Recipe for Promiscuity
Long life with a boring, snoring sod
made the wife a warring whoring broad.
For Dr. Ram Mehta's Tyburn Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011
Many ingredients bake writing inspiration
This recipe combines a stirring sensation:
Heaps of desires never realized
as marinated in teary sore eyes;
Quantities of wide open spaces
caramelized by nature’s appeal;
Ageless genuine emotional traces
sifted thru heart rendered graces;
Equal parts family and romantic love
as roasted within, without and above;
Measured creamed ideals of peace
with blanched pain and battle grease;
Diced wishes braised with thrill
bearing aromas of tangy heat or chill;
Slices of awe from a glorious tree
breaded with traits strong and free;
I do not forget sour spices of greed
dusted with mankind’s violent seed;
A mix of fears dredged in anxiety
with stress jelled in complexity;
and, lastly faith garnished spirit
grown in a soul conscious thicket.
If able, I mix love with ingredients above
before sampling my recipe once warmed up.
If savory, I serve it in Soup’s poetry cup.
... CayCay Jennings
January 20, 2017
Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2017
The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn,
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia,
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury,
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade,
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...
When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
Happiness is like a cake we bake that creates the joy and fullness of life.
And, the recipe begins with one cup of resilience to keep it all together
Place next, one cup of acceptance for loving yourself dearly as you are
Put in one cupful of appreciation for your life and the beauty of nature
Insert one cup of direction to help follow those special goals you seek
Next, blend in one cupful of emotion for life's intense love and feelings
Enter then, a heaping cup of relationships, made of family and friends
Stir in one cupful of giving for sharing your love and kindness with all
Stir, then add a cup of meaning for purpose that makes happiness rise.
There you have it!
Note: One Cup = lifetime
Sandra M. Haight
Contest: Happy Days
Sponsor: Nadya Ivette Negron
Contest: Happiness Acrostic
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015
I awaken; the darkened skies my alarm clock
I reek of whiskey, scotch and pastis
Tumbling out of bed, I reach for a cigarette
The dusk harkens as I rise to ply my trade
I am embodied inside a one room flat
The nightlife and the ladies both coming to life
Out the window I see the windmill so famous in red
Ladies with offers, men with drinks, the recipe for lust
I am the mime of the Moulin Rouge
I ready myself with my white painted face
Tonight another performance or so it seems
I shall juggle my knifes, with my many sad faces
Up up up in the air, one, two, three
Knifes in a whirlwind of iconic display
Around and around like the Moulin Rouge
I perform, toss and catch to applause
My sad face bows in graceful acknowledgement
As they toss their lose coins my way
If they see fit to fill my container of misery
I make for them my spectacular encore
I take a knife, a long black sharp blade
Tossed 12 feet in the air, dancing its way back down
As it slices the stem of a red rose in my hand
I now hand a pretty girl a cut rose
The ladies of the evening smile
They see I too traded romance for coin
How sad it is, this Moulin Rouge of dreams
Eleven more roses, and I shall earn my keep
Or so the ladies in red believe
I, on the other hand, will be changing the last act
I am tired of rent and being rented and rented cloth
I shall perform the ultimate act finale ce soir
Selecting the sharpest set of long fine knifes
Lighting them with orange flame, the juggling act begins
My audience enthralled, once again
Wondering maybe does he ever miss?
I never miss, I never shall, this is a certainty
The knifes a glow in fire, lighting the nighttime sky,
Tossed high, I lie down fast, tossed a rose in the air
A Knife as usual cut the rose stem
One, two, three, the knifes enter my heart
The blood will warm the falling rose
As it gently falls upon my silent chest
I die with a smile, yes my final act a success
The rose so tender upon my breast
Breathless all, Gay Paris has died once more
I never miss
Yet, I miss you
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
~Soup To Go~
This summer~ all I want is a bowl of soup
A secret flavor that combines every veggie group
An outcast taste of ancient granola herbs
All kinds of extracts that create different verbs
I will leave the table only to dance out in the rain
Round and round in wonder catering out my sweet refrain
I will visit mother and tell her I forgot her recipe
Brag about my soup and how I used and stole her ecstasy
Paint about the life she gives the grounded trees
Think about the sugar that makes me surrender to her sweet debris
I will order me a special~ with the right poetry breeze
Exchange my cookie dough with mothers pollen seeds
Hide behind her oak tree and listen to her endlessly
I can even cook myself a picture making nature my enemy
Close my eyes and smell the mist of self control
Hold on to my emotion and take a sip of my soup bowl
Add extra salt and pepper to every line I manipulate
Swirl my spoon around and smile at every thing I hate
Come sit down with me and collaborate
Lets cabbage out on mothers nature's plate
Wakening up to her blossoming sauce that drips with a certain flow
Driving by her White castle, and stare at another soup to go
Order me; a soup of all the things I see
Order me; a soup made out of mystery
Order me; a soup out of the things I wanna be
Order me; a soup made out of the sadness found inside of me
Order me; a coffee to go with my poetry soup
Type me a funny comment that will add a smile to my food group:-)
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011
Poetry is a Risky Business
The Recipe for Poetry
Turn volume medium high
Poor 3 shots of whiskey
Add 2 bottles of wine
Open 1 bag of chips
Add one box of Oreos
Listen to Alice Cooper
Then Dance of the knights
Then listen to all 3 at the same time
Stick pins into the doll of your ex
For added drama add some ketchup
Open up 2 brands of cheese
Because that shows some class that you have 2 types on hand
Before opening second bottle of wine
This way you’re not an alcoholic
Turn on some Paul McCartney and Uriah Heep
During moments the stereo is on high volume
Down to the skivvies it is, if you have a hockey stick
A little air guitar for some added inspiration
Cut up some Edgar Allen Poe poems
To put between the Oreos and cheese
Eat till the feeling of darkness overcomes you
Let your thoughts simmer 5 hours
When you wake up
You should have 1 or 2 poems facing you
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
If finding good times is your wish
And poetry your favorite dish,
Then visit us. The soup is on!
It’s piping hot and never gone.
And with so much to see and do,
This place is hopping! Rabbit stew
Has got to be our specialty
Because we move so rapidly.
I recommend a cup of Joe.
To keep up here, you can’t move slow,
for this is such a lively group,
you won’t be seeing turtle soup!
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
No turtle soup, but plenty of
All kinds of soup you’re sure to love -
Like vegetable hot in the pot;
Of healthy soup we have a lot!
If psychedelic is your thing,
Try special mushroom with a zing!
There’s spicy enchilada too
If Latin passion flows through you.
Some soup is salty; some is sweet,
And many soups are filled with meat.
There’s chicken noodle for the soul.
I guarantee that you’ll get full.
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
Learn how to post, and don’t be shy.
Most poets love when you reply,
Especially if you read their work.
New friendships are an added perk!
New poems appear on lists. Beware!
They vanish soon into thin air.
So many contests to get in.
You’ll feel your head begin to spin.
To learn the ropes, just ask around.
Quick! Like a bunny, leave the ground.
Hop to it! Ready, set, now GO.
Remember turtles are too slow……
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
'for Cindi Rockwell's "My Poetry Soup Recipe Contest"
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
Winds caressing fringes of
her deep chocolate tresses
as tree nymphs nimbly hid
midst fallen maple leaves
happily prancing round toes,
whilst a crescendo of chimes
played off in near distances,
warm apple pie aroma wafting
upon a zephyr tickling her nose,
unfastened her reddish cloak
for her e'er plunging neckline
exposed an ample décolletage
voluptuously heaving in broad
daylight waiting to seduce a crafty
wolf in sheep's clothing she had afore
encountered on the way to grannies,
called ahead to make reservations
for her & handsome knighted chef
hiding amidst the dark forest with
his trusty sharpened butcher knife,
had acquired Wolfgang Puck's
wickedly-satisfying secret recipe
for savory pack-of-wolves stew
Li'l Reddish Revenge is a dish best served cold-blooded with liberal
scads of punitive napkins and a bottle of vindictively chilled Chianti
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
I write my poems in a brown leather book
Simple and neat like the food that I cook
My ingredients are simple, no words too small
My vocabulary is easy, so I can use it all
I live at the beach and I play in the sand
But inspiration doesn’t come from this sun-soaked land
I was born in the mountains and there I roam free
As my stories will tell, that’s where I long to be
So I add some spice from my hillside past
And a dash from my families impoverished caste
I’ll throw into the mix a good joke or two
A little humor about an old mountain shrew
Maybe a pinch of the Gospel to remind me why I’m here
And a little bit extra for the non-believers to hear
Like any good food, it tastes good raw
But never watered down, you can’t drink it with a straw
It has to be chewed and properly digested
If I’ve done my job right you should be deeply affected.
MY POETRY SOUP RECIPE - Poetry Contest 1/18/17
Copyright © James Andersen | Year Posted 2017
Do not search for why
in love there is no why
no a doubt
you will not need an explanation
there is no formula or recipe
you just feel it
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014
He prepared the pie
With greatest care
Within the pot
My brains and hair
For hers had been
A lofty perch
Just a peg or two
Would never do
Formed the shell
Into the plate
My crushed bones fell
I could still see
But could not yell
The pie's aroma
A story to tell
My innards baked
Hour by hour
The smell of blood
And blackened flour
Words poured in
Enhanced the flavour
The humble pie
For her to savour
Fork to mouth
My body consumed
From the plate
My heart exhumed
The baker says
She's eating crow
The taste is bitter
She eats the pie slow
The true recipe
He does not show
Humble pies plentiful
Stacked row on row
The victims many
Some you may know
If he invites you
I beg you not to go!
For Sheri's Plentitude of Pie Contest,
I went with a halloween twist.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014
I could smell that fresh baked dough, rising up
through the air. Created from double zero flour,
from Italy, carefully prepared.
A fine effort, was made to preserve this delicious
perfection. A secret recipe handed down from
generation, to generation.
All the spices were fresh, to create an awesome
flavor. San Marzano tomatoes, fresh garlic,
and basil to savor.
The crust looked crisp, as this creation was pulled
out of a wood fire oven. Melted provolone, mozzarella
and asiago, cheeses, I was Loving.
As I chewed, my taste buds were having a love affair
with the tomato sauce. For me it would never again,
be store bought.
I would love to share a slice with you, because I know for
a fact, you'd find it delicious too!
Michael Tor 8/22/2015
Dedicated to all pizza lovers.
Copyright © michael tor | Year Posted 2015
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015
Law began by living,
locomotion meeting the rails of electric rainfall,
Consequence coursing through interconnected crossbeams
making all form fruit of the first & final recipe,
one great statute spawned from the storm
billowing from Divinity's genius,
everything in the Universe existing to produce,
get busy, get bounce'n, grow wild & now,
receive with wisdom and take as thieves humbled by offering,
the original impulse from a manic God
pregnant from androgonous purpose,
a trillion movements in a single start, a fanatic for feral smarts,
stagnation anethema to the spectacular suspense of survival,
Natural Rights were for me
the moment my blood became mine, became a wet warlord
exerting presence in the wide open wrestle of Universe,
God the shadow & weight of my spark,
the window & scene of my good gumption, of my dusty dream,
self defense a mandate from the magistrate of my heritage,
freedom of expression an obligation humming from ancestors'
anniverseries applauded along the Appain Way headed
not towards Rome but forward to a higher home of honor,
a Law unto myself I am,
eating from the spines of lions,
sleeping atop pyramids built by a billion bones unbroken by battle,
afternoons auction affection for my amusement with discount
and the nights nudge nightmares asunder
with the release of red lightning
spelling the name of Creation in raw neon, breathtaking breakdown,
a script scribbled by a hand having the blueprint of dirt in it's fingernails,
I appeal to Adam, attest in favor of aggression's willpower,
to Eve I beseech, testify to the severity & sanction of self confidence,
let us smash all false law that stands as a wall to our fulfillment,
smack the eggshell of Man's authoritarian angst,
waking into a world of wakeful worries, confined by Common Law, U.C.C.,
walking through waves ment to wreck the arrogant
with a constitution inked by nerves electrified
by entertaining the urgency of a rampaging God,
thought of the great expanse thumping thoroughly through
the expeditions my expectations encounter,
black static undulating around the blue bulb of my brain,
sparks of ultimate consciousness mothering marks of miracles
in the becoming of birthright,
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2013
I curse thee ribonucleotides
For to shatter my faith was your goal
and the spec of light I held inside
You've replaced with a vacuous hole
For science has proven beyond any doubt
That you came to exist on your own
Elements melded in perfect conditions
The recipe is finally known
These roots of life have been made in a lab
and they needed no ethereal spark
I close my eyes and try to forget
But there is no return to the dark
I'm stuck on this rock, what reason to be?
In the truth there exists no compassion
I curse thee ribonucleotides
and this empty heart that you've fashioned
Copyright © Joe Inca | Year Posted 2011
My imaginary restaurant will be named “All That You Imagine.”
Any food you can imagine, you will be served.
Thanks to technology and a world-class cooking staff,
I can offer my patrons any food that they desire.
However, they must book their table three days in advance!
If their wish is for a dish like their mama used to cook,
they need only provide my chefs with the recipe or its description.
If their palate leans to the exotic, they need only give its name.
My research team, like no other, can track down any foreign dish.
From All-American delights like mac‘n cheese or burgers and fries
to all the others: Indian, Mexican, Brazilian, Chinese, Italian, French,
and the list goes on and on. We can do it all! Everyone wants to come here!
By the way, my restaurant has become a tourist attraction.
Renowned for its varied and eclectic menus, it is visited by thousands daily.
If restaurants were malls, mine would be the largest and the most incredible.
Patrons may reserve a private room or choose a table
from one of many wondrous atmospheric sections.
Each section is a restaurant in and of itself, with its own kitchen
and a staff of waiters and waitresses dressed as befitting that section’s theme.
From jungle room to bar and grill to futurist (where servers dress in pristine white),
I have over one hundred types of settings to match the mood and the type of food;
some with karaoke, some with splendid views, utilizing IMAX, for example,
some with magic shows, others with comedy, and one room with a waterfall
where divers perform amazing feats. There are classic sections
where patrons may dance in ballroom style; imagine any type of music you like,
I am sure we have it in one of our beautiful sections!
For the romantics, candlelight dinners can be enjoyed next to a faux River Seine.
Tourists, for a small fee, may observe the many rooms in a guided tour.
We use technology that allows the tours to not disturb our diners.
It’s that same technology which allows my restaurant to flourish,
for expert computer techs arrange for the smooth operation
of matching patrons to sections and coordinating everything efficiently.
Favorite recipes may be purchased from us too in our gift shops.
Souvenirs and samples of our most popular food items
are sold there along with a wide array of unique gifts!
Nothing is impossible in “All That You Imagine.”
Well, except for one thing: No endangered specie, such as monkey or koala
will be served here!
(Getting ready to enter the contest I noticed I had misread the rules. Sorry, I don't know if I can redo it any other way. I am calling this prose and hoping it's acceptable!)
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
Recipe-How to make a human from scratch
Start with a large amount of dirt.
Add sufficient water to moisten.
Mix together until becomes clay like.
Shape and mold according to your will.
Add generous amounts of
3. Spiritual need.
4. Creative ability
5 Desirable qualities like:
Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy
Mix in the ability to reproduce according
to it's kind.
Lastly, breathe into it the breath of life
Wait until breathing on it's own.
Supply enough nutrient filled air and
food to sustain it forever.
That's it! Now you have a human!
The proof that this recipe works:
Scientists admit our bodies are
made up of elements from the ground
in fact we need to supplement our bodies
with minerals from the ground
to replenish what is lost.
The greatest ingredient in the human body
by volume is water which we also
need to replenish daily.
Scientists also recognize that all humans have
intelligence to a greater or lesser degree.
Also, unless there is a defect
we all have a conscience.
Something that separates us from the animals
is our innate need to worship,
to understand where we come from
and ponder the meaning of life.
Artistic and creative ability also
is something that appears to be innate
in all humans to a greater or lesser degree.
Qualities of Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy
are essential to continued happiness,
happiness also is a condition
that is not necessary for life
but adds to it.
Reproductive powers are
obviously needed to continue the species.
The force of life,
the spark to initiate life,
breathing and eating are
necessary to sustain life.
All of this was done already
so we don't have to worry.
Something to think about...
if this recipe was originally
a product of blind chance,
random selection, and then
natural selection and survival of the fittest
try taking the ingredients to your
favourite recipe and randomly
select and mix and cook
according to blind chance...
how would it turn out?
And if natural selection
and survival of the fittest
produced a stronger species,
what purpose does
creativity in arts and literature
have to do with survival?
Does not all of this
lead one to believe
that humans are a product
from an intelligent designer
with a purpose?
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
Mix up all the love felt for my family, God, and Home.
Sprinkle in the gratitude for material blessings from above.
Blend well, holiday cheer.
Whip the the blues and set aside.
Let the Joy rise to overflowing.
let all the friends partake of the blessings, Warm the hearts of others in my path, sautee the
ingredients and Share the Love with all the neighborhood. Set a spell and enjoy.
My Recipe for Thanksgiving Pudding
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2009
Step 1, take two friends before they are lovers
Show them how to share with oneanother
Add a slice of intinmacy of becoming one
Like holding hands under the sun
Now subtract the bitterness and add the sweet
The flavor of a kiss should taste like a treat
Give her a compliment and 1 soft caress
Then rest your head against his chest
1 cup of humor and 1/2 a cup of concern
A pinch of assertiveness
But too much will burn!
100 kisses a day will keep the doctor away
A drop of hope then mix in family and friends
Your recipe for love
Will never come to an end.
Copyright © Jamila Strong | Year Posted 2010
In my quest to escape monotony at work I stumbled upon this poetry site
Little did I know I would excavate a gem with a zest for life
She is also a lullaby songstress; in between my spelling and grammar blunders,
We’re a recipe for madness: crazy blogs, even stranger emails, our laughter and tears
I unearthed Nikko aka Missy, "the spelling queen" my friend with a gracious soul!
I went to have soup at a table atop a mountain, when who should I meet there?
A very pretty, sassy, missy; she did a 3/4 turn--CrAsH! (2 cabs, fender bender)!
Her laughter and madness, just totally contagious...even strangers want to kiss her!
Through her wonderful words, each petal revealed a bit more sparkle, a stunning gleam
I was so right! Wilma, "the crazy one", she's my true gem of a friend, a vivacious soul!
For Tracie's Grab a Mate & Collaborate poem :D
-- Wilma Neels & nikko palmario :D
Loads of fun, thanks Missy for embracing my madness :D
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2011
Pink faced, and warm, I stand at the kitchen counter
rubbing flour and butter briskly
through my fingers into a large mixing bowl...
Apples are already peeled and sliced, that lay
like petals, pale green, in the pie plate, waiting for a crumbled topping
I know they are mine, these hands, I see, deftly working...
So skilled, they are, that even I am amazed,....
Even before my own eyes, there is a moment, I watch, from outside myself
Yes these hands are mine... proven by the swirls and the valleys
as I when I'm asked to write my own name,...
as when I scribbled this new recipe, in a familiar, weary yellow notebook
Yet, as if I were wearing gloves,
my hands seem to live inside the skin of others...
I watch their motion and have no control of every small detail,
Rote tasks, of which I have seen before
No hand has held the amber weight of sun
or tugged in summer wind, but silently
some root has crooked a finger into the flour,
intent to foster a long connection, some ancient comfort,
a deep knowing, of heart and bone, of mind, and soul
that assures me, I never will stand alone, with flour on my hands
I will always have centuries at my elbow
Submitted for Nette's Contest: With These Hands
Carrie Richards 12/21/13
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
It’s a smooth and tasty way to get high.
Try my distillation of mash made from corn and rye.
I make it from my family’s secret recipe.
The only one who knows about it is me.
The stuff comes out of my trusty hidden still.
I have it standing in the woods on top of the hill.
My woman did something that made me mad as hell.
She took the last batch I made, and dumped it into the well.
Soon, gathered around the well was a big crowd.
My neighbors were laughing and singing out loud.
There were old folks and little children staggering along the lane.
It did not seem like any of them was feeling pain.
Nobody else in the vicinity readily understood
why the water in the well was tasting so good.
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2013
Delicious, warm, and and tastes of home...
as if you were still here....
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009
A beggar has got bread from a door
The thread of survival
A slice of sky smiling on a pink petal
And for me
In the void, appears a boundless sea
And the bard is impatient
Till the buzz from his word-paint
Versifies the lyrically human moment
Poetry is fomented by arousal and associations
A graceful process of
Deconstruction and reconstruction
Of the dancing shadows
A concentrated illumination
Of your reality
With my lamps of desire and imagination
Wearing a shirt of rustling dry leaves
A story of weeping wounds
Shards of tears and trauma
In my nostril a human aroma
Shaping out fond filigree of emotion
Warm and cold
Stroke in the folds
And when you look intense
Craving the chocolate words of my pen
Provoking a tomato like glow
In my bone marrow
Instantly arrives the bird
And stirred is the light in the gem
A sure poem
Like the meandering river
In the falling leaves
In the painting brush of the sun and cloud
Silent as well as loud
Sit the metaphors
Waiting merrily to be caressed in a poem
To what end are they born?
Guitar of golden corn
And when an irresistible leaf
From your trembling window
Falls on my thirsty grass
Alphabets sparkle and spontaneously combine
Boats from the river sail in
Into the passionate hemoglobin
Life is always ready
With stupendous recipes
For our poetry
Provided the quick chemistry is there
In profound red and sky blue
Between me and you
A crimson brew
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2017