Best Teaspoons Poems
Chewy chocolate chip bars
finger licking good
soft butter sugars oats stir
fold in flour mixture
add chips and walnuts
spoon spread and
bake !
Just In Time For Back To School LOL
Chocolate Chip-Oatmeal-Walnut Bars
Whole wheat flour and oatmeal add whole-grain goodness to chewy chocolate chip bars.
1 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 eggs
1 1/4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
Dash salt
1 (12-oz.) pkg. chocolate chips
1 1/2 cups chopped walnuts, toasted*
1. Heat oven to 375°F. Beat butter in large bowl at medium speed until soft and smooth. Beat in brown sugar, sugar and vanilla. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.
2. Combine oats, whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, baking soda and salt in medium bowl.
3. Slowly add flour mixture to butter mixture, beating until well-blended. Stir in chocolate chips and walnuts. Spoon and spread dough in ungreased 15x10x1-inch pan.
4. Bake 15 to 20 minutes or until golden brown; cool on wire rack.
TIP *To toast nuts, place on baking sheet; bake at 375°F. for 4 to 6 minutes or until pale brown and fragrant. Cool.
32 bars
Hovering bees gather
Heavenly blooms’ nectar;
Hive's sweet home – honeycomb!
Harvesting their gold means
Healthful happiness from
Heaped teaspoons of it in
Hot tea for my HONEY!
Feb. 20, 2017 for Kim Merryman's Pleiades H Poetry Contest
I've spent sundials of time feeding ghosts,
teaspoons of fear
dollops of regret
pecks of what-ifs.
Just to keep them pacified
'til I could grow some balls and climb
the cold cliffs of courage.
but the truth is...
I'll never climb to higher realms
-don't have the gift.
though it took some time
I've accepted all of it.
I'm a creature born of the ground
made my nest in the good earth
I don't breathe stars
but I do inhale dirt...
I've grown up(somewhat) and tossed the ghosts
into a pit called self-forgiveness.
I still feed them scraps from time to time
but they'll never get what they desire,
the main dish with all the trimmings
silver-wonderful -shimmering.
The kettle's on...
I'm thinking about the good old days as I begin to write
Thinking about my younger years, when the ground was colored white
After I was done playing in the snow, my mother set for me
Two brownies with some chocolate chips and a cup of sweetened tea
I always added a dash of cream to lighten up the taste
But these days, I eat just one brownie, I've got to watch my waist
Pouring the water...
The smell of tea just hits home, but I must prepare it right
Two teaspoons of sugar and a dash of cream but never all too light
Sipping...
Ah, that first sip always tastes so good,
it truly warms me up
And usually before I'm finished drinking it...
I'm thinking about a second cup
Another sip...
Tonight, I'm dipping in my tea, some peanut butter on white toast
Growing up, and still today, I love that combo most
Another sip...
I love to stay up late at night, drinking tea and watching flicks
And when I'm done and all hyped up, canoodle for some kicks
Last sip...
Well, it's getting late, so I must go now...
As I sip my last taste of tea
Besides the fact it's getting late...
Got to hurry, damn it... ((I've got to pee))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fluorescent buzz hums
like a choir of tired angels.
I hold a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread
and think about miracles~
how mine don’t quite materialize.
My hands, soft from keyboards,
have never split a sea
or pressed into a wound
without recoiling.
I flinch at the sight of blood and
the weight of my own shadow.
The clerk sighs,
counting pennies like regrets.
I want to tell her that
the Kingdom is hers,
but my voice cracks
into something small
and human.
At home, my love
is measured in teaspoons~
just enough to sweeten,
never overflowing.
I keep my rage
neatly folded,
my mercy rationed
like discount wine.
God must get so tired
of my arithmetic.
a few years ago
i was walking from my car
to my apartment.
around the corner, i heard a skateboard
and sure enough, skateboy mcf*ckenstein
comes plowing around the corner.
the kid hit a rock or something and
beefed all over the sidewalk.
i approached him, and stated:
"if you vote for george w. bush,
he will molest your children."
now, almost thirty years later,
i am crouched beneath this mildew
enshrined bungalow,
curdling my teaspoons of
tequila.
if only skateboy mcf*ckenstein
had listened.
i don't think he was even old enough to vote.
such is the cruelty of fate.
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
I consume that aroma of fresh roasted coffee beans; Oh, that very first sip!
A perfect 205 degrees; steaming, but not so hot to burn one's lip.
It should be sweetened with sugar, but not overly sweet.
A couple or three teaspoons of "sugar in the raw," a treat.
The cream should be half and half, but never too milky.
A heavenly sensation, not too mild or strong; smooth and silky.
This caffeinated elixir that awakens the delicate buds on my tongue, is for me,
The anticipation of stimulation, craved by a person with adhd.
