjoin us,
and drive us forward till we die.
Not till those fiery ghosts are laid
shall we be one.
Till then, they whet our double blade
and use the turning world for stone.
2.4k
The forest welcomed her
With myriad open trunks.
She swallowed
The deep sweet deposit
Of dew on the drowsy rose,
Then lay upon the lawn
Naked and profane,
A creased sheet in the eve
Soaked through with passion;
“Make no mistake
My dear,
You’ve lost your way,
I’m the guiding voice
And you’ve nothing but me
to fear.
Here.
Where the queer meets a quarry
and the Queen is questioned
by pests
I’ll never surrender my love
Until I’ve whet your slender breast
And taken your breath
Made into mysteries,
Silent as a changing season.
Lucid in all lingerie,
Elusive and eloquent;
A humming bird made
in Pity.”
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)—
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
2k
It is a pleasant place to lie,
amidst a copse of Olive trees.
The tears of muses, never dried,
have effaced the writing from your stone.
These hills about once knew your step,
your strong and confident poet’s stride.
Robert, the Royal Fusilier,
Once thought dead, but you’d survived.
Your home is a museum now,
Your Black Cordoban hangs on the wall.
I step into the little den
where you finally said farewell to all.
Looking out your window I
Espy a naked maiden flee.
Skin starkly white with Golden hair-
The White goddess? Could it be?
At any rate, a comely lass,
Beauty to whet a poet’s pen
I’ve heard you were inspired thus
by lovely muses, now and then.
Your domestic arrangements
Were quite strange;
celibate infidelity.
I’ll admit that’s one I haven’t tried.
Nor would I like to, honestly.
But your genius can’t be ignored.
by honest literary men.
I’ve spend hours in Ancient Rome
transported by your fertile pen.
Farewell Robert, Beryl too
You knew he’d be yours at the end.
Muses fuel a poet’s pen
But cannot love as wives may do.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
The dogs are long gone.
The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,
shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,
stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.
The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on barren slates.
They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and satellites.
The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.
Hunted by an army of toothless men,
the children scramble toward the sound
of one dog barking at the edge of the world.
They sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.
We scavenge the stillness
between bullet and bone.
In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—
your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:
each to each,
ash to ash.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravished,
Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.
Here the admiring her my mind did whet
To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;
But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,
A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet.
But why should I beg more love, whenas thou
Dost woo my soul, for hers off'ring all thine,
And dost not only fear lest I allow
My love to saints and angels, things divine,
But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt
Lest the world, flesh, yea devil put thee out.
1.5k
May the gods drink deep your blood
and may the crimson please their gaze
and may the iron scent whet their lust
that the taste may sate it
for you are my greatest offering.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 2:54 PM UTC
Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve
Whom honour’s smokes at once fatten and starve;
Poorly enrich’t with great men’s words or looks;
Nor so write my name in thy loving books
As those idolatrous flatterers, which still
Their Prince’s styles, with many realms fulfil
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway.
Such services I offer as shall pay
Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let me
Favourite in Ordinary, or no favourite be.
When my soul was in her own body sheathed,
Nor yet by oaths betrothed, nor kisses breathed
Into my Purgatory, faithless thee,
Thy heart seemed wax, and steel thy constancy:
So, careless flowers strowed on the waters face
The curled whirlpools **** smack, and embrace,
Yet drown them; so, the taper’s beamy eye
Amorously twinkling beckons the giddy fly,
Yet burns his wings; and such the devil is,
Scarce visiting them who are entirely his.
When I behold a stream which, from the spring,
Doth with doubtful melodious murmuring,
Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride
Her wedded channels’ ***** and then chide
And bend her brows, and swell if any bough
Do but stoop down, or kiss her upmost brow:
Yet, if her often gnawing kisses win
The traiterous bank to gape, and let her in,
She rusheth violently, and doth divorce
Her from her native, and her long-kept course,
And roars, and braves it, and in gallant scorn,
In flattering eddies promising retorn,
She flouts the channel, who thenceforth is dry;
Then say I, That is she, and this am I.
Yet let not thy deep bitterness beget
Careless despair in me, for that will whet
My mind to scorn; and Oh, love dulled with pain
Was ne’er so wise, nor well armed as disdain.
Then with new eyes I shall survey thee, and spy
Death in thy cheeks, and darkness in thine eye.
Though hope bred faith and love: thus taught, I shall,
As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.
My hate shall outgrow thine, and utterly
I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I
Am the recusant, in that resolute state,
What hurts it me to be excommunicate?
1.4k
Light my fuse
strike a chord
with verses mightier
than the sword
Charge my synapses
til my light turns on
Spark my senses
when the night feels long
Bend me contort me
fuel animation
direct and guide me
for mutual stimulation
Send me a thrill
write me a tale
Whip me up into a frenzy
you can use Royal mail
write my menu
Whet my appetite
with foods that arouse
and please in plain sight!
kindle these embers
make me shake my jelly
but most of all
fuel the fire in this belly!
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
We could, you know!
Once more
trip as we did.
To that place
our place.
Where smiles fall from the curls of our corners
as slow motion tickles of delight.
