Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 









Topic 26: Write a poem inspired by food or a recipe.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

A child follows the tide
burrowing with fingers
where bubbles in the sand show
here are pipis. Soon her skirt
is filled with shells, plump,
curved, perfect.

Dreaming of the feast of them
cooked in sea-water, sprinkled
with vinegar, peppered,
chewy, salty, sweet meat

she heaps her harvest
in the middle of the beach,
bends and gathers more
until again her skirt is full

and turns
to add them to her tally –
the heaped treasure is gone;
the pipis have hidden,
the beach lies empty.

Company

 
In a kitchen of clericot and refried beans,
we huddle against winter,
huddle against fear, and win.
 
In the warm amber of tequila
we talk about spring—
“We’re gonna fucking kill it this year”,
you say, giggling.
 
There’s still ice on the windows,
but everything smells delicious. 

(04-26-2015, 03:19 PM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  Company

 
In a kitchen of clericot and refried beans,
we huddle against winter,
huddle against fear, and win.
 
In the warm amber of tequila
we talk about spring—
“We’re gonna fucking kill it this year”,
you say, giggling.
 
There’s still ice on the windows,
but everything smells delicious. 

I'm in that room right now, I can feel it.

The simplicity is luscious. Poetry IS imagination; fewer words = more imagination.


(This said before I post a poem with more words. )
Had to look up 'clericot'. Oh, THAT's what it means!
I make mine with grapefruit, strawberries, white grape juice, and cheap vodka.

---

                            < recipe >
                       
                        we're bakers
                        my wife and I
                        snug in our kitchen
                        among the flour and our implements
                        the timer set for measuring
                        in clicks and dings
                        the loaves in hours
                        rising ruled
                        like us
                        the leavening
                        it rises us as well
                        the window
                        and its morning sky
                        with its cool breath
                        the oven with it's hot
                        we close our eyes
                        and open it
                        and feel its heat
                        our thoughts confined
                        to dough and fingers kneading
                        punching down the coming loaf
                        to thinking all the thoughts
                        that touching makes
                        that memories upset
                        our eyes
                        precise and absolute
                        the certainty of dough
                        its stickiness
                        and here it's almost noon
                        the light
                        the open window
                        with a warmer breath
                        the oven stays the same
                        our eyes
                        and what appears through them
                        our view of life
                        as life flies out of us
                        and what we see
                        we see
                        and seeing changes
                        with the baking loaves
                        the light that leaves
                        us still alive
                        the heat
                        the oven
                        how the sweat of bodies mocks
                        our silly sweating hearts
                        we laugh
                        like valentines
                        like love
                        comes pouring in from
                        memories invited by the scent
                        the loaves again
                        the oven and the dinging time
                        that must be answered
                        yet we stand
                        we've stood here
                        in this kichen
                        all our lives
                        our tiny world
                        we follow it
                        and listen to
                        the language of the cook
                        of bakers
                        simply making what they make
                        ignore the world
                        accept its light
                        the window and its
                        breath much cooler now
                        the oven still the same
                        but more appreciated now
                        the years have come
                        they've traveled through us
                        made us bakers
                        in the shape of loaves
                        though now we've firmed
                        and settled some
                        the clouds
                        so deeply colored now
                        our eyes connected
                        here it comes
                        the sunset through our window
                        and the timer dings
                        the loaves are done
                        we're bakers
                        and our bread awaits

                                - - -

Petrol station secrets

Its not easy,
driving with a can of coke
between your knees
and cheese wotsits
in both hands

Of course that wasn't the full meal,
they had a deal,
a packet of crisp
a can of pop
a chocolate bar
or a flapjack
made in the shop.

A seasoned junk food eater
can complete most tasks
behind the wheel
I include picking up dropped Malteasers
from the footwell at 60 mph

"Hello love I'm home"

"Hello"
"Have you had dinner?"

"No I'm starving"

"You shouldn't let yourself get that hungry"
"Thats why your not loosing any weight !!!

Well if you don't tell her, neither will I

For mother's day
second grade
I wrote you a recipe for a mom
I think it had a few cups of love
some hand-holding
I don't remember the rest.
Since when does being a good parent
mean screaming, yelling, and hiding things from me?