Barbara Campbell for contest, "Poems That did Not place and More" (coffee)
09/06/15
Venom drips from his tongue in honeyed splendor
He mesmerizes his audience with a Cobratic symphony
Slithering under their high expectations
He possesses a patient elegance
Skills learned in an ancient garden
His invitation so enticing
They are the unsuspecting mice
Gobbling up snow colored treats
Imbedded in healthy labels
Glazed diabetic eyes
Look on in confusion
Lost in pretty mazes
Addicted to "bliss points"
Sugar
Sweet sugar
Tobacco's evil sister
The expansion of a nation
Spilling over belted borders
He starts them young
Keeps them within his pythoned grip
Twenty five teaspoons a day
Drains away their resistance
Supersize
Dietize
Energize
Let them have their cake and eat it too
The many will become the few
Before they know it, they'll be eaten by you
A once great nation
Consumed
Princes dart to take cups and cups run away very very fast. Fear not a well trodden cat and bear not a bead or a pillow when journeying across the lands. Knock at wooded glades. Taste the dew from a Moulton cup and throw two hundred buds into the sky. This will surely be worthy of classical clapping. Geese attend opera houses and listen very attentively to the performance of heifers and bulls who twirl with arias to thrill the crowds. Organising a creature is not clever. And dusting should only ever be carried out in a mile long queue. It gives great pleasure to greet distinguished guests at a banquet of vegetables. Unseen underneath undergrowth uniquely unified. Tailored not. Trained not. Tempering not. And noted are the teaspoons travelling like nomads over the bridges. Headstone head heading home. Radiantly watching a nine foot mineralised rugby ball smiling on a train. Hahahaha and now a dance for the floors and ceilings. Hahahaha rapidisation raiding radios racing. Hahahaha decentralization decorated dogs. Hexagonal oxen. Xx philosophically z
Ten stops down the line
That's where the place is
The place I call mine.
Ten stops to go
'Till I get home and let today go.
An old lady sits opposite me
Smiles and says she's looking forward to a hot cup of tea.
This pleasure of her day makes the cold go away
The journey through the city and along the river bank
I ask if she has milk, sugar and biscuits to dunk?
She smiles and says she very particular with her brew.
One and half teaspoons and no more; or it's quite simply a poor do!
A teaspoon of milk; gold top full cream or another pour it will be!
I smile back and ask her why so precise with her tea?
She looks straight at me.
It's my link back to my past.
An old friend of youth I've never lost.
Made like my grandad used to do
Like buttered corners on his bread too.
Buttered all over the slice of bread
That's what my grandad always said.
So my cup of tea is part of me
With it I find I can relax quite deeply.
But it has to be just right.
Or I won't relax tonight.
Five stops down and she gets to her feet
This is my stop she says to me.
Goodnight she says as she smiles at me.
Goodnight I say back but before she turns from me I say:
'enjoy your cup of tea'.
Murmer...sing...ring...ting!
The smell of freshly baked bread.
Moan...groan...hummm...trickle
Mum humming...child's giggle
Tear...whiz...whip..steak sizzling!
Brush...drip.drip..clang...rattle.
Creeaak..tappp..BANG!
A bottle popping..fizzing.. opening..
Thump..cough...waves crashing..
Water boiling...steam rising...
Bird singing....cricket chirping.
Traffic whirring...chopping..hammering.
Soft conversation. Band playing...
Kettle whistling...
Cars humming in the background...
Chirping, croaking , crowing..
Occaasional distant tapping..
Knife chopping gently on board.
Clinking of teaspoons and bone china.
Twang! Interlacing sounds woven.
Pitter-patter...rain drops,
Car approaching,dog whistle and bark!
Scratching..ascending...descending.
Strong smell of coffee wafting
Cool breeze gently blowing..
Train tooting!
Tortoiseshell tulips often grow at left angles to the moon and are otherwise adjusted to a sealed lip of ground. But a curled canopy of shredded wheat and oats make even the wildest of gardens bloom. It is within the great oceanography of a garden pond that a frog captains a lily ship and focusses his attention upon net fly duties. Net fly duties should really be carried out by professional belchers and professional belchers are neither belly flopping divers or baseball beaks. So it is wise to dip ones toe into a glass to test the temperature. Well that's what the mouse said anyway. And the ideological wisdom of mice can be magically pronounced using an abacus. But only at cheese and wine evenings for cheese and wine evenings are shawls and suit occasions that attract the most elitist of the world's largest colony of mussels, prawns, earwigs, lemons, and flower garden eared people who line up to sup the wares of such an expanse of shipments. It is within a glitter ball that a long lost object can be found. Finding favours favourably finished flavours. And a catacomb filled with a million cats is not a basin of porridge jumping over a sealed off bridge. So it is wise to keep to the pavements of the static safety zones. So as to not be ravished, attacked and harmed by the many cotton buds who dance up and down looking for dramas. Didn't the little ant do well today in the gymnastics competition? Yes. And now it is time for the passing of the seven towel rails. Argument over. Good. Thoughts tailored tailoring traditional travelling. And an eavesdropping hawk swooping in a bright pink hat. Haha marks make make-up man hahaha left handed cooking device meets an array of teaspoons. Xxxxx intercontinental Z z Z Z
Rip currents of ridiculous riddles
wet the chops of ink and parchment;
A poet enjoys tea and berry jam-tarts,
her pen tremors ‘We’re all mad here.’
Wet the chops of ink and parchment,
visit the tempestuous Queen of Hearts;
Feed your mind, milk her rose garden;
A poet enjoys tea and berry jam-tarts
drifting off into a golden afternoon;
Teaspoons paddle a sea of nonsense;
Her pen tremors ‘We’re all mad here.
Stop the infected pocket watch!
To write you must live in the moment.’
Dreams can take you to far away places
Like deserts or jungles where tigers give chase
Sometimes you may even become a pirate
Where swashbuckling adventures await
In another dream you may be a rock star
with screaming fans as you play your guitar
Many have dreams of going to heaven
Where angels sing and golden thrones glisten
Some dreams are made of apple pies
topped off with an ice cream surprise
Others may comprise beautiful sunsets
with the deep blue sea for a net
Still others are made of candied yams
sweetened with teaspoons of blueberry jam
But some are made of thorns and thistles
that jolt and make you bristle
While others are made of barbed wire
that cut deeply and make you tire
Some are nightmares which can be quite a scare
And can intensify your fears
Here's hoping your sleep is serene and complete
And that all your dreams are sweet