Best Bisque Poems
I, a salty scarecrow, roam the shoreline
The moon melts soft like butter on the reach
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
While dropping clams to split upon the beach
The moon melts soft like butter on the reach
Thus drizzling heaven's hem with Hollandaise
While dropping clams to split upon the beach
The giggling gulls high-dive the dawning haze
Thus drizzling heaven's hem with Hollandaise
The bisque horizon christens bright, the morn
The giggling gulls high-dive the dawning haze
Oh such as this, should all good days be born
The bisque horizon christens bright, the morn
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
Oh such as this, should all good days be born
I, a salty scarecrow ... roam the shoreline.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Seagulls" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
Required line: "Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine"
( Syllables = 10 per line, counted at HowManySyllables.com )
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Chef 's Winter dishes are simply delicious, not too much oil or cream.
Rich or plain, taste tested to perfection, tiny portions sometimes steamed
He starts the day with freshly squeezed orange juice,coffee and toast.
And embarks on a fitness journey along the seaside in Adelaide.
Today he is going to create a seafood bisque inspired by his walk.
This morning whilst walking along the beach he noticed the outgoing
Tide and outlet left a long groove with definite honeycombe indentations
snaking parallel to the shore for a distance near a giant swirly starfish.
From an aerial perspective it looked like a Christo dragon , hardened ripples
representing the scales and the sometimes swirling patterns here and there
where the giant Sea-dragon moved, slithered or shifted about in the sand .
The Sea-Dragon must have laid there for some time before he disappeared
as his scales were deeply impressed and clearly embossed in the firm sand.
A clear body of water flowed in the center of this outlet echoing the scales
shimmering and gleaming with sunlight smoothly on the groove's surface.
Upon seeing this ,Chef etched it in his memory and began to mentally gather
ingredients for his creation.How could he give his bisque the dragon flavour?
Grilling the whiting, prawns and scallops with butter laced with honey , chilli,
cardamon + crushed nuts , garlic, a dash of brandy.......
then adding chicken stock , lime , thyme ,cracked pepper , rock sea salt and
finally pureeing the lot with a splash of coconut milk.
SATURN - GOD’S FAVORITE
This floating sovereign rules her black see *
Like an Inquisition bishop - perfect : accepts no plea
No argument no competition,
Watching me watching her in adoration,
Her cold unblinking eye
Reigning the black and silent sky.
Saturn, Goddess of bountiful harvests, of you alone
Unreachable, O favorite of the Lord, in brilliant isolation,
Of beauty pristine and colder than ice,
Is it said * that God doesn’t play dice,
But His spinning gyroscope globe He enjoys :
God’s spinning top - the best of toys.
O bisque queen, gem with halo rings,
Like a dove with wide-spread wings,
Hover like the Holy Spirit, float on the inky blackness,
Send me a message to fill my darkness.
Long in the ether your far-light lingers on high
Before it is allowed to reach my eye;
O Majesty remote cold and beautiful,
Send me the vision of heavenly beauty bountiful.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . ..
Notes
Beauty turns me on.
Anyone who has seen the planet Saturn even in a small
telescope cannot fail to be awed by the beauty of the planet.
* A "see" is the territory ruled by a bishop
* The saying “God does not play dice” is accredited to Albert Einstein,
when explaining the workings of the universe.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fortress
Stone by weathered cobble I build,
calloused hands ache in sweet surrender
Mortar’d affection of a coalesced consistency,
mixed and blended, bound by love’s tether
Stacking to heights of protective design
Patterned on roaming hillsides, serpentine wanderings,
Lush green fields crawl, blue sky diversions,
as song birds whistle to the day
And I sweat, my brow now drenched,
muscles pushed to horizonary boundaries,
tattered clothes sway in late afternoon breezes
Still I push on, fitting, finding, filling this need
Something so precious as glistening morning dreams,
crystalline musings, fragile bisque castings
Destined for my world, beyond battlefield dawns,
sifting serene country settings…quiet peace
The long day ends, I marvel at my accomplishment
steadfast and suited to defend in sunset flames,
turrets of observative reachings soar above
timber and heavy iron chain…gated sanctuary
Now my love you may rest…
beneath starry heavens and comet renderings,
upon your bed of satin feathered sighs as with my love,
I have built this fortress…around your heart
**I was listening to the Sting song “Fortress around your heart” and was inspired to write this one.
And for those who noticed, yes I did make up a few words, but I’ll just invoke “poetic license” in those cases : )
Brassy Barry’s boastful bumbling Brana Bull
Badgered Billy’s bashful buffoonish Baboon
Into baking a boisterous Blackberry Bisque
Beyond bunking, Barry’s brave babysitter
boldly bellowed brashly.