Not really sure where this came from but taadaaa?  Graphic warning


Next

You bring me
love on the half shell
opened and raw.

I add hot sauce
because my life
must be redder.

I swallow you whole
gagging on the lies.

I look in your eyes
and wonder how long you'll stay
once you've cummed.

Supernova

Today, my navel outshines me,
for today, it is a dying star
huffing its last desperate breath.

The immense pressure of gravity's hands
ever-squeezing its fiery core
at last compounds its basic elements
into a heavy hole in time.

Its shell of gas and light erupts
into a splendid rainbow of dust,
of carbon and oxygen and iron and nitrogen,
of water and earth and wind and flame,
of all the material elements.

And this great cloud of stardust scatters
throughout the arms of the black cosmos,
beyond the world of my humble body,
beyond the womb of mother earth,
beyond the weirs on heaven and hell,
to continue their master's brilliant legacy
by filling the gaps of the puzzle of life.

I told you that burrito was a mistake!

Injun Bread

North Rim Grand Canyon Indian Bread:
large round fired adobe oven:
big round loaves to match,
scooped out with big wooden paddles.
My mother brought home
the recipe and made it every week,
because I was half Indian.
It mattered not to me
that I was half Seminole
and the bread makers were Hopi.
The only Injuns I knew were from TV,
where I sat eating Injun bread
and watching my heroes the Cowboys.
Only the white man need wear a mask,
no one care about the Injun.  
Hi-Ho Silver and Away!  
And off I would go, riding the broom
through the house to the tune
of the William Tell Overture
and the smell of Injun Bread.

Erthona

©2015

(04-27-2015, 04:54 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Injun Bread

North Rim Grand Canyon Indian Bread:
large round fired adobe oven:
big round loaves to match,
scooped out with big wooden paddles.
My mother brought home
the recipe and made it every week,
because I was half Indian.
It mattered not to me
that I was half Seminole
and the bread makers were Hopi.
The only Injuns I knew were from TV,
where I sat eating Injun bread
and watching my heroes the Cowboys.
Only the white man need wear a mask,
no one care about the Injun.  
Hi-Ho Silver and Away!  
And off I would go, riding the broom
through the house to the tune
of the William Tell Overture
and the smell of Injun Bread.

Erthona

©2015

I really enjoyed this one Dale. The whole piece feels like red clay. Takes me back to a time before the PC movement, when you could watch a western on Saturdays without shame. When it was just the movies.

(04-27-2015, 02:13 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  Supernova

Today, my navel outshines me,
for today, it is a dying star
huffing its last desperate breath.

The immense pressure of gravity's hands
ever-squeezing its fiery core
at last compounds its basic elements
into a heavy hole in time.

Its shell of gas and light erupts
into a splendid rainbow of dust,
of carbon and oxygen and iron and nitrogen,
of water and earth and wind and flame,
of all the material elements.

And this great cloud of stardust scatters
throughout the arms of the black cosmos,
beyond the world of my humble body,
beyond the womb of mother earth,
beyond the weirs on heaven and hell,
to continue their master's brilliant legacy
by filling the gaps of the puzzle of life.

I told you that burrito was a mistake!

I know we're not supposed to offer criticism here,
so I won't mention that last line and how it ruined
an otherwise majestic piece.

---

(04-27-2015, 05:44 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  

(04-27-2015, 04:54 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Injun Bread

North Rim Grand Canyon Indian Bread:
large round fired adobe oven:
big round loaves to match,
scooped out with big wooden paddles.
My mother brought home
the recipe and made it every week,
because I was half Indian.
It mattered not to me
that I was half Seminole
and the bread makers were Hopi.
The only Injuns I knew were from TV,
where I sat eating Injun bread
and watching my heroes the Cowboys.
Only the white man need wear a mask,
no one care about the Injun.  
Hi-Ho Silver and Away!  
And off I would go, riding the broom
through the house to the tune
of the William Tell Overture
and the smell of Injun Bread.

Erthona

©2015

I really enjoyed this one Dale. The whole piece feels like red clay. Takes me back to a time before the PC movement, when you could watch a western on Saturdays without shame. When it was just the movies.

