Best Bakes Poems
1.
they say everything here is
somewhere in the middle of the road
where names get bleached and keys forget about their doors
and there is something we should dig our coated nails into;
the layers of regret and anger
that our mothers tell us to peel off
2.
but the sun bakes us too hard and rancid
laying down on styrofoam mattresses
where someone pokes their thumbs through the plastic
watching nothing but empty bubbles reflecting
and life is faded, glossy pages of a magazine
with a worn bar stool with cigarette burns thrown in between
3.
and we all carry this restless, tormented beauty
that gets up and leaves
as soon as they say
it will settle down
© Gry W Christensen
Mommy deemed the three-year-old me as an honour
Said that I should become a doctor
Stethoscope and thermometer are in her gift bag
To spark the zeal in me, she set to wave a green flag.
Daddy came all running to put a hard-hat on my head
Said that I should become a builder like his dad
I'll be a great architect, he believed, he already knew
He said it's inherited to me and is nothing new.
Aunt wanted me to follow her baking love
Her skills, no doubt, deserve a bow.
Cakes, cookies and all that she bakes
will now be taught to me, with no breaks.
Uncle Tom said I should inspire the world with my words
He weens that they're powerful than the swords.
An Orator or a writer, a counsellor or a life coach
Be it whatever, he says, I should be there for those who approach.
Everyone has their plans for my future
Looks like I don't need school or a teacher.
I'll be home-schooled and trained every day
But should it start right from the 3rd birthday?
I'm afraid they'ld stop talking to each other
As their dreams for me greatly differ.
Keeping their dreams aside for a minute
I thought of what I wanted, for a moment.
I want to smell the soil when it rains
I want to swill down all the snow flakes
I want to ride a horse and tame rabbits
I want to make friends and take new hobbies.
I want to build castles with clay
And play Peekaboo with Jill and Jay
I want to string the stars and crack the clouds to rain
Eat lots of cake and fake a belly pain.
I love dirty feet and dusty hair
Clay and Crayons is what I care
Play, play, play the whole day
I plead you all not to block my way.
Spring soothes with a gentle rain
With blushing blooms we once knew
Fragrant flowers will then reign
and everything becomes new
Summer bakes with sizzling days
Many enjoy time at the beach
But heat waves can put us in a daze
As birds flit on branches of the beech
Autumn chills with cooler climes
and adorns the leaves with colorful flair
A gnarly vine on the wall now climbs
As the forest blazes a crimson flare
Winter's brushstrokes paint a snowy scene
As snowflakes land on firs
Christmas decorations can be seen
People are bundled up in furs
10-12-2022
Homophone Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hat Bueckert
Happiness is scattering herbs of kindness,
watering weathered willows in the wilderness.
Happiness is following lavender streaks of twilight~
gliding across cerulean skies, so bright.
Happiness, a synonymous noun for my precious son,
his lyrical laughter, mirrors the rose moon and sun.
Happiness is wildflower wishes that free flow~
woven with sunflower syllables, amidst inked woe.
Happiness is the dahlia sanctuary of my beloved’s heartbeat,
as home is a frangipani feeling in his poetic retreat.
Happiness is reminiscing magic within violet vapors,
recoloring mauve meadows on watercolor wallpapers.
Happiness is walking away from deceptive witches,
alone, wearing cashmere cardigans with no lethal stitches.
Happiness is indulging in the chocolate flavor, so sweet,
when my cousin bakes hearty muffins, together we eat.
Happiness soars from magnetic melodies of an electric guitar,
harmonizing diamond serenades of my twin-star.
Happiness is an endless emotion of peaceful purification,
when soul feels warmth through internal perfection.
Pumpkin straight from my garden is my choice,
With the aroma as it bakes in the oven, I rejoice.
Serve with hot buttered toast, its yum at first bite.
You can add a dollop of sour cream, a real delight.
Its vegetarian. A meal or a snack morning or night.
Leave off the butter and for vegans no sour cream,
You will have created, a gourmet’s culinary dream.
Use Kent pumpkin for yummy soup, no other type.
The family will love it you won’t hear a single gripe.
Don’t waste your yummy pumpkin on Halloween.
First rule of cooking your hands must be clean.
Next I suggest make a big batch to store.
Guaranteed they will be back for more.
There’s lots of kinds of great soups,
Handy for feeding the troops.
Follow my recipe to the letter.
I really think it is better.
I hope you love this pumpkin soup of mine,
I am sure you will think it tastes most divine.
Tumble, crumble cornmeal, salted flour
Stream olive oil
Feed water and toasty yeast with sugar
Crinkle, rumple, crease, and fold
Smooth a silky, doughy globe.
Cover, leave the orb to grow
Keep baby warm
Wrap with snug and swaddling towel
Linger, loiter, wait and proof
Sing a sunny, happy tune.
Overturn the ball on flour
Dust a wooden pin
Feed heart and conscience with honey
Rotate, flatten, compress, admire
Make a downy, level sphere.
Bridge the stretchy bread to pan
Curl edges like leaves
Swirl and ladle a coat of tomato
Thick, chunky, bright, and red
Sway to kitchen melody.
Peppers, onions, olives, chokes
Sausage for some
Rain down the mozzarella and Swiss
Turn and toss, precipitate
Drizzle a snowy blend.
Push the pie into a hot cathedral
Pray for happiness
Think about joy and contentment
Pause, watch, patience, serenity
This journey bakes the future.
