Best Utensil Poems
A bridge from colloquial to courtly
fare
A span where idealism and fantasy
pair
A railway to the existential realm;
celestial lair
A conduit through which rational
discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate,
and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty;
sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter
the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on
civility and decorum
A literary organ; a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to
deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational
viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct;
extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring
wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure
gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which
concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by
an idiomatic core
Categories:
utensil, on writing and words
Form:
Rhyme
Costly Reprieve
by Jason Williams
A hypnotic ritual
Holding utensil to flame
It hurts to see the bubbling
But I’ve no one else to blame
I do not care for anyone
I only care for me
About the next fix to get
That's all that I can see
Cotton brushes against skin
The tourniquet stretches tight
My despair will soon be over
I’ll have peace all through the night
An artificial cure I know
Needle piercing flesh and vein
Get me through the night I pray
I have to end the pain
Escape despair is what I seek
By any means that I can find
Even if it's just for hours,
I leave despair behind
When I wake I will be sick
I’ll be broke, I cannot win
I’ll find a way to make it
Then I’ll do it all again.
Is this the life I wish to lead?
Will I ever again be me?
Is there a life beyond repair?
Will I ever again be free?
Categories:
utensil, abuse, addiction, depression, drug,
Form:
Rhyme
Face to face, eye to eye
I stand tall and stay firm
My voice does not raise
And my tone does not change
I might listen... if I feel like it
But chances are...I won't believe you
I already know the words
The story is always the same
You are unchanging, but need to change
Your inflated ego will have you unable to see this
And no one would dare tell you...so I will
It's not okay to speak those words to me
I will not stand for it for a second
I don't use them with you
It's not okay to take friendship for granted
Acting sporadic like a leaf blowing without breeze
I don't do this to you
It's not okay to use me like a writing utensil
Picking me up until my ink evaporates
Then toss me away
I would never...could never...
Do that to anyone
You need to control your raging hormones
Just like you'd expect of a cycling woman
You need to start thinking first and acting much later
Instead of trying to erase mistakes...
The eraser is rubbing away
You should know also that I do take from you
But I do give to you, a heck of a lot in return
And don't you dare try to tell me otherwise
And that brings us to the lies
You will lie through, not so clenched teeth, to hurt in anger
Because there is no true reason to be angry
Or at least none you are willing to admit
Not even to yourself
But you thrive off the fight
Probably for the resulting attention
Am I perfect? nope not at all
You too are not
And even though you might know this
You still act like you are supposed to be higher
And hold the fact that I am human against me
I refuse to accept a slanted scale of friendship
I am the friend that would give up my last breath for those I love
Loyal even to people that hurt me
I know you will disagree
But even then, I was loyal
You just couldn't see
You've hurt me on beat
And the rhythm stays steady
I will not take it any longer
I am not the one who needs changing
Not this time
So don't tell me you're sorry...
Just show me
Categories:
utensil, friendshipme, me,
Form:
Free verse
Worry wonders and doubts
It speculates on the hopes and habits
It ponders all the thoughts and misgivings
It deliberates on the joy and kindness
It even questions the peace and serenity
Worry seeks a heart to attack
A calm to disturb with turbulence
A happiness to disappoint with sorrow
A light to snuff out with a dark thought
Worry drains souls of their pleasure
Pierces the dreams with murky shadows
Destroys the embrace of sweet grace
And sends discouragement into the spirit
Worry is a tool of the devil
Who came to seek whom he might destroy
With his lies and his doom and his despair
Worry is his device, his utensil
The instrument he uses to bring us down
So that we can’t find the faith to reach out
Toward the One who knows all about our worries
And brings us encouragement and reassurance
The inspiration and enthusiasm to refocus
On the promises He gives with His mercy and compassion
The love that arises out of the darkest moments
Love that assures us He will restore and rebuild
Despite whatever the worries might foresee
Worry is blind to the fact that
His love can diminish every doubt
Relieve every pain, erase every cloud
With the rising of His Son, His light
The One who will always work things out
Matthew 6:26 (KJV) Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
Categories:
utensil, angst, anxiety, inspirational, jesus,
Form:
Free verse
When the Lord gives His bountiful blessings, the least one can do is be grateful..
