A squirrel named Lou lived up a tree
with tastes refined as tastes could be.
He’d sniff acorns, then pout and say,
“Again? I had those yesterday.”
One afternoon he found a plate
of spaghetti—fresh, al dente, great.
He twirled each noodle with such flair,
like a tiny chef with perfect hair.
He slurped a strand, then struck a pose
with parmesan dust on his nose.
He’d scamper off, then shout, “Encore!”
and steal lasagna from your door.
One day he tried a ravioli~
declared it “too square, too holy.”
But fettuccine made him sing,
and penne made him do a fling.
DIRTY RICE
-----------------
Datiraisu
-----------------
El Stingy Pig
-----------------
8 cups of cooked rice
(toasted and browned in olive oil, and in chicken broth cooked al dente)
2 cups of meat from pork neckbone
1 cup of cooked chicken livers( grounded fine)
1 cup of browned grounded beef
stir fry unseasoned until mixed
set aside
1 cup of minced onion
4 Tablespoons of minced garlic
2/3 cups of diced green peppers
1/2 cup of diced celery
5 tablespoons of grated ca
add 3 cups of canned kidney beans (rinsed)rrot
sautee til peppers are softened.
set aside
---------------
in a pan brown 1 cup of pork sauage
remove the meat
measure 5 T of grease
5 T of flour brown a roux,
1 cup of veggie stock
2 tablespoons of chilli powder
1 T paprika
1 T dried Basil
1 T dried Oregano
2 T Cayeene Pepper
and sauage meat.
mix in rice and beans
toss
and serve!
I get three shots
on an afterlife
when I come back
as a living thing,
I've decided,
but only if this world
gets better
and not worse.
I choose an assortment.
I choose mythical
and nonmythical.
First, I'll be a Marahute
and save those who save me,
or an albatross who sails
the sky with unfathomable care.
Second time around,
I will be a Secretary Bird.
She stomps around
like it's no one's business,
and she tramples over dinner
al dente.
Third time and last chance,
I will obviously be a mermaid
with everything perfectly proportioned
and enhanced, just for me.
I will choose to be
the most beautiful mythical creature
of my imagination.
I will see
everything
under the sea.
That is where
everything
shuts up.
I will only have my eyes
and an appreciative heart,
and amazingly long
rainbow hair.
The fish will
appreciate me.
Otherwise,
they will just keep swimming.
Either way,
I will have the sky, the land,
and the sea.
Poetry soupris
Soupris being French for sighs
And we all breathe them
At different times in our lives
We breathe them in relief
And maybe in our sleep
Exhaled after we've railed
Against the nightly thief
Poetry soupris
Potato soupris served cold
Alphabet soupris
Spelled out in the bowl
Sighs of relief
Sighs that matter
Sighs of release
In thoughts that scatter
(Carole Landis
"The sigh heard round the world"
Only Twenty-nine
When we lost "your baby" girl)
Sorrowed soupris
During suffering endured
Godly suffering
Soupris when your cured
Soupris relenting
Served during your sentence
The sighs, the soupris
As we seethe through repentance
Now that the war is over
And you have traveled home
Awaiting and waiting
To breathe out this soupris poem
Let the soupris fly away
And all things al dente (to the tooth)
If this were the Seventies
I’d hope your needle finds its groove
Grandma’s ghost has taken up
knitting rattlesnakes in the drapes.
They hiss when someone lies.
Now, my mother only speaks
in noodle metaphors.
I ask her how she is, and she replies,
al dente, then goes back
to stirring the aquarium water
she'll later take a bath in.
My sister gives birth
to a daughter who levitates
during thunderstorms.
She answers to the name Unclaimed Bag.
In other words, we all gather once a year
to shed what’s left of politeness,
to laminate new rules:
No bleeding at the table.
Far less mirrors in the fruit salad.
All grudges must be gift-wrapped,
left at the door with the shoes,
with the husbands.
And when it’s over,
we nod like diplomats,
swap our favorite spells,
(that is to say recipes), pretend
we don't notice the fresh claw marks
on the floor.
It ends when we remember
our names again, who we are.
Then we leave—
each of us, in a different skin.
How do I eat thee? Let me count the ways:
sauced, buttered, plain,
sprinkled with Parmigiano Reggiano,
pesto, pancetta, bacon.
Rowdy rigatoni, flamboyant farfalle,
perky penne, funny fusilli, lovely linguini,
spunky spaghetti,
personality abounds.
An atavistic love affair
with semolina goodness
in all shapes, sizes
like my three Aunt Rosas.
Dear pasta,
I count on you
for your depression-lifting goodness,
accepting no impastas!
When you end up in hot water,
you come out better than before.
You’ve stuck with me
through thick and thin,
mostly thick around my hips.
Pasta al dente, the choice
of strong Italian women!
A yak and a yeti made a bet
To see which one was the hairiest.
The yak was an ox,
And the yeti, no "fox",
Had already won as the scariest.
Neither had the allure
Of the latest coiffure,
They were unkempt and creasy and craggy.
Then a monk passing by
Judged the bet was a tie
For their coats were both equally shaggy.
Well, the yeti and yak were quite taken aback,
Each proclaiming that she was the winner,
Until Hetty the yeti settled the bet
By having al dente lama and yak for her dinner!