Bonafide bamboozlement boasted Brana Bull’s bed buddies.
Beyond bothersome boneheads, Billy Baboon’s buzzards bawled
Baboon’s beautiful baked bonne bouch betwixed buddies and beasts
beautifully, bumping boastful Brassy Barry’s beliefs, which bumbled
on beyond the brink of believability boulder.
Two cans Apple pie filling
Half cup brown sugar
Half spoon cinnamon, nutmeg
Half spoon all spices
Two cups milk
Done!
For crust mix bisque and milk to
Make dough and roll it.
Cut circles by five inch lid
Deep fry and heat oil
About four minutes
Dust sugar
Yum!
Don’t like cooking? Then buy it
All say it’s tasty
But mind to eat properly
Lest it is messy
Pie makes one merry
Delicious
Pie!
If fed up with apple pies
Try other fillings
Apple crumb with cinnamon
Tastier tart cherries
Seedless dried grapes
Even beef
Pies!
+++
October 14, 2014
Form: Epulaeryu
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place Win
Contest: Plentitude of Pies by Sheri Freshonke Harper
Flaming steaks and ice cold drinks
you thought good food had become extinct
until you ate here and gave us a nod and a wink.
Appetizers galore with soft stringy cheese sticks, artichoke hearts deep fried
with a taste of parmesan cheese and a dip to please.
bacon wrapped shrimp you might want to frame, seared sea scallops that
make you want to gallop, stuff mushrooms that'll make you croon, escargot
and baked claims as you eat them you'll definitely leave a stain
Ice burg lettuce or romaine with fresh dressing all homemade.
Lobster bisque soup with a deep rich taste if you don't like
seafood try Tomato bisque instead, French onion soup either a bowel
or cup just don't be a glut.
Your auntre is about to start your just warming up
hot garlic bread with a wonderful spread, Chris's secret recipe if he
told you how he made it you'd be dead.
Succulent steaks porterhouse, ribeye, serlion, T-bone and of course filet
add garlic or lemon butter to dip, 'hooray!'
Chicken flew by giving you legs and wings deep fried
want a little less oil try the fresh grilled chicken
fit for a royal.
Hamburger, cheeseburger just choose your cheese and of course
add bacon please. Want an egg on top sunny side up
when you squeeze the bun it will definitely erupt.
The beef is so fresh the cows stopped mooing when
it hit the grill with no sign of stress.
Vegetable melody or a little broccoli please.
The potato why so many things I can do
baked, French fried, homefried or even mashed
some round or shaped like a torpedo.
Baked fish Talapia, Flounder or even Sea Bass
'Oh' so fresh. We have an aquarium in the back,
just teasing we use a pole and bait at our near by lake.
End the evening as you sit back with a luscious sweet dessert
but please don't drool bibs are provided if needed
or even a paper sack on your way out.
Just remember as my Daddy always said,
'You all come back now you hear, friends are like family
and we hold you all dear!'
Coming Soon: The new "Fire and Ice Grill and Pub"
T Reams
Poetry with soup, is like a nice bowl of Alphabet soup
spelled out to your liken.
Poetry with soup, is like a bowl of Turkey soup very hardy and very chunky.
POETRY spelled liked: Palm nut, Onion, Ezogelin, Tomato bisque, Ramen, Yam; delightful.
SOUP spelled liked: Split pea, Oxtail, Ukha, Pumpkin; tasty.
Poetry with soups; is like having a bowl of hot classic Chicken soup.
A very hot home cooked remedy, for all writers and readers.
Soups of all kinds are like unto different variation of all writers,
having various nationalities, ethnicity, colors and gender.
All mixed together to form a readable poetic soup of enjoyment.
Poetry with soup is delightful and delicious:
Enjoy this with me as I write and reciting poetry
while eating splendid sensational tingling soup
with poetry and all its artistry.
I've got a dish of killifish
I wish to eat that silly fish
Baked, or fried in peanut oil
Roasted, dried, or let to boil.
Make me a star-gazy pie
Take me to the Catfish Fry
Lead me to the China Sea
Feed me hermit crabs and brie.
Help me out with rainbow trout
Salt and thyme and wedge of lime
Filet of sole, or snapper red,
Served up whole, or just the head.
Meals of eels caught on reels
You're the star with caviar
Butter clams served with yams
Can't say no to salmon roe.
Tuna eyes baked in pies
Oh so daring pickled herring
In the lurch for snails and perch
Ring the bells for cockle shells.