An afterlife in heavenly abode awarded
Based on Biblical born-again experience
Christian choruses in choral cadence
Days of delight by delving deep in doctrines
Enriching encounters that encourage me
Friends forever and familial functions
Godly guidance and grand gestures of grace
Helpful homely ambience that holds me up
Insightful intelligent interpretation of images
Joyfulness found with a Just Judge
Keen kinship with the King of Kings
Limitless love of the Lion and the Lamb
Matchless Master's mystical mercies on me
New life necessarily found on the narrow road
Oasis of overflowing opportunities
Pleasant promises on this pilgrimage path
Quiver of qualitative quiescence
Remembrance of Royal righteousness
Succour in the Saviour's sweet snuggles
Tireless teamwork and thankful testimonies
Unswerving unblemished utensil of usefulness
Victorious vessel of value and valour
Watchful warrior with the Word as a weapon
Xtremely xenial with xpectation of xquisiteness
Yearnings of yesterdays and Yuletides
Zealous zest to reach Zion's zenith.
07.15.2020
"The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it." - Proverbs 10:22
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ." - Ephesians 1:3
Categories:
utensil, blessing, encouraging,
Form:
Abecedarian
Woven into the fibers of every rug
Burnished in the grains of hardwood floors
Shining in the panes of sunlit windows
Carved into great oaken doors
Gleaming in newly polished silver chalice
A recipe of love, a woman's dearest wish
In the pride of her kitchen, aglow on each utensil
Baked into her every dinner's dish
Categories:
utensil, home, love, woman,
Form:
Rhyme
A bird flew up to me
And plucked a feather from her wing
She said, "Here, it is free,
"and this bottle of ink. Go write something,
"Put away your keyboard, lay aside your pencil,
"Use my feather as your writing utensil."
Categories:
utensil, bird, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
I’m Here To Serve Jesus!
I was born... So that
others may live...
Sharing with people of
God's power to forgive!
I’m here to help others to see...
A Christ who came.
To set men free!
I’m here to be God's holy vessel…
To be used by him...
Being his "utensil."
I’m here to point others
in a Godly direction…
Sharing with others Christ' power
and resurrection!
I’m here to
share this poem.
And to be a Godly leader of
my family and home.
I’m here to one day
meet Jesus in the sky.
It could be this very hour,
or after I die.
I’m here, to let people
like you know…
Of a savior's salvation!
How he loves you so!
You were born... To give
God thanks and praise!
Why not serve him...
The rest of your days???
By Jim Pemberton 07/22/15
Categories:
utensil, devotion, faith, forgiveness, hope,
Form:
Rhyme
THEY USED SPOONED NOW SHE IS SPOON FED
He holds a seventy-two year old spoon to her mouth
seventy-two years wed
seventy-two years in the same bed
he holds the spoon in front of her gray framed head
after all, sick or not, frail or not
the lady must be fed
and if anyone was going to do the feeding
it would be the man who, for seventy-two years she'd been needing
gardening, growing, weeding
seeding the same garden for seventy-two years through sun and rain
seventy-two years easing each others pain
one's devotion is only exceeded by the other
father and mother
with men and women left behind
yet always on their collective mind
the years spent stifling arguments and cultivating love
the many years they had to fix the roof above
his hand shook as the spoon neared her mouth
they'd began in the north but ended up in the south
no cold north wind to battle against, only to lose the fight
no snow to begin in the morning and still be falling past midnight
no white to fight against with an aging back and a discontented wife
but this was their life
and slowly he slips the ground up mush upon her tongue because she could hardly swallow
with no rule book nor informative guide that left them sometimes feeling hollow
each not fearing but expecting death
and so each dawn one would feel for the others breath
so spoonful by spoonful that 72 year old utensil was used for sustenance
he so amorous for 72 years of her divine countenance
he had plagues of his own
but a 72 year old bond had been grown
alas they would swallow their pride
let their Lord be their guide
the God who had protected them and stifled their tepid tears
and had been doing so for seventy-two years
© 2012 © copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Categories:
utensil, devotion, old, old,
Form:
Quatrain
GRAMMAR ALWAYS RULES
If if and and were pots or pans
There would be fewer conjunctions
But when because or some such word
Was changed into utensil it became absurd
For although since the demise of if and and
There have been no other losses grand
Nevertheless, heretofore, notwithstanding
The loss, we must retain our conjunctioning
Categories:
utensil, on writing and words,
Form:
Couplet
Absolute is her adorable attitude,
blessed and bestowed with a burning benignity,
city girl caught within life’s calamitousness,
darling to all that dare dote upon her. Naked!
