Same Senses Challenge -- Poems
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Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
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Poem 1
Taken
Sinseria
They dinned that evening
A romantic dinner for two
On the white capped mountains
On the outskirts of town
Listening to the flapping flags
And wrestling leaves
They could smell the over salted fries
From the town down the road
But they dined with wine
And spiced bread
Alone
In their clandestine grove
They laughed and talked
Telling their secret tales
Stilled in each others arms
As their minds embraced the midnight stars
Time stood still
As their blue and hazel eyes met
In a moment of silent pause
Their wild hearts raced
To that could be lover’s game
As he reached for her
Holding gentle palm to chin
With his lips to find hers
Accepting of that softened kiss
With the sweet sting of cinnamon
Spiced with need
His touch so strong and certain
As if the wind itself took up arms
Caressing with command
Across the timid mounds of flesh
As he lays her down
On that desert ground
Spreading her wings
To accompany his
Taken
On an earthly blanket of desire
In the willful dreams
Of a lover’s plea
Taken
Sinseria
They dinned that evening
A romantic dinner for two
On the white capped mountains
On the outskirts of town
Listening to the flapping flags
And wrestling leaves
They could smell the over salted fries
From the town down the road
But they dined with wine
And spiced bread
Alone
In their clandestine grove
They laughed and talked
Telling their secret tales
Stilled in each others arms
As their minds embraced the midnight stars
Time stood still
As their blue and hazel eyes met
In a moment of silent pause
Their wild hearts raced
To that could be lover’s game
As he reached for her
Holding gentle palm to chin
With his lips to find hers
Accepting of that softened kiss
With the sweet sting of cinnamon
Spiced with need
His touch so strong and certain
As if the wind itself took up arms
Caressing with command
Across the timid mounds of flesh
As he lays her down
On that desert ground
Spreading her wings
To accompany his
Taken
On an earthly blanket of desire
In the willful dreams
Of a lover’s plea
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 2
UnderYourSpell
We called them Grockles.
You know the sort of thing,
townies tripping down to the seaside,
white Captain hats set at a jaunty angle,
following the smell of French fries
and donuts dipped in cinnamon.
While we that lived there all year round
escaped to the far reaches of the pier,
where the only sound was bunting
flapping wetly in every sudden breeze
and the Herring gulls called to the ocean.
UnderYourSpell
We called them Grockles.
You know the sort of thing,
townies tripping down to the seaside,
white Captain hats set at a jaunty angle,
following the smell of French fries
and donuts dipped in cinnamon.
While we that lived there all year round
escaped to the far reaches of the pier,
where the only sound was bunting
flapping wetly in every sudden breeze
and the Herring gulls called to the ocean.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 3
Geoffrey's Grand Tour
greenmountaineer
He knew there wouldn't be Old Glory
flapping as loud as a mitrailleuse
at day's end in Charleston Harbor.
And after all, why spend summer in Paris
to eat pommes frites in brasseries
along the Seine with demoiselles,
the aroma of which Geoffrey was sure
would be the same as the lard he smelled
whenever he dined at Delmonico's.
Private Mueller in his delirium
said bread was baking in the kitchen
where sister Eunice was churning butter
which prompted Geoffrey to remember
Gustaf's sweet rolls in lower Manhattan
the family ate after High Mass
at Trinity where George Washington prayed
on Coronation Day Grandpapa flubbed
who still mourned the death of Hamilton.
The wind had freckled his face with powder
from the last big guns of the battery,
now as silent as birds in the Bay.
Strange how the interlude stole him away
to upcoming fireworks on the Fourth,
his scheduled next day embarkation,
and the Winslow twins from Lenox Hill
waving kisses good-bye as his steamer
churned whitecaps in the Narrows
towards an ocean undivided
where there weren't any city dwellers,
Citadel cadets, and hordes of farmers
to end his tour before it started.
Geoffrey's Grand Tour
greenmountaineer
He knew there wouldn't be Old Glory
flapping as loud as a mitrailleuse
at day's end in Charleston Harbor.
And after all, why spend summer in Paris
to eat pommes frites in brasseries
along the Seine with demoiselles,
the aroma of which Geoffrey was sure
would be the same as the lard he smelled
whenever he dined at Delmonico's.
Private Mueller in his delirium
said bread was baking in the kitchen
where sister Eunice was churning butter
which prompted Geoffrey to remember
Gustaf's sweet rolls in lower Manhattan
the family ate after High Mass
at Trinity where George Washington prayed
on Coronation Day Grandpapa flubbed
who still mourned the death of Hamilton.
