Best Braise Poems
Anthem for a Veggie
Never gonna roast no chicken
Never gonna braise no steak
Never gonna grill no lamb chop
Eating meat, I’ll not partake.
Never gonna fry no sausage
Never gonna boil no ham
Never gonna barbecue burger
Feast only of the fields and Yam.
Won’t feast on Yuletide Turkey
Won’t feast on fatted goose
Won’t kill no moorland partridge
Saving pheasant from a noose
Won’t skillet no wild venison
Won’t stir fry country hare
Won’t eat any creature that lived
Because it’s wrong and so unfair
The Craft
One must die to be reborn
From witch's rite the soul is torn
Baptized in the flames of death
Then live again from magic breath
A witch's soul has seen beyond
And I have grasped that broken dawn
So I invoke this binding spell
Send my foes to burn in hell
Let their dance be one to see
With voices pure from agony
And let the world witness my wrath
Light their dreams with hell's hot bath
And show them sights that braise the soul
Let them know this witch's role
And warn the ones that come my way
To cross this witch, what price they pay
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
She stared up, intently, watching the Peruvian skies pass composedly above. She was dazed and disorganised about the steps leading her hither. Her eyes descended upon her hands, hands that were dry and sallow from the days of climbing. She clutched her fists searchingly, hoping that her two index fingers were still graced by her grandmother's heirloom. She surveyed the uncouth distance with its eerie remoteness and summoned all the remaining strength left in her limp body and continued the long expedition. She passed imposing mountainous regions and extended arid areas of desert. She felt the tepid wind with its suppleness play with her legs and she heard it sing echoed incantations as it passed on into the twilight. She stopped but for a moment, and wandered how, at this point of time, life had forged itself in its current form, in its current melody. She continued her long, galling walk - every step felt consigned to oblivion; every effort allayed the previous one. She felt the echoes of her long-lost love permeate like some record saddled in skip. She fixed her eyes on her shadow. 'How did you manifest? ' she would ask, speculatively, occasionally trying to shirk and weave her opaque reflection. She couldn't avert her mind from a particularly fond memory in which, on a very placid English afternoon, she would sit by the nearby river with her childhood friend, Ruby. She always had a penchant for memories of Ruby when she found herself addled and aggrieved by some hardship. But Ruby was not here, she was absent like her maudlin love - forsaken and remiss. The mirage enticed her, coerced her and terrorized. Tears began to fall like fragmented moments of yesteryear. The mistral gales howled hauntingly and the sun continued to blanch and braise. A bird, cowled and suspect, perched itself on a nearby tree and watched the lady clamber through the brazen sands, and asked itself: 'but, why? '
A heaven's guardian angel dose plays
The silk golden lyre's beauty and repose.
Thine wet tears flow to sounds of heavens ways.
It echoes pastorale music with praise;
Docile strings tenderly, caressed on rows.
A heaven's guardian angel dose plays.
Engaging and entertaining saint braise;
Chosen beacon over sunlit meadows.
Thine wet tears flow to sounds of heavens ways.
Speak of love, faith, hope inspiration blaze,
Of divine spirit's lead; its wise heart knows.
A heaven's guardian angel dose plays.
Bound to love beneath darken daunting rays
And withering beauteous fragrant rose.
Thine wet tears flow to sounds of heavens ways.
Wayward wisp sounds and lights through nights and days.
Dreams caught till dusk falls with dulcet repose.
A heaven's guardian angel dose plays.
Thine wet tears flow to sounds of heavens ways.
1/18/2020
Poetry Contest: Your Best 2019-2020 Villanelle
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
She kisses my shoulder
As my fingers braise her hair.
She smiles to my eyes
And my mind begins to yell…
Kiss her lips,
Hug her hips,
Become a light
That glows tonight.
Feel the bridge above
Leading to a place of love
That calls our names in this rain tonight.
Mister Tom Turkey says gobble gobble
Mrs. Tom Turkey’s head goes wobble wobble
Zig-zaging through yards of grass they meet
Hen teaching her younglings 'bout how to eat
Tom gathers, his tuft dangling from his breast
His wingtips dragging, along with all the rest
Our feathers that we fan out are fabulous
A wattle hanging from our beaks are sabulous
A sign of power, we are just like the omnivores
Our relatives, are the dinosaurs- Buitreraptors
Fierceness and courage are our personality
We stroll about with our plumes, like royalty
Cocks prance ‘round like an Indian Sundance
Our totem spirit animal symbol is abundance
The main stars we are, during the holidays
Butterballs, cooked in many delicious ways
KellyBronze Birds, 16 lbs. are the Rolls-Royce
We are a source of nourishment, for your choice
As you zest us, and massage us use a rind
Of Valencia, naval, or blood orange of a kind
Try a pink, or white coarse salt as a brine
Take a minute with Chablis, a glass of wine
A seasoned cornbread stuffing of Italian sausage,
Golden raisins, walnuts and herbs freshly grown
Stuff us, seal us in foil and into the oven we're 'goin
Uncover us in the last hours until we're bronzed
Golden tan on the outside, then let us cool down
Juicy is our white meat and as tasty as our brown
When you give thanks today and put us on display
Don’t forget to show us gratitude, s'il vous plaît
We are noble birds!
