Best Pressure Cooker Poems
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
Somewhere the pressure cooker whistles,
Rises in the night air, the smell of pulao rice.
The peddler selling eggs on his final tour,
The ringing of his cycle bell and paddle distinctly heard,
Elsewhere a cat mews, finding a safe spot to rest,
Or mayhap from hunger, I shall know never,
Dogs bark at a ragged man pacing fast,
His sole hanging slippers chatter away against tar,
As he glances at the canines from the corner of his eye.
A weak twig falls off the peepal tree nearby,
On the asbestos, creating a cracking noise,
Unendearing to his ears, the toddler wails,
A rickshaw shifts gears, as I shift sides
The sound of acceleration arrives at my eardrums,
A pillow atop my ears I rest,
An attempt feeble in decibel-arrest,
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
I sense the creator is perhaps
The conduit in this conspiracy,
A gentle wind blows,
A pair of unshut windows rattle,
A metal latch dangling beats out-of-rhythm,
The jamun trees rustle, sounding
Like sand falling on tin-sheet,
The sound of roaring cheers
From a cricket match on TV otherwhere,
Triggering the flow of my curse on technology,
At the apartment gate,
A bunch of teens giggle away,
To a cunning joke or a murder mystery,
I wonder in utter dismay.
A medley of noises, of all kinds and creed,
Can someone let the world know, I am desperately trying to sleep.
THE IDIOM I MADE UP IS - HE EXPLODED LIKE A PRESSURE COOKER
My son has returned to our home
He’s mouthy and just loves to moan
Now nothing is right
We constantly fight
He’s like a dog missing its bone!
His wife was once such a good looker
Her red lips she just loved to pucker
After botox and filler
She looked like a gorilla ...
He exploded like a pressure cooker!
The tension between us is rife
I’m his mum and not his ex wife
But his reaction is mean
Shouting, letting off steam
She left him because of this strife!
Create an idiom contest Sponsored by Jesse Day
TOTAL FICTION WRITE!
07~28~16
Germ-free Mason jars, hot from the pot of boiling water, gurgling on the cast iron wood stove, stood ready to receive the fruits and vegetables, fresh from the fields and orchards. Lids and sealing rings locked in the freshness. Mama, in her apron skillfully flavored the veggies as she prepared for meals months ahead. The old pressure cooker hissed as it played its part in preserving the bounty of the family farm. Preserves, jams and jellies, sealed in wax, filled the cupboard just waiting for future hot buttered biscuits.
Peeling, dicing, chopping, pickling were all part of the process that brought kin from far away to socialize and join in preserving food for times when the land rested and awaited the start of a new season.
Outside, Sauerkraut (layer of shredded cabbage, layer of salt,) repeated and compressed, awaiting fermentation filled the depth of a Crock on the front porch.
These glimpses of the times that are all but gone will remain with me forever. Life was tough at times but love was the balm that treated the abrasions of near poverty. And the tender touch of those who came for “Canning Days” was felt until the last jar was consumed. God’s bounty awaited, and next year’s promises stood always before us.
Written by: John Posey 10/21/13
Inspired by Canning Colors,
A poem by Donna Jones
(prior to tha ode dee us political stink sans hillary rodham clinton, i scrawled out this poem. her likelihood to grasp to political mantle than considerably greater than fourteen months when another official will help keep america safe and sound from cares and concerns of an uncertain future).
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Bill leave me
Hugh will cause a beloved howel
From him – the divine necromancer with magic dowel
If ambition stirs thee to make presidential bid for we Chelsea
Reverberating throughout terrestrial bowel
Analogous to former reigning supreme ringleader Muhammad Ali!
As an obedient student who crossed his t’s and affixed every “I” with a dot
Although high letter grades this older papa never got
(Undiagnosed anxiety inducing pressure cooker symptoms made me hot)
I recognize brilliance, and thus would immediately cast my lot
From the current secretary of state whose political skills right on spot!
One year hence, this democrat will cast his vote
Without doubt maintaining his party line
No matter campaigners with republican huzzahs will tote
Unable to change opinion of mine
Praying that economic maelstrom she can brazenly smote
If necessary seeking oracle of Delphi for a positive sign
Or devising my own catchy slogan to quote
Common as this generic human dust mote
Whose esprit de corps would to the stratosphere float
Like some over inflated helium filled ballooning goat
Kidding nobody that view from on high depicts sinking American boat!
Please take to heart
From this fellow (among ship of fools)
Who decries special interest groups sway to sabotage and up-end donkey cart
With extreme elephantiasis haunting white house with ghouls
With penchant to undermine sacred constitution with graffiti art!
This Joe schmoe of a lame duck nada so soup per poet
(who idolizes billy eve able applications of a cigar re: monica lewinsky)
would be in awe
And inwardly hee-haw
If this poem affected your name to be on ballot garnering cheers from this paw
And knows that in those random polls made of straw
The former forty second first lady gaga to engender revolutionary thaw!
Puddin Day
Christmas Begins
they come on a Saturday
in November, the Puddin People,
brothers, sisters, nieces arrive.
family with their arms full of parcels
sacks bulging with ingredients
and of course the maestro to orchestrate.
bags of raisins: sultana, golden
tins of spices from distant trees
grown in exotic lands,
flour white as the snow
sugar and carrots by the pounds
and an new bottle of best Brandy.
on a cold and frosted morning
we gather for another year
snow or no, our spirits are tinselled
bells tingle from the sleeping garden
we carry out a tradition formed
out of our love for Mum and the season.
Christmas pudding created each year
since the first, exploded onto the walls
and ceiling of the kitchen on Clinton street
ever since nineteen forty four.
this is our day when we
remember together.
an assembly line of merry alchemists
forms around the table in the warm kitchen
chopping, measuring, mixing and tasting
telling jokes as old as Methuselah.
laughter rises up on scents of steaming
cinnamon and nut meg
old stories, each year slightly different
depending on the teller, regale us all
with Brennan history spilling into
catch-up conversations
about kids and their lives
those dispersed to the far corners.
the pressure cooker,
one of Methuselah’s wive’s,
perks happily on the stove
its own Christmas song of
whistles and hisses
producing the sweet dessert.
the day stretches out unnoticed
by the flour daubed
some what sticky crew
popping in batter
pulling out fat round puddings
enough for everyone’s celebration.
we part in the dusk for another year
Holding close our memories like gold
and pudding of course all brown and moist
soaking in its first drizzle of Napoleon.
at Christmas dinner, no matter how far apart,
we feast on Puddin and remember.
So many years ago, in my teen years,
our mom received a gift, her newest 'toy',
a Presto pressure cooker added to
her kitchen to create meals we'd enjoy.
Split pea soup recipe she'd planned to make,
to cook for sure in minutes, not in hours.
Excited we had gathered round to watch,
and knew fine soup for dinner would be ours.
At once, the pressure cooker went berserk!
It started hissing, shaking...gave a hint,
as soup shot up to paint our ceiling green,
that momma shoulda read the darn fine print!
Sandra M. Haight
~7th Place~
Contest: Shoulda Read The Fine Print - 2
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 02/18/2018
True Story!
A baby cries all night "mommie"
No one answers her feeble plea
Soon the baby's cries stop-dried up
As her speech halts and emotions' cup
The adult carries the hurt child
Every snub, hurt, or those seemed are filed
A need for forgiveness weighs heavy
But deeper, deeper, deeper bury~
A pressure cooker boiling erupts
Each thought, action, steadily corrupts
Just a little time spent releasing
Grudges no longer increasing
Forgiveness is for the one holding.
Heavy weights lifted; new life molding
Inspired by Craig Cornish's Contest About Forgiveness
Written: September 22, 2015
The suburban pressure cooker expelled its multiethnic horde north. Laden with implements of leisure, bicycles, kayaks, canoes and camping gear; world weary travelers of urban and suburban bent surged north ever, north. Bucking, they wrenched in unison at road repairs, shunted into single lanes by flaming orange cones of warning like so many track horses at the gate. Tail bitten, truck locked windows up; the denizens drove forth cocooned in metal steeds seeking the clean air and open expanses, north.
Few, freer souls dare the unfiltered air of the artery, north on motorcycles or in convertibles, hoods down, or windows down, blaring an enlivening mantra of sixties rock as they shimmied forward in the in the endless conga line of commerce, past urban blight. The trip north became a Chaucerian Pilgrimage from Nutmeg State to the Green Mountain State of Vermont.
The border crossed, the sky opens wide-eyed, ridge rimmed dolphin gray clouds swim in a cerulean scene. Roadside picnic tables fill. Monarch butterflies flit in the breezes between majestic rows of pungent pines. The whoosh of traffic dulls and the robin’s call emerges over the roiling hills and gurgling brooks. Silence falls, complete; upon the entrance to the first gravel road. Heaven is immersed in the scent of fresh hay and sweet purple clover.
the noose around my neck only a little colorful scarf on my last day as a slave
to the chefs always screaming their short comings as it's never the fault of the pressure cooker of the kitchen
to managers revolving the doors and telling you are call waiter as you have to wait for the couple that forgot to get a room as they gross you out with their display
an hour or more for the worst tip of the night as they are here to push your buttons
the maitre D as I told them to change their tune if to collect a percentage of your earning and to be sued ask you to finish his job as he is leaving to catch his train on clockwork schedule every night
the next day the computer was fixed with a new tittle and not a thanks from general management to save their ass from a lawsuit as I heard rumors of protest
the bartender an other story as drug dealers you have to bow to them or they will make your life difficult and suck as otherwise your customers will have to wait for their needs
the owners mostly absent only showing their faces to collect do not know the ordeal
as in the past they forgot to declare you and their earnings everything under the table but them protected you are the one suffering the consequence of retirement as you show zero on your social security number for years and never paid hourly toil dusting the chairs and the what not if only mouse **** I though I had a deal with them to pay my taxes and I will be all right
took me two years to amend their lies as they though I was a wet back with fake identity
but still those years show as zero as they didn't pay their due to the government for the welfare of old age but their own
to the clients as they are the redemption of many fun night
with the exchange of words to make a meal memorable
that is what made my job worthwhile as I had a chance to meet many stars enjoying my back serve
black pants white shirt I could tell you so many stories of encounter
A woman of thousand hands,
Never I could imagine,
When I was just Ten,
My Mother said she has,
At twenty five, after my marriage,
I really found those thousand hands,
Attached very close to my arms,
And I am still pleading god for some.
Before the cock coos my mornings wake,
Kitchen chaos with oil spills and burnt fingers,
Pressure cooker whistles and washing machine grunts,
Coffee to in laws and Green tea to husband,
School bus horns always haunt,
To feed their break fast makes me gaunt,
To pack their lunch and daily books,
And search all around for the little one's missed notebook
The socks and lace of my husband shoes,
Always play hide and seek to choose
His shirt and trousers neatly ironed
To tie his tie he roars like lion,
When omelet and sandwich toasted brown,
His face turns red and gruesome,
When he skips his breakfast for the 8 clock train,
My heart slips a beat to feel his hunger pain
The dinning table chairs are booked,
To serve my in laws with what was cooked,
Mocking stories and ill treating attitude,
Not a pinch of love or pleasing gratitude,
I swallow my tears for no time to wipe,
They always show their royal hype,
Seven years in their home,
They just look me like a servant with broom.
My saree and blouse dumped in cupboard,
Nothing matching and nothing good,
To tie them around with hooks and pins
It pricks my fingers but no time to clean the redskin,
What is left in the empty vessels
Fills my hungry stomach muscles
With little packed in shoulder bag,
And a portion of that to the pet that wags.
I run with heavy heart and soul,
So many thoughts and worries roll,
The bus stand queue shakes my leg,
The crowded Omni with no seats to beg,
Swiped my card but 10 minutes late,
Nothing can change, this is my fate
The ardent boss and flowing files,
Not one day enough to clear those piles,
When I sat on my seat,
Tears rolled down my cheeks,
Like a horse in the Derby race,
I run for life with out rest or space,
The credits goes to the Jockey on top,
Nobody notices the poor horses eye drop,
This is the destiny of working women like me,
Who serve as roots for the beautiful fruit tree.
Penny dropped circular clocks on carved out emblematic wisdom cones. Be careful if it rains coal dust as radioactive drones, mobile phones, and teapots too could all gather to form lines of imperialism. How rather interesting it is to count the snot flung out of the window. It often lands in a rather interesting pattern do you not think? And waiting for parcels is akin to waiting for a slug or a snail to travel sixteen times down and up a highway. Ok then. Great. Floors fathom first flinging fleeces. And the traditionalism is always at the number two position on a compass compressed clock canister. And one hour forty-five minutes in a pressure cooker is quite often akin to racing up a right angled hill. A salted mist is a skiing zone. Where lots of whales and dolphins play and make snowmen. And a snow go e is neither a pickled onion nor a jester playing a harpsichord. Ok then. That is the latest from the p y q. Z
i 2 have a dream
That one day
The poor will have enough
to eat and change to spare
Every child has both a
mother and father
And clean water to drink
And the sad and bleak
Who endlessly and soley
write about being sad and
put upon
Can find that certain missing
peace and happiness
To make the whole world
including them
Smile so broadly
even the unfortunate
For just a single second
See the darkened clouds
dissipate
And tunnel end illuminate
Free to love the world at last
outside this pressure cooker
looking glass
Devoid of sadness nullified
By unbridled glee and joy
happy thoughts
Where not only the fittest survive
But every species on earth
thrives
And escape this existential
perpetual nightmare
Species fall to extinction every week
Of natural selection, scientists speak
But habitat destruction is caused by man
Who neglects to take an environmental stand
Ozone depletes as gas poisons the air
And death watch begins for the polar bear
Fluffy, white creatures who romp in the snow
Thrive in temperatures of fifty below
Earth’s Arctic playground is disappearing
Glaciers and tundra are quickly clearing
Revealing the woolly mammoth’s remains
Sad echoes from the last Ice Age retained
Since 2004 the Pole cap has depleted
Half the Arctic ice to sea has retreated
Glacial thickness shrinks a half foot each year
As mother bears nuzzle their cubs in fear
Preservation efforts now underway
But where will the rescued polar bears stay
If climate changes prevent the North Pole
From shifting to a site that’s polar-bear cold
Just twenty to twenty-five thousand remain
Perched on floating icebergs, moaning sad refrains
In fewer than fifty years all may be gone
Perhaps only in children’s books they’ll live on
* For Amy's "Ode to the Endangered" challenge
ODE TO PAPRIKA
greenhouse surrounded by
plucked plethora
of paprika peppers
fertile field of deep red
souls departed
their
homeland
rock-a-bye seas
brought
their
European presents
translucent onions tango
with aroma and flavor
sizzle in open
pressure cooker
heritable Hungarian paprikash
chicken and buttery dumplings
grands ~
my connection
to a land
flowing
with spice
O paprika
i kiss thee on
your red lips
and pinch
your rose cheeks*
7/8/2017
Rose paprika is considered the finest variety
In my kitchen, there's a treasure,
scrumptious dinner, it helps me prepare.
Under pressure it combines flavors,
Serves proudly, mouthwatering savors.
This wonder made of stainless steel,
Shines like a star among my utensils.
Rice, beans, soup, or stew,
Ready in a flash for the whole crew.
Safety valve and rubber gasket,
Ensure this helper is not a threat.
Though it shrieks like a train,
This gadget is a faithful friend.
I rely on this device a lot,
As it gives peace to my heart.
So, here's to the pressure cooker's plea,
Transforming ingredients into a glee!