Best Floured Poems
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the fabric remembers her hands~
floured fingerprints on crimson petals,
the knot at her waist pulled tight
as she turned from the oven’s glow.
heat curls the edges,
fraying the green leaves
where gravy once splattered~
a stain, a story.
Mother wore it like armor~
against time,
against hunger,
against the silence
of an empty kitchen.
Now it hangs,
a ghost of cinnamon and cloves,
still holding the shape
of her laughter.
Every year at Chanukah,
Like from divine command,
My grandma made the cookies
All her grandkids would demand.
These humble sugar dainties,
Cut in shapes and rolled out thin,
Served as harbinger that Chanukah
Could finally begin.
But each one, crisp and delicate,
Came with the possibility
That part of it would snap away,
Because of its fragility.
So lions rarely kept their tails
And candles lost their flames.
The sturdy dreidels, still intact,
Were prized for lack of maims.
A colored sugar dusting
Coated each and every shape.
From sugar sparkles on your clothes
You never could escape.
My grandma passed her cutters down
To me, and so I strive,
With floured hands, to help to keep
Her recipe alive.
Today I gamely baked a batch;
My kids made the request.
I picture grandma’s smiling face
And think she’d be impressed.
Pumpkins orange glowing bright
shine into the darkest night
ghouls and ghosts and all things scary
small werewolves with fingers hairy
Descend upon us once a year
on the eve renown for fear
Be ready quick to pay the ghost
or you'll soon end up as toast
Little taps upon your door
demanding treats or tricks for sure
hurry satisfy their need
replenish them their chocolate feed
Then retire and wait for more
little taps upon your door
remember not to run out quick
as eggs upon your window stick
though floured covered paths and cars
appease the creatures with blood stain scars
So be warned the time is near
these creatures won't respect your fear
here now at your door
from nought to teen
stock up your treats
as 'Arrrrrgh it's Halloween!!'
I guess I was a gift that was never opened, a question that was never answered,
a clever thought that was never utilized, a blessing from God, never realized,
only criticized and recognized, through the temporary owner of the devil’s eyes,
lies vividly visualized, and analyzed, through those who socialize, just listen why
my soul cries, love unveils, hate’s disguise, my heart’s been floured-n-fried, from
those who used it to capitalize, like the ocean’s tides, my temperature rise, even
though I am alive, a part of me just died, that part of me, was a gift that was
never opened, a question never answered, a clever thought, never utilized, now
through severed ties, your blessing from God is realized and recognized, this is
what it sounds like when love dies.
stand on the podium
stand up for the crowd
you gold medal coffee maker
you champion toll collector
you safety food inspector
take a bow and wave to the people
you road-line painter
you lifetime dishwasher
the national anthem plays a
glory hallelujah salute to you
you topflight tire changer
pump me up! fire ranger,
you game changer with
a new world record
you photo-finish fish filleter
scaling new heights of
perfection, golden dusted
we salute and applaude you
sausage cooker, with mustard
you gold medal floured
over-night baker
you water quality tester
we know you do your best or
why else would we be standing
here now, drinkin' you in
all smiles and elation
our hometown creation
damn! we love you!
we cheer you, we pay homage
you achieve your promise
like sports men and women
who run like a train
who rise with the sun
again, and again, and again
to test themselves
to challange their body
the mettle of their soul
we exalt, we extol,
we give a bouquet,
to those who excel and
grab gold medal victory
from the jaws of today
© Goode Guy 2012-08-06
a bit late in posting I'm afraid...
red Mexican chilies
hot jalapeno peppers
tasty refried beans
sizzling chicken fajitas
bits of fresh lettuce
scoop of onion
rolled up in a floured burrito
delicacy fit for a queen
Ice cream and water
Why, even bother
Cinnamon peanut, butter
Fresh churn collards
what is the purpose of man
Cooking in saucepans
On the stoves and. . .
candy under the iron
flavored running water, (nobody's trying)
who'd taught us?
taught us
Spring not a well
Floured fishes
Like golden fishes
Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
wHo placed the Carmel on the stove to long
Cause it burn, it's burn
Carmel left on the stove
what do you mean you didn't know
Honey Hut Cheerio's, Sugar Pop's oh! I meant Smacks
who'd taught us?
taught us
Spring not a well
Floured fishes
Like golden fishes
Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
Raisin Bran, Captain Crunch
Ice meltdown to water on the back porch
I didn't even call yo warm turn to boil
Faded brown orange tan sugar syrup
Leaves me with
without ashes. . .
Burnt Molasses
04/3/14
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
So astonished
Was I when I saw you,
From my safe little corner across
The room,
Behind the glass like all the pastries
That were available to me
Not barred by the displays indeed,
I watch you move.
The indulgence of the moment,
I take in your design
That blaze of robin eggshell blue,
That coating which enhances
Your fair and flawless skin
Illuminates your heart-shaped face
And calls the angels, if they
Prove to be,
To cast a dancing beam inside
Your eyes
And wings cushion your feet
With unbroken grace on which you
Walk
So when you go, at least you glide
But your flight reveals the
Chocolate locks,
The cake in and of itself
That frames the floured face
And beaming eyes
That cake, so rich and moist
Tied up high like a curtain
Left unchecked, still beautiful
Would drown
All these things, I observe
In a minute or less
And as I stand to go
(Not on angel's wings, unluckily)
I take my one final glance
At the baker's pride
And joy,
Satisfied at last when I do
Beholding such sleek art
In your chocolate-veiled
Neck tattoo
As a young child
breakfast time was my favorite time of day
Mommy hovered over the flaming stove
as she sizzled a bundle of my favorite meals
tuna, corn beef, sardines , and steamed sausages
served with a side of white grits
dashed with warm butter as gold as a coin
I sat at the table and gobbled down the meal
like a contestant in a pie eating contest!
Fast forward to the present day
as I matured into adulthood
I no longer have the craving desire
for this type of cuisine,
eating grits now gives me
the feeling of indigestion
forcing my stomach to spew it out
like lava from an erupting volcano!
Now I just stick to enjoying
a cup of brewing decaf coffee as hot as the desert
with sprinkles of succulent sugary powder
and a bowl of chicken souse seasoned in high sour lime
and bird peppers as spicy as chili
with light floured coconut Johnny cake!
What does the sp stand for in Spam
Wonder how many and what words start with sp
Bought a can of Lite Spam
Sliced thinly floured and fried in hot vegetable oil
Cheap meat but what is this in this can
Hummmmm! Pork with ham and chicken
Ah! Chicken that is what is the sp..Shhhh! Don't tell
It isn't ham at all chicken and pig ear, nose, jowl
Well maybe not even chicken__ maybe its the feet like I had to eat as a child
If you have never eaten boiled chicken feet, your life is kinda dull
Hey Hey
Listen up ya'll
Got somethin' somethin' to say
To my dismay
Many lyrics today
Lack redeeming value
Spew Spew Spew
Rhyme after rhyme
Contagious, adhesive slime
Not a crime
Watch you descend
Amidst charcoal ashes
As a one hit wonder trend
Many obsessed
Engulfed in cloudy confusion
Lusty Dissolution
CAUTION, CAUTION!
Innate sexual craze
May be a shallow
Transient phase
Act too impulsively
Could haunt the rest of yo' days
Take a daily dose
My love potion number five
For the everlasting jive
Yo' relationship need to survive
Begin with a solid base-
Similar values,
Trust & Honesty
Heavily floured with reciprocity
Add a layer of kindness & compassion
Take it slow
Nothin' wrong being old fashion
Middle layers your personal flare
Mix & mingle them as you dare
Top it off
Remain loyal
During times of turmoil
Bake
Sprinkle with spontaneity
To taste
We should whisper our prayers tonight
before we go to bed tonight
our souls shall slumber onto the brink of eternity
in God’s home filled with his many mansions
tomorrow morning is coming
time to plan our burial
our hollowed bones and mundane flesh
will be incinerated into a rubble of floured ashes
diffused into the bowels of the ocean’s depths
the residue of our mundane mortality left behind
on the pastures of this broken down, sinful, sadistic world
Come along now she'd say to me and then together we would knead
two strong arms and a floured face, this woman had love and speed
It was Christmas Eve, and I will never forget her zeal nor her passion
"Where did daddy hide my birthday cake?" she'd ask with a tiny smile.
She was born on Christmas Eve, so that made her as close to the babe
as anyone could get. In those days we didn't have much money,
mom would always give us pajamas, including dad.
Today as I recall our tiny silver tree, I feel blessed and very glad.
It was the seventies back in the good old days of Montreal,
we were rich in tradition, wealthy with love and laughter. We had
genuine guidance from struggling immigrants who knew the value
of sacrifice and love.
Later in the evening after a good plate of pasta and meatballs, dad
would whisper in my ear, " Figlia, go get your moms cake" and
without being told where it was, I would go to the garage and fish
the cake out of the cantina. " Candles were lit and Christmas was
honored in the family, Happy Birthday mom, Merry
Christmas Jesus!
Contained by myself
Drawing the wages of the bombed out present day
Away from his story, now my story but
Finding no plastic to pay for Plathist words
To say What? He can look at me here now
A shell of a father's folly soon spent
Gone by are his probably more than a million days, my maybe ten thousand
Reading daily local evenings untreasured sent went.
Driving far away on the forward roll that's keeping me
For the count of the return from the battles' exchange
Him leaving here, me coming here
Wandering kine all cross without dinar fortunes miss to christen this range.
Brown floured sand in my ears
The prize in a fight with words undeciphered yet
He spoke this way, I utterly mumble "Ur" so unschooled
Meandering donkeys forefeet cord-tied won't forfeit the Bedouin bet.