Best Kitchenette Poems
What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
Sometimes an
Obsolete
Old bulb inside him
Flickers on
And dimly lights
His woozy thoughts
And thirst to write
A song.
Recall he's human,
That's to say, he
Thinks he
Still adheres,
Not just a washed-up
Singer, missing
Schedules to
Appear.
The stained and
Scribbled rhymes
Of scattered nonsense
On the floor,
Three gulps of Vodka,
Bring applause,
Adoring fans,
Encore.
Gene Bourne
06-01-14
.
I alight from my ebony ford
Porched beneath the shady mammoth tree
One hand holding mommy
The other some grocery
As she leads me through
The mini pansy garden
Up the the rickety wooden planks
To our home in mid air
Small but sturdy as ever
On my goliath banyan tree
A small kitchenette for mommy and me
A barbie cushioned boudoir
Rested upon by welcome week-end guests
Evenings spent with bunnies at play
Love rocketing in the rustic air
Bedtime in quilts as the winds whistled
Through flying curtains and vanishing windows
Listening to tales with wide opened eyes
From the storage of books dad left behind
Peeping at the stars swirling in the summer breeze
Half drowsy eyes amidst echoing words
Throwing ladders into the clear dark sky
Effortlessly ascending as Jack on the beanstalk
Holding net on my herculean shoulders
Cautiously stealing into the gates of heaven
Thronging with some sleepy old gods
Abducting dad with quickened speed
Manufactured locks to hold him in custody
In our tree-house hideaway
That he built for mommy and me
THIRD
Balveen Cheema
September 15, 2015
Contest: A Child's First Home
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
*40 years down the line our tree house has been weather-beaten and destroyed.
The Ford of pre-independence is in the Ford Museum, Mumbai
Curry. Cumin. Saffron.
Mmmm, the hallways always smell of spice,
her seventy-year-old body perfecting the rhythm of movement
from icebox to oven in her efficiency kitchenette.
Tangerine wall paint cracks and mixes carelessly
with bits of spice yet lingering in the air; it
follows her, this aroma that eats the eater,
dancing around her skirts
like faeries honoring their faerie queen.
She knows this, and smiles at the sliver of sun peeking through her window.
Down the corridor
people begin their ritual of recognition, then sniffing,
and finally a smile that reveals anticipation.
No one goes hungry inside Apartment A6 and everyone has seconds.
Lunch and dinner, breakfast too
if a body is moving about as dawn surfaces.
Though small, her main floor seems to expand
beyond the boundaries of walls,
everyone cross-legged and eager to devour dishes
few could pronounce and none could forget.
A legend among the two hundred desperate palates;
today, however, souls wander lost through the hallways
because the lucky have snaked their way into heaven
and left the masses to a barren, tasteless fate.
As the onions, okra and potatoes, flavored
with a hint of saffron and even less ginger,
entice bodies five deep and ten across,
our greedy fingers and mouths offer no thoughts of others
going without while dripping sauce falls onto our legs
and Berndi seems content with the pleasure she’s wrought.
My beloved tekeli pitha!
They are rice cakes from Assam.
They are made by steaming them in a kettle (I call tekeli) lid.
