"yams" poems
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts
Who likes BANANA cream pie?
They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight
Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms
ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine
Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth
Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE
HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste
ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery
The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine
My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind
It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf
MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's
NEEPS can be mashed or left whole
On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well
Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe?
Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast
The lady next door grows RHUBARB
SPINACH gave Popeye much strength
Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational
UGLI is a member of the citrus family
In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS
WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare
XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON
YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet
ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
When a door is open,
A love crook can steal the key,
like Bonnie and Clyde,
This couple is meant to be.
These two are like Peanut Butter and Jam,
One without the other is simply not possible,
it's like having Thanksgiving, without any Yams!
Together they are, together they be.
Life without each other cannot be seen.
What are those 3 words?
Oh yeah, I LOVE YOU.
Je t'aime,
Te Amo too! I'm afraid if he goes away, I'll be blue.
Some type of sickness,
maybe the flu.
But no, this couple is strong and won't break.
This couple gives more
and barely takes!
My babe? My boo? Yeah nicknames, there any many more.
I know this relationship will last,
plenty of adventures we will explore.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
Christmas countdown has begun and family members are on the run
Looking for the bargains everywhere, and how they get it they don’t care.
All the retailers have put up their displays
As they prepare for Christmas day.
Grocery stores and supermarkets with their specials on the floor
And in every aisle there are treats galore.
Turkeys and hams, candied yams too- all the treats just for you.
Department stores and shopping malls- filled with shoppers wall to wall.
The children are in total awe as they look from store to store.
And every new item that’s on TV. In the stores for them to see.
Yes! The Christmas countdown has begun. And the children
Are preparing for the fun, from bicycles and dolls and all the rest
Knowing they’ve gotten all the best.
Look around; look around, the Christmas spirit is all around.
MERY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL, THIS IS THE SEASON TO HAVE A BALL!
©L.RAMS 112214
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Fresh after the rain
I hike in the woods.
The leaves are turning to
yellow yams, auburn brick, pumpkin pie.
The ground is wet and the wood is damp.
The leaves lay vibrant on their death bed.
I turn around.
I see through the spaces
fallen flowers,
departed shrubs,
vanished birds,
the trees that once protected my eyes from the placid lake.
The air is bright with mist.
The grey sky surrounds me.
The cold breeze comforts my skin,
and forgives my lungs.
I take it all in.
But the cold air can never forgive
the dying trees and life dissolved.
Others will pass by.
Leaves will crunch and crumble
under feet that won’t realize the forest decline.
The music to their ears will return each year.
But the crunch will fade.
Less trees, less leaves.
A Decrescendo,
A whisper.
Silence.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
Under the trees we danced
Around blue made fires
With love and unity
Entertained with flutes and moonlight stories
Dropping from the toothless mouth of our elders
Accompanied with Wise words and warnings
That we may not be blown by the wind
Or drenched by the rain
.
Soon,we became orphans
Left with no breast to ****
Fathers and mothers lost in battle
Against unceasing slumber
We are alone like an island surrounded
By waters of civilization
.
Now we are lost ,lost in ignorance
Our hands,not strong enough
To hold firm the calabash
Given to us by our dead
Filled up with warnings and wise words
So we lost it!
.
Our hen is pregnant
But claims the goat is responsible
We lack fountain
But beg for water
Our barns are full with yams
But we gnash our teeth in hunger
We have golds
But cry for stones
Our eyes are open
Yet,blind to behold
As the beauty of our rainbow unfolds.
Balogun Tolulopez Ayodeji David
(Drunk poet)
ANA AAUA chapter
2017
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
The Broccoli on the left picked up its Spear
And stabbed the Corn on the right, right in the Ear
The Avocado Artichoked the Zucchini
Before the Pepper rang the Bell on that meanie
The Onion went to Bed on the Lettuce and cried
Afraid that the Beets on the side were all Red cause they died
The Okra came in and slimed the whole affair
While the Yams slammed and Squashed the Cauliflower
The Peas ended up with Black Eyes
Next to the Potatoes that were mashed up and fried
The Cabbage brought it all to a head
Which Steamed the Asparagus with all that was said
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human
She tends softly her man
As well as all her children
She aint seeking for equity
She is seeking for prosperity
Growth, of all her generations
She knows well her traditions
Not to be in combatant competitions
Not to fight the physical equal wars
But to strengthen the spiritual-mental walls
And they call her in tough titles-submissive and foolish
All she does is, a sit-home mum, bear and then perish
But she knows well all she wants-her family to flourish
In the hearts of the matters there you will find her
Strong and willed to build and leave her legacy
Moral men and wise women-humans of substance
She is a pillar to her home
African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human
She sits on her sack, in her arms
A giant club to clobber her farms-
Her fields fat yields of yams
And she beats their pulps till powders
They are all ground refined white dusts
Pu! Pu! Pu! Goes her game's rhythms
Pu! Pu! Pu! Shakes her shoulders
Pu! Pu! Pu! Her biceps fats dances with each fast beatings
Pu! Pu! Pu! Strong, on, urges her throbbing breast chest
Pu! Pu! Pu! Comes back the hard works echoes
Like her man in mines and farms and fields she, too, salty sweats
African woman
She is the strongest woman
The cradle of all human
On her back is a bundle of woods
On her head balanced, is a load of loads
On her back is a can of waters
On her back is a baggage of belongings
On her back is her children
On her bent back she is a farmer weeding her fields
All in a day’s daily work without complains
African woman, who stronger woman, than you?
