Best Entrees Poems
A true story.
Here I was,
23 or 24...
Classed an "Executive"
NYC Dept Store Chain,
"Executive" label meant
I could work overtime
For one half of my normal salary...
But a fool sees stars
Where he should see crime
Promoted "Furniture Buyer"....
Big Ticket spot....
They seemed out to prove
Smart I was not.
Big Furniture Market,
High Point, N.C.,
Invited out to dinner,
By big shot vendor....
Oh...whoop, whoop, yea!
Of course, my stuffy boss
was there,
In the next chair
At this odd restaurant...
"The Factory" it's name,
After that night,
I was never looked at the same....
Big shot, Big City....
Big Fool....
It wasn't pretty....
The menu did start
Entrees priced more
Than my annual salary
And I'm confused
There's a boiler next to me!
So this Big City Buyer,
In his $99.00 suit
Ordered a shrimp cocktail,
Oh, what a hoot!
Lights flashing....
Like Studio 54
I had no idea
What I was in for!
Got my shrimp cocktail,
Oh, I do love my shrimp!
But the lemon wedge,
Was wrapped up
My mind now a' crimp
In this decorative yellow stuff,
All fit with a bow....
How do I open it, I wondered...
I wanted to know...
But I'm a Big Shot NYC Buyer,
Sure, I've seen it all....
How dare these dumb hicks...
Have such a gall!!
I took my fork,
I took my knike....
I started trying to open
This thing like....
It meant my very life!
I was struggling,
And sweating,
And frustrated and mad
Got some of the weirdest looks
I ever have had...
These Carolina Hicks...
Out to make a fool of me...
Slowly I realized
Everyone looking at me...
My boss's eyes swollen
In shame
How dumb his young buyer
Should be in a cornfield
And call himself "Town Crier"
Eventually I learned....
This stuff was called
"Cheese-cloth"
Ridiculous I thought...
No cheddar or swiss
Like this had I ever bought...
In silence I remained
Through the rest of my meal....
To me the biggest embarrassment
To me the biggest deal....
Big City Hot Shot Buyer...
Dumb as a farm hand.....
Put in a Manhattan restaurant...
Without but a strand....
Of what was, what wasn't
Of how, and of why...
All I wanted to do
Is to crawl under a rock
And die!
(This is true!!!)
I think we are all drummers –
of course, drum musicians know
that drumming is not just pounding
on the skins (well, vinyl these days) –
there is also, soulful brushwork, and
finessing of symbols...not everyone a crash;
drums breathe -- all parts -- from outer
shells to inner resonance; influenced
also by surface temperature, humidity
of the room, and the echos of their
wall enclosure or freedom – not so
different from the maker: our hearts
are echo-chambers...especially our
minds, the garbage in the garbage out –
we echo love or the discourse of the
environment – we are beat spirited
rhythms, shuffles and stomps of feet –
tasteful entrees and all that a desire
can eat – seeming devils at times,
that only our surrender to God can
defeat – Yes! God is a drummer: no
moving instrument of being without
its core sound – a universe of timpani,
some quite square, but really, all is
round – the universe a lively Topsy,
a swing and a shout – we leap and
twirl in time – knowing time, not
gravity, keeps us down, shuts us
in, or keep us up and highly
out. Even at my age, more apt
to honestly, sweat-fully gig, than play
under any, pretentious, perfumed
wig.
There was a chef named Luke,
All of his entrees were nuked.
In every dinner he planned,
All of his food was canned,
And most of his patrons puked.
Now many patrons inquired,
Why this chef was never fired,
But his boss was anemic,
and very bulimic,
Which is why Luke was hired.
This Diner's reputation lags,
But the owner always brags,
That his dining auditorium,
is a modern vomitorium
With no need for doggie bags.
Some folks like food that’s smooth to touch their lips;
which does not come in chunks or crunchy sticks.
They take their tea in leisurely small sips
or eat ice cream with lots of tiny licks.
I rarely ask for smoothies or for yogurt,
for puddings or for bland and jiggling jello.
I much prefer the entrees to dessert
and something hearty over something mellow.
To salty, crunchy foods I gravitate:
popcorn and potato chips and nachos,
and on my plate some food to masticate:
pasta, pizza, burgers, fries or tacos.
A large hot soup can soothe my appetite
if served with lots of crackers I can BITE!
For the the Screwed XII Poetry Contest of Rob Carmack
from 10/6/2013
While ambling down the boulevard,
I spied a swanky canopy.
As member of the avant-garde,
The classy bistro suited me.
When greeted by the maitre'd,
I nonchalantly said, "Just one."
He smiled and nodded graciously.
My gourmand venture had begun.
As soon as seated, promptly pounced
A waiter dressed in gray and pink.
"My name is Jacques," the man announced
And asked what I prefer to drink.
I ordered an aperitif
And proffered menu then perused.
In panic mode, I thought, "Good grief!
It's all in French. I'm so confused!"
When Jacques returned, with easy air,
I asked what he would recommend.
When he'd advised the bill of fare,
My gaze did then the room attend.
A masterpiece of elegance,
So understated and refined.
No chandeliers nor opulence,
Artistic taste and chic combined.
Came appetizers, quite a few,
And tiny salads, each unique.
With wines and cheeses right on cue,
'Twas gourmet dining at its peak.
For entrees there were perfect meats
With succulence beyond compare.
Then followed some exotic sweets
And coffee quite extraordinaire.
While savoring a fine cigar,
I said their chef deserved to win,
For haute cuisine the best by far,
Another star from Michelin.
When mammoth check was given me,
I calmly said I could not pay.
"Though penniless, you must agree
You've gained a customer today."
Was booted roughly out the door
With expletives obscene and rude.
In gutter prone, a vow I swore
That for assault I'd have them sued.
I did, however, leave a tip
On seventh race next afternoon.
That Jacques should into savings dip
And bet it all on Silver Spoon.
" Maple Syrup and Wild Berries ... "
(From The Solomon Studies Series # 9)
(Eccl. 3: 11 / Prov. 6: 6 / Matt. 6: 26, 28, 29 / Job 35: 11)
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Are Delectably Sweet
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Are of GOD's Plants & Nature Treats
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Offers Earth's Tastebud Feasts
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Add Both To My Oatmeal, Pancakes or Waffles, Please
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both, Big Bears & Little Birdies Greet
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Snacks - You Don't Have To Pack To Go Meet
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both, Kiss Our Childhood Memories Cheeks
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both - Put In Pies, Cakes & Cookies We Eat
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Are Part of The Best Desserts' Recipies
Tho' One's From A Bush & One's From Trees
Tho' One, Pools Upon Breads & One, Dives Into Creams
Tho' One Is Thick Sap & One's Plump & Juicy
Both Flavors, We Savor As Distinct & Sugary
Tho' One, When Bitten - Squirts Out Instantly
The Other, When Tapped, At First Barely Leaks
And Tho' One Is Poured & One Preserved or Jellied
Both Are Placed As Sweet-Pleasures In Our Pantries
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Are of GOD's Confection Delicacies
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Both Are From GOD's Bowl of Delicious Energies
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries
Holy Father, Thank YOU, For Baking Both Candies
Maple Syrup and Wild Berries ...
Will Your Leaves Be Curing Nations In Garden Entrees'?
(Rev. 22: 2)
O' Yeah! ... Taste and See How GOD Is Good, So Graciously
Written & Copyrighted ©: 1/18/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
When Little Miss Muffet
first visited buffets,
she’d choose simple entrees,
cottage cheese
Until one day in line
a grand gourmand spied her.
He advised some cider
and egg foo young.
Now I'm the frightened one;
ev'ry night of the week
new gourmet food they seek.
They're off the grid.
Heard they ran away to
far-off Cambodia
where fried tarantula
are tasty treats.
She Simply Said
I'm no model...
I do have my moments,
When the mid-day sun
Compliments my masculine mask—marvelously
And my mug is admired
So when I asked her
What does she sees in me?
She simply said, "It's the way that you kiss me."
I'm not a "snazzy dresser,"
Jeans, T-shirt and Nike's
Are my trademark attire
I do appreciate the comfort
Of a hooded sweatshirt
With an inside pocket
To safeguard my American Sprits-
Yes I smoke...casually.
Every once in awhile,
I'm forced to wear a tux-
And my oh my do I look fabulous
So when I asked her
Is it the way that I dressed,
She simply said, "It's the way that you kiss me."
I'm no millionaire,
Though I do welcome wealth,
I am not fascinated with temptation
I prefer to live comfortably
I do not indulge
In unnecessary needs
I accept what The Lord allows me to have
I take pleasure in struggle and its results that brings strength
I have had my share of riches
A vehicle that advertised vanity
Eating expensive entrees
While sipping red wine-"pinky-out."
A hair dresser to tease my hair,
Therapeutically conditioning and combing
Then creating thin-lines of "corn-rows."
So when I told her
I don't know what she sees in me,
She simply said, "It's the way that you kiss me."
Even though I crave
An intense love-making session,
I'm no ***-movie star
I have had my moments of longevity
When my mind was altered with enhancers
I don't like to disappoint,
So I give fantastic fore-play
And I am serious about my service
Providing the premium package
Although,
There have been times when
I have been known to exceed my limits—
It's rare but it happens
And strange sounds are sung
So when I hinted to her
I know that's what she sees in me,
She simply said, “It’s the way that you kiss me."
I am a clown,
I find laughter
In the worst situations
I giggle at accidents
Make fun of the miserable
I am a jester
Playing practical jokes
On unsuspecting people
I embarrass my
Women in public—because I love them
I do act my age sometimes
Transforming into a decent citizen
Who’s courteous and respectful
But mostly,
My personality is outspoken and careless
So when I told her
I don't know how she puts up with me,
She simply said, “It’s the way that you kiss me."
This poem was written by Willie Wright
Blueberry Festival in Sioux Lookout
Travelling north (on an adventurous drive)
Off the Trans-Canada on King’s Highway 72,
In Northwestern Ontario,
I crossed the bridge at the Frog Rapids Narrows
Of the English River system
And entered the town of Sioux Lookout
On Pelican Lake, “Hub of the North”
And gateway to Lac Seul.
Legend has it, as told by the elders,
That in days past, a mountain lookout
Was established by the Ojibwe for them
To scan the horizon
For oncoming Sioux warriors
Who had unfriendly intentions
And intercept them
Before they could storm the camp.
While I was in Sioux Lookout
During the “Blueberry Festival”
Held in August
To celebrate the Creator’s abundance,
I wandered about the town,
Enjoying the sights and sounds,
And noticed the sadness
In the faces of the Anishinaabe people.
I stopped to admire a native mother
Attired in a skirt with jeans underneath,
And who dressed her pretty little girl the same,
Both of them wearing embroidered jackets,
And I thought how out of place they looked
In today’s world of modern technology—
The younger, with a sparkle of curiosity,
And the older, less spriteful, melancholy.
Gone are the traditions!
Gone is the culture!
Gone is the respect due one to another,
And it’s heartbreaking to know
That the Europeans are responsible
For these deviant behaviours,
And I cannot keep from thinking
About the residential schools.
The town begins the celebration
With a community blueberry bake-off
Followed by the weeklong list
Of sports activities and music festival.
The mornings begin with blueberry pancakes
Topped off with maple syrup and side entrees
Of bacon or sausages, followed by picnics of hot dogs,
Hamburgers, steaks, and blueberry desserts.
The air in the North is refreshing,
Void of that smell of congestion,
And the space is wide open;
Unlike the city, where people are confrontational
From the anxiety associated with daily living,
The traffic, and the pressure!
It was nice to escape city life and enjoy
Sioux Lookout’s Blueberry Festival.
mirrors refract of blue, grays and greens
molded together, patchwork of leans
drowning withouts more than floating withins
mindsided promises, neglectful of ends
dripdry conundrums in, neat stagnant rows
labias monotonous, pink ugliness grows
necrofeelya coagulants, defy deadbeat hearts
knooseful riddance, mattressinal false starts
illiterate indifferents, exude egasm entrees'
= fluid "I's", incognitoinitiates surprise
My ponder envy gloats, add and subtracts
love=hate, matter of facts
monogamy is still born, stiff stinch of breath
awkwards defined, emotrails of death,
sexless deliveries, lost in separate rooms,
listless love, Dark shadow looms
eyes pierce of dread, sabotage to defile
auoragast convictions, clotting in piles
foolish Lie desires, dream of ills past
concussioned mind, head in cast
time calls abandon "ship", hoist love's anchor
nevertheless nevers, may heal the chancre
procreate a soul's, indifferent endeavor,
5 Agreements hired, all pages untilled
redeem ugly pasts, retired fulfiled
a renewal of sorts, eyelets finite closed
a heart wide open, all love I'm exposed.
Our task is to tarry, on Love's tepid scorch
or die fall/failing, obscure on Hate's torch.
Jack London's home across the Bay,
Now crossing the Golden Gate.
Walking through Fisherman's Wharf,
Smelling the entrees as you pass restaurant doors.
While ships passing along the way,
Fishing boats pulling up to the dock.
Crabs are snapping at your heels,
Fishermen are unloading their catch-of-the-day.
Fresh sea air breeze from the shore,
Sunny days and foggy nights.
Smelling the kelp wash ashore,
Whispering sands upon the beach.
Watching seagulls wait and wait,
For crumbs on tourist trails,
While the sun sets in the west,
Atop the ocean's crest.
Strolling through Chinatown,
Collecting your thoughts.
Sounds of shuffling feet,
With people busily working on a feast.
Buildings taller than Redwoods trees,
Towering over the City by the Bay,
The Financial District, quiet and clean,
Just remnants of a day's work seen.
The smell of coffee grinding,
Chocolate melts,
Sour Dough bread baking,
Your senses are on fire with taste buds aching.
Driving down the most crooked street,
Turning left; turning right,
Turning left; turning right,
Winding to the bottom of this twisted hill.
Up the hill,
Down the hill.
Turning right in a wrong way,
And down a one-way street.
Buses honking.
Delivery trucks double-parked,
People yelling,
"Get out of my way!"
The cable car bell clangs loudly,
While the conductor yells, "All Aboard!"
Passengers scrimmage grabbing for seats,
Before the cable car clangs through the streets.
The city sparkles like the stars above,
With the fresh air and sunny days.
Visiting the City By The Bay,
It's San Francisco's beauty that's shone.
©2017 by Lee Christine Brownlee. All rights reserved.
I have all the Entrees for My Contest "Personify A Tear" A few have already been
Eliminated not following The Theme. Thank-YOU, Thank-YOU so many Magnificent
POEMS It will take me awile to finish Judging If YOU did not put YOUR Name on YOUR
POEM YOU will have time to do so; No name , No Placement With LOVE ALWAYS,
YOUR Liege FOREVER...HG
Daylight slants on a promenade
in multi-layered glimmering;
I navigate your way
while walking with the breeze
to nibble loving desires,
like the pile of white china
illuminating a sidewalk café.
The flicker in those earl-grey eyes
mirrors a glassy daylight,
becoming restless and doubtful
I whisper a steamy phrase
to reach out for your feelings,
a communion of visions
to dip into your thoughts.
Can't find you among entrees
of speech. Morning drains a held cup;
for now, as seats are taken,
I you let you read my musings.
Café Musings/ 2--1--14
Gabby Sabre
P- Poetry Soup is like a buffet sideboard
O - Offering tasty treats, nostalgic and informative
E - Experiencing entrees from around the world while
T - Tweaking our own creative fare and making
R - Remarks for the patrons of our choosing
Y - You can’t beat PS for a challenging cuisine
S - Spend some time here every day
O - Opportunities to make friends abound
U - Underscoring a grand purpose from the start to
P - Provide an encouraging venue for poets
August 15, 2022
Sponsor Beata Agustin
Contest Name POETRY SOUP BEYOND ITS NAME
while playboy hallucination at my male member does yank
key mud hood dill, where reality doth usually tank
with muss elf feeling prick
sans figurative or real shaft shank
quite the opposite with wife acidly rank
she frequently pulls my hair as childish prank
knowing full well that action turns my mood sour as a crank
I would escape, but no money in the piggy bank.
Other times, her karma roars into tempest with rage
lashing out like a half-crazed maniac loosed upon global stage
on account of silent battles we regularly wage.
I admit my own fair share of peculiar traits
which only to private confidences t'will now relate
keep on the q-t lest spouse doth berate.
Chief among these oddities comprise
lower gastrointestinal perturbations issuing from the ass
which prompt innumerable outbursts of gas
Ranging from quiet puff to a noisy, windy pass.
After usage of toilet with a bowel movement
large enough to sink a sub
wash rectal residue from my behind
with a hose attached to the tub.
This couple resembles Frankenstein
and his bride – argh what a pair
she taunts when i shower, clean the rest of my body including hair
dry follicles shaking head back & forth side-to-side through the air.
There you now know foibles and unusual personal ways
uttering that such antics how she plays
like netted in a one-man fraternity undergoing constant haze
pelting this poor soul with scraps of food, she flays
until these covered with thick pasty gloppy glaze as verboten entrees
Now laugh till you fall over and remain in stitches for days.