Canned sardines on toast with greens
Sturgeon, sprat, and stuff like that
Grouper, pike, that's what I like
Smelt and bream that make me dream.
Cajun shrimp for my new pimp
Lutefisk and lobster bisque
Flying squid and yellowfin
Silver carp and capelin.
Give to me a plate of oyster
Eat them raw, that way they're moister
Tilapia and tiger prawn
Eat them 'til my hunger's gone.
Hake or krill would be a thrill
Bass and shad will make me glad
Tasty crappie makes happy
Give a nod to Greenland cod
Oo! I'd like a northern pike
Barramundi served on Sunday
Grouper, alligator gar,
Halibut or no cigar.
Amberjack atop hardtack
Pan-fried kipper for the skipper
Mackerel, tasty as hell,
Lox and mullet down the gullet.
Kokanee or marlin blue
Arowana, bowfin too
Bring to me your soups and stews
Sing for me the dogfish blues.
Fashion shoe treads imprinted on the bisque beach
global longtitude/latitude design airborne print in flight
Honeycomb print slowly pacing synchronising footsteps
Concentric wave prints grouping Fine detail pattern soul
beside clearly printed diamond fishbone sports design
Heavily studded trail souls tread along large paw prints
Simply dotted aerobic shoeprint next to little dog paws
A new soft pink fluffy seaweed floats in lacy ocean foam
Large horseshoe prints clomp digging deeply in the sand
Smaller horseshoes gather meeting near a water trough
Fresh green seagrass clumped like freshly cut long lawn
cradles long ball strands of yellow ochre squirting beads
Bare feet touching soft sticky sand immersed wet in water
Naked footprints side by side breathing beach vibrations
Two lovehearts drawn in the light brown sand interlocked.
Sandcastles decorated with shells sit sturdily on the shore.
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
Blue-gray the barren mountains of Moab
at dusk . . . a tour bus winds its way
up to Jerusalem, City of God, from Tel Aviv.
How one feels, the emotion, is difficult to convey;
the very mold of earth, contours of land,
grip my heart and I feel a rising tide of tears
sting my eyes. I am assaulted by colors, manifold
and magnificent, that tantalize, pierce
my inner being. The colors of humanity's face
in multiple tones and shades of brown: pecan
mahogany, cinnamon, hazelnut,
walnut, bisque, ebony and tan;
I see eyes of most unusual hues,
the colors of sea mist, celery, black, pale jade,
olive bark, tiger's eye, leaf of blue sage.
This ancient land . . . world religions on parade
in conflict claiming holy sites, the Temple Mount
the ultimate, golden prize. I walk for days
treasuring the feel of this earth beneath my feet,
tramping dusty brown paths and secret ways
in this place where Jesus lived and died.
I bend beneath close gray rocks to gaze
upon His birthplace in humble Bethlehem - a cave;
I mark the stations of the cross where His love blazed
in flames of blood red, marking His lonely, crowded path
from scourging trial to Golgotha's skull marked hill;
and there He offered up His pure white heart
humanity's black sin to cover and my poor soul to fill.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, June 23, 2014
Early morning in the Pottery Room,
I gather my tools, bits and pieces of
heating coil, broken and brittle.
The kiln still warm from last firing,
but empty now,
I walk in, turning on the switch that
heats the coils as I pass through the arch.
Where are the bad spots?
I await the coils to turn red.
I see a gap, find a piece of broken coil
and push it into the gap with a wood
handled screwdriver.
Another and another
each chunk repairing a break, melding the
coils together, for now.
The kiln is getting hot.
Each break is fixed.
I back out and turn off the unit.
Next firing should be better, all
elements working.
I can focus now on my Raku ware.
Three small vases fired to bisque.
I have marked them with glaze.
One shows signs of having gotten
salt from another's glaze.
At the outside kiln, red hot,
I lower the pots carefully not to
touch one another, setting them gently on the pegs.
This firing is not long.
Once hot, the glaze shining, smooth, I lift them
and drop them carefully into the trash can
filled with dried leaves.
Ignited, the leaves smoke and smolder.
I'll leave them there until the fire goes out.
Once they have cooled,
I can wipe and polish their surface.
Amazed at the red and violet
colors that come out against the matt white smoke,
and the black shiny spots from the salt.
No artist can duplicate these creations,
like archological finds 10's of thousands of years old.
I see the Zen potter
making a pot for Tea Ceremony.
I hear the Zendo chime,
smell the smoke from his firing.
As doves rise with the smoke,
we melt together, bonded by tradition and
ritual, as we polish our pieces like a tile.
On the first day of
winter we were covered in
bisque mist and fondness.