~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m like a teapot—short and stout—at dawn,
contentedly sleeping in the kitchen's first light.
By noon, I’m a question mark curled on your lawn,
punctuating the grass with snores.
Sometimes, I’m a baguette, crusty and long,
stretched across the couch in a sunbeam.
Other days, I’m a slipper with eyes that follow along
as you tiptoe past the doggie treat jar.
I have been a caterpillar, a comma,
a parenthesis nuzzling your ankle.
Occasionally, I was your boomerang, mama,
who returned to you with leaves in my fur.
But always, always, beneath my shifting silhouette,
I remain your loving Doxie, Fritz,
who sighs when you scratch my belly
even when I don’t have an itch.
the related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/runt_of_the_litter_13668
My sister's favourite 'snack' is filet mignon.
I'm less of a carnivore
and will be quite satisfied
with caesar salad and a baguette.
Of course I'll want to wash it down
with a generous glass of pinot grigio.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026
Brie on baguette with rosé
a picnic for two in the park
moments of spontaneity to treasure
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
All the French
I can take -
piece of cake.
A baguette
or croissants?
Paris tempts.
Cream inside;
lick my lips.
Morrow’s trip.
Doctor Duck could not cluck
Whenever he tried, he was out of luck
So he bought bread
Brioche, Baguette, White, and Grain
He'd wake up covered in crumbs
Looking like one of the bums
His wife left him because he spent his paycheck on bread
Doctor duck sure was out of luck
He'd lost it all, every single buck
Doctor Duck was fired
He was always tired
So he worked at the grocery store
All the bread he could want, and more
Just stock the shelves with food
And He'd be good.
Tripe, sweetbreads, entrails, offal,
some people spell them awful.
Scottish chefs can do them right
Haggis, a meal, out of sight.
Making a proper meatball sandwich
is virtual what-not-who and which
needing perhaps some extra spice
supply it with a bit of Scotch hype.
The last, best organ 'grinder' that I got
was on Panera Bread’s French baguette, hot.
Barrel-shaped bread held tight as treasure
the tin cup for the drink of my pleasure.
Home-grown tomatoes on low
Basil and garlic
Angel hair pasta wall test
Fresh parmesan cheese
Thin-sliced hard baguette
Olive oil
Yum!
I'll not give up on you
I'll not give up on you
Sometimes I will show off
Sometimes I will hide it
I'll not give up on you
I will stay with you
Through thick and thin
Through hard times and happy ones
I will hold you back always
You bent You crawl
You break You mend
I will race with your heartbeats
At times you fail
At times you gain
You are beautiful,
With or without maquillage
You are baguette,
Inbred precious priceless and panjandrum
You are mine,
Wholly owing to the breathes and the life
As the Universe whirls
The fire warms and the ice burns
Let the waves carve sculptures on sand
So do lava traces an alley
And the Earth merry-go-rounds
'Whatever it takes, no matter my love';
'I'll will never give up on you'!
Let me breathe that sea air
that once waltzed through your hair.
Let me view that sunrise
you once graced with your eyes.
Let me taste that baguette
from the morn we first met.
How I've replayed that dawn
since they told me you're gone.
Sir Studly put out his cigarette
when the band played a minuet.
Did he ask me to dance? You bet!
And that’s when I began to sweat.
No lessons had I, least not yet;
still I stomped on the floor like a vet.
Sir Studly soon began to fret;
an assault on his toes I beset.
Two small feet became quite a threat,
not to mention my toe ring baguette!
He did not see me as a coquette,
as he came after me with a net.
I must say I have no regret;
there’s a lesson here I won’t forget:
Make sure your dance steps are preset
‘fore you dance with a studly brunette.
January 9, 220
For William Kekaula’s “First Time Here – Any Monorhyme” poetry contest
Ladies from France
Renowned for their glamor
Parade designer dresses
All day long all night long
Like gazelles in stilettos
Looking fit looking fab
It’s a mystery and conundrum
How successful they are
To maintain girlish figures
While we punish ourselves
Trying to lose every pound
It’s not right it’s not fair
I’ve decided to see for myself
Take the next red eye flight
Meet the ladies for breakfast
Spend a day à la parisienne
So here I am ~
Starting off with café au lait
And a big buttery croissant
Rush to this shop and this bakery
One errand then another
What a joy to sit down for a bite
It wouldn’t be a meal without wine
And a baguette s’il vous plaît
Then artful pastries sublime masterpieces
Whew ~
My day is done I’m back crossing the Atlantic
What have I learned from my day with the ladies
They’ll buy one croissant or a chocolate not a box
They love friends to laugh and chat at the table
They’ll nibble their pastry savoring each single bite
They prefer to shop for fashion than for food
Read on air by invitation ~ April 28, 2021 'OPEN POETRY WITH WOLF SPIRIT'
AP: 1st place 2025, 2nd place 2020
That active song won't let me forget.
It's lyrics spin like dancing wet ink,
and for four solid minutes I think
I am sixteen, playing Juliet.
That painted song won't let me forget.
Like strobe lights pulsing our skating rink,
when I absorb that chorus I think
we're hand in hand in your red Corvette.
That scented song won't let me forget.
Your Old Spice cologne can dance, I think.
With whiff of the rhythm, my teeth sink
into our fresh, shared, loaded baguette.
That Springsteen song won't let me forget.
I sip it's lyrics like a warm drink.
In this reflective moment I think
you're tracing my angel silhouette.
That taunting song won't let me forget.
It's lyrics tease like your flirty wink.
I still laugh. I still cry. I still blink.
I still hear the rev of your Corvette.
That leeching song won't let me forget
and it won't let me otherwise think.
Like a leaky faucet fills a sink,
you keep rewinding that old cassette.
2-21-19
Lazy, long, leisurely lunch,
Lolling, laughing, lingering,
O'er lamb-stew, linguini 'n lager.
In Louisville, Los Angeles, Las Vegas,
London, Lisbon, or Lyon;
At Los Olivos, Las Palmas, La Paloma,
La Scala, La Baguette, or La Castilla:
Let lunch lie palatially on your palate,
Let lunch slowly settle in your limbs,
Let lunch last always:
Let it lustrate and luminate
Life lived long and lived well.
It all started with a bet
Inside a launderette
Over a cigarette
With a brunette
I hadn’t yet met
Her name was Marie-Antoinette
As she said it she did a pirouette
And wow what a silhouette
Coquette she wore an amulet
Feared nothing short of a bayonet
Forgot the laundry it was still wet
I got hungry and craved an omelet
Asked M-A to join me in my Corvette
Drove to the closest luncheonette
Ordered baguette and anisette
We talked right until the sun set
She showed me a statuette
She dreamt of a trip to Tibet
So we jumped on a jumbo jet
Me her and the rest of the jetset
Across the aisle was the oddest duet
He played the clarinet she the castanet
While Marie-Antoinette rhymed the alphabet
Dancing and waving with a serviette
Try and imagine this strange vignette
Marie-Antoinette Marie-Antoinette
Forever in her debt
Not so easy to forget
I only have one regret
I left Marie-Antoinette back in Tibet
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
To be French means I’ll need to stop a few things,
Whilst other small details I’ll seize.
I'll need to start smoking a lot, and
Start eating a whole lotta cheese.
But I wont wear berets with striped shirts,
Or hold a long skinny baguette,
Or say words like merde or putain,
Va te faire foutre, or even say couchette.
But, I will talk as though I am in love,
And eat frogs legs whenever I dine,
And be happy, with passion, with all that I am,
Then, with friends, share all of my wine.
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