Best Saucepan Poems
The ancient organ groaned
ended the passion
- bitter vinegar tones
pierced the walls
Heart had lost its fire
The prophets rubbed their heads
wisdom at any time and place
Overly high hopes
Resignation found in a
cast iron saucepan
The criteria for organ donors
are clear
~
Bell tower mourns
The day had started normally and no way had I reckoned
when Mum had washed the breakfast pots that stardom was to beckon.
Waiting on the pavement, passing dogs who were not used
to what they saw, jumped up and barked- their owners looked bemused.
Total strangers, pretty girls, the driver of the bus,
they all queued up to talk to me and some made quite a fuss.
The older folk asked how I was and Mum told them I'm healthy,
the younger ones with phones in hand sneaked up and took a selfie.
A nurse though rarely raised a brow when we walked through the door,
a veteran of lads like me she'd seen it all before.
In A&E* she commented "Lad, let it not be said
you'll ever be short of company with a saucepan stuck on your head".
(*A&E- Accident and Emergency)
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
It happened on an ordinary afternoon.
In the quiet kitchen I was busy like a masterchef,
moving unnoticed with self-poised dexterity.
The intent was to cook a perfect silky tomato soup.
I reached for the salt, instead grabbed the sugar jar,
sprinkled a generous amount into the saucepan.
The smell changed instantly, sweet and wrong.
I grimaced, added more spices to mend the mistake.
She walked in then when I was at a crucial stage,
for the recipe required a vigorous whipping,
I was practically dancing with the saucepan,
holding a large spoon full of half-cooked soup.
As she went past me to reach the cabinet
I spun around to ask her to taste if the salt is ok,
ended up holding the spilling spoon over her white skirt.
The only sound I then heard was the soup hitting her feet.
I didn't say excuse me or I’m sorry,
instead, thrust the spoon toward her mouth,
murmured, tell me if it's too garlicky and salty.
I could still make the tangy taste right.
She ducked under my arm and silently walked out,
leaving me with the dripping spoon.
I wondered if I should hand over the kitchen
solely to my wife, for I felt that was not my place.
Note : I am not an accomplished cook, but I often try to do some
culinary experiments. I chose this moment and the situation
because these were quite embarrassing and awkward for me,
for my wife used to tell me to not mess around in the kitchen.
The hardest line to write was “ I didn't say excuse me or I’m sorry”,
because at that upsetting moment I wanted to divert her attention,
doing and saying something else, but actually I wanted to say sorry.
From the first draft I removed the last two lines of the last stanza where
I said I should spend more time in the kitchen to be an efficient cook,
but replaced them with the two lines as shown, a realization that I think
was pragmatic at that time.
PASTA: A FORK OF HEAVEN
In a pot of bubbling boiling water,
I drop hard nine inches long bundle of farfelles..
Minutes passed,between my fingertips,
I pressed one strand, al- dente!
In a platter glittering white,
I form a fist of fresh-cooked pasta noodles,
pouring a hot scoop of white
creamy silky sauce made from:
parmesan and pecorino
melted, blended in a saucepan,
flavored more with a savory stock,
tossed of shallots, saffron and lean meat.
The sauce must be rich enough
coating all the threads of farfelles...
Garnishing it with grated cheese,
teaspoonful crunchy diced bacon,
a pinch of chopped flat leaf parsley...
Voila! Who could refuse this tasty fork of heaven?
__________________________________________________
***farfelle - a type of pasta: thick and wide noodles
al -dente - a pasta noodle cooked all the way through except in the center being slightly undone
CONTEST name: DIDACTIC FOOD
~~3rd place~~
1:54pm, September 09, 2015
Dad, how I love to recall
The days when I was very small,
On your lap, ear upon your chest,
Moments like these I loved the best.
Holidays with coastal walks,
Singing songs and having talks.
Shadow puppets on the wall.
Picking me up after a fall.
Saucepan lids and banging pans
Singing MacNamaras band.
With my 'slippy' on your head,
Auntie Mary stories before bed.
A too-ra-loo-ra lullaby.
Flying kites in the sky.
Waves waves you can't catch me,
Egg and chips for our tea.
Gear changing in the car.
Making an elastic band guitar.
Sticky toffee, Turkish delight.
Looking at the stars at night.