She is the backbone of her family
She is the umbilical cord of her folks
She is their heart and soul and spirit
She doesn’t retire until she expires
Early she is up-late she is asleep, O Mama-African woman!
Even with all gone, she still as a mother chicken them all broods
She still them all remembers as my dear little children
Mama, African woman! Mama, who there be like you?
African woman
You are the strongest woman
The cradle of all human
When they all walk naked-liberal
She has a wrapper for her *****
A cloak to guard her gold-her fertile groins
She knows, good honey is deeply hidden in hives
And inside these hidden hives are strong stings
Bad eyes are a sight for witches-evil ruins
Her petals plains she must by all means protect
Until right comes the most suitable honeybee
Until right comes the sweetest singing hummingbird
Until moral comes the most beautiful butterfly
Until then, her nectar is not for every eye-tongue
Gathered she covers her fine curves
For she is the most beautiful of the divines-African Woman!
The strongest woman-the cradle of all human!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
I
My five-five-fingers of my hands
Zestfully lived In serenity.
The three thrill fingers of my right hand:
Thumb, index finger and middle finger
Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully
Amongst her BROTHERS:
They rested gleefully upon the placid,
SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART.
II
Sharp sable pointed-dart;
Perched in the midst of the three thrill fingers
And laid rest upon the hungry,
****** DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled
Bear flat on the glossy desk.
The glossy desk accompanying the earth
The earth accompanying its depth.
III
The other two fingers of my right hand:
Ring finger and little finger
Calmly leisure, plopped on the hungry,
****** dusky-sheet
And lent ears to the Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering vignettes of yesterday
Muttering vignettes of today
Muttering vegnettes of tomorrow.
Upon the glossy desk
My five fingers of my left hand too
Laid rest, and eyeballed the sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering deep thoughts.
IV
Look,
All you who waded through lines:
All you who unearth the heart
Of this earth, hunting for treasures
Pore over my ten fingers.
My ten fingers,
As pure as a full ****** moon.
I have dunked deep my five fingers
Of my right hand with my progenitors
In a bowl of sweet dishes
And nibbled singed YAMS amidst
The thriving vegetables.
V
But my forefinger of my left hand
Never been raised above
To curse the heavens
Never been raised up to pinpoint
My progenitors' homeland
Never had it tasted any depravity
And never will it be licked
Or bit by the savage butchers of Meat
Who loved to fatten themselves on ******
And gratified their heart with
Juicy cup of blood and gore.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
Good quality beans
Black, pinto, kidney
Canned beans
Mmm, mmm
Protein, fber
Got to love those canned yams too
Vitamin A
10 for 10 on the protein bars
And I didn't even know
They closed at 2 a.m.
Last customer to pay with the card
Then they shut the system down
Last guy behind me had to pay cash
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
I spent my early life
Looking out from behind
The chain link fence on the turkey farm
There they fed me right
Fattened up my thighs
After all, what could be the harm
If it was up to me
I would never leave
It's where I prefer to spend my years
But alas will come the day
When all good turkey's have to say
Arrivederci...I am outta here
I was born to be a Butter Ball
Unlike those sloppy pigs that live next door
To be a tender turkey is my call
And all you want to do is eat me
Yes, you wanna eat me
They just took Turkey Jack
To the shed out back
Where we never heard from him again
Just like yesterday
With my friend Turkey Dave
Strange they haven't messed with Turkey Slim
Am I the next in line
Could this here be my time
My head placed on the chopping block
As I say my goodbyes
To all the gals and guys
I gobble to Mary Lou as an after thought
I was born to be a Butter Ball
So delicious they're coming back for more
Tenderized to the very core
All they want to do is eat me
I was born to be a Butter Ball
A slap in the face to the Honey Ham
To be a tinder turkey is my call
Heavy on the gravy with a side of yams
Now that you know my tale
I hope I told it well
Enjoy this day with your family and your friends
So remember then
Don't leave the stuffing in
And dinner will go the way that it was planned
I was born to be a Butter Ball
The highest honor of them all
Into the open oven I must fall
Cause all you want to do is eat me
Yes, all you wanna do is eat me
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
laying on the table
burnt out,
contorted fossils
your lineages penises
dried up artifacts
lying in wait,
lined up neatly
10 in total
a collection regal
arranged for a visitor to see
my father
his father
& his before
crispy yams worth their weight in gold and in favour
'As you see Douglas was exceptional. . .
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
ginger snap an
rainbow dot.an
apple pie an mistoe
on this christmas eve.
share the joy of happyness.
on this christmas eve
have a glass of egg nog
egg nog
egg nog
on this christmas eve.
an walnut bread.
an yammy
an yammy
yams.
an coco nut
cream pie
on this christmas eve.
joy joy
feel the love feel the joy .
on this christmas eve.
joy to the world too
all the little boys an girls
santa is comeing with toys
of joy an happyness.
on this christmas eve
merry christmas every one .
share love joy an happyness.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
I spent my early life
Looking out from behind
The chain link fence on the turkey farm
There they fed me right
Fattened up my thighs
After all, what could be the harm
If it was up to me
I would never leave
It's where I prefer to spend my years
But alas will come the day
When all good turkey's have to say
Arrivederci...I am outta here
I was born to be a Butter Ball
Unlike those sloppy pigs that live next door
To be a tender turkey is my call
And all you want to do is eat me
Yes, you wanna eat me
They just took Turkey Jack
To the shed out back
Where we never heard from him again
Just like yesterday
With my friend Turkey Dave
Strange they haven't messed with Turkey Slim
Am I the next in line
Could this here be my time
My head placed on the chopping block
As I say my goodbyes
To all the gals and guys
I gobble to Mary Lou as an after thought
I was born to be a Butter Ball
So delicious they're coming back for more
Tenderized to the very core
All they want to do is eat me
I was born to be a Butter Ball
A slap in the face to the Honey Ham
To be a tinder turkey is my call
Heavy on the gravy with a side of yams
Now that you know my tale
I hope I told it well
Enjoy this day with your family and your friends
So remember then
Don't leave the stuffing in
And dinner will go the way that it was planned
I was born to be a Butter Ball
The highest honor of them all
Into the open oven I must fall
Cause all you want to do is eat me
Yes, all you wanna do is eat me
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Yankee Doodle
Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair
They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket
The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when he made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found
A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon
Gomer LePoet...
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Yankee Doodle
Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair
They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket
The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when they made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found
A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
We frolic in the summer sun, but now it’s all undone
The long days, seemed they were unending.
Green trees no longer, surely the weather is sending,
The heat is retreating to southern reaches, where elders seek their fun.
The smoldering sun, which burns the most tender of skins
It’s hold on the valley once so strong is slowly fleeting.
Birds feel the call to fly away, and the message they are heeding.
The cold brings color to life, as the change of season begins.
A different fire spreads over the land, and it’s beauty draws crowds
The time of perfection of beauty is always far too short
Painters, and artists of every kind, hurry to show their report
Soon comes frost, and firebrands lose their perch under winter’s threatening clouds.
Pumpkins and cider, plowed fields and a country fair
Tourists taking advantage of weather so pleasant
Soon dinner will be turkey and yams, or maybe even a pheasant
And to Grandma’s we’ll go, bundled against the ever-cold air.
Yes summer goes, and seasons change, but never a dull moment.
Every season has it’s beauty, and fall in New England’s beyond compare.
Spend a day, an hour, a moment, just to stop and at the colors stare
No sorrow for the passing, life’s rhythm beating toward the future, hell-bent.
Three months, of the cycle is all it lasts, but more beauty throughout the year is coming
Lights colored and sparkling, a blanket of white,
The quiet is serene and complete after a snow late in the night.
Then a crocus leads the way, and the sun returns, and the bees return to their humming.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
Legs pinched and yellow as ginger root
My hands like yams, and belly,
The whole of me looks plucked from the underground,
Topped with a thin sprig - enough hairs to count in an afternoon
Face pink as potatoes in the kitchen,
Eyes plain and brown.
A trip to the market yields a bag of onions
and whispers of the monster woman.