The wind had freckled his face with powder
from the last big guns of the battery,
now as silent as birds in the Bay.
Strange how the interlude stole him away
to upcoming fireworks on the Fourth,
his scheduled next day embarkation,
and the Winslow twins from Lenox Hill
waving kisses good-bye as his steamer
churned whitecaps in the Narrows
towards an ocean undivided
where there weren't any city dwellers,
Citadel cadets, and hordes of farmers
to end his tour before it started.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 4
Brancepeth
Piscator
The west wind brushed my cheek and
the Jolly Roger flapped as the kids
raised the totem to claim their
domain. Waves crested off
shore and rolled in along
the infinite sand beach.
Three generations together in the
five and a half room cottage
which Art, Grandad’s friend
lent to the family for the
first two weeks of
August.
Over the years, lake levels fluctuated
once reaching almost to the fence
other times receding with a thin
line of beach grass before
the sand but the beach
was always there.
Lazy days in the sun, watching the children
launch themselves into each new wave.
Afterwards a slow walk to treats at
the town end of the beach,
cinnamon hearts and
french fries.
Other times, long bike rides following
Aunt Barbara’s map to Pirate’s
Cove in search of hidden
treasures to trade
for sundaes at
Lorna Doon’s.
In the evening quiet walks watching
the sun set into Georgian Bay.
If the night was clear we’d
lay on an empty beach as
the Perseid shower
flashed overhead.
Art’s daughter replaced the cottage with
a two story house, several bathrooms
and a million dollar view. Lorna’s
changed management, so I’ll
scribble these lines before
they too vanish.
Brancepeth
Piscator
The west wind brushed my cheek and
the Jolly Roger flapped as the kids
raised the totem to claim their
domain. Waves crested off
shore and rolled in along
the infinite sand beach.
Three generations together in the
five and a half room cottage
which Art, Grandad’s friend
lent to the family for the
first two weeks of
August.
Over the years, lake levels fluctuated
once reaching almost to the fence
other times receding with a thin
line of beach grass before
the sand but the beach
was always there.
Lazy days in the sun, watching the children
launch themselves into each new wave.
Afterwards a slow walk to treats at
the town end of the beach,
cinnamon hearts and
french fries.
Other times, long bike rides following
Aunt Barbara’s map to Pirate’s
Cove in search of hidden
treasures to trade
for sundaes at
Lorna Doon’s.
In the evening quiet walks watching
the sun set into Georgian Bay.
If the night was clear we’d
lay on an empty beach as
the Perseid shower
flashed overhead.
Art’s daughter replaced the cottage with
a two story house, several bathrooms
and a million dollar view. Lorna’s
changed management, so I’ll
scribble these lines before
they too vanish.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 5
Air
KatieJones
The food truck smells like french fries
but we leave with beaver tails
dusted in cinnamon sugar
that now decorates her lips
in a more enticing shade
than any lipstick created by MAC.
I can’t help but stare.
As we walk by wooden tables
and garbage bins guarded by yellow-jackets
she pulls me through
the wheat that flows to and fro
in a rooted dance. Hands drop
reluctantly as we reach the edge
and sit on separate rocks
pretending not to miss the touch
and watch the waves
of this green sea dotted with daisy
white caps and buttercup buoys, eating
our impromptu picnic.
The breeze catches the side
of her tank top and the cotton flaps
like a flag resisting its ropes
but not yet ready to ride the wind.
It pulls away from her skin
in an innocent tease that leaves me
staring
at pale curves
and crests of pink.
My appetite shifts
with the air. I drop my food
along with all pretence
of watching the wind
have all the fun.
Air
KatieJones
The food truck smells like french fries
but we leave with beaver tails
dusted in cinnamon sugar
that now decorates her lips
in a more enticing shade
than any lipstick created by MAC.
I can’t help but stare.
As we walk by wooden tables
and garbage bins guarded by yellow-jackets
she pulls me through
the wheat that flows to and fro
in a rooted dance. Hands drop
reluctantly as we reach the edge
and sit on separate rocks
pretending not to miss the touch
and watch the waves
of this green sea dotted with daisy
white caps and buttercup buoys, eating
our impromptu picnic.
The breeze catches the side
of her tank top and the cotton flaps
like a flag resisting its ropes
but not yet ready to ride the wind.
It pulls away from her skin
in an innocent tease that leaves me
staring
at pale curves
and crests of pink.
My appetite shifts
with the air. I drop my food
along with all pretence
of watching the wind
have all the fun.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 6
Sink or swim?
UnderYourSpell
Eating french fries
Eating cinnamon swirls
Swirls around my head
Swirls until I'm giddy
Giddy-up beach donkey
Giddy flags in the wind
Wind in the willows
Wind me up let me go
Go to the bottom of our stairs
Go away look back and waves
Waves with white caps rush to shore
Waves a fond farewell
Farewell to arms
Farewell my lovely
Lovely ladies like licking
Lovely as the day is long
Long johns keep legs warm
Long ago and far away
Away in a manger
Away with the fairies
Fairies rings in the lawn
Fairies at the bottom of my garden
Garden gates should be shut
Garden gnomes acquired taste
Taste your lips with mine
Taste cannot be learned
Learned my letters early
Learned to walk alone
Alone again naturally
Alone is not lonely
Lonely only the
Lonely sun in the sky
Sky at night
Sky high by Jigsaw
Jigsaw puzzles connect
Jigsaw enables curved cuts
Cuts like a knife
Cuts the first is the deepest
Deepest love lasts longer
Deepest place in the world
World yours and mine collided
World once thought flat
Flat fish have soles
Flat on your back
Back in the USA
Back to front
Front runners face the wind
Front men get the breaks
Breaks
Wind
Sink or swim?
UnderYourSpell
Eating french fries
Eating cinnamon swirls
Swirls around my head
Swirls until I'm giddy
Giddy-up beach donkey
Giddy flags in the wind
Wind in the willows
Wind me up let me go
Go to the bottom of our stairs
Go away look back and waves
Waves with white caps rush to shore
Waves a fond farewell
Farewell to arms
Farewell my lovely
Lovely ladies like licking
Lovely as the day is long
Long johns keep legs warm
Long ago and far away
Away in a manger
Away with the fairies
Fairies rings in the lawn
Fairies at the bottom of my garden
Garden gates should be shut
Garden gnomes acquired taste
Taste your lips with mine
Taste cannot be learned
Learned my letters early
Learned to walk alone
Alone again naturally
Alone is not lonely
Lonely only the
Lonely sun in the sky
Sky at night
Sky high by Jigsaw
Jigsaw puzzles connect
Jigsaw enables curved cuts
Cuts like a knife
Cuts the first is the deepest
Deepest love lasts longer
Deepest place in the world
World yours and mine collided
World once thought flat
Flat fish have soles
Flat on your back
Back in the USA
Back to front
Front runners face the wind
Front men get the breaks
Breaks
Wind
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 7
I sailed upon a nameless sea
Always Hungry
I sailed upon a nameless sea
in fond elusive dreams
of spacious clarity,
of white-capped vistas,
the crack of sails that fill with wind,
proud like flags.
that warming wind envelopes me
That's all forgotten.
On this fateful day
my lackluster coffee
begs for redemption
a hint of wistful cinnamon
but, alas
my world is smothered by the scent
of tiresome shredded spuds
all steeped in grease.
I sailed upon a nameless sea
Always Hungry
I sailed upon a nameless sea
in fond elusive dreams
of spacious clarity,
of white-capped vistas,
the crack of sails that fill with wind,
proud like flags.
that warming wind envelopes me
That's all forgotten.
On this fateful day
my lackluster coffee
begs for redemption
a hint of wistful cinnamon
but, alas
my world is smothered by the scent
of tiresome shredded spuds
all steeped in grease.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 8
Endicott Arm
Legerdemer
Watery foam frills carefully fold over,
spill and splash against bluish-white
knife-edged glacier calves that meander
on liquid pastures. Like cinnamon sprinkled
on cappuccino foam, brown-tipped ice
froths and meets the waves below.
Sprays of droplets wet the fleet
of miniature origami swans rocking
slowly back and forth before, one by one,
they flutter off to the next swell.
In its porcelain cup a sea sways, while
colored fabric whips in the wind, a
tame pirate’s flags demanding surrender
of the senses to floating luxury and easy dreams.
Until the come-hither scent of French fries
insinuates itself, more McDonald’s than Queen Mary.
Endicott Arm
Legerdemer
Watery foam frills carefully fold over,
spill and splash against bluish-white
knife-edged glacier calves that meander
on liquid pastures. Like cinnamon sprinkled
on cappuccino foam, brown-tipped ice
froths and meets the waves below.