These memories bring so much pleasure,
Of a childhood that I treasure,
So on this special fathers day
There's just one thing I want to say.....
...... I love you xx
17th June 2017
For my dad on Father's day tomorrow.
iv'e turned the heat to maximum, and thrown in quite a lot,
that saucepan lids sure jumping,the liquid must be hot!
i might get moans bad comment..? you never really know and
i'm told i can't use square words..! in case their tempers blow.!
now i know my styles unorthodox'' a trial no doubt in truth,
i think i should give it all i've got, plus more (verbiage)
perhaps rough-cut or... uncouth.? no! i'd better not get heavy
in case indegestion looms, oh..bother i'll just serve it as it is,
and use the extra large soup spoons..! yess.. they won't get in
one full helping, at least not at a thyme, the lumps for those with a nose for
prose,
for the others some soupy rhyme.
He turned a page, read for a bit, then bookmarked it,
He then stood and knocked on the door; my door,
I opened it and invited him to a cup of tea with milk,
He took a step then stood still and opened his mouth,
I tilted my head just a bit to show that I will listen,
But he closed it and continued walking to the table.
I sat on the carpet crossing my legs as he did, too,
He folded his arms as if cold then picked up the cup,
And sipped whilst glaring at me through the steam,
He placed the teacup back to its saucepan, ‘cling’,
He opened his mouth and spoke of the past; history,
I fixed few errs and agreed on many series of events.
He spoke of tomorrow and I disagreed on everything,
He spoke of marriage, of weddings and a bit of love,
He spoke of copious grandchildren and a bit of love,
He spoke of age and time and death and a bit of love,
His warm proud gaze broke itself into the self of me,
Aware of the mirror in front of me as I take another sip.
Tuesday, 24th of May 2011
It may seem strange to write about a battered old saucepan
but this was no ordinary one
it sprung a leak the other day
sadly without thinking
I threw it away
and now it's gone.
It had been in my family
before I was born
and it was used every day
it broke my heart after
to throw it away.
For all the delicious soups goulash and past
it had contained
the mouth watering delectable smells
from the kitchen
the shouts from my parents
''Come on now set the table dinners made''.
All the red hot broths and porridge we'd scoff
before school on a winters day
all the laughs tears and conversations around
the dinner table before it was was washed
and put away.
It was more than a simple saucepan
because it held a lot of family memories
now my parents sadly passed away
it was one of the last things to remind me
of how things used to be
and mow I have to buy a new one
and accept it's demise
like my family
it's gone forever.
Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
A saucepan burn, the pain was quite drastic
After cooling I wrapped arm in plastic
Cling film worked such a treat
to reduce the burn’s heat
I’m now pain free and feeling fantastic!
Yesterday I burned my wrist on the edge of a saucepan – ouch it was so painful! Google’s advice is to use cool water for 20 mins then wrap burnt area in clingfilm ... it really works
7/17/19
We're really showing our age,
As we turn another page,
Life in the Magic Faraway Tree,
Gossamer floating fairy,
Translucent veil of Silky,
Ethereal and delicate,
Gauzy and so intricate,
Sheer and diaphanous,
Cobweb wings so vaporous,
Someone kind to take her hand,
Smiling face of Saucepan Man,
Now I'm old, I've got a job,
I've turned into Dame Washalot,
Our imaginary friends have faded away......
Yes, we're all showing our age,
Let's turn another magical page.
Sugary mix roiling in a saucepan in the heart
of the house: a light-filled kitchen where family meals
were taken in lieu of the dining room, thought of by me
in two words: 'formality' and 'dark', whereas, windows
and a glass door in the kitchen let in light, led out to a porch,
then into a fenced backyard where chickens ran free, and
Yes, necks were wrung for the kitchen pot in not
a rural setting, but a beach-town, in-town backyard---
not at a cottage, calling out to salt spray and seagulls,
but a Victorian house, looming gray in memory, large
with a wraparound porch, its rocking chairs
facing a quiet street framed with sheltering trees:
maples of the intricate bark and heart-shaped leaves,
providing play place for games of Red Robin, May I,
Hide and Seek, until at summer dusk the welcome call
of Come Home, Come Home. No small screen there
to distract us, not yet the turbulent news of a world at
war A World Away. Instead, candy making in the kitchen.