A lady in sunny Rimini,
told the chef she wanted zucchini.
She finished her meal,
then said, with some zeal;
“I love, sir, a firm bucatini.”
It tastes a little like patience,
a pot simmering on low heat;
It tastes like something left on ice
that now has been perfectly thawed;
It tastes a little bit sugar,
attached to what they did to you;
Now the craving is satisfied;
It tastes like the most sumptuous treat;
It tastes just like the final straw,
the pasta that’s now al dente;
It tastes like pineapple that’s smoked,
you know karma’s finally won;
It tastes a little bit feisty,
like every word you have held back;
Now your palette is left on fire;
Revenge is hot and cold,
it tastes like they have just been burned.
Along a Jersey creek, somebody
Made a crazy find –
500 pounds of pasta had been
Somehow left behind.
Whoever dumped the noodles
(Mainly elbows and spaghetti)
Isn’t known, but word got out and
There was lots of wordplay ready.
“Pastabilities were endless,”
Was reported and, as well,
“The perpetrators need
The penne-tentiary,” I heard tell.
My favorite was the mastermind
Whose capture is the aim.
Though it might be just an alias,
Al Dente is his name.
NOUVELLE CUISINE
Nouvelle cuisine the waiter said, as he served the food to me
Where’s the rest I asked him, as I’d earlier skipped my tea
Tiny bits of something on a massive bloody dish
I tried to woo my girlfriend by pretending I was swish
You can pick the restaurant, was my very first mistake
I thought she’d pick our local for some scampi or a steak
Instead she chose Pierre’s, which was going to be steep
I’d heard the food was lovely though the prices made you weep
I gazed upon the menu, which was written out in French
And scanned along the prices, which made my buttocks clench
To refrain from looking stupid, I ordered some red wine
We requisitioned dinner and prepared ourselves to dine
A puny bowl of soup arrived, we felt a touch irate
We had to eat it quickly or it could evaporate
The main course had potato which was hidden by some meat
Five al-dente vegetables, all stacked up nice and neat
A de-constructed rhubarb tart, that’s what they served us next
Though why they took it all apart has left us kinda vexed
We left a tip and paid the bill…a pretty hefty fee
Then dandered into town and we got a KFC
i can't
say that
i am
growing up
looking back
normality
morality
fit me
in some
category
like poetry
i'm not
iambic
i'm more
pelvic and
musically
you can
find me
andante
moderato
tastefully
eating
my pasta
al dente
and in
life i
like
most
have had
lose to
which it
is said
for everyone
there is a
soulmate
but she
died and
so did i
just like
Atlas
dropping not
the world but
my world with
a shrug
now after all these
Rumpelstiltskin
years gone by
i'm not sure
if i'm still
dreaming
in my sleep
or sleeping
in a dream
for it seems
i've been
allowed
to have
a second
soulmate
finding her
doing the same
as me pushing
a door that reads
pull
DISHES OF THE DAY - POETRY
Happiness à priori
Health well done
Peace to the right point
Love at will (á la volonté)... !
Even obvious lines
make sense
Abstract Ingredients,
they give concrete juice ...
The invisible becomes as dense
as the visible ...
Unused rejects,
reused are ...
Discarded
has also its time ...
Having some substance,
It's okay, it's not soup.
of stone ...
All together, it takes
to the cauldron in a water bath!
After cooking
in this soft fire,
cool down, and become
the table....
The poem is ready
al dente, primo canto...
Are you all served ...!?
Sleepless ... tossed like pillows, our sleep number slumber
so sweetly disturbed ... pretzel limbs, twisted soft and warm ...
we tear torrid tunnels through Egyptian cotton ...
Swimming, deep, the louvered moonbeams, properly peeled
and cologned-to-taste ... hot-striped like a naughty tiger,
(from your almond nails) ...
A fire on my skin inflames to the core, mouth-to-flesh-to-mouth ...
manic handfuls, served al dente' ... your tangy, sticky-sweet nectar,
we share like an aged and smoky bourbon ...
Mixed in our kiss with your herbal tresses, imbibed as a potion,
sublime ... we flail our forms, frantic - thoughts, flavors, feelings,
urges, curves, wants ...
Swirled in a moonlit concoction, aflame ... tumbling and surging
together, a single sultry beast, with but one selfish design ...
abandon.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Sleepless - Old Or New" Poetry Contest, Carolyn Devonshire, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Contest 455 any form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Abandon 2" Poetry Contest, Brenda Chiri, Sponsor & Judge.
Midday sometimes in class instead of learning algebra
While she should be calculating and figuring a formula
Her mind wanders aboard a moonlit gondola
Serenaded by a musician and his viola
She follows the enticing aroma of hot lasagna
Zigs instead of zags, could be seen as a faux-pas
She glides around a peninsula soon in terra incognita
Traversing a nebula not a care in the world, she’s in Utopia
Atop her head a diamond studded tiara
Below a ball gown of the finest taffeta
As she gracefully waves and cheers at the orchestra
Who is playing al dente a capella for an al fresco opera
Such fleeting moments garnered as bouquets of ephemera
She weaves in and out of daydream during algebra
AP: 1st place 2021, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 8, 2018 for JUNE 2018 STANDARD CONTEST sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
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