Sprays of droplets wet the fleet
of miniature origami swans rocking
slowly back and forth before, one by one,
they flutter off to the next swell.
In its porcelain cup a sea sways, while
colored fabric whips in the wind, a
tame pirate’s flags demanding surrender
of the senses to floating luxury and easy dreams.
Until the come-hither scent of French fries
insinuates itself, more McDonald’s than Queen Mary.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 9
The Old Ball Game
Lyricalli
She stilled for a moment
after opening the old box,
before pulling out the caps:
those Fan Appreciation Day
giveaways from their first
(official) date.
It only took him two weeks
and three days worth of
visits to the diner
where she worked to get up
the nerve to ask.
Always the romantic, he said
he liked her hair, that it
smelled like fries.
The bills bumped together
when they attempted to share
the first, as it turned out,
of many Red Hots kisses
that day
that week
that month
They melted together easily,
then awkwardly discovered
all that came after.
And she's not quite sure
how their son is thirty-two–
older now than the father
he barely knew.
She donned the aged off-white
reminder of their beginning
and heard the stadium flags
rustling in the breeze
that cooled summer-sunned faces;
her lips tingled cinnamon.
The Old Ball Game
Lyricalli
She stilled for a moment
after opening the old box,
before pulling out the caps:
those Fan Appreciation Day
giveaways from their first
(official) date.
It only took him two weeks
and three days worth of
visits to the diner
where she worked to get up
the nerve to ask.
Always the romantic, he said
he liked her hair, that it
smelled like fries.
The bills bumped together
when they attempted to share
the first, as it turned out,
of many Red Hots kisses
that day
that week
that month
They melted together easily,
then awkwardly discovered
all that came after.
And she's not quite sure
how their son is thirty-two–
older now than the father
he barely knew.
She donned the aged off-white
reminder of their beginning
and heard the stadium flags
rustling in the breeze
that cooled summer-sunned faces;
her lips tingled cinnamon.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 10
Sea Gives Me Crabs
Magnetron
Another night and day gone by
without incident or men lost at sea
and for that, to the Lord above
we give our thanks
time to bait and buoy more steel traps
jockey Fool's Gold in wheeled carts
dumping King Crab into seemingly
bottomless storage tanks
Ocean surging over railing
splashing onto deck
hardly gentle laps as Poseidon winds up
to deliver more salted slaps
How it stings!
the lacerations of every callused hand
be it Greenhorn or Veteran
washes away my yellow raincoat men
see them sailing by the wheelhouse window
floundering on their backs
but, what the heck!
we don't expect anything less
when that crusty old bastard sings
spits his white caps in raps fast and furious
attacks leaving us cold, tired, hungry
delirious
Tattered is Old Glory on the bow
whipped northeast in rapid fire farts
Bering Sea wind gettin' nautical
blowing vicious in these here parts;
heartless beast pummeling the entire fleet
numbing the faces of its crews
whose prayers are for breaks in the weather
or in the very least
a pair of dry shoes
but, that's the life we choose!
fishing for Reds and Blues
No time now to hoist a brand new flag
when a dry cigarette can be had
wishing to doze for five more minutes
on second thought
make it ten
just long enough to dream of topless dancing girls
named Desiree, Candy or Cinnamon
shaking their thonged hips
ultraviolet shimmering on their glossed lips
lost in wishful caresses of their tits
but, what the hell!
We're crabbers
sons of gloucestermen
Pull up anchor on those fantasies
toss away the bouquets of flowers
Get ready to throw the hook
drag up and drop another pot
We don't get to stop
Until our quota's filled
for the next thirty-six hours
the sea is your woman
may she give us plenty of crabs
No, we don't get to stop
Mushy microwaved French fries
would sound good right this moment
Been out here way too fucking long
Sea Gives Me Crabs
Magnetron
Another night and day gone by
without incident or men lost at sea
and for that, to the Lord above
we give our thanks
time to bait and buoy more steel traps
jockey Fool's Gold in wheeled carts
dumping King Crab into seemingly
bottomless storage tanks
Ocean surging over railing
splashing onto deck
hardly gentle laps as Poseidon winds up
to deliver more salted slaps
How it stings!
the lacerations of every callused hand
be it Greenhorn or Veteran
washes away my yellow raincoat men
see them sailing by the wheelhouse window
floundering on their backs
but, what the heck!