If I am a monster, I am a recluse
Curled around and polishing the opals that grow fat as melons inside me.
Cut, I do not bleed.
My veins only hold the roar of a thunder storm
Field mice find homes in the folds of my ankle.
The weather cannot be contained in my blood alone;
My open mouth stumbles like rain drops thucking in mud.
Angry, I howl sunlight.
I used to be a school yard socialite,
But was always twice as wide as tall,
And a careful turn would tumble three of my comrades
It wasn't long before they turned on me
Back then I thought that children were the cruelest creatures
All rocks and fierce joy,
But the mothers watched with condemning eyes,
And snarled.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
February 14th, a day most singles despise themselves
Everyone hopes to have that one special person with them like any other holiday:
Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years: we don't want to be alone
I have had one Valentine my entire life thus far and he wasn't even a good one
This year: 2014, I am my own Valentine!
I cooked myself a healthy meal to show my body I love it
I spoiled myself with an expensive bottle of red wine
And bought myself a bouquet of flowers to love myself
A small light meal of candied yams, kale and fruit salad and a couple glasses of Spanish Red Wine
Allowed me to relax in my own womanly self
We are all created from love, therefore we are love
If we hate a day of love then we hate ourselves
Everyday is a day of love and hope
If we despise ourselves everyday, then we deny ourselves love and hope
We are love and therefore give, receive and take love
When we deny loving ourselves daily; we deny love completely
Don't let the title of this poem fool you, for this poem is truly about love
Happy ******* Valentine's Day! I love you!
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
I am Marhteena
I come from a small village in southern Cameroon where people use kerosene lamps at night and store drinking water in large aluminium pots.
where neighbors share kitchen utensils on a daily basis and eat from the same bowls of soup with one another.
where children go to the streams in the morning to fetch some water for cooking and rake the woods for some firewood.
where women go to their farms to plant corn, yams and vegetables while the men tap fresh palm wine and tend the goats and pigs.
where children play under the scorching sun and eat roasted grasshoppers for lunch.
where children make their own toys from rafiagrass and abandoned wires
where children climb trees and hunt birds with their catapults
where children go fishing with small bowls and learn how to swim by themselves
where children sat around fireplaces at night to tell folktales and ancient stories
I am Marhteena, i come from a very small clan but these experiences have shaped me into who i am today
I AM PROUDLY AFRICAN!!!
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
(To the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) *
On the first day of Christmas my mommy made me
A batch of my favorite cookies
On the second day of Christmas my mommy made me
Two apple pies
On the third day of Christmas my mommy made me
Three basted turkeys
On the fourth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Four deviled eggs
On the fifth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Five pumpkin pies!!!
On the sixth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Six honey hams
On the seventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Seven gooey brownies
On the eighth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eight malted milkshakes
On the ninth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Nine banana muffins
On the tenth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Ten yucky yams
On the eleventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eleven pickled peppers
On the twelfth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Twelve ears of corn
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
Yankee Doodle
Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair
They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket
The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when he made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found
A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon
Gomer LePoet...
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
we were laying on the floor talking
about your perpetually ***** hands,
stained from rusty machinery, and I got
to thinking that they looked an awful
lot like terra sigillata, or marmalade
or yams or tulip poplar honey--
waxy, with a glazed finish
you brush your left thumb down my pinky
and comment on the thinness of my skin
(unsurprisingly) I mean, look at my hands! you say
and I do and you're right, your hands
are like slabs of green wood--in fact
your whole body seems like some sort
of pliable tree trunk but I don't say this
because we've lapsed into a silence or
an otherwise conveniently synchronized
thought that has billowed up around our
hips until our arms are overlapped and
extended like a petiole of our bodies with
my palm cradled in yours like some aeriform body,
birdlike and gentle. You're tracing those lines like they
mean something.
Like they
mean something to you.
you have to understand that I am too often
inside myself, awash on a shore, grown into
the sand like a clam, experiencing solitude
through a shell, keeping at bay on the bay
sending prayers up like signal flares
pumped up into the sky, silent on
the horizon, loud from in here,
so when I tentatively thread my
fingers through your hair, know
that I do so in supreme intimacy
because words supposedly say
the most (depending on who
you're talking to) but my
hands are a different language
a different place, a different time
a company of dissarranged thoughts
and emotions, rippling and swelling
trying to make sense of being touched
so
softly
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
The taste of Cloves on
Cloven hoofed delicacies
Entice the Palette's elan
Often served with Yams
First smoked then slow roasted
At Holidays its often Toasted
And it makes one heck of
An Omlette with Cheese
Its certain to please
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC