Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
Food for thought !
Over what has been lost.
Days of long ago - filled with much flavour,
Foods exotic – for the discerning palate to savour.
There was Beef Wellington to enjoy.
Delicious, Lobster Thermador – Oh Boy !
There was exotic Japanese cuisine.
Much Chinese food to be seen.
There was Italian, Greek, Mexican,
Korean, Canadian and American.
All, to an adventurer, what a treat !
With French, Indian, English to meet.
In those days of long-ago – oh the pleasures
it stored in memories hoard - what treasures.
Time erases all that once was, it no longer is.
For today’s survival – the main biz,
as one comes down, downsizing to simplicity –
is to become creative, live off the majesty
of one’s own creations - a grilled cheese with sweet
mixed pickles, tomatoes, egg and a delicious meat.
Taste buds - still alive – have not forgot
to savour food and enjoy food for thought
that fills ones stomach and his soul – not
to regret or forget all that he once got -
with some of what yet may not be lost
if one could only get up, could afford the cost
that could change the state of the economy
he now lives, as he lives in a state of autonomy
on egg salad sandwiches permeated with salt,
pepper, onion powder, cayenne pepper, garlic salt,
cayenne pepper, fresh garlic butter on buttermilk bread.
this, to fill my stomach, taste buds to savour, fill my head.
It is down to this for a fifties, sixties, seventies man
who now creates a soup with his own, aged, hand.
It’s base, begins with Campbell’s tomato and tomato basil
soups with red peppers, cayenne pepper, so much so, nasal
drips, begins to run as weeping eyes start to flow
over the pork and beans you will now know
have been added too, along with beaches and cream
corn, rice, fresh garlic, ginger root, pasta, what a dream
for this one’s palate to sample before it goes down,
through the gullet, into the stomach, to one’s crown
Another dish – by these hands – to fill the days, the week
is a salad that consists of all the vegetable I did seek.
Cauliflower, broccoli, celery, red, green, yellow peppers,
cucumbers, onions, radishes, mushrooms, garlic, cheese,
honey ham, ginger root, avocados, brussel sprouts, tomatoes
drowned in Kraft’s golden Italian dressing - is how it goes
The final cuisine created to sustain this old soul,
throughout weeks, months as they rapidly go
by, into the ether of life’s swiftly, decaying hours,
- hours lost to what we once were – no longer ours.
It is a sauce for my spaghetti dinner
that will run the eyes, the nose and inner
recesses of the soul as you come to know
the power, the combination of these ingredient will show.
My laziness dictates, a base to be created with
Classico and Prago spaghetti sauce – there is no myth
here, as Campbell’s tomato, tomato basil soups are added.
Then red, green, yellow, jalapeño peppers sautéed, will tell
- as mushrooms, beef tenderloin , bacon are sautéed as well –
as fresh and canned tomatoes, garlic, ginger root add smell
and taste, as do the onions and sages that are added.
The pièce de résistance, red, cayenne peppers set fires of hell
all the way down and into the pit
as one will, to supper, bravely sit.
A fire extinguisher is what you will need
as upon my spaghetti sauce you decide to feed.
B. J. “A ” 2
November 7th 2004
Long poem by
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Details |
End-Cut Prime Rib of
Cake, Lobster Tail,
I feel — no — need
to, eat those foods
asked that I get
you. So I scour the
first and foremost,
roast prime rib of
confident that, if I
find that, the
will appear on at
least one of them,
It’s the Post House,
on East 63rd Street,
that has everything.
And, on this day,
the 1st anniversary
of your death, I’m
the foods you
craved, yet, I do
a morsel. But not to
for next year, same
date, I’ll try
and maybe, just
maybe, I’ll find it
to enjoy what you
surely would have,
if only I’d realized
there was no time
No time left, as I
held your hand
and watched American
while you morphed
ever it is one
becomes at death.
Frost, I muse, if
he’d taken the other
road, would he
have moved to
his poetry was a hit
from the get-go;
would he have been a
or teacher, or
newspaper reporter —
not a bard who
crafted the simplest
not a father who
deaths; not a
who couldn’t keep
his wife from
sinking deep into
Every day, since
your death, I think
about what I
could’ve done and
not have done as
your sister, your
How I’d sat on my
laurels and let you
navigate on your
own, with me never
trying to steer away
from conflict with
you. Me, who
found it too hard
in that life of
yours. Truth be
there’d been two
diverging roads for
to choose one, way
back when, neither
the worse for wear,
I would’ve sought
you out — asked you
you’d take if you
were me, and surely
I’d have taken the
I sent you an e-mail
rereading a few from
out of the many
final ones I never
According to AOL,
the one I sent you
Time, was delivered!
It’s been 2 years, 1
month, 7 days, minus
since you died, and
I’m wondering if
my message reached
you? I made it
wanting not to
rehash what we’ve
and written to each
the moment we could.
I don’t hear back
from you, I’ll
you can’t make
yourself be heard,
not to. Although, it
could be, I’m not
well enough — much
the same as when
you’d lived. No
matter, I’ll be
from here on, and
I’ll stay on
lest I miss a single
word or whisper.
P.S. It’s 3 days
later and my e-mail
has been returned as
Returned to Sender -
which prompted me to
look up “daemon”
in the dictionary:
(in ancient Greek)
of “demon” —a
between gods and
humans; an inner or
or inspiring force;
So, thanks to AOL, I
(tend to) believe
you’re out there,
the electronic (or
in a place
universally known as
You, out there,
your death 24/7.
Long poem by
Lindsay Laurie | Details |
For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide,
Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside…
But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine,
When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine.
If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke,
Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke,
Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait,
With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate.
But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign,
If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline,
There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load,
And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road.
I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more,
Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store,
Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips,
And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips.
But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain,
Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again,
For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory,
There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently.
I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border,
And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order.
The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell,
While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well.
And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy,
But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye,
The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack,
Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black.
So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot,
I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,”
As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say…
I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way.
I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old,
The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold,
I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high,
A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry.
I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice,
With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse,
I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase,
Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise.
The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat,
And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!”
I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek,
I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”
Long poem by
POETESS DARKLY | Details |
I claim no responsibility for my acts,
your honor lets look at the facts.
it was a crime of UN-passion,
in a glorious poetic fashion.
He was annoying when he'd snore,
so loud at night it made my ears sore.
and oh yeah when he ate,
His clicking jaw would grate.
chewing with his mouth open wide,
losing my appetite seeing his chewed food inside.
when he was done, belching so loud,
rating it a ten cause he was so damned proud.
I'd stare, waiting for his "excuse me" in a polite way,
He'd quote better out than in, I always say.
Gee let's not forget the loads and loads of nasty gas,
the quiet and deadly ones where the stench would last and last.
thinking it funny to pull the covers over my head,
that alone would be attempted murder trying to stink me dead
Scratching and digging examining his balls,
me just shivering thinking, it just might be a bug that crawls
But no, for some reason he thought it was an acceptable way,
to play pocket-pool in spite of what I might think or say.
so yes I plead temporary insanity, I know that excuse is over used,
but I was feeling a little more then put upon and abused.
I am not done your honor I could go on and on,
I could write a book regarding this nasty spawn.
The sex gee if you could call it that,
lasting all of two seconds him contented, I got my ass pat.
and of course scratching and digging his balls,
he got more enjoyment from that, it drove me up walls.
throwing his dirty socks at my face,
complaining that I never clean up this place.
missing the toilet never put up the toilet seat,
sitting on the wet made my life so complete.
and yeah gee I forgot to mention,
the television got more then its share of attention.
He had to have the remote at all times,
According to him chick flicks weren't worth two dimes.
Night after night he'd watch his sports,
cursing and savoring his disdaining snorts.
oh and a cold beer sat in his other hand,
so smugly superior thinking I'm to jump at his command.
calling, woman! where's my supper, I want it now,
then eating complaining as he scarfed like a sow.
"The food wasn't hot enough, we're having that again?"
I would close my eyes and count to ten.
so I slipped some arsenic in his food one night,
the beer he drank killed the licorice bite.
no your honor, I take no responsibility for me actions,
he had to pay for his major infractions.
this was a mercy killing I have to say,
it was for my sanity that I had to send him away.
divorce wouldn't do, I thought of some poor other sod,
getting stuck with this Neanderthal bi-pod.
so I throw myself on the mercy of the court,
and ask for your pardon and a little support.
An injustice has been committed I must confess.
May he give the devil no rest.
Thank you your honor for vendicating me,
I sincerely appreciate your verdict of not guilty.
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
The calendar reports that February will be a short month. It lies. February is shackled to each of its endless, grey hours and this month will be cold and draining. People have packed up their Christmas lights. All is bleak, and my kitchen window has betrayed me.
frost on the pane
constricts a view to blanched roofs-
Winter is pummeling the region with frigid fists. Today, I will cook with spice. Though some prefer the familiar respites of creamy potatoes or fresh baked bread, I long for my taste buds to tingle. I have been gifted three hours, time enough to saturate my senses. I’ve gathered my ingredients and start to prepare two dishes.
mingle with home comforts –
Cooking this way is intoxicating. I loose myself in texture and aroma. I turn the volume up on the CD player, allow the notes to stir me as I stir tea. The music is sensual, evocative.
I tap a spoon
on a chipped cup that steeps chai –
I forget the subzero temperatures, the punishing trek through snow with a large bag of groceries. My hips pick up the rhythm and respond to a tune that I can not translate but somehow understand, for the song is filled with longing. My feet move and the steps are defiant. While meat browns, I turn my back to all the white, the icy sidewalks and the clouds that have become ever-present and I glide to my spice drawer.
I am making butter chicken, knowing it will tantalize the tongue, readjust the temperature gage. There is alchemy to spice. The magic begins with Garam masala. Later, turmeric’s pledge will be accepted by cumin. I take a deep breath and let the the fog of flavour chase away each chill.
curry and cloves
transform the ordinary –
taste of India
Next, I begin on a recipe which I’ve modified. It is not quite Coque au Vin. I dredge the meat in Herbs de Provence. Root vegetables blend with crispy bits of bacon and chicken stock. Then, I combine fresh herbs, tuck them into cheese cloth, set it afloat and let the satchel share its wealth.
wilt as broth simmers –
I take my time tidying the mess which I’ve made. The poet in me takes a second look at the meals which now cook side by side, like twin continents on my counter. The cultures are distinct, west and east, and yet the aromas easily accommodate each other. There is no division, no conditions, no restrictions. Two territories, well seasoned and season-less.
the warmth of the world
escapes in steam from crockpots–
my contented sigh
Again, I inhale. Tonight, we will feast. A view of the outside no longer matters. This small space has suddenly grown. Time has flown and winter will not cross this doorway.
I will not let it.
Long poem by
Louise Phipps | Details |
It was that time again to empty once more,
I was on my Knees on the bathroom floor.
Putting tissue down the Loo making sure nothing stayed afloat,
Then I slid my fingers down deep inside my sore throat.
Trying not to make a sound, Making sure no sick hit the ground,
And even though the taste was so vile I needed to empty till there was no more bile.
I had to be quick but the release felt great,
No-one understood me but I believed this was my fate.
Staring at my reflection, tears would roll down my cheek,
I'd hear the torments in my mind saying how I was such a freak.
The Demons they would say "Look at the state of you,
You are disgusting ,You are a mess, No-one could ever love you".
When looking in a mirror at my body I would cringe,
Then turning desperately to the fridge I'd begin again to Binge.
I would eat so much till I was about to pop,
One more trip to the Loo then I promised myself I would stop.
I'd wish people would leave me be, They just didn't get that....
I had eaten too many calories and I was sick of being Fat!
So I had taken control of my diet, Obsessed with weight and measure,
Punishing myself after every treat, Desserts were no longer a Pleasure.
Over time people started talking about how I had become so thin,
So I pulled the curtains closed and I locked myself in.
Hiding myself away from neighbouring abuse,
I stopped all contact, I became a recluse.
Then a visit from my mother my Angel, who Id avoided for awhile,
Came knocking at my door, Arms open,
Oh I had missed her warming smile.
I looked into my mothers eyes as she turned to me and sighed
"Oh sweetheart what has happened to you,
Your hair is falling out and your bones are showing through".
She placed her arms around me feeling my frail torso".
Then whispered to me gently " Please let your Demons go",
"Everything you are doing is damaging your health",
"You're deteriorating into of me, You're slowly killing yourself".
Turning away she began to cry,
Wiping away the tears falling from her eyes.
She told me how she lost her best friend to the very deadly disease.
I wrapped my arms around her, Comforting her as she grieves.
Seeing the hurt upon my mothers face,
The heartache I was causing her, The shame and the disgrace.
"Mum" I said "I will fight my Demons and make myself strong",
"I realise now what Ive been doing Is dangerous and wrong".
"Getting back to full health will take a long long time,
But with you and my family and friends I know Im gonna be just fine".
So Here I am Today at this Time and on this Date.
I am Making my Illness History and re-creating my fate.
Big Thankyou to my family and friends for all of your support.
I know now time is too precious to waste and our life on Earth is short.x
Long poem by
Laura Breidenthal | Details |
Yes, the time had allowed another opportunity to be near you,
Though well heaven knows whenever you are near my fear crunches my breath,
Leaving me starving for you, and wanting nothing more than to flee…
I stood in line, mainly because my family was there…
God knows I was not hungry at all…
Which is odd—I’m usually always hungry when I come to food gatherings
But there I was, my stomach swirling, and I looked out of the window,
And I saw you with the others, serving the food
My first thought was, great, here’s an opportunity,
And then the fear came—oh boy, what are you serving?
Are you serving something I like?
Something I hate?
So I closed my eyes and opened them again…
And I looked at what you were serving…
It was either macaroni salad, or potato salad; wasn’t quite sure at the time
I was more intrigued by how you presented yourself,
So friendly…so easy-going….so very natural and engaging
Damnit! The line is moving fast!
I cringed at the thought of approaching you,
Even when I was following all the others;
And I knew you couldn’t be left insinuating-
Oh, that girl’s kinda weird and creepy…
I guess you’d only think that if I went to the table for the third time or something-
But still, I was shaking with stupid thoughts
There was a problem though…
I do like macaroni salad… well, a little bit--I've never loved it
And I’m rather sick of potato salad frankly…
So if I refused the food, would you think it’s just another way to avoid contact?
Or will I give eye contact and smile at you, and say “no thank you”?
As I got closer, it was apparent it was potato salad…
And I begin to think
Well! Potato salad…it’s not that bad…let’s play it safe, shall we? Let’s get a little bit.
And before I knew it, I was where all the food was
You were talking speedily, happily with the others
About just everything it seemed… my ears heard blurs at this point
A lady offered me salad – I accepted the bowl and slowly put dressing on and looked up
And you smiled at me and said,
“Best potato salad in the world, right here.”
And I can’t remember if I smiled,
But I most certainly lifted that stupid plate…
The lady next to you said,
“and there’s another kind right beside it!”
I said quickly, “I think I’ll pass…”
What she didn’t know was that I was trying to get the hell away before I vomited on everything and everyone...
I wasn’t hungry at all…
But one thing was certain…
I accepted the potato salad because you were serving it!
And I ate it too…
It wasn’t bad…in fact I could say pretty easily,
It was the best potato salad in the world
You were… were….. right there.
Long poem by
J Eliza JAMES | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/natures_single_dads___the_australian_emu_372914' st_title='Nature's Single Dads - The Australian Emu'>
Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days
Emund is busy
partners who’ll put
him to the test.
His pedigree line
has proven with time
that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay;
there is not enough
food for them all.
They dip and they
weave as they mingle
that each has a
With his reputation,
there is no
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin.
Others move to the
side as he leaves
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
He matches her mood.
His movements are
as they twist and
twirl in their
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
With steps that are
light he glides to
he meets her, bows
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
It matters not
whether we all stay
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
to deliver these in
your own way.”
After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect,
so with care he
covers every one
He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure
as he, turns each
egg every three
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.
The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
This egg will be
food for his hungry
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
He’ll sit day and
night until the
He knows, that time
to be continued...
Long poem by
wala na | Details |
cocoa powder puffs
for velvet truffle cheeks...
sunny yolk says hi
butter gives an oozing hug--
bitter choc just melts
mmm, good, just so good
chocolate tickles tongue...
happy throaty slide
messy brown fingers
hot weather melts bittersweet--
oh! just lick them off
no more chocolate
finished in one sitting--
run to store now
off for chocolate run...
Snicker bar reward
yummy friendship is...
chocolate hugging almonds:
My name is Almond
oh wait, it's nikko
at least I'm happy
rice crispies swimming
in gooey, molten brown pool...
brown rice is healthy
is good exercise for jaws...
huge mouthfuls that is
I am Hazel Nut
need warm chocolate embrace...
sorry, I'm just nuts
chocolate, graham squeezin'...
hot s'more lovin'
cold rainy day
hot tablea overload...
Where's the churros?
starry choux pastry
crisp and golden brown then dipped
thick, hot chocolate
moist devil, to die-for cake
perfect crumb, ganache coating...
off to heaven now
when one drowns in chocolate...
cocoa high madness
fudgy nutty brownies
smack, with cherries
dark divine delight
chilled to creamy perfection...
choco ice cream bliss
cold chocolate mousse
fudgy brown cake bottom--
full whipped cream on top
don't forget the cookies
kisses wrapped in hunky dough...
add in oats for heart
eyes glazed over now
tummy screaming madly--
WHERE'S THE CHOCOLATE?!
caramels in love
slowly swirls chocolate--
sticky goo romance
box of chocolates--
closed eyes, pick one from the bunch
eww, got coconut!
try again for fun
got the cherry covered one--
smiles at empty box
perfect marriage is
equal parts of dark and white...
add in liquor too
Kahlua's yum, so is rum...
drunk on chocolate
chocolate cake smiles
fluffy marshmallow icing...
mmftt, mmfft can't talk
one hour in writing...
this is not good at ALL
liquid gold down throat
velvet bliss on fingers...
choclit fountain joy
plunk, kerplunk, kerplunk!
strawberries skinny dipping...
fingers join in fun
craziness right here
need chocolate fix NOW--
chocolate stash all gone??
anyone got m&m's
even just one?
really need to go!
writing this was bad idea...
turn house upside down
~yes, oh yes! found on floor
itty choclit covered sunflow'r seed
pop in mouth germs and all
pd's haiku crazy contest :)
Long poem by
charles hice | Details |
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye.