Best Epicurean Poems
Tails and claws in reefs, with opiates for pain,
Bad sight, ten legs and dollar profits to be made.
Prior to their own demise, they dined on fish and mollusks,
To savor and munch away with epicurean palettes.
Galleys rattle while lobsters kneel and pray,
“Boil!” and “Cut!” Chef Lemon-Snow conveys.
Tears bubbling away in ancient pots,
Chef Lemon-Snow the hunger his backdrop.
Blue-bloods in pails toiling to resist the boil,
Steaming, to find their destiny with olive oil.
Simmering delicious fare, extravagance to savor,
Lobsters expire while Lemon-Snow only seeks the flavor.
Proud crustaceans once gray now boiling red,
Scented mist of mild aroma, ravenous we fed.
ONCE AGAIN
Fanciful images play gentle on the minds of children young and old.
Anticipation becomes a forever word that compels dreams and expectations
to struggle with and sometimes overwhelm impatient patience.
Exotic perfumed scents of fir hovers in the air exciting already taut senses.
It clashes delightfully with the bombardment of brash bright colors that
blink, blink, blink slowly mesmerizing hurried minds into thoughts
of blissful peaceful solitude.
Touch the air. Feel it effervesce with sparks of remembered enjoyment.
Of days filled with colors wrapped and tied into careful gifts brought forth
from a rotund man wearing colors of white and red.
The shadows of log fed flames lightly dance around the room in friendly
shades that caress softly and speak messages of comfort and safety.
Familiar melodies bounce along walls and ring bells of spiritually dusted joy.
Mother, covered with the flavors of passed down recipes drops
her apron and proclaims the evenings feast .
Mouths water from images of epicurean delights and eyes widen
anxious and desperate to take it all in.
Now and then I ask myself...
Can love expressed in this complex manner
cut through the hostilities of everyday inconveniences?
We smile and cheer on this annual ritual in hopes
that in some way this interruption in time
will clear away the sludge that clogs the engine
of soiled relationships bred with the guilt of
Auld lang syne and the countdown to Day one, once again.
C.A.K. 12-12-2012
prosaic prologues bewitch
feeble minded scribe doth undertakes
tend toward lugubriousness ring tone
for goodness sake
echoing across,
a figurative lake woebegone, where quake
shutters latched storm windows,
clapped closed winter season didst make
physical environment lachrymose
analogous to imp pond durable dark lake
where sits inside secluded hut,
this fledgling author named Jake
a former cub (scout) at a loss
to string together an aria
tomb other nature and NOT FAKE,
sepulchral paeon to divine Gaea, Mother Earth
especially incorporating
mutisyllabic (sesquipedalian) words,
which exertion
on par with giving birth
(or so I guess),
a particularly heavily pregnant laden dearth
of help mates, doubling demonstrably
deadly duty devoid of mirth
totally tubular taxing toll,
an essentially unbearable
effort with bulging girth
whereat digestion consumes
latent mental ambition,
especially toasty warm near the hearth
which hitherto unknown to any reader
twas Xmas fabrication and fiction
no crime committed, nor animals harmed
in the making of diction
aery necessary entrapping unsuspecting intellect
to comprehend somber benediction
unless perchance one lone wolf
bait Oven English Major
with Westernization
topped off with a European
debunaire suave acculturation
even luckier if hypothetical personage
dips daintily into forays epicurean,
though careful,
and alert since church fathers
would frown on parsonage
whose natural born ardor,
a spiritual abduction
stealing austerity, complacency, and objection
toward forced irrational schemas
averse to abnegation
unfair imposition
to foist upon pruriant predilection
also impossible
to sequester arbitrary animal urges,
punishing call of the wild,
sowing seeds a beastial accusation
considered averse,
then imposition contrition!
I've traveled from the farm in Indiana, the place of my humble birth,
To places I never dreamed of seeing all around this earth!
On ships, trains and airplanes visiting fascinating ports of call,
And dining in hoity-toity eateries, more than I can ever recall!
I've dined on such exotic dishes as Beef Eterhazy and Athenian Moussaka,
Nasi Goreng, Halibut Cheeks, Paht Thai and Linguine Bugatta;
Linguine Primavera, Mahi Mahi, Lobster Thermidor and Cordon Blue,
Canard a L'Orange, Chateaubriand and savory Fillet of Wahoo!