we don't expect anything less
when that crusty old bastard sings
spits his white caps in raps fast and furious
attacks leaving us cold, tired, hungry
delirious
Tattered is Old Glory on the bow
whipped northeast in rapid fire farts
Bering Sea wind gettin' nautical
blowing vicious in these here parts;
heartless beast pummeling the entire fleet
numbing the faces of its crews
whose prayers are for breaks in the weather
or in the very least
a pair of dry shoes
but, that's the life we choose!
fishing for Reds and Blues
No time now to hoist a brand new flag
when a dry cigarette can be had
wishing to doze for five more minutes
on second thought
make it ten
just long enough to dream of topless dancing girls
named Desiree, Candy or Cinnamon
shaking their thonged hips
ultraviolet shimmering on their glossed lips
lost in wishful caresses of their tits
but, what the hell!
We're crabbers
sons of gloucestermen
Pull up anchor on those fantasies
toss away the bouquets of flowers
Get ready to throw the hook
drag up and drop another pot
We don't get to stop
Until our quota's filled
for the next thirty-six hours
the sea is your woman
may she give us plenty of crabs
No, we don't get to stop
Mushy microwaved French fries
would sound good right this moment
Been out here way too fucking long
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 11
Remec
....The breeze had risen from just a wispy caress to a full blown wind that stirred the leaves about the place and made us both shiver and shudder at the difference in its touch as opposed to the way we touched one another. I drew the blanket we'd been lying upon up around us both as we cuddled almost to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea below---watching the foamy passage of the kelpies as they rose and fell, all ocean-green bodies and pale white caps and listening to the distant flapping of flags on the masts of the yachts running their race. I kissed her once more, along her neck and ear, and she tasted of cinnamon but still smelled of the french fries and other similar products of the food truck I'd found her in.
Remec
....The breeze had risen from just a wispy caress to a full blown wind that stirred the leaves about the place and made us both shiver and shudder at the difference in its touch as opposed to the way we touched one another. I drew the blanket we'd been lying upon up around us both as we cuddled almost to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea below---watching the foamy passage of the kelpies as they rose and fell, all ocean-green bodies and pale white caps and listening to the distant flapping of flags on the masts of the yachts running their race. I kissed her once more, along her neck and ear, and she tasted of cinnamon but still smelled of the french fries and other similar products of the food truck I'd found her in.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,333
Poem 12
You Call Home
Sinseria
Random places
With random faces
With intents unknown
As you travel alone
The wind carries you afar
With visions of dreams
As passive as your mind
Gentle as a feather at times
Through towns and cities
You run amuck
Rambling like a misplaced mutt
Over the paved roads
You can smell the overcooked fries
Five miles outside of town
From the poorly worked state you just left
They all seem to smell the same
As you venture past the mislaid towns
But you carry on
Another city
Another town
Just another walk through
Some dark lonely park
Other days it’s not as placid
It’s more a slap and shove
Beating across the flesh
Forcing you on forward
Perhaps even backwards
Who fucking knows anymore?
Another path
Another dirt road to the unknown
Listening for those flapping flags
As if a symbol stay you’re wondering soul
But it never comes
Somewhere
Someplace
Some future destination calls
Like a lost ruffian you carry on
Through this life and the next
Aimlessly searching
Beyond those white capped mountains
And left over cinnamon toast
To find that lost destination
You call home
You Call Home
Sinseria
Random places
With random faces
With intents unknown
As you travel alone
The wind carries you afar
With visions of dreams
As passive as your mind
Gentle as a feather at times
Through towns and cities
You run amuck
Rambling like a misplaced mutt
Over the paved roads
You can smell the overcooked fries
Five miles outside of town
From the poorly worked state you just left
They all seem to smell the same
As you venture past the mislaid towns
But you carry on
Another city
Another town
Just another walk through
Some dark lonely park
Other days it’s not as placid
It’s more a slap and shove
Beating across the flesh
Forcing you on forward
Perhaps even backwards
Who fucking knows anymore?
Another path
Another dirt road to the unknown
Listening for those flapping flags
As if a symbol stay you’re wondering soul
But it never comes
Somewhere
Someplace
Some future destination calls
Like a lost ruffian you carry on
Through this life and the next
Aimlessly searching
Beyond those white capped mountains
And left over cinnamon toast
To find that lost destination
You call home
Last edited:
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