Best Overcooked Poems
Elephants ran
from the perilous sounds
the bakery overcooked the days bread
winter tires
installed on the wheelchairs
soldiers in a line to eat cakes
bread was in short supply
monsters on break, or strike
clouds dipped to human eyes
blinding all with hope
if a grave misses a few flowers?
what does it matter?
chimneys have no smoke
wineries have no grapes
lovers lost all grace
when rain falls
words become wet
like feet caressing the sand
I have a photo?
would you understand?
I notice the single placemat within the circle of noise,
Placing my phone on the cluttered side plate,
I can feel the Christmas spirit resonating through,
The crowd of extended families unwrapping each other’s joy,
A tear drops onto my unused napkin,
My mind races with memories of family togetherness,
The phone reminds me of the unsent WhatsApp messages,
I spot the waiting team slalom through the chairs,
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a waiter offering me the red, white, or rose wine,
I must have blanked out for a quick second or two,
As for some reason I chose the red wine,
I’m not a big fan of red wine,
I notice something unexpected,
A noise behind my ear struck me subtly,
Hesitantly I turn towards the surprising situation,
“Would you like to join us?” A lady to my left asks alongside her children,
Tears flood my unconscious shirt,
“No-one should be on their own” another added “Join us!”
I graciously accept after they make the decision for me,
They share that they are from Lincoln,
As they collectively lift the small square towards their table,
I can’t believe the surge of care that I’m being shown by strangers,
Stories were poured as the red wine wrote the words to a great Christmas Lunch,
I laughed to many a tale about their previous Christmas trips,
Smiles simmer in this cauldron of enjoyment,
The red wine even produced miracles,
Overcooked beef became irrelevant in the cape of chuckles,
To be included in such a positive way, real and not in a forced manner,
Opening the door to showcase the missing piece on the mantle of Christmas,
I’m glad I chose to go down the stairs,
I felt a little overwhelmed by all the morning family togetherness being showcased,
But my faith in humanity has been restored,
As long as the flickering light within the hand of Christmas remains,
I will try my best to rise to most challenges,
As today a small gesture had a hugely heartwarming effect,
A large impact that will not fade in time.
Begin with something positive;
no need to start out negative.
A writer needs encouragement;
it feeds their ego nourishment.
And what is strong about the piece?
Is there a spot that needs some grease?
Or did it flow like brooks in spring?
Is there a line that really rings?
Can you suggest some helpful hints
that act like after-dinner mints?
And did their writing make you cry?
Or, perhaps, it made you sigh.
Did you giggle? Did you laugh?
Do you want their autograph?
Was there a phrase that kept you hooked?
Or was the subject overcooked?
Was your perception so engaged
you couldn't wait to flip the page?
Above all else, try to be kind.
Writer, reader intertwined.
Checking the lights on the dashboard when they flash and stay red:
it's the oil that needs to be changed or the engine that requires
maintenance, and in frigid temperatures who would venture outside and get frostbites?
A car is a necessity, a commodity and besides daily pleasure, it may cost a lot indeed.
Running to the grocery store through the backdoor when milk is low,
and guests wait for a fresh coffee pot and you put on a face not so mellow,
and much worse when you forget the roast in the oven...the bird you admire,
and smoke fills your kitchen...you just dial 911 and scream, " My house in on fire! "
But the worst one that can send you into havoc...
when the mean kid down the block throws a rock
and your window shatters and the cat flees with the swiftest animal beat,
but the dog gets vicious and runs after him by exposing his sharp teeth.
Ever forgot to send your mom a Christmas or Easter card?
She'll call you the same day knowing that the Post office won't deliver,
and what her voice will sound like? Soft or harsh, or angry as a bard?
I can imagine the words she will say, " Have you forgotten something, dear? "
These are just few of them that can drive you crazy like wild kids who love to fight
and make you head spin and ache until you sit down and take a break by a lamplight,
" Ouch!" You got burned from the splashing water while draining your steamy pasta...
you complain,"It's overcooked and not al dente!" And like mother you exclaim,"Basta!"