I enjoyed those epicurean delights, but they'll never compare,
To the simple, wholesome dining on good old country fare!
I salivate thinking about a heaping plate of cornbread and beans,
With a salad on the side of fresh garden picked lettuce greens!
I drool just thinking about a hearty meal of meat and taters,
With stuff fresh from the garden like sweet peas and 'maters,
Home-made oven baked biscuits and heaps of fried chicken.
Ah, the very thought makes my old ticker begin to quicken!
Just to contemplate a repast of Bermuda onions and fried liver,
Gets my mouth watering and sets my old bones aquiver!
May you enjoy your Pate de Fois Gras at the country club;
I'll settle anytime for good old nourishing country grub!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tails and claws in reefs with opiates for pain,
Bad sight, ten legs and dollar profits to be made.
Prior to their own demise, they dined on fish and mollusks,
To savor and munch away with epicurean palettes.
Galleys rattle while lobsters kneel and pray,
“Boil!” and “Cut!” Chef Lemon-Snow would say.
Tears bubbling away in ancient silver pots,
Chef Lemon-Snow the hungry, backdrop.
Bluebloods in pails toiling to resist the boil,
Antenna’s steaming, to find their destiny with olive oil.
Simmering delicious fare, extravagance to savor,
Lobsters expire while Lemon-Snow seeks the flavor.
Proud crustaceans once gray now boiling red,
Scented mist of mild aroma, ravenous we fed.
I am a tiny winged buzzing insect
A friend to folks and flowers alike
Another name for hard work
Toiling untiring from dawn to dusk
I set out merry, humming a tune,
On my professed mission of gathering honey
The flowers freshly bathed in dew
Eagerly await my propitious visit
I like to flit from flower to flower
I love dallying with floral beauties
Gladiolus, Chrysanthemums and Petunias
Red geraniums and colorful Zinniahs
But I prefer to hover over clustered blooms
Which hang from trees’ stooping boughs
From each flower I sup to my fill
And my body gets covered in yellow dust
I don’t believe in the Epicurean dictum
Of ‘Eat, drink and be merry’
Neither do I live just for today
I await a future that is trouble free
We work tireless till the day is done
And see that every cell of our hive is full
We never complain of those among us
Who stay idle and thrive on our labor
Never grumble against the privileged Queen
Who enjoys unique status with rights many
For we respect the Nature-ordained hierarchy
As we know, a mob without a leader would be anarchy
Bee Creative Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Matt Caliri
Placed First
23. Jan. 2022
For Strand’s (1058) Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Brian Strand
Morsel hits palette
Epicurean sin won
Smiling pleasure now
PHANTASMAGORIA
If you don't like where you are..take a trip in your mind
Look in your brain's dark corners and see what you find
There are places a groaning board tempts with an epicurean delight
But the populace heads for the worst comestibles in sight
When choosing Burma or Myanmar as it's now called
Or Manila where kittens are drinking sewage in a yard
Who knows? they might think kittens are viands too
But if this gastronomic delight does not appeal to you
Try a whole pig on a spit, cleaved open to reveal
Viscera and liver, cooked and ready to peel
You could try a lunch of grilled belly lining
If not, its pigs' snouts and tongues for fine dining
Egg on your face takes on a whole new meaning
When it's smeared on a face --slimy and gleaming*
Don't forget the venues where entrails drip over a fire
Or octopus tentacles tasting like a rubber tire
Remember...wandering is possible but not leaving your niche
Thinking how the other half lives might cure a travel itch
So start up the mind's motor and go anywhere you wish
Without having to eat even one revolting dish
*A sunblock
My Dear Carolyn, I want to Thank-YOU for YOUR Contest “ The Work You Do? ”
I usually Do not Brag, but I’m going to in this Piece I also may throw in Kitchen Humor
I Dedicate this to YOU : Carolyn Devonshire My POETRY “ TEACHER “ LOVE, HG
The first two quotes I heard in the beginning of My Career
“People will always Eat” ( Chef Lis ) : “People eat with their eyes” :
( Mr. Franklin Whalen ; ) Owner of The “Barrington House Restaurant”
Forty-Four years later, the Sonata of these words Still Rings in my ears
The Aromas, sweet and spicy, sour ,tart, fruity, meaty, waif through my nose
I remember the smell of burning starch, elbows set in ice cold water on the stove, two hours
Taste buds come alive, epicurean; connoisseurs : enticing The palette soothing the throat
I read my breath, in the dire cold of the freezer: a block of ice becomes A Heart of Swans
The Center Piece of Mr. & Mrs. Posner’s 75th Wedding Anniversary Dinner
On a Pedestal , in the centre of the “Swan Heart : I carved the “POSNER" Holding Hands
How Sweet, When they asked me “Would You makes us one of YOUR Classic Dinners?”
“The Rack of Lamb, with the Plum- Mint Jelly” “ Don’t forget his Famous “Béarnaise Sauce”
A Vegetable Bouquetire , Cottage Fries, with a special “Flaming Cherries Jubilee” for Desert
Perhaps, as they did when : Young : Their eyes found each other, as they fed each other
The Gleam in their Eyes, reflecting the Jubilee’s flame Opening the Mirror of Their “ L O V E “
As a Chef The work I do is very Rewarding and I shall Cook until I die( and even Then!! )
Steaming spaghetti and garlic bread.
On a warmed red-checkered plate.
With aromatic, hot, garlic bread.
For my epicurean tastes is just fine and dandy!
Would be nice though, if served by a handsome,
Italian waiter.
~~~~I call that, some ravishing eye candy~~~~
1/28/2021
~ 1 ~
O mother, take me there, where I find the gratifying grace,
Take me there, where I dwell in bliss,
Take me there, where I ramble in rapturous joy,
Take me to that miraculous planet and nurture me,
O mother, take me there, where I find the tantalizing nothingness,
Take me there, in to the surrealistic world and let me ponder over the nature’s allegories,
Take me to this exuberant excursion,
O mother, I have become claustrophobic, I cannot live in this enclosed space,
Take me to the infinity where I have no confinity,
Take me through the valleys of sunshine and glory,
O mother, Let me live the eternal love,
Let me smell the soil,
Let me hear the choirs of sea,
Let me be an epicurean,
Let me squelch and tread on the planet,
Let me see the picturesque of nature,
Let me lay my body on the roots of heaven,
Let me dandle on your knees,
Let me construe the dappled sky,
Let me live and leave,
O mother, instigate your benign impulsion,
I long to see you and the world,
I want to be resurrected,
O mother, I loved you before I knew, I believed in you before I knew.
How grateful I shall ever be for the creative gal or guy,
Who concocted and perpetuated the luscious "punkin" pie!
Ah! The thought of a golden "punkin" pie with flaky crust,
Stimulates my taste buds with sinful epicurean lust!
You can call it "pumpkin" or "punkin" pie, I don't care,
Just as long as it's on the menu for Thanksgiving fare.
Pecan, apple and cherry pies are pleasing to the eye,
But Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
As a lad I suffered through my Pa's interminable blessing,
Then I dawdled over a plate of my Ma's oyster dressing,
And toyed with a yam and piece of turkey thigh,
But all I really wanted was a hunk of "punkin" pie!
The perfect "punkin" pie, I can vouch, is made by my spouse.
I nearly swoon savoring the aroma wafting about the house!
To sample a wedge of that treat, my palate is just itchin',
But I am unceremoniously invited to vacate the kitchen!
I suppose the repast must include turkey and sweet pertaters,
And a relish tray with gherkins, olives and cherry termaters,
But upon this old but true aphorism you can rely,
Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 5 in the "Dreamy Desserts" Contest - June 2010
Walkers crisps should be forced to comply
With trade description legislation
And stop disappointing their customers
With their artificial flavourization
When purchasing a bag of Walkers crisps
The refined palate of an epicurean
Would be gravely disappointed if they did not
Taste of Rambler, Hiker or Pedestrian
Spicy,pungent,crisp
Inhale Autumn's sweet incense
Divine smells of Fall
From the crackling cedar fires
To the pumpkins in the fields
Hot apple cider
Pumpkin pie and roast turkey
Tempting aromas
Epicurean delights
Autumn's bounty feeds the soul
Fall's cascading hues
Mother Nature's paint palette
Bejewels the trees
Our senses all come alive
As Fall too quickly passes
** for contest Enchantment of Fall...Tanka a Moment
sponsored by Amy Green
moon light glinting
on
night's epicurean
sea
shines luminous
flash