Best Patties Poems
Anchored by its feet hangs the carcass
Butcher removes brisket and strings it
Chuck steak diced for stews and pies
Dark well matured silverside rests
Entrails give the dogs a royal feast
Flank minced for spaghetti bolognese
Gullet chopped into stock pot simmers
Hanging meat swings as the butcher works
Icy still from the blast chiller
Juicy steaks thickly cut are parcelled up
Kebabs skewered, placed on display
Loin of beef neatly lined up
Minced steak patties for burgers
Neck used in both stock pot and stew
Offal set aside for pate and pies
Perfectly roasted beef ready to carve
Quick flash fry of rib eye seals in juices
Rump not too trimmed dribbles on grill
Sirloin anointed by a king sizzling
Tongue gently braised in gravy or stock
Utensils casting shadows on the wall
Venison from red deer's makes tasty things
Wing rib rubbed with hot spices waits
Xhosa cattle graze in pastures green
Yellowed meats set aside for soup
Zibeline hides scrapped and cured, nailed up
8/27/2015
contest Any Poem written in August
Sure.
Ketchup.
Pickle
Horseradish too.
Mayo
Lettuce?
That’s up to you.
Are your patties thin or thick?
Can I gobble one down right quick?
A touch of butter
A slab of bacon.
Please put them on
If mine you’re making.
Are your patties thin or thick?
Can I gobble one down right quick?
Bleak winter Melbourne morning,
a cold wind coming in
from across the Bay
and blowing down the street,
past the Esplanade Cafe
with the smell of coffee
and warm air spilling out
from an open door.
I stop, look at the cake
and pastry display through
the window, the basket
of freshly baked croissants,
Danish pastries topped with
strawberries and apricots
and glazed with syrup.
A cloud of steam
from the espresso machine
adds a touch of the surreal.
Anticipation moistens my mouth
on the sight of French vanilla
slices plump with custard
and cream, muffins erupting
from their papery patties,
Portuguese tarts, thick slices
of carrot cake topped
with icing. I savor each
with an imaginative bite
and decide my treat…
then groan. I've left my wallet
at home.
( for Deb M )
Salmon steak or fillet
Choose fillet or salmon
steak
Either way I can get it
Is alright with me
I enjoy a salmon steak
Cooking on the barbecue
Or the fillet is tasty to
Either way I enjoy it
Salmon from a can
Is handy to have
For a salad bowl
Or making salmon
patties
My day began with mommy
making beef patties all morning
I helped cutting the veggies for
the curry soup while sipping ginger
beer I remembered the curry for her
special curry goat we were preparing
for her sisters to visit from Trench town
my head spending day dreaming about it
anything other than our family tradition
the Caribbean bakery we were the
descendant no if ands or buts about
granddad made home made gingerbread
cookies while uncles peeled sugarcane
the elders brought raw cocoa from the
Mahogany trees coconut husks hung
sparingly as we drank coconut milk
while the storms brewed over the
shanty town of Kingston the cock
crowed throughout trench town as my
cousins played keyboards and guitars in the
street to the the sweetest sultutry sound of
St Elizabeth infamous Caribbean beat
In loving memory of Dad
Caribbean Bakery 1539 Howard street
Chicago Illinois..
you used to whisper to me
in stoop slang and bachata basslines,
kiss my cheek with corner store breath -
hot beef patties, papitas, a dollar Arizona.
you’d walk me past block parties
where the speakers cracked from joy,
and the aunties sang louder than the music.
your hands were rough -
but they knew my curves,
my story,
my roots.
but now,
your voice got quieter.
real estate signs stutter
where murals used to speak.
you wear button-ups now — ironed crisp,
smell like rosemary and rent hikes.
your laugh don’t echo
off bricks no more.
it gets lost
somewhere between the wine bar
and that dog park
you said wasn’t for us,
but now you walk through like you forgot.
when did you stop calling me “mami”?
start saying “ma’am”?
when did you trade timbs for toms,
cafecito for cold brew,
“you good?”
for
“you’re trespassing”?
i loved you when you were loud,
when you cursed and prayed in the same breath,
when your shoes had scuffs
and your hair still smelled like shea butter and sweat.
now you slicked it back — forgetful.
i see you in Whole Foods windows
with your new girls —
their yoga mats, their green juices,
their way of looking at me
like i don’t belong
in the place that built me.
you changed, Harlem,
and not in the way lovers grow —
but in the way dreams get flipped for profit.
still,
i walk your blocks like a jilted bride,
tracing memories
where laundromats used to hum
and grandma's gospel broke morning silence.
you once held me
like a secret.
now
you just walk by.
Beware the Bomber - Epulaeryu
They call them “Belly Bombers”
Onion steamed burgers,
They say to, “Take home a sack”,
Square, holey patties.
I ate too many,
And I got,
Sick!
Original poem written for the contest:
“Fast Food Epulaeryu” ¤¤ 3rd Place ¤¤
Composed 4-28-2011
Oh McDonald's
You’re the happy death of me
Your sweet, creamy chocolate covered
Dip vanilla ice-cream cones are the best
Oh McDonald's
You’re the happy death of me
That Big Mac
With double beef patties
Double cheese
Lettuce, pickles, onions
Mingled with special recipe sauce
On a sesame seed bun
Just melts in my mouth
For a yummy, happy tummy
Oh McDonald's
You’re the happy death of me
Those Golden scrunches crisp French fries
Just jumps out at me
And say,“Eat Me”
Those Golden arches are my roads sign
For all my satisfying needs
6/4/2015
Contest Name: Sing Me.. A JINGLE!
Sponsor: Lyric Man
nitrogen rich dung
loose green cow patties flung….
sprouts tender and young
Cooking is my hobby-it is the greatest pleasure of my life.
