Best Dicing Poems
Hey P.D.
You think you can compete with me
But you can’t take the heat
Get out of my kitchen
Go back to your easy bake oven
I am a master chef
Dicing and slicing
As I cut my lines
Like a coke addict
Out of his mind
You think you can cook
But your stuck on my hook
And can’t stop staring
Hey babe
Want to know what I’m wearing
Don’t worry I ain’t sharing
Once I’m through
Putting you in your place
Its all for you
Just letting you know
You’re the catcher
I’m the pitcher
Hey love
Like the feel of my ball
In your glove
I can throw all day
So I hope your ready
For a steady
Meal of my ways
Just roll over
And give it up
Even though you’re my lover
You ain’t got enough
don’t make me get rough
Trying to hold back
What you cant contain
Got me on your brain
Making you insane
Come on auspice
Just give me this
Tell me I am the greatest
And kneel at my feet
And admit defeat
I am addiction
I will stay with you; I will be your sin
Seething and screaming until you give in
I am addiction
I will leave you in tears
No warning, I'm yearning to strip you of years
I am addiction
I will take away your pride
I will follow you, I will swallow what's left inside
I am addiction
I will always take my toll
Inviting, Inticing I will rip at your soul
I am addiction
you'll never try me just one time
I will stay with you, spend each day with you, commit another crime
I am addiction
I will cut you; I am a metaphorical knife
Slicing you and dicing you, threatening your life
I am addiction
aren't I just fun?
Ripping you and stripping you; my destruction has just begun
mirror cracked
jagged slivers, heart rending
and fierce
asulle moodiness
engulfed by music
from a distant land
a distant time
cd spinning and slicing
cutting and dicing
releasing
rebelling against the dark
against the black eve
of the heart
pulse racing
rush
then stop
cold
redemption is near
the pain
reasoning leaves me
with no reason
to cry
my burden is born
the agony of it's birth
is my salvation
hidden in it's
physical fire
leaves of roho and mint
frozen
still in the morning
as blue as this
Where nature the artist has dipped her brush
A myriad of shapes and colours I see,
I cannot but be touched by the beauty
Of life’s canvas spread out before me.
Trees decked out in greens and yellows,
Crowning glories framed against a sky
Of soft pastel blue/pink colour wash
With small patch of cloud scudding by.
As I look out now over the river
I see the water ripple in gentle flow.
Soon we will be in the heart of London
So I’ll enjoy this peace now then watch it go.....
Horns beeping.
Fists shaking.
Cursing under breath.
Cars dodging,
Heart thumping.
Dicing with death.
People scurrying,
Pushing,squashing,
Hot stifling air.
Buildings crowding.
Noise deafening,
Hubbub everywhere.
And yet.....
Trees on the pavement,flowers in a window box,
There in the midst of the cities din
Are subtle traces of nature the artist.
Bringing me back to myself and that peace within.
I wake up and scurry. It’s hurry and hurry!
First and foremost – take a pee!
Cosmetics applying while minutes are flying.
Check emails and put on the tea.
Pack a lunch for the day that I’ll take on my way
out the door as I go to my car.
I must not leave late or I’ll agitate
my boss, but my job’s a bit far.
In class I am facing sweet students. Time’s racing.
So much to accomplish by noon.
Lunch time, I’m still going. I watch the clock, knowing
of more things I need to do soon.
Grades I’ll be doing with errands ensuing.
I race to my car and head out.
To the bank or the store; to the post office or
some other place with no doubt.
Have I time for the gym? Gotta keep myself trim.
But my chores are all waiting for me.
Some jobs get put off. You better not scoff.
I attend to my poetry!
The dinner needs cooking; at TV I’m looking
while slicing and dicing, for I
enjoy my tv shows. I’m NOT missing those -
I can “listen” as through tasks I fly.
My kitchen I clean well. Perhaps one more email?
With my hubbie I’m all cozy when
at last I am sleeping. Then daylight comes creeping.
I wake and start over again!
Sept. 8, 2020
for William Kekaula's All in a Day Poetry Contest
225 words by Wordcounter.net
Life- Aye
My cherished one
set against
a sordid world
My lanes are coerced
just as my feet are formed
My life is a platter
furnished on a plaza
dicing my thoughts
stewing my ordeal
rendering my life
a treasure meal
set before a soulless world
Germ-free Mason jars, hot from the pot of boiling water, gurgling on the cast iron wood stove, stood ready to receive the fruits and vegetables, fresh from the fields and orchards. Lids and sealing rings locked in the freshness. Mama, in her apron skillfully flavored the veggies as she prepared for meals months ahead. The old pressure cooker hissed as it played its part in preserving the bounty of the family farm. Preserves, jams and jellies, sealed in wax, filled the cupboard just waiting for future hot buttered biscuits.
Peeling, dicing, chopping, pickling were all part of the process that brought kin from far away to socialize and join in preserving food for times when the land rested and awaited the start of a new season.
Outside, Sauerkraut (layer of shredded cabbage, layer of salt,) repeated and compressed, awaiting fermentation filled the depth of a Crock on the front porch.
These glimpses of the times that are all but gone will remain with me forever. Life was tough at times but love was the balm that treated the abrasions of near poverty. And the tender touch of those who came for “Canning Days” was felt until the last jar was consumed. God’s bounty awaited, and next year’s promises stood always before us.
Written by: John Posey 10/21/13
Inspired by Canning Colors,
A poem by Donna Jones
After a wonderful late afternoon walk in the park,
my wife and I moseyed over to the Japanese Hibachi Grille for some dinner.
What we got into was some good old fashioned drama down at BeniHana...
You see, I got me a fetish for shiny cookware,
so as the patrons' eyes honed in on the iron chef
dicing up onions, shrimp, and chicken...
mine were busy fantasizing about concealing Ginsu knives
clankin' in the kitchen.
"Brew Silly began his routine with the hot fire volcano bit
atop the flat grille.
In the distraction, my sticky fingers began reactin',
slippin' utensils inside my zipper, for a thrill.
Things started heatin' up as folks were eating up;
Spatulas started flyin'!
Mushrooms were a fryin',
My conscience stopped trying...
tired of getting beaten up!
Now, if I told you I was lookin' at what was cookin'...
I'd be a lyin'.
I mean, I was really tryin',
but the devil had me by the klepto-hands...guiding me.
Riling me up.
He said, "Go for one of them Wok's! Do it now Big Dog!
Get yir rocks off! Knock yir socks off!
Quick man...sly like a fox, Hoss!"
My heart said, "No", but my head said, "OH HELL YES!"
Sadly, I was in cahoots with the devil,
bass mixed with treble,
trouble poundin' in my chest!
So guess what came next?-
I grabbed one of them big brass bitches,
signaled Jessie's ass with a quickness,
and started gunnin for the door!
Of course, my good hearted wife started whinin',
"Honey, I wasn't done, now what are we leavin' for?"
"Listen baby, I'll explain later.
Right now it's time to go!"
As we passed the pretty little hostess,
she banged the gong and said real fast,
"AHH, Tank-You Berry Much F'wor Cummean Fwolks!"
We jetted towards the park, but it was getting dark.
My legs began to fail. The cops were on our tail.
We tried to walk and play it off, but it was no use.
We should have stayed and ate our food,
and drank our brews with "BREWS!"
The pigs threw me to the ground,
then began to squeal and bark.
They tossed us in the County Jail,
twenty thousand bail...
____________FOR TAKIN' A WOK TO THE PARK!!!
~"True story ={WinK+Wink}
This world of ours is not always a good place
behind closed doors so many terrible things occur.
Hidden from plain sight some suffer endless torture
by the very ones who should love them the most.
Terrible things done sometimes in loves name
horrific beatings handed out, just for the sake of control.
Murders committed simply because one person will not share
killing so no-one else can take their supposed loved one away.
Children living in fear beaten and starved flinching at loud voices
creeping round like little mice hoping praying they are not noticed.
Gangs that bully and terrorise neighbourhoods while selling drugs
slashing up rival gangs purely for more territory to increase their strangle hold
to continue their evil crimes. Young girls and boys sold into sexual slavery,
victims each and everyone and all for profit. War torn countries
full of horrendous abuse, dead and injured cast aside like trash.
Yet for each who deals out these horrible crimes once they were
different, once they were loved. Can all be explained away by the fact
that they were taught by those that reared them in these horrific circumstances?
Or is it true that some were born monsters who enjoy other's pain and grief?
Practicing their craft on helpless victims as they grow up pulling wings of birds
slicing and dicing up beloved pets. Always attacking the weak and helpless.
Plain bullies that carry out their crimes in secret afraid to face those of strength.
One never really knows what goes on behind those closed doors. Yet when a
victim finally snaps and turns the tables oft times they are the ones our systems
punish and lock away behind bars while their tormentor is left free to continue
their rampage. Who I ask is the beast? Mankind surely deserves this name not animals.
as my pen positions itself
between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand…
…I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
Thoughts spew inside my head – too
fast to articulate. Too deep to defend. Ticking like a badly timed bomb
infused with a faulty timer – I reach for the pen…
words align themselves as I walk Through the clutches of Pre-validation. My mind
is appeased – my will is at ease…until the stumbler opens his mouth:
“Poetry” he whispers and I’m thrown
Into the vapors of Validation wondering, perhaps, maybe? Could it be
that without will I have created that which could be termed
as poetry? The jury is out: the naysayers and the critics;
the conservatives and realists;
friends and foes –
torturing my mind, stroking my ego, making my blood boil,
soothing my heart…
tears I cannot cry…smiles they can not see…
anger spills out; indifference sets in;
I wring my mind and
pack my poem
slowly I embark on the
Wrought past Post-validation.
Baby steps in forming words I love. Twisting the poem in forms I’ve
learnt. Dressing it in different styles, shortening it, elongating it;
Snip, snap, cut, bandage –
Rhythm no rhythm. Basking in formless form.
Counting and discounting syllables
But still it’s not enough.
What’s the use of words if they don’t effect?
Diving into The plunge I reign in the words – the leader of my chariot-
My poem succumbs to my will.
Wielding, exposing, slicing, dicing, building, destroying, encouraging,
condemning
the poem breathes – a life of its own.
And I think to myself Oh please who am I to be the wielder of such potency?
I call it back.
Taking a stroll along the beach, I reminisce of things past;
The things I’ve done; the things I’ve not done;
The rot in the world; the love
that begs to be heard…
The thoughts start swirling in my mind.
….
My steps take me back to the beginning…
as my pen positions itself
between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand…
…I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
For: Boomerrang Contest sponsor: Michael J. Falotico
She stays awake for hours, cutting Xs in the sprouts,
Then peels all the tatties, a ton or thereabouts,
Slicing and dicing parsnips is next up in the plan,
Chops up carrots and a swede, and put them in a pan,
Mixes up her sage and onion and stuffs it in the bird,
Along with some pork sausage meat that’s been pre-prepared,
She takes apart the oven, to fit the turkey in,
Hangs it up with bits of string, there’s no room in the tin,
Wraps sausages in bacon, in case they catch a chill,
But makes sure they‘re all cooked thoroughly, so the family won’t get ill,
Cooks the bird for hours, while the table’s being laid,
With all the finest crockery (and some of lower grade),
Makes space around the table, brings in extra chairs,
Adorns the place with candles and other Christmas wares,
Lays out a Christmas cracker in everybody’s place,
Complete with rather tacky joke, no doubt of a straight face,
And brings out all the condiments, the pickles and the sauce,
The salt and pepper, the mustard and radish known as “horse”,
Next she makes the starter, the simplest course by far,
A cocktail made up of prawns and a sauce out of a jar.
The family then all piles in, and argues over seats,
The children are already full of chocolates and treats,
Grandmother is mumbling, “Kids should be seen not heard”,
Meanwhile back in the kitchen Mum’s wrestling with the bird,
She tries to carve up slices, but ends up with turkey chunks,
While Dad and Gramps have become a pair of Christmas drunks,
They start an argument about which wine goes with the meat,
And restless children run around, not staying in their seat,
Mother tries to keep her calm and bravely soldiers on,
But the roasties are all blackened and the sprouts are over done,
Mum enters the dining room looking very puffed,
She throws the turkey down and shouts ,“There you go! Get stuffed!”
18th November 2012
*Obsession Of Killing*
Robbery in a snowy pumpkin patch'
Pumpkins Gone Wild!!
Wateriness of the eyes'
Engravers give mean scary look~
No fingerprints to be found,
Like or resembling autumns doom,
Sign language in every Caucasian shadow~
by;p.d.
(note)
I'm talking about slicing and dicing PUMPKINS...
READ ABOUT THIS POEM...
Snapping beans, the summer pastime
Filling Mason jars
With cornfield or half runners
Filling a crock with layers
Of beans and corn, canning salt
For pickled beans and corn
That would make my mouth water
Peeling ripe red tomatoes
That I called maters
Cutting them in wedges
Placing them in Mason jars
Adding a touch of salt
Sealing the lids and cooking
In a liquid water bath
For enough time to be sure
Those maters were preserved
For the winter weather
Chili, soup or spaghetti
Dicing cucumbers
Mixing them with vinegar
And all the spices, garlic
Everything that makes the best
Pickles ever tasted
They seem such a blessing
When the snowflakes hover
Near the windows, dusting
The entire mountain
With reflections of the season
As the harvest hands over its treasures
Beans, corn, maters and so much more
The wise worker from the fields
Leaves the front porch each day
With scrapes of bean strings, peelings
And excess husks so the pigs
Will be as blessed as the rest of us
Granny showed me how to can
She gave me her instructions
With a hug and a grin
Hoping to remind me to always
Blend a bit of love
Into everything I preserved
From garden to porch
From porch to jar
From jar to dish
Where the love is mixed in
So that everyone who samples
A dish from my kitchen
Knows that I have given
My very best intentions!
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 44
Billions of years to make one of trillion planets
Whose – dare you guess – already sinking in drink
Men of little vision dicing for nuggets
World transformed by Einsteins Nobel laureates
Poised by Dark Ages men on abysmal brink
Billions of years to make one of trillion planets
Party-mad men serve their term without regrets
Yes make improvements cut ribbons dine toast drink
Men of little vision dicing for nuggets
Parties win with funds from business pockets
High finance pollutes parties leaders hoodwink
Billions of years to make one of trillion planets
Blame it on industry on progress rockets
Not on men whose greed drags us down the stink sink
Men of little vision dicing for nuggets
Plimsoll Line at two degrees’ Russian roulettes
Not to abstain NOW means aims aren’t worth the think
Billions of years to make one of trillion planets
Men of little vision dicing for nuggets
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Cossack Cowboys
Riding Llamas
That they dress
In pink pajamas
Teeny boppers
Blowing bubbles
Biker chicks
Causing trouble
Nuns in Habits
Punks in chains
One or two
Of the deranged
Rubbing Buddha belly
Cravers
And the band
Harvey Danger
David Bowie
Elton John
Both of them
With Spacesuits on
Vegetarians
Eating chicken
Love it fried
Finger licking
In a line to
Meet and greet Obama
Now I wish
I'd brought my Mama
On the T.V.
Slicing, Dicing
Infomercials
Are enlightening
Lindsey Lohan
There's more trouble
Send the Police
On the double
Michael Jackson
With his monkey
Chandelier
Swinging junkies
Bottle Rocket
Ridding crickets
Dolly Parton
Doing dishes
Tubs of Crisco
Set for wrestling
Bee Gees do be
Disco dancing
With Bruce Jenner
Wearing makeup
Dolly's kitchen
Filled with soap suds
Rubber band
Bumper babies
Call me odd
Don't call me crazy
Shooting stars
Carry Uzis
Washed up stars
Drink beer in Koozies
Donnie Osmond
Singing show tunes
As Marie blows
Animal balloons
Circus Barkers
And their Minions
Waylon left us
Shooter Jennings
Heidi Klum
Without makeup
To say the least
She looks a bit rough
American flags
As rainbow banners
Peal, scratch, and sniff
Talking bananas
Hookha smoking
Manatees
Oh yea...
and then there's me
These are just a few of the things that lean
On the lamp post of my dreams