Poem | |
Recipe for Promiscuity
Long life with a boring, snoring sod
made the wife a warring whoring broad.
For Dr. Ram Mehta's Tyburn Contest
More great poems below...
Poem | |
The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn,
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia,
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury,
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade,
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...
When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...
Poem | |
I awaken; the darkened skies my alarm clock
I reek of whiskey, scotch and pastis
Tumbling out of bed, I reach for a cigarette
The dusk harkens as I rise to ply my trade
I am embodied inside a one room flat
The nightlife and the ladies both coming to life
Out the window I see the windmill so famous in red
Ladies with offers, men with drinks, the recipe for lust
I am the mime of the Moulin Rouge
I ready myself with my white painted face
Tonight another performance or so it seems
I shall juggle my knifes, with my many sad faces
Up up up in the air, one, two, three
Knifes in a whirlwind of iconic display
Around and around like the Moulin Rouge
I perform, toss and catch to applause
My sad face bows in graceful acknowledgement
As they toss their lose coins my way
If they see fit to fill my container of misery
I make for them my spectacular encore
I take a knife, a long black sharp blade
Tossed 12 feet in the air, dancing its way back down
As it slices the stem of a red rose in my hand
I now hand a pretty girl a cut rose
The ladies of the evening smile
They see I too traded romance for coin
How sad it is, this Moulin Rouge of dreams
Eleven more roses, and I shall earn my keep
Or so the ladies in red believe
I, on the other hand, will be changing the last act
I am tired of rent and being rented and rented cloth
I shall perform the ultimate act finale ce soir
Selecting the sharpest set of long fine knifes
Lighting them with orange flame, the juggling act begins
My audience enthralled, once again
Wondering maybe does he ever miss?
I never miss, I never shall, this is a certainty
The knifes a glow in fire, lighting the nighttime sky,
Tossed high, I lie down fast, tossed a rose in the air
A Knife as usual cut the rose stem
One, two, three, the knifes enter my heart
The blood will warm the falling rose
As it gently falls upon my silent chest
I die with a smile, yes my final act a success
The rose so tender upon my breast
Breathless all, Gay Paris has died once more
I never miss
Yet, I miss you
Poem | |
Do not search for why
in love there is no why
no a doubt
you will not need an explanation
there is no formula or recipe
you just feel it
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Poem | |
He prepared the pie
With greatest care
Within the pot
My brains and hair
For hers had been
A lofty perch
Just a peg or two
Would never do
Formed the shell
Into the plate
My crushed bones fell
I could still see
But could not yell
The pie's aroma
A story to tell
My innards baked
Hour by hour
The smell of blood
And blackened flour
Words poured in
Enhanced the flavour
The humble pie
For her to savour
Fork to mouth
My body consumed
From the plate
My heart exhumed
The baker says
She's eating crow
The taste is bitter
She eats the pie slow
The true recipe
He does not show
Humble pies plentiful
Stacked row on row
The victims many
Some you may know
If he invites you
I beg you not to go!
For Sheri's Plentitude of Pie Contest,
I went with a halloween twist.
More great poems below...
Poem | |
~Soup To Go~
This summer~ all I want is a bowl of soup
A secret flavor that combines every veggie group
An outcast taste of ancient granola herbs
All kinds of extracts that create different verbs
I will leave the table only to dance out in the rain
Round and round in wonder catering out my sweet refrain
I will visit mother and tell her I forgot her recipe
Brag about my soup and how I used and stole her ecstasy
Paint about the life she gives the grounded trees
Think about the sugar that makes me surrender to her sweet debris
I will order me a special~ with the right poetry breeze
Exchange my cookie dough with mothers pollen seeds
Hide behind her oak tree and listen to her endlessly
I can even cook myself a picture making nature my enemy
Close my eyes and smell the mist of self control
Hold on to my emotion and take a sip of my soup bowl
Add extra salt and pepper to every line I manipulate
Swirl my spoon around and smile at every thing I hate
Come sit down with me and collaborate
Lets cabbage out on mothers nature's plate
Wakening up to her blossoming sauce that drips with a certain flow
Driving by her White castle, and stare at another soup to go
Order me; a soup of all the things I see
Order me; a soup made out of mystery
Order me; a soup out of the things I wanna be
Order me; a soup made out of the sadness found inside of me
Order me; a coffee to go with my poetry soup
Type me a funny comment that will add a smile to my food group:-)
Poem | |
The Nature of things is such
That when we broach the things that bring us joy,
Something special happens to us
Observe the way a tree tilts
The way a flower blooms
The way a butterfly lands
Pick up a paint brush
Color a canvass with shade
Watch the sunlight splash the pavement
Solidify a moment with laughter and contentment
The nature of the soul is such
That when it is fed it’s quota of good is brings us peace
Something we all need in this world today
Pick up a pen write a poem
Phone a friend share a recipe
Play with your dog
Wash your hair
Listen to music and get inspired
Dream dreams and let them find you
The nature of fulfillment is such
That when act on it, you’re greatest desire comes to fruition
Something we all need to learn is how to lose and how to win
Bow to something greater than you
Knee before the Almighty
Be grateful no matter how small the gift
Begin every day with hope in your heart, and you will see
The way to soul power is to live by the hour
For Christ paid in full, so we could have power
Praise Be To Him, Amen!
For contest: Soulidified
March 25, 2015
Poem | |
Sitting Idly By, Distracted by the Glare
Of Colour Shining from Liquid Crystals.
He Saw The Dress.
Smouldering Red Shimmers That
Flowed to Her Feet as If Extended
From her Shoulders.
He'd Only Seen the Garment in
Pictures, Accentuated by Her
Body, Structuring The Silk.
- How Long Would He Have to wait? -
Poem | |
I guess those fancy city boys like using rods and reels
With hundred dollar waders, dry flies and wicker creels
But good old country boys ain't gonna be so squeamish
They like to be primeval and get medieval on them fish
You got your spoonbill snaggers and catfish noodlers too
And for some old boys a stick of dynamite will do
But when autumn sucker gigging season comes around
Ain't no red-blood menfolk hangin' in an Ozarks town
Nighttime on the gravel bar just north of Poplar Bluff
Me and Jon are smokin' and Leon's dippin' snuff
Three feet of clean clear water as cold as winter's bone
The john boat’s forward rail lights are showing ev'ry stone
Leon heads the boat upriver, a quiet and constant pace
The luminescent stream seems to alter time and space
Conversation ceases as we seek retreat within
Pensive minds in solace find a dreamy state of zen
Then our meditation comes abruptly to an end
Leon points out a gigging spot, we rise up and unbend
Upon the john boat’s bowsprit we ready spear-men stand
Poised just like Poseidon with his trident in his hand
On the shallow bottom, scattered fish are dimly seen
Hog and red horse suckers, slowly swimming straight upstream
The water bends the light, so remember this constraint
When you gig a fish, you gotta aim for where he ain't
Jon's lean and wiry frame first coils up and then unwinds
He pokes and soon a sucker is wriggling on the tines
Suddenly the action becomes furious and fast
We're poking left and right, this gigging's quite a blast!
Get that sucker! Stick that sucker! That one got away!
I can't believe I missed him! That sucker went that way!
Got that little sucker! Gonna limit out tonight!
Missed that sorry sucker! He went left when I went right!
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Leon counted out the score
The john boat's holding fish box would shortly hold no more!
Flushed with high emotion, I then spied to my delight
A swiftly swimming shadow just passing on the right!
Way too big to be a sucker, I thought it was a carp
I poke and then the gig rebounds though it's surely sharp
Too late I realized that in my fervent fever
I hadn't caught a carp, but almost bagged a beaver!
Jon and Leon roared and I'm crimson with chagrin
In a nanosecond all the beaver jokes begin
No mercy is allowed, according to tradition
Gotta grin and bear it, then send them to perdition
When they reckoned I was roasted rather past well done
We went back to have our feast and go on with the fun
To munch some hot hush-puppies and chug some PBR
With deep fried fish and taters cooked on a gravel bar
Then sittin' round the campfire, we pass the Mason jar
And share our tales of huntin' and fishin' near and far
Next day at work I realize the boys just torqued the screw
When on my desk I find a recipe for beaver stew...
Poem | |
Onion of Passion (A Blitz Poem for Poetry Soup)
Start with an idea
Start with an onion
Onion on a cutting board
Onion from the crisper drawer
Drawer of firm vegetables
Drawer of future soup
Soup to feed the poet’s soul
Soup to cure the common cold
Cold days feeling uninspired
Cold nights feeling over tired
Tired of the same same same
Tired of this empty feeling
Hungry for a poem to come
Hungry for some hearty soup
Soup flavored with Whitman’s marrow
Soup that starts with his sort of rawness
Rawness of starchy emotion
Rawness of aromatic images
Images of stiff green celery stalks
Images of bright chunked carrot snips
Snips sautéing in olive oil (dash of salt!)
Snips of memory softening
Softening and blending into metaphors
Softening with those onions now translucent
Translucent as distant dreams
Translucent as childhood kisses
Kisses snuck behind the bushes or
Kisses from great grandma
Grandma gave this life recipe
Grandma said to let things simmer
Simmer with love like chicken stock
Simmer then add the bag of herbs
Herbs are like adjectives
Herbs like just the right verbs
Verbs of action rather than being
Verbs like heat and sear and cook and flavor
Flavor the soup
Flavor for sharing
Sharing is why
Why we cook these chunky poems
Why we cook anything
Anything at all
Anything with passion
Passion and heart
Poem | |
Law began by living,
locomotion meeting the rails of electric rainfall,
Consequence coursing through interconnected crossbeams
making all form fruit of the first & final recipe,
one great statute spawned from the storm
billowing from Divinity's genius,
everything in the Universe existing to produce,
get busy, get bounce'n, grow wild & now,
receive with wisdom and take as thieves humbled by offering,
the original impulse from a manic God
pregnant from androgonous purpose,
a trillion movements in a single start, a fanatic for feral smarts,
stagnation anethema to the spectacular suspense of survival,
Natural Rights were for me
the moment my blood became mine, became a wet warlord
exerting presence in the wide open wrestle of Universe,
God the shadow & weight of my spark,
the window & scene of my good gumption, of my dusty dream,
self defense a mandate from the magistrate of my heritage,
freedom of expression an obligation humming from ancestors'
anniverseries applauded along the Appain Way headed
not towards Rome but forward to a higher home of honor,
a Law unto myself I am,
eating from the spines of lions,
sleeping atop pyramids built by a billion bones unbroken by battle,
afternoons auction affection for my amusement with discount
and the nights nudge nightmares asunder
with the release of red lightning
spelling the name of Creation in raw neon, breathtaking breakdown,
a script scribbled by a hand having the blueprint of dirt in it's fingernails,
I appeal to Adam, attest in favor of aggression's willpower,
to Eve I beseech, testify to the severity & sanction of self confidence,
let us smash all false law that stands as a wall to our fulfillment,
smack the eggshell of Man's authoritarian angst,
waking into a world of wakeful worries, confined by Common Law, U.C.C.,
walking through waves ment to wreck the arrogant
with a constitution inked by nerves electrified
by entertaining the urgency of a rampaging God,
thought of the great expanse thumping thoroughly through
the expeditions my expectations encounter,
black static undulating around the blue bulb of my brain,
sparks of ultimate consciousness mothering marks of miracles
in the becoming of birthright,
Poem | |
Mix up all the love felt for my family, God, and Home.
Sprinkle in the gratitude for material blessings from above.
Blend well, holiday cheer.
Whip the the blues and set aside.
Let the Joy rise to overflowing.
let all the friends partake of the blessings, Warm the hearts of others in my path, sautee the
ingredients and Share the Love with all the neighborhood. Set a spell and enjoy.
My Recipe for Thanksgiving Pudding
Poem | |
In my quest to escape monotony at work I stumbled upon this poetry site
Little did I know I would excavate a gem with a zest for life
She is also a lullaby songstress; in between my spelling and grammar blunders,
We’re a recipe for madness: crazy blogs, even stranger emails, our laughter and tears
I unearthed Nikko aka Missy, "the spelling queen" my friend with a gracious soul!
I went to have soup at a table atop a mountain, when who should I meet there?
A very pretty, sassy, missy; she did a 3/4 turn--CrAsH! (2 cabs, fender bender)!
Her laughter and madness, just totally contagious...even strangers want to kiss her!
Through her wonderful words, each petal revealed a bit more sparkle, a stunning gleam
I was so right! Wilma, "the crazy one", she's my true gem of a friend, a vivacious soul!
For Tracie's Grab a Mate & Collaborate poem :D
-- Wilma Neels & nikko palmario :D
Loads of fun, thanks Missy for embracing my madness :D
Poem | |
I spent all day baking
Making a special treat
I cannot wait til dinner
How great it will be to eat
I made Grams secret crust
From a recipe that she passed
Grounding all the graham crackers
So delicious it hasn't been surpassed
The topping is made of cherries
I picked them just last night
It is the peak of their ripeness
Tested out the flavor, mmm so right
After dinners over
To the fridge to get my keepsake
But much to my dislike
Someone stole my cheesecake
* This poem is special to me. It really did spring board my poetic relationship with Casarah*
Poem | |
I curse thee ribonucleotides
For to shatter my faith was your goal
and the spec of light I held inside
You've replaced with a vacuous hole
For science has proven beyond any doubt
That you came to exist on your own
Elements melded in perfect conditions
The recipe is finally known
These roots of life have been made in a lab
and they needed no ethereal spark
I close my eyes and try to forget
But there is no return to the dark
I'm stuck on this rock, what reason to be?
In the truth there exists no compassion
I curse thee ribonucleotides
and this empty heart that you've fashioned
Poem | |
Pink faced, and warm, I stand at the kitchen counter
rubbing flour and butter briskly
through my fingers into a large mixing bowl...
Apples are already peeled and sliced, that lay
like petals, pale green, in the pie plate, waiting for a crumbled topping
I know they are mine, these hands, I see, deftly working...
So skilled, they are, that even I am amazed,....
Even before my own eyes, there is a moment, I watch, from outside myself
Yes these hands are mine... proven by the swirls and the valleys
as I when I'm asked to write my own name,...
as when I scribbled this new recipe, in a familiar, weary yellow notebook
Yet, as if I were wearing gloves,
my hands seem to live inside the skin of others...
I watch their motion and have no control of every small detail,
Rote tasks, of which I have seen before
No hand has held the amber weight of sun
or tugged in summer wind, but silently
some root has crooked a finger into the flour,
intent to foster a long connection, some ancient comfort,
a deep knowing, of heart and bone, of mind, and soul
that assures me, I never will stand alone, with flour on my hands
I will always have centuries at my elbow
Submitted for Nette's Contest: With These Hands
Carrie Richards 12/21/13
Poem | |
Step 1, take two friends before they are lovers
Show them how to share with oneanother
Add a slice of intinmacy of becoming one
Like holding hands under the sun
Now subtract the bitterness and add the sweet
The flavor of a kiss should taste like a treat
Give her a compliment and 1 soft caress
Then rest your head against his chest
1 cup of humor and 1/2 a cup of concern
A pinch of assertiveness
But too much will burn!
100 kisses a day will keep the doctor away
A drop of hope then mix in family and friends
Your recipe for love
Will never come to an end.
Poem | |
It’s a smooth and tasty way to get high.
Try my distillation of mash made from corn and rye.
I make it from my family’s secret recipe.
The only one who knows about it is me.
The stuff comes out of my trusty hidden still.
I have it standing in the woods on top of the hill.
My woman did something that made me mad as hell.
She took the last batch I made, and dumped it into the well.
Soon, gathered around the well was a big crowd.
My neighbors were laughing and singing out loud.
There were old folks and little children staggering along the lane.
It did not seem like any of them was feeling pain.
Nobody else in the vicinity readily understood
why the water in the well was tasting so good.
Poem | |
"THE whole truth and nothing but the truth"
I have never failed or cheated, on any test I took.
Though I have taken best guesses upon one look,
I know I was a nerd, I read everything in every book.
Maybe that is why now reading is not part of my nook.
Poetry is the only thing I can handle by hook or crook.
I would have to read a recipe if I was going to cook.
Maybe there was one test that I almost failed, I took.
It would have been English, which I passed in a rook.
Now the only thing mostly I read is a manual book.
Except for poetry, which I read out loud, upon my first look,
Not that I am very smart, I guess luck is what I took.
Truth is, if it were not for luck, I would be a closed book.
this was my quest:
Cecilia, how about a truthful question!!!! have you ever totally flunked out on a test, or cheated on a test... I want the whole truth and nothing but the truth, in a poetic way... p.s... make your answer fun as can be... I think limericks, or couplets would do your question perfct..always..pd
Poem | |
Filling minds with symphony of truth
Opening them with catalytic mystery of light
Living waters flowing like angels’ robes
Lifting inspirations into the depths of brilliance
Omitting your hopeful eyes to the skies
Without blemish and aching to purify
You are so talented and true
Outstanding words that cringe in harmonies
Under and over and back to the earth
Revealing an answer that was once nothing
Drenched and battered in sweets for a recipe
Rocking and popping in slivered ecstasy
Enveloping us all in the highest reverie
Aiming at the heavens where you ought to be
My heart pours out to all of you
Someone believes in you—I do
And though the dark is soon to come
Never fear, for light will always fold it over
Dimming away into resonate and pure master-peace
No, you are free in this glistened life
Everlasting like the holy beings in perfect-pitched song
Vindicating your cause and all others to follow
Emptied only to be filled yet again
Ransomed in unremitting constancy
Give into the beauty of recycled rhapsody
Interlaced with supportive strands of genius
Veiled in humility and never lacking agility
Enshrouded with the benevolent shine of generations
Understand that you will succeed in succulent growth
People will only fail you if you give them reason to
You are an incredible addition to a lively creation
Onward the music will lead you on
Universally swirling and curling with mastered energy
Veering out and fluttering in perfect sight and sound
Eventually reaching out to the remaining shadows
Get up and look at the world around you
Obvious beauty surrounds every shady corner
Take what you may and create your renovating legacy
The symphony is playing for you
Helping you along the smooth sands of life
Intertwined in fiery drive and sifting scents
Surrounded by the resonance—and a stranger’s global confidence
-inspired by the one and only Anthony Snape-
Poem | |
"Love comes in many flavors....but the taste of it, is unforgettable"
It makes a very large batch.
And when I finish, there will be
Enough for my family, my friends, and quite possibly
Everyone who lives on our street.
On my tiled kitchen counter
I have gathered..according to the recipe,
The butter, the sugar, the corn syrup,
Nuts and chocolate...all the necessary delectable
Ingredients to make my mother's
Melt-in-the-mouth butter toffee.
I make it every Christmas, a family favorite,
Like a legacy that must be passed on...
A futile attempt to lighten a dark hour ...of long ago.
A new bride then, with inexperience my middle name..