Besides, no weapon is as useful as a ladle or chopping knife,
I dream of cooking in my sleep, of cooking, when I awake,
I dream of rustling up a creamy mousse, or a chocolate cake.
I bet a seasoned magician cannot perform a better trick,
As fantastic and mind-blowing, though I admit, not as quick!
I’m very confident of making your mouth abashedly dribble--
You’ll agree I’m sure----there’s no plausible reason to quibble!
If you taste the delicacies, your craving will grow and grow.
You’ll lick your lips and fingers too, still wanting more and more,
By just adding a nondescript herb, or sprinkling a spices few,
You can have an exotic Stroganoff, from an innocuous stew.
It is difficult to comprehend the fine intricacies of cooking;
How the Meat Balls become Patties is beyond reckoning,
Steamed Momos and Dumplings are virtually the very same,
A modest Biscuit and a Cookie are only different in name.
As “through the stomach is the way to a man’s heart”,
To win over my much-loved Man, cooking I had to start.
But my culinary expertise did not stand me in good stead,
For Alas, my Man is no more—long since gone and dead!
humming patter drips
Refreshing flow revive
mud patties natural
The nineteen 80's
Early eighties was my sweet teens,
as I could see every thing in greens,
College canteen and vegetable patties,
Oh my youthful eighties !
Remember those days of bunking classes,
late night parties and clinking of glasses,
Old movies and handsome heroes,
Exam days and highly probable zeroes,
Writing letters was then an art,
No mobiles, postages also not that smart,
Interactions and lot of clinical acumen,
Computer machines were beyond imagine,
Lots of time for pondering and retrospection,
Busy now the life is, not even introspection ??
Written March 7th, 2015
For contest "Decades" by Kelly Deschler
Closed
Arabic Poem by: Hammoodi Al-Kinani*
Translated From Arabic
By: Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
=======================
Closed, so said the first door
Dead End, so said the second door
Don't Worry,
Sayeth all the doors!
Destitution! Destitution! Destitution!
So shouts the beggar in my face.
Drought! Drought! Drought!
So speaks the river to me.
Me ....?
I am still dancing in ecstasy,
Searching for leftover from a loaf
My mother baked in the first year of the last century;
I carry my portfolio of official documents
Containing,
A fake birth certificate,
Certificate of citizenship bearing odd digits,
Green housing card
Disclosing that I am still a Bedouin
Searching for a lost camel!
Our ration card
Does not contain, yet,
Materials quota;
It bears my name, my third, grandfather's name,
And the doubtful surname;
What else is there in my papers portfolio?
My permanent address
And house number
One, slash, One
District Number One
Not inhabited with people like me
Street, haunted by mud
And side-walks walking barefoot
Over pedestrians walkways.
Still wearing my father's shabby cloths,
I touched my belly to learn
How to broil hunger patties on it;
A policeman saw me,
He waved his whip to my face,
"Exposing your private parts and defects is prohibited!
Your belly is a defect,
Your unusual appearance is
A defect,
All these papers in your portfolio are defects;
We are charged with watching
Those who expose their defects in public."
Standing in line to receive
Laundry detergent is a defect,
Even scratching one's back
Falls within the Forbidden section;
When I felt frightened,
I went to visit my father's grave;
My mother was lying in his flank.
I prayed for my mother
And asked God his forgiveness
For my father
For repeatedly rubbing his belly
Because of bug bites.
------
Translated by; EM. prof. inaam Al-Hasjimi
USA
September 23, 2009
--------------------
* Hammoodi Al-Kinani is an Iraqi writer
Chef Mary serves vegetable patties
cause she knows they don't have any Daddies!
She the vegan Queen
of the San Fran scene
for no meat does her store front carry!
A lap dancing molecule is dressed in a monocle. Such dainty prowess but naked no dress. No suit could taste an acrylic sheet as sheer fabric is often moving unseen across oceans,beams, and many window ledges. Who would then argue that a tempered sword could beckon in this era as most people have taken off wool and now the flock stands bare. A show of a shower. An increased discolouration of tyranny and a mounting view of hue. Mist not a moat. And take no orphaned lonely goat to a show. An AK47 is looking at a tent. And although rusted is trusted and thrown around in the air with great gusts of emblematic soul thrusts. Dupe not a diamond headed cobra. For ancestral wisdoms flourish if harm is perceived. Placing of the cloth should be attempted only when the stream is full. And the stench from a rhododendron printed garden is abominable yet can it be abolished? "yes" cried the 893 serpents, 500 belligerent buffalo, an earwig, and a giant sea turtle. Carve that then. Ha ha. It is to be the dutiful honour of the maiden of the eleventh ocean to place chorographical lines on necklaces. It is neither a weave nor a wand. And placing ones hands behind ones back is a sign not of cohesion it is detrimental to a bloodline. Once sold. A soldier fed is a soldier dead. And a field of archaically driven radio beams is a quagmire of hidden ancestry. Gone. But not gone. It is not the place for a nine foot leopard print jacket to state wisdoms at a ball or a garden party. It is the place of the feet. The dust. The trust. The formation of the ground. The true leaders denied but not denied. And all chaotically clam style ship faces and all Jacobean worshipping masonry brick heads placed the many many peas in a boiling pan then laughed. Sold manuscripts for money. Then drank blood in oceanic temples. Worldy wholly wantons. And a sack of germinating potatoes pollinated. Discuss not a wonder. Pulling pleasing playing partying patties pastries pasteurised. Slip slap slop then. Great. Fantastic isn't it? Feel not akin to a tired dilapidated drinks fountain? Xxxxx passing Paddington people xxxxx adjudicator adhere. Xxxxx vaporisations p y q Zr