Good enough, but your last poem "Peckerwood" was much better.

---

(04-27-2015, 01:31 AM)bena Wrote:  Not really sure where this came from but taadaaa?  Graphic warning


Next

You bring me
love on the half shell
opened and raw.

I add hot sauce
because my life
must be redder.

I swallow you whole
gagging on the lies.

I look in your eyes
and wonder how long you'll stay
once you've cummed.

And here you were making noises about not being up to the level
of the rest of us here. With creativity like this, you stand head
and shoulders above the rest of us. I bow to your capabilities.

Silly kitty...my level comes and goes so quickly...as soon as you've found a way to harness it, I'll pay you handsomely.

(04-27-2015, 06:14 AM)rayheinrich Wrote:  

(04-27-2015, 02:13 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  Supernova

Today, my navel outshines me,
for today, it is a dying star
huffing its last desperate breath.

The immense pressure of gravity's hands
ever-squeezing its fiery core
at last compounds its basic elements
into a heavy hole in time.

Its shell of gas and light erupts
into a splendid rainbow of dust,
of carbon and oxygen and iron and nitrogen,
of water and earth and wind and flame,
of all the material elements.

And this great cloud of stardust scatters
throughout the arms of the black cosmos,
beyond the world of my humble body,
beyond the womb of mother earth,
beyond the weirs on heaven and hell,
to continue their master's brilliant legacy
by filling the gaps of the puzzle of life.

I told you that burrito was a mistake!

I know we're not supposed to offer criticism here,
so I won't mention that last line and how it ruined
an otherwise majestic piece.

---

(04-27-2015, 05:44 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  

(04-27-2015, 04:54 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Injun Bread

North Rim Grand Canyon Indian Bread:
large round fired adobe oven:
big round loaves to match,
scooped out with big wooden paddles.
My mother brought home
the recipe and made it every week,
because I was half Indian.
It mattered not to me
that I was half Seminole
and the bread makers were Hopi.
The only Injuns I knew were from TV,
where I sat eating Injun bread
and watching my heroes the Cowboys.
Only the white man need wear a mask,
no one care about the Injun.  
Hi-Ho Silver and Away!  
And off I would go, riding the broom
through the house to the tune
of the William Tell Overture
and the smell of Injun Bread.

Erthona

©2015

I really enjoyed this one Dale. The whole piece feels like red clay. Takes me back to a time before the PC movement, when you could watch a western on Saturdays without shame. When it was just the movies.

Good enough, but your last poem "Peckerwood" was much better.

---

(04-27-2015, 01:31 AM)bena Wrote:  Not really sure where this came from but taadaaa?  Graphic warning


Next

You bring me
love on the half shell
opened and raw.

I add hot sauce
because my life
must be redder.

I swallow you whole
gagging on the lies.

I look in your eyes
and wonder how long you'll stay
once you've cummed.

And here you were making noises about not being up to the level
of the rest of us here. With creativity like this, you stand head
and shoulders above the rest of us. I bow to your capabilities.

I agree. I can taste the introspection. Well done Mel. 

The Murder of John Dough

It was the trail of gingerbread crumbs
that led us to her. Her fingerprint
in the butter was obtained before
she could cream it with brown sugar,
when we broke down the door.
There were priors; a boy
had been in her oven once.
Witnesses said they chased the victim
across forest and ford until the air stank
like anise from the perspiration
off his pumping molasses legs.
Though he ran and ran, he was caught.
They are pleading pastry trafficking,
but we found his puckered cinnamon drop
mouth, and one of his frosted arms.
Our informant, sly fox, is as positive
of their guilt, as he would be of his own
if he found himself in a henhouse.

A paving slab of chocolate
is what I'd like to eat,
not kale and mung bean salad,
or biscuits without wheat.


There's carrot soup, for you dear,
the opener's by the can.
Feel free to take the chick-peas,
my diets in the pan.

The Culling


I sowed two bean seeds in one pot
just like the package said
and when both grew
I re-read the part that said to “thin” them
which means to pluck the weakest
plant and throw it out.
 