In a tiny kitchen of blue and white
I was frocked in frilly yellow, wearing the apron she had sewn
An apron with color as warm as the butter assembled before me
My task, was to follow the step by step instructions
A recipe, written in her hand
Letters so blurred by tears that had taken up new residence in my life
The curls of her handwriting
Wrapping 'round me like the sound of her voice...
A little page from her vast collection..
Wrinkled and yellowed, with speckles, and splatters
Yellow splatters, reminding me of days of my childhood
A childhood of naivete', believing still, in a sun that would forever shine for me...
When I had so much yet to learn
But this was that ghastly year, ....that first Christmas,... without her...
It was up to me, determined to carry on
...A simple recipe, ....couldn't be that hard...could it?
My novice effort, in those first months without her
Was a disappointment. Just not the same as hers,
Faintly scorched, the taste...no delight, in the offering...
People were polite, accepted it, and ate it to be kind.
They smiled, patted my head, gave compliments...
But I knew.
And, as time passed,..experience taught me. Experience heals.
My toffee is good. Quite good...delicious, actually...
Still not the same as hers, but my family thinks it's fine.
I, however, know better.
I Have always known.
Today...I melt the butter, I add the sugar, and the syrup
Stirring while the mixture turns to amber. It won't take long.
My family waits....waits eagerly to savor the sweet flavor
The flavor of butter, the flavor of chocolate
the flavor of enduring love..........that was my mother.
Poem | |
Delicious, warm, and and tastes of home...
as if you were still here....
Poem | |
I feel the heat rising,
Baby I like what your cookin'
A man with a recipe
Baby you're so good lookin'
Mmm yeah I want a taste
Mmm yeah I like how it rises
Mmm yeah I lick my lips
The deserts you make appetizes
That bread in the oven,
Baby, I can't wait to try.
Dusted off your flour kisses,
Whole wheat, white or rye.
Mmm yeah I want a nibble
Mmm yeah I want a bite
Mmm yeah warm it up
And cook for me baby all night.
Mmm yeah baby so delicious
You know I like it like that
Come into my kitchen,
This is where the heat is at.
Poem | |
We are participating in a collective, constructive and hopefully TASTY experiment.
If you have a spare moment we hope you willl participate.
We picked those we think will make this fun.
Please send a recipe to the person whose name is in position #1 at the bottom of this letter even if you don't know him/her.
It should be something quick and easy without rare ingredients.
Actually the best receipe is one you know in your head and can type right now.
Don't agonize over it, it's one you make when you're short of time.
After you've sent the receipe to the person in postion #1 below, AND ONLY THAT PERSON,
copy this letter into a new e-mail.
Move my name to position #1 and put your name in position #2
Only my and your name should appear on the e-mail
Send it to 20 of your friends. BCC (blind copy)
If you can't do this in 5 days please let us know so it will be fair to those participating.
You should receive 36 receipes.
It's fun to see where they will come from.
Seldom does anyone drop out because we all need new ideas.
The turnaround is fast because there are only 2 names on the list and you only have to do it once.
1) Judy Ball email@example.com
2) Lynn Banks
Poem | |
I have a little something that I want you to see.
It’s a sample of great-grandpa’s secret recipe.
Blend of ingredients in the right combination;
hidden formula passed down to my generation.
Great-grandpa was a man having great longevity.
He lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and three.
This stuff was a contributor without any doubt.
When he was cremated, the fire wouldn’t go out!
Grandpa took over after great-grandpa passed away.
That’s why the legacy continues up to today.
The neighbors didn’t show the slightest inhibition.
Because grandpa made big bucks during Prohibition!
Another generation passed, and my pa would say:
“My son, it’s time to make some more of that stuff today.
But please boy, bring out the still without making a sound.
Somebody told me there’s some G-boys coming around!”
So my friend, I want to make a toast to you right here.
May you be filled with happiness without pain or fear.
So down the hatch with this stuff that I want you to try.
L’chaim, happy landing, here’s some mud in your eye!