Tekeli pitha
or
Kettle cake
tint of jaggery
making love with crushed coconut
cloak in grained rice
and spell of sesame seeds
steam and serve me
i tucked into the pithas in my kitchenette
I live with the aroma here in Assam
I carry the recipe to you there in London
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
All spices high and mild; nostrils filled with its aroma
Whether flow with the Ganga colliding the bourn,
Or sang with the chirping of the Sparrow sitting on the roofline,
The hot spicy heat prickle of the Ghost Pepper Chilli cuddling the tongue
The wild breeze nudges the chest while walking on the land of Sohra,
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
All spices add a pinch; just like sugar and salt an Indian lore
Add spices to the game and flaws
Add spices to the love and lust
Add spices to death and conquer
Add spices to lives and victories
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
Critters born and die; but good and bad is inscribed in their graves
Spice are harvest and contained; but the tale of aroma
Begins from my kitchenette and voyaging across the overseas
Oh how very marvellous then. Synchronised shopping in a ship stream. Level out no lever in a gale. And swarm to sale rails like oversized tanks on waves of euphoric energy excursions. When waving rattles around dressed in a dressing gown or a kimono be wise to put on the correct footwear to adhere to the fashion ignited by the carpet stench. For it is never to be wiped nor adjusted the sofa of steam. Stagnant can then. Fortresses of dressed up closets clamouring for fetish funds to enlighten the brain of benign baked branches. But stem no frozen celery soup in a tight fitting dress. Discos are for dangerous driving doughs. And dough is a dough and a dough means to shape shift and spin into an ever decreasing pressurized paste. Generally speaking a display of distinguished discussion is merely an offsetting of informational ink. Dot then. And forms fake fingers. What is that? A misplaced misprint of an error in a mother tongue. How can that be? Why, one should ask the aisle in the supermarket for they are often very very wise. Simplistic simpletons seek spending some. And the others give give give. And all whirl around in circles endlessly. Round and around. Frighten not a ten inch flea on an amusement park. And please take care when buttering bread for bread can be quite fragile and sensitive to the smears. Thanks very much then. And give a bow to a cup. Hahaha missionary muscle of mussels and rice. Hahahaha melancholic melon moving moodily. Hahaha breast of butter. Culinary cylinder coming. Good good good. Now bake. Great. Xxxxx kitchenette z. This is the p y q reporting on the appropriate discussion for an atomised ant in an apron. Z.
Khar!
or
An alkaline extract!
my mouth drools
o! momma
everytime I think of the dish
whether it is the beloved
amitar khar (i know as papaya khar),
tiyohor khar (i know as cucumber khar),
khar dal (i know as khar with lentils),
not to quit
sometimes with dry fishes or meats
dish itself is the contentment when served
i call it as 'quintessence of Assamese Cuisine'
elixir from the ashes of burnt dried banana peels
hey
when imbued
the khar dish with platter of steamed rice
whether i am glued in Assam or anywhere on this earth,
my heart's cravings...
portraits the way of a yarn-
'the viridescent melody muffled the white snow mountain dance in folk tales'
o! momma
khar with some rice
Get up bring your book and blanket
Through the hall way cross
And through the kitchenette
Over dark veranda down the garden stairs
Enter the shelter and cuddle up wet
Feet in the bathtub ready to dive
Four huddle and cuddle together alive
Shivering shaking and not from the weather
The wooden door’s shut and the sandbags are piled
Candlelight flickers on eyes going wild
Grabbing the book opening page
Clinging to riders in soft purple sage
Some of the words are easy to spell
Others emerge like a slow learning spell
Soon I am lost from the crumping and bumping
Riding a horse in a ten gallon hat
Till the siren’s all clear puts an ending to that
Back up the stairs under yellow red sky
Back into bed under covers to dry
Nowt now to worry we’ve dunnit before
Such a big boy now well into four
Hid under the covers
Learning to snore
This is a blast from the past
Nightmares were the first horses I rode
Almost into puberty
Every house and flat in Knotty Ash
had a backyard bomb shelter
Further into the city they were
communal usually next to a tramstop
As were the cement water tanks
Covered of course to keep
them clean for the Home Guard
The memory’s as true as I can recall
America was purple
Listen,
can you hear it
your taste buds losing interest?
A buzzing in the air
black-winged hoverers
flit and fly across the kitchenette
drawn in by the smell of tantalizing flavors.
Too hot for ovens to be on
too lazy for the frying pan to warm
a chilled gazpacho from the fridge
cucumber, onion, pepper, jalapeno,
garliced olive oil, lime juice, balsamic
and a floating entourage of fly in the soup.