Taffy pulled and twisted into ropes, cut into pieces and
left to harden on waxed paper. Then, Margaret, two
older sisters and a brother, upstairs to bed, a ramp
leading to bedrooms for them, an adjoining room below
for Margaret and me, her best-friend guest. Bathroom
to share, old-fashioned claw-foot tub, enameled in
porcelain. A doomed wasp sometimes caught in
golden window light between glass and a cream colored
pulldown shade. Past our bedroom, an enclosed
porch rose over its downstairs compatriot, meandering
the entire length of the house. All things unneeded
and used-up there, for the playtime delight of
Margaret and me: Not used-up yet
'Twas but a reptile passing by.
It flew across the deep blue sky
Why do reptiles fly so high?
I'll love you till I die.
"Twas but a cat under the moon.
Did you have a silver spoon?
Why can't cats all waul in tune?
I'll love you very soon
'Twas but a wooden legged man,
Carrying a large brass saucepan.
Why can't men do what women can?
I'll love you better than.
Why are adverbs?
What are nouns?
why do circuses have clowns?
I'll love you lying down.
Where do dreams go in the day?
What game can we adults play?
Can you or can you not say?
I'll love you,in my way.
'Twas but a verse that seemed so free.
It floated over my oak tree.
I have eyes but cannot see.
I'll love you when I be
A little forthright butternut fruit cake was sat on embroidered picnic rug. Basking in the sun whilst chatting to a jam pot. Beyond the knitted trees of custard lays the artichoke of buttered llamas. To decipher a stone is to roll over sixty three times down a mountain but mountains mumble making musical mantras and who would dare to dangle off a ledge wearing a seventy kilo saucepan hat? Sandcastle secretions of a purple hue hide the frolicking worms in sombreros. Never ever bark at kettles or neigh at the toaster for this carries as much weight and power as throwing oneself up into the air wearing a rubber ring and landing on the roof of a nearby hotels. Hotels are neither hills nor heaped hummus humps. And no riot of silver backed whales ever really formed in a bubble bath for they prefer the jacuzzi at this seasonal point. Icy glowing embers in a carpet of fish scales are sure to entice cardboard curtains. The wide footprint of a semi aquatic reindeer stands true in sands despite tides. Toads can swim over eighty miles down roads and the roads are arenas of giant mildew which call out greetings to sessional groups of fox musicians who gather with rabbits in the hedgerows to entertain the otherwise grey flows. Inverted igloos ingesting ivy ignoring inky island inhabitants. Hahaha the horses are Trapezing with the square cattle. Hahaha leg handed left wing mirror winking at a cone line. Xxxxx atmospherically z z z z z
isn't it? kent fog burger faces driving in a motorised saucepan.
A nine foot rod is better than a three foot stick and a three foot stick outsmarts any microfiber jewel encrusted steel bow when attempting to cast over to catch, kill and consume. Oh pearly pink mushrooms and cheeses, must you sway so and must the writings writhe upon the wind and ground to create such chaotic interruptions and vibrational discomfort. Well it is most hampering really. Hampering to effortless sweeps through the air with lines through the atom less sky. This is no automatic controlled playlist. And nor is it a bacon sandwich jumping out of the pan and leaving the camping stove at high speed metronome roundabout weaves. Like tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Oh go ring a bell then. Rather irksome. I however will spin and cast and spin around on the ground. After waiting several hours it will then be pull then gutted then head chopped after a short collision with a little rock to break the breath of life. Exciting expunging experience explosive explicative extract even eight eels. And eels are not wheels nor turning on tubular tree pipes whose drone knowledge spans the scented breezes of the triangle lake. At dusk. Variant variable vary. And a whisky and cream pie with a fragrant jooos is neither a dilapidated delicatessen nor a dragging depopulation curve on a Swiss cheese map of syrup shreds. Beam then break then alight the cable cars with ten trotting ponies, fifteen mugs of beer, a fortune cookie with nice long legs, an elongated pile of flamingos weighing eighty two thousand kilos and a small tie pin grinning. Now go up to the apex over there and admire the view with that crew. Then set up the tent on the highest peak and bake a culinary delight. Of over eight courses. Heavenly and divine and rather outstanding too. Cloud clings climbing cups. Z precautionary Z at nine moomins to eleven left handed chest of drawers. Xxxxx Z