Best Tastes Poems
Flourished and nourished,
hair locks resembling branches,
I gaze as it dances —
when blowing, he looks glowing.
Twenty years had passed,
but still, I last.
I may have ripened,
but I'm still the same berry, same fruit,
slightly fragmented, a little indented,
not demented.
You got a sample of me when I was at my prime,
taught a few tricks — oh, to replay our time.
Let me discover what you have learned;
still, I yearn —
like the eternal flame, I burn.
Do not read me as if I come with the label “handle with care,”
I am more than able.
Only sixty-five, still alive!
Round-bodied, the taste of sweet and sour —
come and devour during lunch hour.
Do not guzzle — sip slow,
take the time to enjoy this aged wine as we intertwine.
Oh, how you've practiced —
glad to discover upon this mattress.
I don't care about turkey,
chicken wins hands down.
No need for any gravy,
it is never dry.
Add baked potatos,
some brussel sprouts too.
Yummy, yum,
yum!
The chicken, a lowly bird
In turkey's shadow
On the day it should be safe
It rests on my plate
Next to Brussels sprouts
and double baked potatoes
Baptized with
Wine!
For Andrea Dietrich's "Make me drool" contest.
The prompt was "Write a poem which is really a recipe".
This Stew Tastes Funny
I personally like to use the more established dramatic processes, but feel free to use your own version of comedy!
Dramedy (serves the whole family!)
Take the character, drive them headfirst
into a community of oppositions
that inexplicably attract,
cue a flurry of activity, sprinkled lightly.
Leave no weaknesses un-attacked.
When the conflict begins to rise,
place them in roles reversed,
have them recognise
that conflict yields no prize.
Leave the melting pot to cool
until each moralistic monologue ends with cheap slapstick verse.
Credit to Adam Sandler.
If It Tastes Good, Spit It Out
By Elton Camp
Some diets for weight control
Fat-free, sugar-free do extol
Those who wouldn’t be fat
May have to eat a lot of that
Bran cereal that tastes like hay
And there’s even more to say
A muffin that is fat-free
Tastes very bad to me
With a salad I’m not thrilled
With E. coli, it may be filled
From now on, you must lack
A luscious, juicy Big Mac
French fries you eat no more
Their fat and sodium to abhor
Never think you can try
A slice of chocolate pie
Also quite hard to take
No more red velvet cake
The diet rule to recall
If good, don’t eat at all
The best of beans
makes you tute (tutorial) gas
and fumy gas makes you learn
that what tastes great going in
has a smelliest price coming out
Watercress soup with garlic
Jersey royals
Samphire with caper butter
lemon mayonnaise
Anchovy fillets
Bitter beer
Cool!
My taste in music is not a single
But rather many that intermingle
A favorite tune can make me tingle
For I love to hear a familiar jingle
Romantic ballads cause me to swoon
Play an Irish tune, I'll dance like a loon
A bluegrass song ends way too soon
I could listen to Big Band and swing til noon
A Classical arrangement is, well, classy
The Spanish guitar sounds so snappy
And Rockabilly can be downright snazzy
Those jazz numbers are, you guessed it, jazzy
Just don't ask me too quick
For my favorite music to pick
Of one style, the other can't lick
So to a variety of tastes I will stick
I wish to reminisce
Upon the bliss
Of triumph
And the agony
Of tragedy;
Are they not twin and twisted ends
Observed as life occured
In random spurts and trends?
To calculate and gauge his fate
Man did create
The chime of time;
One more illusion born
Inside the mystic mind.
But once accepted
Does become illusion now rejected
And reality's new find.
As time is heard to tock and tick
We do begin to ration it -
Evaluate and allocate
Each tick and tock upon the clock.
Life is lived by few
Observed by many
And understood by none -
Not one!
Though volumes have been written
And creative man is smitten
By the elegance of eloquence
In erudite philosophies
Combined with feeble prophecies;
Man still can only speculate and fabricate
More trendy theories empty of all consequence.
The bard of Avalon
Knew nothing new would ever be
Found underneath the sun;
And though the bard is gone
His truth lives on and on and on.
Man's emotional devotion
To dissecting every notion
Into tiny bits from bigger bits
Until he finds a bit that fits
Within his pre-dissection so prophetic wit of wits,
Has only gained mankind
A loss of nonexistent time.
And in another galaxy
Far, far away,
There is a sweaty desert prophet
Eating crawling things and calling
All inhabitants to suck on worms
And be reborn
In squirmy wormy ritual rebirth.
Their prophet is quite similar to one
Found once upon a time right here on earth.
The Prophet:
"Repent, repent,
Prevent, prevent,
And then repent again;
Then maybe the creator of this hot incinerator
Will awaken His forsaken self, procrastinator
Self, and will begin his job again creating good...forgiving sin.
Now crack this crispy critter's back till flat between your teeth,
There's nothing like a juicy, chewy bug to feed your love;
It tastes a bit like chicken say the bug gourmets beneath
The desert floor who rarely speak to we who live above.
Go save your soul and eat your treat
And I will stay right here to greet
The Son of the Creative One
Who says His work is never done;
But after all He is the Son
Of He who always needs to sleep
And blood can run in blood so deep
Such lazy ways may slowly creep
And leave the Son of One too weak
To carry on the awesome dawn
With all creative juices gone."
You believe nothing is real
Always looking for power to steal
But you’re looking at truth in the eye
Knowing you deserve to die
It took my whole world to fall
Before I could learn to stand tall
I had to leave my whole life behind
Before I could make you mine
You’ve always been stuck in your ways
Clinging on them till the end of your days
Holding on to them with your life
Hoping you're strong enough to fight
When the truth conflicts with what you believe
You do everything you possibly can to deceive
How the hell could they say you’re wrong
This question keeps you up all night long
It took my whole world to fall
Before I could learn to stand tall
I had to leave my whole life behind
Before I could make you mine
Hate is deep within your skin
Trying to mask up every sin
Inside you’re burning with fire
Because you know you’re the liar
Truth is knocking on the door
But you’re screaming for war
You’re fighting to play this game
While hell is screaming your name
It took my whole world to fall
Before I could learn to stand tall
I had to leave my whole life behind
Before I could make you mine
Why do you still hold on to hate
What will it take to bring you to faith
You cling to your crown
While hell is dragging you down
You believe nothing is real
Always looking for power to steal
But you’re looking at truth in the eye
Knowing you deserve to die
Tell me Woody,
Where does the water taste like wine?
And which highway do I take out of here to get there?
Tell me Woody,
Which train do I hop?
Which car should I hitch?
Which pair of boots will walk me there all the way
No stopping to tie them or to mend holes.
Tell me Woody,
Where can I get that do-re-mi?
Trapped between my love and my disdain for this version of America of which I am slowly becoming a part of
The Plains drift over me, the clouds pull the sheets over my eyes as a prairie breeze tucks me into bed with the locomotive lullaby floating in the sunset.
Tell me Woody,
Where does your hard travelling end?
I’ve walked 66 and the Lincoln, lived in steel-Pittsburgh and the harvest lands.
I’ve got no home in this world
Woody, take me there,
Take me where the water tastes like wine.
caught beneath a nautilus
rudders spinning, cutting my breath
into bubbles that pop on the surface
i never thought i'd get my wish
when i asked to taste the dead sea
salt and spit and sweat and piss
i'm drowning in all of it
head beneath the waves
staves prickling from each and every crayfish
coral reef scraping my flesh
and nobody sees me waving wildly
i'll die before i sleep with fishes
i laugh at the contradiction
then slowly float backwards
head collapsed from pressure
eyes swollen shut from sodium
cuts in the splint of the fissure
spasms in my side
my heart begins to quake
that's when i died and found out
god tastes like...
(okay, so i'm offered a snackcake... and i give a polite "no thanks." i then get this
strange retort in effect. i couldn't get it out of my head all day.)
The salmon tasted like the seashore,
like salty air and gulls crying,
flying overhead on the cold breeze.
It tasted like relatives coming together
around a picnic table, laughing,
talking as the feast is spread,
as the ocean stretches endlessly right beside us.
It tasted like lobster, red and spiny,
like melted butter and messy hands slipping,
gripping a metal nutcracker around the hard shell.
It tasted like Maine beaches,
a maze of shifting,
settling rocks, continuing all the way
from the trees on one side to the water on the other.
It tasted like seaweed, washed up on the rocks,
covering the ground closest to the water in a slippery,
slimy layer of wet danger, waiting for you to fall.
It tasted like tidal pools, filled with tiny life,
with mini orange or green crabs that scuttled under cover,
and snails that hide in their shells when you pick them up,
but come out if you hum to them.
It tasted like wave-tossed pebbles,
like scavenger hunts for sparkling treasure, glass
past bottles thrown away, trash, and I am ‘another man.’
The salmon tasted like the seashore,
like salty air and gulls circling above the water.
I put down my fork and closed my eyes,
transported back into a realm of memories I’d somehow forgotten.
My tastes are of a peculiar kind,
The type I bet you never can find
In this lost generation of ours
That knows not the preciosity of hours.
My tastes are so amusing and odd,
And some are like those of the great men of old,
Yet some have never been,
And others shall never again be seen.
Many people talk of my tastes
As being the nature that God detests,
While I think they are perfectly well;
The sort that the tongues of angels tell!
We all have very different tastes
In books and art and food,
In where we live and what we do
To lift a sagging mood.
The way we dress, our travel plans
And when we sleep and wake,
Our politics, religion
And the purchases we make.
What’s right for me most likely
Wouldn’t work as well for you,
So each of us must choose our path
And do what we must do.
A million options wait in life
But most we will reject,
Though somehow some might overlap
And we will then connect.
Tastes Like Apples
If our brain were an apple, the amount that we use
Is only two bites and the rest we let snooze.
One bite for Adam and one bite for Eve,
That's right around ten percent I believe
And if our soul is a form of energy
Our brain and our nerves is where it would be
Our body of water like a vessel to fill
And moving around just a matter of will
Many claim that religion is the cause of most war
But I say it's the people who always want more.
If not for religion they'd find some excuse
It just seems that faith is easy to abuse
I won't force any to worship since the stubborn won't budge
But don't stand on your soapbox look on me and judge
If the Big Bang is when this universe began
What had exploded? Tell me if you can
What came before it? What was the cause?
Religion isn't perfect, but what’s without flaws