Of stories, sweet as sticky taffy
that taste of far off.
Spices and lingers that whet our whistles.
Let’s spin our globe.
Follow our dreams.
Precious little our wares.
We could, you know…
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Let me make your life easy
Now that you making so many efforts
To end mine
Guns, Pistols, Bombs and your own body
So considerate , so kind.
So let me help,
Let me whet my trepidation
Lacerate my flesh, from inside
Let me batter my silly quivering, numb
Let me assure them ,they will be insensate
It is only a matter of time.
Meanwhile,
Tell me how would you like it?
Mere flesh soaked in ****** quagmire
Silent in death , heeding to you instruction manual
Or
Crisp shrills rising in cacophonous notes
Reciting curses in quandaries, jabbing your fiend inside
Or
should i use my imaginations
On 'how to ruin my own life?'
So behold and hold
My veins from the end
And haul towards your side,
Twist to cause added agony
Or may be crush my lungs
To hasten me out of my life
See my insipid blood splatter
As it draws tattoos of attainment on you
Hear it gurgle
As you guzzle it out of my body, as if some wine
Nevertheless,
It won't evoke any poignant feeling
Even if you realize in the end
You and i are same kind.
So drown me deep, so deep in the pool which is red
Sorry again,if you were expecting blue,yellow,green or may be white
Descend me twice the force
If i brawl or condemn against your peace of mind
Hear the music of my diminishing gasps till the end
And move on , tattooed and vindicated.
-Pallavi Goswami
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
I smile. I laugh. I frown. I cry.
I do all of these and more.
Some of you can see that and beyond the eye,
An area I still inhale and explore.
Several years ago, I told everyone I had no idea:
Who I am, what I am capable of....
If I follow or not the stereotypical criteria,
Or when I'll fully understand that emotion called love.
To this day, I still have no inkling of it.
I look to those beside, in front, and behind,
And only gain information in the smallest bit by bit,
My eyes water, my smile falls, my heart and lungs grind.
Who am I?
A young African-American woman?
What else do you see in my physical eye?
Asain-American? Caucasian?
Indeed I am all of these and more.
This genetic make-up is my own.
But you probably don't see my pleas:
Will I still not know, even when time is grown?
How much time do I have?
Self-actualization seems so far,
Yet so close now that my line is almost in half.
Is my mentality up to par?
Perhaps all that people know most is my mask,
I'm sure they have all seen, smelt, and touched
That casket that makes breathing such a complex task.
Indeed, it is so easy to gain and manipulate trust,
But don't think i have toyed with it yet,
Or even ever, because I crave that social acceptance.
What human doesn't feel that crave at least once to whet?
Patience. Patience. Patience.
Do I have that for you?
Do I have that for me?
Hah, niether. I have no patience for those two;
But that area is where my mask has wealth.
Forgive me for this length,
And the tears on this middle binding.
I say some know me, lies, you know less than an eighth,
And I just love that caring look in your eyes when we're bonding.
I thought I knew.
I thought, I was sure, I believed it was gone...
I am back with no answers not even a few,
But I can ask questions until dawn.
What more can I say to you?
There really is no reason to frown.
I am the poet, I am the rebel,
I am the student and the slacker,
I am the depressed girl who fell.
I am the cutter, I am the life-taker,
I am the raver and the intellectual,
I am the middle child of three.
I am the dreamer, I am the casual,
I am the fight and the one who flees,
I am all of these and more.
And yet, i still don't know who or what I am.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
that hemlock i cracked in two days
was one of your best
deceptions.
the tumblers finessed the probe. your mode of disconnect
was exquisite pathos. and lesions.
we drank from dead wells to alleviate the tedium of sober springs.
we rigged the landscape
to provide clockwork wolves to whet their fangs to the marrow
of our Diaspora devoid of Momentum.
that devious fracture in your mind has surrendered to my advances.
i glean your glamour-tross.
cellos are coursing through my veins
as your ***** grinds my prime mate into scrap
and daguerreotype
Pompeii.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
Victory is of the self.
Another threadbare exchange to leave my spirit in poverty.
Nothing I remember but the time we drifted near my planetary ego.
Planet.
You know the Greeks called it aster planetai? The star that moves.
Why be something I’m not?
It was always about me – the bloated body expelled into space.
I can be less grotesque. I can be less absolute.
I can be less dead sooner over later.
But why be something I’m not?
I am the object of my own worship, and I shall take no gods before me.
In lieu I’ll take them with me.
They the minor idols, capsuled icons, escape pods burnt in the crazy science fiction fires of atmosphere re-entry.
Everyone was all the time fleas flaked off my solar bodyship, seeking exaltation in pursuit ex nil ad nihil.
I’d apologize for my deceptions, but I’ve got a lot to learn about remorse and little time to learn it.
Horror genre, body to cosmic. Gaze you, the invited subject, upon the approaching sun from the whet of my exhausted maw.
Burn out your eyes.
Who is greater than the sun? Who can talk more than me? It's become my occupation.
Matches made with flesh and fuel wait for the final fade to white.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC