Picture Poetry Contest (...continued...)

congratulations!!!

Well done, mazHur! :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

NickAdams: Nick, you pulled an e.e. cummings poem style on me, for which I was totally unprepared! I must have read your poem a dozen times before one line opened the secret of the poem and I understood.

Herd the flock
to flock when heard
and ‘round and ‘round
the globe will turn
(to the tick of a one-hand clock).

That line was the very last one—“(to the tick of a one-hand clock).” What is in the heart? The beat of that clock runs the world. But we assist at putting fanged monsters in there. Well Done!

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I have never read Cummings, but I will try and get my hands on a poem of his now.

The one-hand clock symbolizes uncertainty and a mindless allegiance. We can know the minute, but not the hour or the hour and not the minute. And that it runs the world.:thumbs_up

Congratulations MaHzur!

Thank you pen and congatulations MaHzur!

um, hello, mazHur? Are you aware you are to post the next picture, mon ami? You won the contest! ;) :)

Hello Pen

Am really sorry I didn't know that I had to post the new picture. Here it is ::


At his juncture I would also like to thank all here for the appreciation of my poem. Truly speaking , the news of my winning the contest came as a pleasant surprise to me. Thanks, Pen and all again,
Best wishes
maz


http://i.ivillage.com/FD/slideshows/...pcakes_136.jpg

Congratulations maZhur on winning the contest

Heights of Satisfaction

guilty pleasures
impaled by comparison
inhaled by lusty denizen
assailed by a wobbly, hungry urchin

pyramid impassive
lo! to the artistry
woe to the prone pastry
foe to the waisting industry

rapturous treasures
food for thought
good for the overwrought
mood for quite a lot

of a confection too massive
surely to be missed
or immaturely to resist a
burly glaze none to rations kissed

Perspective

Lost in crème whirls and swirls,
Piled high and looking like another world
Of brown mountain topped by driven snow,
Or an Arabian Nights palace, could be, you know?
Is it the Kremlin on a heavily frosted morn?
Heavenly buildings where gates open at Gabriel’s horn?
Would I desire to live inside of this thing that I see?
Or would eating it really satisfy me?

Pendragon
© 3/22/08

Big art it is
the real cake
many hours spent
in the kitchen to make

temptation glazing over
a frosting of desire
sprinkled with regret
as your lust reaches higher

wrapped in sorrow
baked with pain
eaten by self hatred
losing all restrain


even so you smile
with frosting on your lips
your eyes green like donuts
surrounding eclipse

um`s......BUMP?

Perfection

A sweet pyramid of temptation
sweetly whispering my name
again and again the reflection
of deep desire in my soul is seen
a picture of pure perfection
in simple stacks and rows
art in careful sections
calling ever gently
come, come enjoy
give in
take in this joy
just one taste, no more
one bite is all it takes to fall
just one bite of heaven
one taste of perfection
life will be better if you give in
give up the fight
it's useless, you'll see
one bite to fall
come to the Garden of Eden
take that bite
take the plunge
it only takes on bite
to know perfection
before it falls away

Bakery

Standing here outside the window,
Looking in with covetous eyes,
Dreaming of making everything mine:
First one step, then two--And I would disappear
Within the wild wilderness of a pastry land.
Oh, it would be wonderful,
Certainly it would be grand
To be on the other side of the window
Just inches away from the cupcake stand;
Smelling the faint vanilla,
And admiring the beautiful white;
Running a finger through the cream
And lifting it dreamily to my mouth…

Frost Me

Come to me now, my little cupcake,
Let me unwrap you, gently squeeze
That moist, sweet chiffon.
My mouth opens, my eyes close,
Your decoration is left upon my lips,
I lick them, smiling, wanting more.
Coming to my senses, I look around
To see if anyone is watching, but
All I see is a luscious, fluffy pyramid
Waiting to be claimed by me.

ampoule, March Thirtieth, TwoThousandEight

A Piece of Cake

It’s a piece of cake, you say,
Your lips parting and lifting
At the corners.
But, what is a piece of cake?
I never really knew.
Is it a cupcake?
A delicate cloud of sweetness
Atop a butter mountain?
Or perhaps a lemon cake?
The moist texture concealing
an acidic flavour?
Or a muffin, yes, a muffin;
It’s delectable at first, quite marvelous
at least until the leaden weight
Sinks into the bottom of your stomach,
like a drowning ship.

And what would you do
with such a piece of cake?
Would you save it?
Wrap it carefully for the children
when they come home?
Would you freeze it?
Store it away from the dreadful clutches
of destructive Time?
Perhaps you’d kindly leave it
laying on the kitchen counter
until it turns green with age, and white;
Such a lovely white mould.
It’s a piece of cake, you say again
And I still know nothing, but can picture
Your small sharp teeth
Biting into soft flesh.