* The word "Basta" in Italian means " It's enough "
Raw emotions
Churns like oceans
In my mind's eye
And my heart's cry...
Is left unheard again
Where have you been?
I will not worry
I will not hurry
I'm just concerned and I want the best for you
My ego of I'm-better-than-you is thrown out the window and front door for you too
Constructive criticism is what I need
I don't want your destructive put-downs
Humiliated as it already is...this engaging greed, I don't feed on, for it's not a good flower, but a bad weed
Don't give me demoralizing comments that gives me unhappy frowns
I earned the right
To have standards of being a positive poet wholeheartedly
I fight the good fight
To have the aptitude and ability to move on to other substantial things fortunately
We went through a De Ja Vu with a touch of Desperation
Hey who are you to say that I'm an exasperation?
I live to be a true role model inspiration
I sacrifice myself for others' sensation
"Live in the now"
Is an Incredible saying...without saying I'm just saying
Somehow I don't know how
To respond to my endless, foolish praying
Nobody cares about me...or at least it feels like it from so far away
I'm so upset because I want the spotlight when everyone else steals it from me today
I will be stronger than they'll ever know
I will go where the wicked wind will blow
I want to refrain from complaining
No more name calling...self-sustaining
Arrogant comments are not needed anywhere
Refrain from driving me insane or in utter despair
Even if it's just a hair...
Yet, you still don't care
Strikes me odd really that you are acting Real Nasty
You're something else, unfeeling and sassy
I'm not ready
It's difficult being me
I'm so unsteady
Felt this uncertainty
Throw me your confetti
Celebrate my downfall with me
I'm an overcooked spaghetti
The trash will accept me possibly
If I ran far away from yesterday,
I would compete with tomorrow
I'm in this race together with you
I will regain the strength that shines anew
Twelve months later
I’m struggling for a motivator
To get me up in the morning
My life at present is stagnant and boring
Mixed feelings about my ex-wife
Am I missing her from my life?
Yes I’ve dated many people
But none have reached the height of her steeple
I miss the companionship
I’m on constant guilt trip
I think about her every day
When I see her it makes my day
How can I move on from this abyss?
Of desolate lands which the world will dismiss
A black hole in darkness of space
Reminds of the taste of overcooked mace
Do I continue this lie?
And keep looking through my glass eye
Or do I try and be strong
Identify where things went wrong
I need to sort out my life
Perhaps even have a chat to the ex-wife
Is the marriage salvageable or is this a blind spot
Or shall I just un-tie our love knot
Crying is not the answer
I need to eradicate this cancer
That consumes my world at present
Life is not a television segment
Created:-13/10/17
Finished 3rd place in Broken Hearted Poems competition
Contest sponsor:- Broken Wings
Contest Name:- Broken Hearted Poems
Her scrambled pessimism flowed like lava streams
Her yoke incubated more than just hopes and dreams
A alien world that resembled a festering wound
Smouldering ash, toxic gas was all that could be found
Her primordial soup had the chaotic future of a rotten egg
Tomorrow was a dark blanket - overcooked solid like a boiled egg
Her yesterdays were a ghost town of erupted volcano's
And life was - an overheated oven - a raging inferno
Before the first fish hatched to become seafood for the shark
I craked open the atmosphere to release a spicy aroma with a fork
Before the first dinosaur wore the scales of her costume
I gave the world more than all the oceans could ever consume
I was an unknown element nourishing in the stifling enigma
As a master chef wailing onions and chopping red magma
I was an unknown flavour preparing for this exquisite moment
The main ingredient - beaten into a beautiful omelette
This is a colabration of Shane, Dhruv, and Deborah
Buzz, Buzz
catch the fuzz,
it's all a big fus this buzz,
heros of literature use good buzz words,
knock buzz, it's all a fuz
its time for all this fus,
quarel tantra mantra anger song literature anger jam,
superherores knock before the clock clocks,
superheros do the tantra mantra,
the simple life dance,
with simple talks,
the secret is out,
superheros do coloberate,
colors do shout,
Naga Anthemson talks Naga buzz anthems,
hush, naga can't get rid of this fuzz,
smile and blush like an x o yo,
Naga Anthemson beats the beat,
superheros without second heart beat,
death is angry,
selfless without feet,
Naga, I told you,
Superheros dont beat to shoes,
think of blues,
the times now are a few,
life has feeling with all views,
anger wishes are a struggle beyond screws,
the universe is universally beaten,
you have to take a hit like some jews,
it's not my writing it's beyond my self in your shoes,
Selfless buzz, it's also called a big universally known buzz fuzz fus beat, drew.
Written by Dhruv Pandya
I need a moment of peace so I can see what I need to see,
I know what I need to see definetaley not to lose it, but be a man and try to go through with
it,
I need time alone, we like to call it me time,
no games, no nothing just me time,
focus on my dos and don'ts,
my who and wants,
dont snooze don't cheat ,
just have time to be me
Written by Shane Anonomous.
A towering inferno,
Bursting though my veins,
Anger and venom,
Holding onto me,
with unholy, binding chains,
The driving force is,
Pitch, black, and corse,
A red hot sweat,
From my feet to my neck,
Exploding inside my churning gut,
From the depths of Hell,
This emotion does dwell,
The foulest emotion,
Has become a devotion,
Precognition beyond their ambition,
Like an overcooked steak,
That's burned to a cinder,
Too crisp to eat,
For it tastes like shoe leather,
Red hot poka dots,
Spin through my eyes,
The color of red,
Wrapped around my head,
It's ready to break,
Apart my heart,
For the utmost I know,
Anger you must control,
Drive back that dark force,
To the depths of Hell,
For such a horrific emotion,
Is too dangerous,
To be devotion.
Written by Deborah Jarell
Once a year it cometh
All through the year we await
A time of expectant joy
The cynical say it’s a commercial ploy
Tis the time we aim to be happy
Tis the season for supposed love and cheer
Tis the time of snow and frolicking
Tis the time we spend a lot of money
Tis the season for gifts aplenty
Tis the season to be merry
Tis the season to love and cherish
Tis the season for egg nog
Tis the time to have an overfilled belly
Tis the season of puddings and pies
Tis the season for that overcooked turkey
Tis the time of the yearly church visit
Tis the season of carol singing
Tis the season for ho ho ho ing
Tis the season for thanksgiving
Tis the season to watch reruns on TV
Tis the season to be drunk on sherry
Tis the season for fraternity
When it goes it will be missed
Some may wonder why we do this
Another Xmas another year
Another time of forced cheer
Another blessed year over that we couldn’t bear
Thanks for Xmas and all we hold dear
The acrylic line pulled taught as he bit down.
The lake was so still as to mimic a black oil slick -
She suddenly breaks away and churns like an overcooked pot -
Ripples glide along the boats surface
As he grabs the rod.
Closure burns hot in his mind as his weathered hands grip the reel.
The tug of the monster that lurks beneath the boat -
makes his cameo appearance in the murky underbelly -
Thudding against the bottom of the old boat
As the crickets sing.
His mind randomly jumps back to a memory.
He remembered his father’s old tackle box -
Remembering the pity he had on the writhing worm -
And the sickening feeling as dad hooked him
And cast his line.
His wife knew he was out here and disapproved.
Even though she didn’t even say a word but turned over -
She avoided saying a word while he pulled the rubber waders
Over his plaid pyjama bottoms
And quietly closed the door.
This was surely the biggest Bass on this cursed lake.
Confidence oozed from his knarled fingers as the catch came closer -
Finally he’d prove the old bat wrong and defy his lodge buddies -
No more mocking and no more duelling with the woman
He sighs with relief.
The rod bent under the heavy weight of the bass’s fight.
But he was determined to prove his wife wrong -
The lake was alive with excitement as if the trees themselves
Were watching every second leading up to the arrival
When the line broke.
Flying leaf.
Tuesday I´ve looked in my kill list, but couldn´t find
anyone to drone today, yet had time for the betting
shop and won ten euros on a horse called Abdulla.