La Paix et le Désert – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Peace and the Desert » by T. Wignesan
Pendant que la braise du campement de feu scintille
J’entendis l’appel
du courlis annonçant la naissance
ou la mort de quelques uns
le vent du désert calmait durant la nuit
et dans une voix
tremblante poussa un soupire à l’entrée interdite des pas
quand on entend le battement des tambours lointain
le petit matin arrive en ne faisant pas trop de bruit
la nuit des premiers âges est en fuite
laissant l’impression frémissante des bruits
du carnage et la puissance des carnivores
immobile, malgré l’espoir d’un roitelet gazouillant
un lézarde qui survive bougeant sur un roché
un émeu, deux cherchant de l’eau dans une source d’eau
les aigles fixent leur regarde en toute intensité
heureux du fait de ce que la nuit pourrait les apporter
les tourbillons s’élèvent inaperçus en remuant
les arènes en convulsions
par les pas d’une danse macabre
s’abandonnant à l’ivresse des derviches
aiguilles qui piquent mes joues mon front
puis lance des cris de rage sur cette mer maintenant morte.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Sex before marriage is way more than just a sin.
It is a demon that young girls praise to calm their insecure rush.
It is lust that is destined to turn all goals into worthless dust.
He will tell you words that heals your bruised heart ,he will give you more than a blush and you will view him as more a crush. He will make you feel like love comes after sexual moments. You will no longer see yourself as a potential doctor but braise your hopes to become his future wife. He will change all your dreams and goals and believe me dear he will do it all for the sake of sex before marriage. Don't let your hormones repose your brain to think. Don't let him murder the brightness of your promising future. Don't let all the hard works, sweats and hustles that your parents invested on you to sink deep into a bottomless hole he dug with charms. Don't let his wink forbid you to think.
Sex before married is way more than just a sin. It is an act that will potentially make all your fresh goals to rot ,molt and green.
Under the tree where the bodies hang
swaying, dancing in the gelid breeze
neath their rotting toes, the children sang;
slow circling a boy; they taunt and tease.
"It's your father and your mother, too,"
they chant, as one, fiery eyes aglow,
"Who dance on the rope, and soon will you."
to the cadence of a cawing crow.
"We'll slice you up and cook us a stew."
the chant gets faster. Each takes a knife
"Then we'll boil your bones and make some glue."
thirteen stabs put an end to a life.
They braise the boy, then each they follow
from dark black cauldron upon a fire;
of steaming stew, they take a swallow;
each with each other, they now conspire.
"We sliced you up and cooked us a stew."
the singing slows as the children fill
"And no one cares because no one knew."
soon, sleep takes over the early thrill.
Wolf was waiting on the edge of dark
thirteen children who once danced and sang
become just a stain, a bloody mark;
under the tree where the bodies hang.
Allow me a bare canvas
And arm me with ample time
I’ll awake my dormant craftiness
Brush strokes in perfect lines
No longer, am I a novice
My world is rich in color
But I want more time to notice
From one mother to another
I long for a sturdy easel
One that smells of fresh pine
My fingers will braise and feel
I’ll be so proud to know it’s mine
Each drip along the way
Will be granted my attention
I’ll find the time, each day
To admire my new addition
I’ll learn to love the splatters
And the tiny hands behind them
Because, I see, that’s all that matters
They’ll be treasured in the end
You see, before, I wasn’t ready
I was average, at my best
But now my strokes are steady
And I see how I’ve been blessed
So grant me one more chapter
I have another round in me
It will be one, filled with laughter
Then my art will be complete
The best part of the day
is when we get to play
in the kitchen.
Rarin’ to go
hunger is so
deep we’re itchin’
to turn up the heat
whip up the sweet
tangy sauces
While it comes to a boil
pour on the oil
Salad tosses.
Strip outer layers
from tubers and taters
then steam ‘em
Pound the filets
sizzle and braise
to perfection
Juice freshly squeezed
down on our knees
in thanksgiving
Abundantly fed
we head off to bed…
…
…
for dessert…….
First and foremost on the agenda,
would be to locate an affordable,
casual and favorable eatery
tubby agreeable to our taste
indubitable choice without
(any formal dress code),
nor further haste.
Strait away to the great weigh
(or if vegetarian – whey)
station of delectable food
where the exquisite, expertise, and exotic
high steak king a claim on Michelin Guide,
Gayot Guide/Gault Millau, American
Automobile Association, Forbes
Travel Guide reputation good.
Testimony to legendary praise
explaining why patrons travel
for countless days
transforming him/her
into steady state,
where he/she shuffles along
in a dishabille quotidian famished daze
far and wide culinary craze
out of this world wide web, the wispy Lyft
wafts trace steamy filament up braise
our noses,
whereat heads nod affirmation i.e. ayes.
Even before making a glad entrance
(into Restaurant) complete
a host of fresh, enticing,
and delicious aromas serve as a treat.
Delicate, foreign, hefty indescribable
ole factory stimulants delight
infiltrating thru swinging kitchen doors
holding us smell bound,
though thin filaments invisibly light.
I need to see these places
To know that they exist
Breathe them in and taste
For my soul, to be kissed
Bare feet on foundation
The fairytales are built
Perceive the vibration
Clothed in the fine silk
Braise my fingers along
The majestic interiors
Describe them in song
Without this awkward barrier
Opening a book
May be all that you require
But I cannot only look
I need to feel the fire
I long to step inside
So, it becomes a part of me
To experience the ride
And believe, wholeheartedly
As Ring of Fire departs day's fray
Daylight lingers in bridled rays
Eclipsed rays through filtered haze
Filter through cloud's liquid maze
A cloudy fondue with sparks doth blaze
Blazing chemicals tinged with fluorescent glaze
A tinge of yellow into glowing orange, deeper red doth
braise
Singeing the horizon with colorful light displays
Singed elements melt descending from vaunted dais
Leaving a melted merengue of tan welts and lactic grays
Gray columns swirl into tidal wave submerging all gilded
pathways
Silver waves fold into miry abyss leaving charcoal malaise
Stephen Parker
contest: Wreath on the Flavor of Dusk
Date of poem: August 9, 2012