"Gazpacho or Andalusian gazpacho is a cold soup made of raw, blended vegetables. A classic of Spanish cuisine, it originated in the southern region of Andalusia. Gazpacho is widely eaten in Spain and Portugal, particularly during hot summers, as it is refreshing and cool". Wikipedia
The Old Man Could See
By Cat Ferman
UCLA, 1969
My dad's late for class again.
He spots a girl from Sweden
And asks her out again.
My mom says so unsure, but calmly and kind,
"I suppose that would be alright,
I guess that'll be just fine."
And from that moment on
They stayed together
In the warm weather
Making each day more alive.
My dad, Mr. Ferman, a Jewish local man, refused to leave her side,
And although a good man
Was not a Lutheran
Interested as he was in reading the new testament
Which he did.
-------------------------------------
Winter break arrived, and my mom missed home.
Not sure she would come back in the spring
She gave her mom and dad a ring
To tell them about the man who made her heart sing
My dad's parents gave her a ride to the airport that morning.
With no delay about it,
My dad prayed about it
Then he knew what to do.
At the very last minute
Searching the kitchenette and everything in it
To keep the girl he loved more than anything
He grabbed his passport on the way out the door
And he had no luggage or money, as he was poor.
When she checked in, my dad and his parents sat in the car, briefly,
Before my dad would ultimately go in to make peace with goodbye.
But first
One last try:
He asked his parents again,
"Mom, could I please have some-?"
"No."
"But why?"
They had no good answer for him.
Because though she was loyal
Her blood to them wasn't royal
No matter how noble she was.
An old Jewish man in the airport
Sitting next to them
The old man could see.
Reflecting back on moments in his memory
He saw love in my dad's eyes he recognized in himself
For the wife he had who was in poor health
From old age
Who didn't have much longer to live
As both were getting older
And the seasons were getting colder.
He decided right then - my dad needed a friend
So the old man who could see
Told my dad, plainly,
"Well, I was going to sell this ticket, you see
To that man over there with all that money,
Surely, that would be the best for me,
But,
I'm going to give it to you for free."
50 years later
They're still together
Seven kids and ten grandchildren later
The stern clarinet player (and a generous doctor)
And the angelic, maternal and artistic oil painter.
smell from the grandma's kitchenette
that fills the whole abode
my little heart and my hungry tummy too
Pithas or Rice-cakes
this are native legacies
wrapped with fondness
served on english platter with elate
Roadside stalls
Buzz with traffic's cadences
Benches lined up with the critters
Along the whirls of leaves and the roars of branches
'The tea tumblers cuddles the pithas'!!
Morning
My Muse
Floral gym shoes
Terry aqua sleeveless dress
Eggs frying on my stove
Whole wheat toast, aroma utterly entrancing
Brazilian Bossa Nova notes filling all rooms
Floral tablecloth embracing sparkling utensils, glasses dishes, cups
Smiling, red petunias rest on the shiny, tall microwave
Saying grace, hands folded in the kitchenette, her holy place
June 12, 2019
8:45am PST
Red hot charcoal,
Cut dried ’ loggy’woods,
Up with flaming grey smoke,
From the mouth of a round stove,
Creep through the nose
Of a warm muddy Kitchenette.
“What a great escape “
“Indeed,every cottage must have its nose”,
Said Mrs Rahbi to herself.
The checkered curtains, and spic and span wood floor, I light a fragrant candle.
And the the creme de la creme…..my red Keuring coffee maker, is always at the ready to please. No percolators, grinding beans, not a need for tea bags.
The water in it is always hot and ready. Plus
a variety of K-Cups that hold the contents of what I wish to make. Any variety of coffee, tea, hot chocolate. Hot cider, too!!
I used to grind beans, or use tea bags, boil water, use a chemex maker. All require time and safety.
Then …use special brushes..to not scratch the maker.
All I do is pop in a K-Cup and in a few seconds, there is my beverage of choice. It’s my favorite appliance.
Gives me time to enjoy life and write poetry, as the rivulets of rain, run down the pane glass windows!
1/5/2023