Best Baklava Poems
The alarm clock brushed my teeth and then forced me to drink orange juice.
As I looked out the window, a cement sky was pulling down the corners of my mouth.
The newspaper on my front steps was wetter than a spitball. Trying to read it was like trying to page through baklava, just not as tasty.
The coffee grinder handed me a bouquet and asked if I would like some help with the corners of my mouth. I cradled the steaming mug so I could feel the rays of sunshine in my hands.
As I headed out, the wind surprised me by throwing the door open and kissing me. Her lips were cold, but her breath was very fresh. I was mad at first, but must admit, it did feel good.
When I got to work, the building was talking trash to me, and I talked trash right back,
reminding him that I was close to retirement. That shut him up! I paused and then tightly grinned, knowing full well that someday I will miss them all.
Didn’t digest my all-dressed pizza
Suffering now from insomnia
A touch of every possible phobia
Mostly of ravenous bacteria
And humongous tarantula
O yes, and the sordid mafia
Did I call my Grandmamma
Did I put away the spatula
Did I book girls’ day at the spa
Did all the bourgeois really die of cholera
I’m drowning under this plethora
Remind me What’s that formula
O yes, Abracadabra
Tra-la-la and La-di-da
And poof now I’m in a gondola
On the way to utopia
Dressed in graceful taffeta
Eating baklava in the basilica
Hanging from the candelabra
Swinging to the tunes of Lady Gaga
Supported by the silliest orchestra
Hey you Pass me the foie gras
I have a cockeyed camera
You’ll see me at the cinema
I love you Etcetera Etcetera
AP: 1st place 2020, 3rd place 2025
In The Realm of Silver Linings,
you never will find rust,
and never will you ever
see things turn to dust.
Bees may sting, but in this realm,
a bee’s sting does not hurt.
The sweetest honey flows instead.
Baklava will be dessert.
In the Realm of Silver Linings,
should you break a bone,
by nightfall you are healed.
No one has been heard to groan.
Illness rarely finds you there.
Even if it should -
recovery comes as easily
as simply knocking wood.
In the Realm of Silver Linings
lemons don’t need to be sour,
and needful rainfall only comes
lightly like a shower.
You may think such a place
as this cannot exist,
but those with faithful hearts
by good luck there are kissed.
In the Realm of Silver Linings
live those who learned to cope
with trials previously given
but who all the while kept their hope!
We walked seemingly on clouds!
The pavement softened beneath our feet.
My dancing, flirtatious,foustenela dream.
Your kiss like baklava cream.
That decadent angelic first kiss, I still taste!
The decades ran with our hearts in haste.
The trail of joyous dreams of us glow
Following me~wherever I go.
Open the gate at the Romios Star
When I so anxiously arrive.
Eternally addicted to you and you alone.
Only then can I thrive!
September 24, 2019
The Day Baklava Bent the Fork
By: Moji Agha
April 15, 2010
On this taxing day on Earth,
I finally saw with my own physical eyes,
in one hilariously sweet moment,
the sticky triumph of baklava over the fork.
The formerly cocky fork,
his erect ego bent,
finally learned what it means to be hard, or not.
The triumphant baklava, however,
wondered if age on a lonely shelf
hardens even the sweetest of the sweet.
I wonder:
Whether she also wondered, what it means to be tough
on this warming taxing day,
on this dying blue goblet: my Mother Earth?
Is my mother's sweet heavily taxed heart finally hardening?
Has she taken the fork in the road
that ends in hard, rather than sweet?
Or alas, was it that the soft-hearted fork
had no choice but to cry bent tears
mourning the death of softness
of sweet hearts?
I hear the wind of "what is" cry:
For whose out-of-balance baklavas and forks do the bells toll, especially today?
DINNER
Tonight we’ll dine
At a restaurant fine
.To order, we’ll start
With the French words,
Entrée and a la carte.
Hors d oeuvres, escargo,
Brei and dubonnet.
If those mean food,
Why don’t they say?
Foi gras and boeuf.
Grass-fed beef?
Next on the menu:
Pesto, calamari,
Vermicelli, tortellini.
Served with bianco, chianti,
Oh me!
Not to be out done,
The Greeks have their fun
With: gyros, mousaka,
Ouzo, and baklava.
Apparently it’s fashional
To serve food international.
Adding to the appeal
Of a well-prepared meal.
OK by me!
It is a gift.
Not the kind you are born with,
Like a way with words or a knack for sports or a sense of humor.
Nor is it wrapped up in fancy paper and tied with a shimmering bow,
Delivered to your doorstep with a great fanfare of balloons
And minstrels, all singing your praises.
It’s a gift you have to look for,
But it’s hidden in plain view.
What it really is, is a set of nested boxes,
Like little Russian dolls with their delicate, hand-painted faces;
And each smile, each laugh—
Each shared kiss on a cool spring night—
Each of these is a new layer.
The box is fluid, morphing with each permutation.
Some days the layers come off thin, quick,
Savory, like baklava.
Other days they tear you up like onions.
Then one day, exhaustion sets in and
The feathered demon of doubt swoops down,
Carrying you to the imaginary center of your gift.
You fear that there will be nothing there,
That it was all just a cruel joke,
As you stare down miserably at something too tiny,
Too absurd,
To possibly contain anything at all.
Even when you reach this point,
You’d never walk away.
Some feral desire drives you to
Grasp the edges of this “final” box and pull—
Pull as hard as you can—
Only to reveal another box within,
As full of surprises as the very first.
This maddening cycle,
This is the real gift.
One thousand and one fluttering butterflies in one centre all
flap their wings sharing ambrosia for my soul mate and I
Mysterious nights in soft embrace tending sensuous flight
dance to tunes of the muezzin praying for love’s melody
Turkish delight on the shores of Baklava sweat meats taste
under a veil of exposure in nubility’s promises reconfirmed
Silk’s fragrance on a magic carpet in full flight shelters them
as their passion was made for more than the dusk of the dawn
Mosque and musk mingle when fast is broken and garments unfastened in
the East when sun rises bids farewell to the moon and their vows bow to
Tantra cosmos and mantra and
give thanks to the orbit they do not have to travel alone
12th February 2018
(Glorified Pear Honey)
The lowly pear,
no zip, no burn.
Major juice, anemic flavor.
Add orange and lemon for bite.
Grind all to blend.
Add sugar for sweetness,
cook, covered, in 200 degree oven,
eight or more hours,
as you sleep.
Upon awakening,
add maraschino for color,
seal in sterilized jars,
store in pantry.
Pear Honey
on morning toast,
grants a baklava morning,
without the fat.
cfa© 10/4/2014
The moon reflects in an oily city puddle.
Cigarette butts float on their back,
hold hands,
and look up at the stars.
I saw your eyes shining.
When a seagull screeched over the bay,
carrying a doomed crab,
like you carried away a piece of me.
A piece indistinguishable from innocence,
remarkably reminiscent of road trips and dark water skinny dipping.
Clothes lying on dry land like our worries,
as we waded in the willingness of wet ears.
When wind blew on bare flesh,
brittle bones froze.
Brittler than peanut candy,
and drenching in viscous reality
like a bull*****baklava,
baked over the flames of rome burning.
I can stare you in the eyes.
Strip naked with the dissolving cigarette skeletons,
plunge into this shallow lake of spit, pollution, and bitter rain.
Become a ripple through this opalescent cesspool,
disrupt the yellow reflection of the full moon.
For I am more of a man than you knew,
and i can dry off in the air of a cold night.
bragging, boasting, brainy Barney Blithe brought buxom Betty Brown
braised, boiled, baloney. Beaming Betty Brown bestowed baked berry
baklava on Barney, besting bragging, boasting, brainy Barney Blithe.
Like many heroes of mysterious Marvel Comics,
Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange is a bolt of magic mix;
Spells of supernatural kinds he works, abundantly,
Crimsons, crystals, ice, rings, chains - in constant redundancy...!
Pile of pure pulverization and annihilation,
The Bolts of Balthakk has become eternal damnation;
On any stuff - solid or liquid - the bolt does explode,
Like iron-oxidation, all powers it does corrode...!
Bounds, rebounds, rings, winks, blows, boomerangs at its master's hands,
Swishes, swooshes; whizzes, whooshes like winds in desert sands;
None in heaven or hell could ever its gravity hold,
Like swift, sly electric current it does its force unfold...!
Is it terrible torch of fire? Or lake of lava?
Is it hydro-nitrogen bomb resembling baklava?
From hands of Doctor Strange, like gold dust they serenely fly,
Clapping, crashing, flashing, dazzling, booming, zooming they spry...!
Doctor Strange manipulates these bolts like liquid plasma,
For him, a magic-surgeon, it's mere mental miasma;
An awesome third eye adorns the forehead of Doctor Strange,
For mesmerized kids, these are, delightful amusement-range...!
30 August 2022
Doctor Strange Spells Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
~~~~~~~
Ah, finding the right Greek to go
after!
That stole my soul forever with
love and laughter!
Twas my glimmering treasure trove
to secure.
I admit fully to being anything
but shy and demure!
His buoyancy, his enigmatic zeal
while we soaked our toes in the Pacific!
Sultry waves, alternating between deep
rainbow and holographic.
Kisses, yes,tempestuous and very randy.
The joy of you~tasting like warm, erotic,
Baklava candy!
Oh, don't be still my heart!
That Hellenic lovemaking is quite a lovely
art.
The rational of the planet, think
I am insane!
Good! Let's the two of us go dance Hasapiko,
naked in the rain!
Afterwards don your Greek soldiers' outfit
for me!
Handsome you,in that foustanella now to
please,
Oh, gorgeous Greek, dancing
Tsamiko, my heart pounding.
My decades of passion and love
for you, so Thessaloniki astounding!
At this point,I must stop this late
night quilling!
To be with you, Agape Mou, your
Panagiota is eternally willing!
January 6, 2020
10:30 PM PST
You're all invited to my party.
No, not Jack or Jill or Marty.
I'm inviting apple strudels,
pies and tarts, the whole caboodle,
custards, puddings, buttered scones
(with muffins and bagels, I'm not alone),
cookies, croissants, an eclair,
and my lovely baklava, so dear.
Had some time to kill while in
A town we don't know well.
Found a place to eat - looked good,
As far as we could tell.
The booths were cozy, seats were filled
And portions (took a peek)
Looked generous and yummy;
The proprietor was Greek.
The salad was delicious
And the grape leaves were the best.
The soft warm bread most surely
Put will power to the test.
The spinach pie and baklava
Did help round out the meal,
A random unexpected find
And also, a great deal!