In my trunks only, I went for a scooter drive; country
lane a woman came out of her dwelling and crossed
herself, yes I look like an overcooked vanilla pudding;
but no need of her to throw pebbles and set her
poodles on me. Why do I end up in the wrong places?
Once was waiting for a bus taking me to Garston and
it was raining; I have forgotten what I was doing there,
I remember a black woman who gave me a sunshine
smile and rain stopped. Still Tuesday and I have no
assassination list ready only memories of a life where
I was torn from the mother oak, drifting in the wind
Childhood Xmas memories, mine are not so fine.
Daddy would overindulge in the Christmas wine.
Mother and the turkey never could get on.
The ham overcooked, boiled dry on Xmas morn.
Presents were a problem, so many to be bought.
Mum and Dad said Santa must have forgot.
Thinking of Xmas past, I must pause awhile.
As in remembering, I also have to smile.
Carols in the church, gentle flakes of snow,
falling on our faces as we gazed from below.
Frost on the window at bedtime as we play.
Certain in the night I heard Santa's sleigh.
Cowboy suits and guns with caps that bang.
Sweeties, cuddly toys and dolls that sang.
Best of all the feeling of magic in the air,
Christmas Eve family, kneeling united in prayer.
It’s been a choppy day for trading,
And the market’s looking wan,
Gold is sticking to its vaults
While Bitcoin faces a ban
Greece is eying the drachma,
Its kebabs now overcooked,
While Chinese knees are trembling
As America cooks its books
And as the rich get richer
And the poor man fades away,
Money, gold and diamonds,
Will always win the day.
It's because of the bacon.
Yeah, it looks good on the menu, sitting there at the rim of the plate. Glistening. Archetypally ridged and ruffled. Positioned perfectly next to the eggs over easy, the pancakes, buxom and buttered, the sausage links, dwarfed but respectable.
Net, the Grand Slam holds its own. At $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas), it's still a bargain. The eggs are fine. The pancakes are as good as any. The sausage links are, you know, OK.
But the bacon... The bacon b-a-con. A swindle, a masquerade, a false promise, a double-cross, tissue-thin, gossamer, anorexic, nervous (nervosa in Spanish), frail, skittish, fragile, and afraid. Overcooked, ipso brittle, short crust, and crumbling. Try to cut a slice, and "snap-chink!" Chips fly everywhere. The knife (if you use one) smacks the porcelain. The fork is stunned, helpless; its tines useless as the spoon.
"Crack!" Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to do that. Do you want me to brush it off your plate? Hey, a little piece went in your salad, a bacon bit. Do you like bacon bits? I think they're good. And there're not usually made of real bacon."
What are you gonna do with your eggs now? The Grand Slam doesn't come with toast. Everybody's looking at you, waiting to see your next move. "Yeah, I like to mix eggs with my pancakes. You don't do that sometimes? Really? It's good. You want a bite? No? OK..."
It's not the cook's fault. What's he supposed to do? He can barely see the damn things on the grill. Can't blame the waitress or the shift manager. The pigs are probably regular size. You can't expect the stock holders to take up pitchforks. What do you want for $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas)?
That's why I stopped going to Denny's.
Note: The person who lived next store to me growing up invented bacon bits for McCormick. True story.
He sliced her chest to free her soul
To witness the red marrow within she refused him
Loving the tension he overshadowed through her pure windows
He buries his anxiety into the depths of her hollow sorrow
She no longer envied the dying who explored life in a flash
Right at the end...impatience now ran in the veins for her flesh
Coveted, craving the stroking of his lit candle
He branded a tattoo with all the spectrum he could needle
The seasoned man the naked boy had morphed
Into a beast ravenous to her dead pose
She forgave what he ate and buried...
What he overcooked and unleashed...
This mole that had dug her grave became blinded
By the bliss her heavens shone from the high cloud
The sigh carrying the mountain of troubles adrift like a crosswind
And rained down joyful fountains of teardrops like gumdrops
Her eyes that marvelled like polished marbles
Became constellations in the night air...
Her release carried on the wing of bird formations
The fabric of her innocence on a permanent migration