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Kissing

Come hither Womankind and all their worth,
Give me thy kisses as I call them forth.
Give me the billig-kiss, that of the dove,
A kiss of love;
The melting-kiss, a kiss that doth consume
To a perfume;
The extract-kiss, of every sweet a part,
A kiss of art;
The kiss which ever stirs some new delight,
A kiss of might;
The twaching smacking kiss, and when you cease
A kiss of peace;
The music-kiss, crotchet and quaver time,
The kiss of rhyme;
The kiss of eloquence, which doth belong
Unto the tongue;
The kiss of all the sciences in one,
The Kiss alone.
So ‘tis enough.

poem by Lord Edward Herbert of Cherbury
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Beef Wellington

Crisp is the crust flaked,
Surrounding the tenderloin sweeten meat.
That has been liver patéd...
With onion and mushroom,
Within this pastry doughed to eat.

And after heating in the oven,
Buttered and cooled...
This beef wellington's a treat!
When eaten is so hard to overrule.

And if you're using red wine,
The time to dine will find your guests...
Converted into hooked,
Finger licking lip smacking believers!
'That' they will confess.

When the stomach is delighted,
A joy lights up the eyes.
And never leave them.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Caseworker Takes Notes

I was there the day
there trickled down the wall
of an old man's room one roach

that stopped across
a canyon in the plaster till
the old man's elevated slipper fell.

The roach absorbed the blow
and as though perforated for that purpose
dissolved into an archipelago.

The old man looked at me
and patiently explained, 'Despite my
constant smacking of its brethren

one roach each day will trickle down that wall
and pause and pose as if to say,
'Go ahead and smack me, that's okay.' '

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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Minor Importance

Gigs of minor importance are to be rude,
Minor men scent the Paradise,
Two women and one man is to conclude
Minor happiness, two for once.

Goggles satiate the individual,
Into believing of some who liven up,
Their goal is yellowy like Hell,
Like a river which said to reach and stop.

Hatred is mostly good for the evil,
Most are afraid of the finer,
Pointing out anything achievable
Like pointers of crime and caseworker.

I like someone who betrayed not anyone,
Guests like astrologers who smell them:
Those innocent tricks to dazzle and be done,
To greatly win a marvel from a hat stratagem.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Annual Review

In effect, the same as
smacking-the-tar out
of your dog a year later
for having pooped on
the carpet – come hell,
or high-water...
And as-far-as your boss
is concerned, you just
fell out of the stupid
tree if you think he’s
going to give you more
than five percent...
And even though you’ve
proven time-and-time
again you’re a success,
they still view you as
being at-the-bottom
of the corporate structure...
So, what’ya do, you start
looking for another job

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poem by Robert Sheridan
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The Vibrant Versifier

Swirling around a crimson rose,
sat a bee writhed in smiles,
on a petal nice with shine,
slipped to her core!
Aha! Slid to her core!

“How dare you come and kiss? ”
Tell me, “ Where from are you thief? ”
Answer didn’t give the swooning bee;
Sank low to quench his thirst with glee.
Buzzing there with bent knee,
smacking on the lips free;
hummed a tune to please the rose;
fainted with a doze.
Aha! Fainted with a doze!

“I’m a honey-maker with verve
and live in that fine hive.
Never tell lies to my love.
To you build a palace in the bough! ”

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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Eggs Are Laid

Chew the few do on tidbits.
Some onioned and green peppered!
And moo with sounds like cows,
Ruminating cud...
When touched by cool fingertips.
Gently squeezing milk from filled utters.
Hens peck.
Roosters crow.
Eggs are laid...
As opinions are tossed to and fro.
Farming fresh water fished.
And booted to gossip in spring waters.
This, when viewed, inspires appetites to write.
Delighting one to dine...
On the imaginative scrambling to perplex fixed minds.
Sometimes!
Some do chew on tidbits stewed.
Spitting pits of cherries picked,
On a hilltop sitting sniffing fumes of manure.
Thinking of stiff necks to crack...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Inbred Ambitions

I remember the days,
People took their creativity seriously.
And lived to fulfill their inbred ambitions.

Today people want to participate,
More as a whim to socialize and network.
And when they stroll in late,
With excuses to make...
I am not one to appreciate it,
With a subtle delivery of comments.

And coming in smacking on gum!
And carrying snacks?
My discipline within I keep,
Will not allow me to tolerate that!

And 'please'...
Do not hold up other people's time,
By a display of 'theatrics' that lie.
That kind of disrespect,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Silver Bell

Just look at that sweet thing
wearing a tight silver wrap!
Sitting at the table, inhaling
and exhaling smoke rings,
his eyes sparing not a minute
off that sweet southern bell,
yet keeping
his desire under his cap,
his dazzling red eyes on her
bell-shape bottom.
Salavating like pavlo's dog
He grabs it! Peeled off the shiny wrap-
completely exposing her milk -chocolate -body.
Extending his trembling hands
to meet her offer as beads of moisture rose
like the morning dew, cooling his forehead.
The hard-eating chocoholic
grabbed silver-bell off the table,
tossed It into his waiting mouth,
circled it with his tongue,

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poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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The High-Toned Old Christian Woman

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven.Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle.That's clear.But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets.Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones.And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began.Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

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poem by Wallace Stevens
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