But how could I?
When I have always shown compassion
for the weak
and who’s  to say that stronger plants
grow better tasting beans.
 
Still, to kill the strong
whose only crime
was to do his best
seemed perverse
 
and even God
when left to choose
between Abel and Cain
let them sort it out themselves.
 
As weeks went by
they grew closer and stronger,
those two incidental brothers
until they twined together
inseparably
and choked each other
to death.

(04-28-2015, 09:37 AM)milo Wrote:  The Culling


I sowed two bean seeds in one pot
just like the package said
and when both grew
I re-read the part that said to “thin” them
which means to pluck the weakest
plant and throw it out.
 
But how could I?
When I have always shown compassion
for the weak
and who’s  to say that stronger plants
grow better tasting beans.
 
Still, to kill the strong
whose only crime
was to do his best
seemed perverse
 
and even God
when left to choose
between Abel and Cain
let them sort it out themselves.
 
As weeks went by
they grew closer and stronger,
those two incidental brothers
until they twined together
inseparably
and choked each other
to death.

I know just what you mean, I never thin them enough, farmers are tougher than I am.

(04-28-2015, 09:54 AM)ellajam Wrote:  

(04-28-2015, 09:37 AM)milo Wrote:  The Culling


I sowed two bean seeds in one pot
just like the package said
and when both grew
I re-read the part that said to “thin” them
which means to pluck the weakest
plant and throw it out.
 
But how could I?
When I have always shown compassion
for the weak
and who’s  to say that stronger plants
grow better tasting beans.
 
Still, to kill the strong
whose only crime
was to do his best
seemed perverse
 
and even God
when left to choose
between Abel and Cain
let them sort it out themselves.
 
As weeks went by
they grew closer and stronger,
those two incidental brothers
until they twined together
inseparably
and choked each other
to death.

I know just what you mean, I never thin them enough, farmers are tougher than I am.

What's left for the reader to do but shoot himself... oh, wait, there's kittens to drown.

(04-28-2015, 11:13 AM)rayheinrich Wrote:  

(04-28-2015, 09:54 AM)ellajam Wrote:  

(04-28-2015, 09:37 AM)milo Wrote:  The Culling


I sowed two bean seeds in one pot
just like the package said
and when both grew
I re-read the part that said to “thin” them
which means to pluck the weakest
plant and throw it out.
 
But how could I?
When I have always shown compassion
for the weak
and who’s  to say that stronger plants
grow better tasting beans.
 
Still, to kill the strong
whose only crime
was to do his best
seemed perverse
 
and even God
when left to choose
between Abel and Cain
let them sort it out themselves.
 
As weeks went by
they grew closer and stronger,
those two incidental brothers
until they twined together
inseparably
and choked each other
to death.

I know just what you mean, I never thin them enough, farmers are tougher than I am.

What's left for the reader to do but shoot himself... oh, wait, there's kittens to drown.

It seemed the right thing to do at first - 
so many hungry kittens in the world
without a home, stretching 
and rolling on their backs in the hot sun


did I just leave the door open 
and let them come in or did I venture
out and rub their warm bellies 
or offer them the last slice
of balogna from the package?

The house is not overly large -
perhaps just the right size 
for a single man and a cat
to keep him company
but much too small for the hundreds

lounging on the counters
and scratching the newel posts
into some new sculpture
that only cats can understand.

A man may never own a cat
 but he can own a house
with a quick running stream in the back yard
and a dozen burlap sacks
and a stack of bricks.

stupid plants reminds me of my family

(04-28-2015, 09:37 AM)milo Wrote:  The Culling


I sowed two bean seeds in one pot
just like the package said
and when both grew
I re-read the part that said to “thin” them
which means to pluck the weakest
plant and throw it out.
 
But how could I?
When I have always shown compassion
for the weak
and who’s  to say that stronger plants
grow better tasting beans.
 
Still, to kill the strong
whose only crime
was to do his best
seemed perverse
 
and even God
when left to choose
between Abel and Cain
let them sort it out themselves.
 
As weeks went by
they grew closer and stronger,
those two incidental brothers
until they twined together
inseparably
and choked each other
to death.