Copyright © 2016 Tess Harvester
A Lyrical Chef we'll call 'Dre',
whips up Writes for her Poem buffet.
She bakes Words into Rhyme
and roasts Prose in the time
it takes most just to cook a Cliché!
************************
This limerick was written for
my Soup buddy Andrea Dietrich.
Thank you for your positive
input and excellent support -
you are appreciated!. xoxo
Poor Santa Claus encountered a delay
There was thick fog that made him lose his way
He went on yellow pages
Then spent some of his wages
A gps he ordered for his sleigh.
Santa dotes on his true love – his missus
Even though she can be so suspicious
But he knows that with a kiss
He can fill her heart with bliss
In return she bakes him pies – delicious!
On Christmas night his tour was much in doubt
Because he ached all over due to gout
He thought of his appointments
Would not have disappointments
On Christmas night he dished his presents out.
[Let us spare a thought for Santa, come Christmas night;
in spite of all his problems and setbacks he still delivers!]
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Contest: What’s Up With Santa
Sponsor: Jerry T. Curtis
My Favorite Place
My favorite place is where the sun bakes my skin
From a soft pink to a golden tan.
Warm planks under my feet take me down the dock.
I see red stains and dried watermelon seeds,
Evidence of yesterday’s snack.
The salty sea spray hits my tongue,
My mouth waters with thirst.
Sea gulls bob to the rhythm of the waves.
I swat away mosquitoes biting my face leaving red itchy whelps on my skin.
But I stay to watch enjoying the dolphins play.
The evening sky is an orange dreamcicle
Melting away until another day.
I reach for the stars on the water’s surface,
The water responds with a luminous glow,
I turn away, I have to go,
Until another day, I will miss you
Mae West
Large chest.
Cruise ship
Sea trip.
Blue meth
Spells death.
Clap more
Encore.
Sun burn
Ne'er learn.
Birds fly
Sky high.
Palm trees
Blue seas.
Drunk tank
It stank.
Red light
Sit tight.
Wear pink
Boys wink.
Bright bling
Gold ring.
She bakes
Nice cakes.
Sea shore
Waves roar.
Sex toy
Lewd joy.
First bike
Red trike.
Cheap meal
Good deal.
Written 29th. September 2020.
A halo round the fading moon
Sweet mist upon the grass.
The croak of frogs from yon lagoon,
A flight of ducks wing past.
A dingo howls farewell to night,
The crimson sunrise comes;
The dawn is here to start the day,
Al hail the rising sun.
That blazing orb now bakes the plains,
Heat shimmers on the ground.
The gum trees droop their leaves in pain,
The paddocks all are brown.
From long grass on the flat below
Rise heads of kangaroo;
Of rain. no sign, of clouds, no show,
Just endless skies of blue.
But now, the evening cool arrives,
The distant hills turn red.
The sun's rays flash like crimson knives
And darkness' blanket spreads.
Cicadas strike their evening chords,
And kookaburras laugh;
On sunset's purple cloak abroad,
The moon spreads silver paths.
Lethargic and listless
lacking all zest,
I lie on the rocks
under the blazing sun.
The calm sea kisses
the rocky shore,
but no sea breeze
breathes on me.
The salt on my back
basks and bakes
and turns an ugly red.
Nothing to it but jump
back into the cool sea,
tempting the jellyfish
to sting my feet.
But on the beach
the newly crowned queen,
the one who scorns me,
parades herself
scantily dressed,
all eyes riveted on her.
I wonder who's worse:
herself or the jellyfish!
Cast Away
Waiting for you makes me feel
Like a cast away in Malden
So much golden sand
To slide my bare feet in
My feet feel each hot grain
Fills between each toe
Sun bakes the air around me
As I feel the warm wind blow
My eyes see an endless sight
Of such blue I can't take in
The waves, the crests, the tides
Loneliness, running thin
Waiting for you makes me feel
Should I hope you’d ever come?
I spend the day collecting seashells
Inevitably missing some
I’ll stare out into blue’s madness
Until the heat burns out my eyes
And never stop looking for you
Where the ocean meets the sky
Planes of rescue flew over me
While waves have eaten this coastline
I'm going mad in my sadness
Somehow wishing you would be mine
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
the foundation that supports all our lives
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
hands that can play Amazing Grace with flair
a melody that will lift and suprise
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
she bakes her cakes with a dollop of air
not to mention those sweet potato pies
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
there is this look, I guess you could say stare
she will give when dissecting truth from lies
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
take nothing from her, but ask and she'll share
faith in God rests behind Midwestern eyes
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
her framed picture holds a lock of brown hair
and seems to speak to us her words so wise
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
Christmas eaves’ drop - red and green leaves of pre-December.
The snow-white clouds, the beard of Santa Claus’ pre-remember.
The elves are surely hammering
whilst Mrs. Claus is yammering.
The yawning of maples and oaks ‘fore their pre-sugar-plum dream.
Boughs with wrappings held high in the pre-burr of holiday theme.
The silver bells are jingling
whilst Mrs. Claus is mingling.
The squirrels gathering chestnuts - heading for the pre-open fire.
This is the time of cheer when old white men are on pre-hire.
Elves in the North Pole, serious
whilst Mrs. Claus is merrily delirious.
Milk, cookies, hot chocolate - cupped, shaped, pre-bakes.
The crisp, grim, lake of late Autumn leaves, Daddy rakes.
From bed, whoops an early “ho-ho-ho!”
whilst Mrs. Claus helps Santa glow.
11/4/2022