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Right-click to Save-as: Aquaponics-and-Food-Safety
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This post is a test. A test of the Member-only access control.
Right-click to Save-as: Aquaponics-and-Food-Safety
Comments are closed.
Blah blah blah. test test test. lalalalala
Poem: Bring Back the Kid
I take my pain and lock it up
I scream aloud, I’ve had enough
I lay my head and try to rest
I’ll never again be at my best.
I’ve been battered and bruised and broken down
I’ve screamed so hard there’s no more sound
I’ve clawed my skin and closed my eyes
Only to rise again for one more try.
Poem: Apple
Red flesh bit crisply to reveal juicy insides,
sweetness with a little tart floods across the tongue,
the hedonistic thrust of flavor,
teeth biting down, crunch, crunch,
chewing, swallowing, savoring each bite.
Fingers damp with fleeing moisture,
tongue licking up every drop,
sucking on the discarded core, trailing around the fertile seeds,
then lusting after fresh new fruit, hanging heavy on the branch,
red succulent flesh unbroken, bathed in yellow light.
Mouth watering in hungry desire,
while sticky juices dry sweet against the skin,
mixing with sweat, tacky and salty,
as hunger grows to eat again.
Poem: Fine
This is my life
crappy and small
no one will love me
or need me at all.
I’ll wither away
a bit at a time
pared down to the bone
no one to call me “Mine.”
I’ll walk like a shadow
down regular streets
I’ll pick through the garbage
with never enough to eat.
I’ll hold out my hands
I’ll silently plead
“Anyone out there,
won’t you help me?”
I’ll die every day
a bit at a time
I’ll whisper the lie to myself
that everything’s gonna be fine.
Poem: First Bite
The oven heats the room
fills the air with savory scents
of cooking meat, spices,
succulent drops of juice flow
my mouth waters and my stomach whines.
I am a patient hunter
I fight the urge to open the door and look
to breathe in that delicious taste
and wallow in the flavors that flood my mind.
I nibble on crisp slices of apple
I gnaw on carrots and tiny corn
I wait and watch the timer tick
as the meat roasts and the vegetables bloom.
It seems like forever to wait;
the oven is a smiling maw
the heat makes my skin cringe as I reach inside
freeing the hot, steaming pan of food.
The meat melts like butter to the knife
the juices pour across the vegetables;
I mix a tasty gravy to drizzle across the top
and dig in with my fork, relishing the first bite.
Poem: Peach
The heavy weight of hottest summer,
sweat oozing slowly across heat bared skin,
the smell of sweet delicious flooding every sense.
Ripe flesh pulled taut over golden-hued globes,
juice threatening to burst out, sweet freedom, untouched,
mouth flooding wet with the need to taste,
to lick syrupy drops out of that split crevice,
to drink down every drop of ravaged flavor,
to bite down and consume,
to reveal the wrinkled knot hidden within.
Sucking on that core, lips pursing as tongue works,
wringing free every taste, face and hands sticky,
tongue tingling, scraping against the pinching crease,
nibbling away until every trace of flavor is gone,
the core is left damp with saliva;
desire lingers, but succulent flesh is completely spent.
All that’s left is to wait for time to bring ripeness and fresh fruit,
the sun heating fuzzy pink flesh,
as life renews, hungry desire comes again,
and golden-tinged globes swell with delicious fullness,
ready to taste.
Poem: Bulgogi
The sizzle of the meat on the charcoal grill
makes even the coldest of days feel homelike,
dreamy, reminiscent of a childhood spent wandering the hills.
Barefoot and laughing, joyous without worries,
each bite takes me back to that time,
when the world was possible and every hope was mine.
Wrapping bits of meat with fresh lettuce leaves
plucked straight from the garden,
garnishing with garlic and spice.
Sipping barley tea and watching as watermelons are split,
juice running wild, black seeds escaping into the grass,
a delicious end to a wonderful life.
Poem: I Would
Last week on Sunday while the world wept
I dreamed of beautiful sunlit scapes and escapes
of leaving behind the winter melancholy world of now,
returning to the days of yesterday’s summer.
My dog barks in rasping growls, threatening violence
while hiding under covers, waiting to be saved.
He is weak while I am strong, bent where I am broken,
his fur is rough with bristles, sweating when he runs
chasing rabbits and poking into warrens, uncaring of thistles and thorns
while I sit on a bright orange bucket writing poetry never read
dreaming of a fame and fortune I’ll never find.
If I could I would move cross country, following the sun across the sky
or I would buy a house with indoor heating and extra blankets for when I’m cold.
I would never have to try and sleep while my bones shudder and shake,
my teeth chattering hard enough to hurt my jaw
as I squeeze my eyes tight shut to ignore the ache in my toes I’m too young to feel.
Every winter leaves me feeling older,
while summer takes longer and longer to arrive
and when it comes I never want to leave it.
I would let the sun warm my bones as I forget the winter chill
I would stay the same and change only some things all the time.
I would run as far and fast as I could from the things I hate
and the people that scare me.
I would do much if I could, but I only have dreams.
Poem: This Is My Dead Song
There are times when I wonder what love tastes like,
thick and salty like life blood or watery like weak tea
slurped out of saucers like some old-fashioned coffee guru,
sure that I’m a trendsetter and destined to be adored.
I walk through a waking dream of voiceless strangers all clamoring for my attention
faceless masks that I look through and ignore, inconsequential to my task
my living dying dream.
What is real? Do I start where I begin or am I racing toward the end?
Who knows. Who cares.
I live alone amongst crowds of people,
all breathing and sucking down the air I need, polluting it with the halitosis of their doubt in me.
I am a loser born and bred, dreams crushed under other peoples’ boots until I cease to share.
I’ve clammed shut with only the ridges in my shell to show
while I hide in the deepest water I can stand
wondering when I’ll begin to drown.
Lilting melodies of sunshine and hope have long since quelled themselves,
leaving only hopeless durges behind,
ringing out into my lonely silence, bell-like and broken, monoliths to the lost ideas of love.
I sleep alone in shadowed panoply, dreaming of gold while grasping at dust,
sure that no one can see me even in the most packed of rooms.
I fade to motes and echoes as expression washes off my face,
leaving a seamless mask behind.
Poem: Issues
I get outraged and up in arms about various matters of the world
even as I grow annoyed by people trying to force their issues and concerns onto me.
Regurgitated shit is still shit, only perfumed by the vomitous source it came from
and I do not want it and I don’t care
concerned as I am by the things that matter to me.
You can try to change my mind, rewrite the person that I am and should want to be
but your efforts are fruitless, as all your yammering does is make my stubborn heart grow cold to you
and my brain shuts its doors and refuses to accept anything you say, no matter how inconsequential.
The more you say I should care, the less I do, about the things you press on me and you as well.
I look at you with empty eyes and closed ears, letting your experienced words wash away
you’ve lost me and you don’t know, caught up as you are in your news reports and casual bigotry.
The world is more than the tiny corner of it you let yourself see,
and I am not an echo of you or a continuation of you or anything to do with you, you, you,
not everything is about you, or about me, or about anyone at all.
Sometimes the world just is, with generations left gaping apart,
wallowing in different wants, needs, and fears.
You cannot change my mind, I’ll try not to change yours,
you can be you and together we’ll be the way we were, pretending at being happy,
as long as you know that I am not you. I am me.
Poem: Issues
I get outraged and up in arms about various matters of the world
even as I grow annoyed by people trying to force their issues and concerns onto me.
Regurgitated shit is still shit, only perfumed by the vomitous source it came from
and I do not want it and I don’t care
concerned as I am by the things that matter to me.
You can try to change my mind, rewrite the person that I am and should want to be
but your efforts are fruitless, as all your yammering does is make my stubborn heart grow cold to you
and my brain shuts its doors and refuses to accept anything you say, no matter how inconsequential.
The more you say I should care, the less I do, about the things you press on me and you as well.
I look at you with empty eyes and closed ears, letting your experienced words wash away
you’ve lost me and you don’t know, caught up as you are in your news reports and casual bigotry.
The world is more than the tiny corner of it you let yourself see,
and I am not an echo of you or a continuation of you or anything to do with you, you, you,
not everything is about you, or about me, or about anyone at all.
Sometimes the world just is, with generations left gaping apart,
wallowing in different wants, needs, and fears.
You cannot change my mind, I’ll try not to change yours,
you can be you and together we’ll be the way we were, pretending at being happy,
as long as you know that I am not you. I am me.