Economize, be efficient, enthuse she must,
Fight! For her felicity. Feel! For those whom fall,
groping gouging with a grotesque gravitation,
hold on to her hospitable habitation!
Indurate through incest! Injured through inurement,
justice she seeks, a juvenile Judy no more,
kicked by society, knackered by its keepers,
laminated personalities lost in love!
Morning time! Brings the sunlight, the mist the misery,
Nymph nurtured by noble, just to serve motley men,
Org*sm Cried off, just an opaque memory,
primate pants, within the woodland glen!
Quaint in monthly quarantine, desire still to quell,
rebellious rivals, rustic, but youth on side,
sanctimonious salutations satisfy,
the test for technique, tediously still apply!
Unable to command usage. “Utensil spent”
Valuation decreasing via vulgar gent,
wise mind, weary body responds to the wanker,
xquisite flame soon xtinguish by the banker!
Yet she that lived in yonder past, youthfulness yielded,
zero hour approaches. “Erotic zone no more!”
because of censorships some words had to be removed or changed.
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Alliteration and Abecedarian poem
entered into A Poet Destroyers 004 contest
Categories:
utensil, life, sad,
Form:
Alliteration
A professor has published his thesis
On removal of impacted faeces
Use the end of a pencil
Or a kitchen utensil
to dislodge clumps of faeces in pieces!
Told you it was a crap poem!
05/14/20
Categories:
utensil, body, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
How come Stephen,
When do you forget defence?
Why don't you hack death with your golden boot?
Do not disappoint me,
Do not let me down Keshi,
Your crown is medal-made;
Roam not with lilliputians
Whose blazer is calico
Whose utensil is mud
Whose bread is shaft and husk
Whose shelter is raffia...
But dwell among the giants
Who parade st. Joseph street in damask
And pop wine in holy Michael Crescent.
There you truly belong,
Flaunt your crown among Moses and Elijahs,
Flirt among Marys and Maras.
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the Kilimanjaro, who can headbutt?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult;
When the woodpecker pecks all,
Does it also peck banana tree?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the anvil, which termite can consume?
No, I will not meet you in dream,
I will not meet you in trance and vision;
Because you gave all you had,
Our tryst shall be Paradise.
Till then and for now big boss:
Head to head, chest to chest, hand to hand;
Knuckle, knuckle, knuckle.
Auf Wiedersehen !
Categories:
utensil, death,
Form:
Elegy
Brain strain – A kitchen adventure
Broken ladles scattered about the new granite countertops
Veins of years gone by, prehistoric earth tremblings, spotted composites
in a vast array of colors, wickedly smooth and hard as rock (go figure)
Silverware sings like wind chimes on the tile floor,
cast aside in frantic search…long drawers, endlessly hiding that utensil,
somewhere behind the egg slicer, yellow plastic (what would I do without it?)
Meat thermometer (that sounds nasty) Tupperware tops for what?
Plastic reminders of meals past, no longer fitting their
spaghetti sauce discolored partners, in assorted sizes (used now as makeshift cat food bowls)
Pots and pans, why is it always pots and pans, never pans and pots,
hell in alphabetical order it would be, who thinks up this stuff?
And then those damn lids that never stack (handles, who needs them?)
A blender, a mixer, a dicer, a juicer, a toaster and an apple peeler. An apple peeler?
Brownie tins shaped like a labyrinth, but look at all of those corners…chewy
Not good for the diet but make the perfect Christmas gift. (much more than an apple peeler)
There it is, finally, behind a 5 lb. bag of potatoes and the old Mr. Coffee machine,
tarnished silver, at least a hundred star patterned holes, three little worthless feet…my colander
The one I use to strain my brain, removing all of the bad stuff (so the only thought left is you)
4/6/17
Written for the Go Ahead…I Dare Ya!!! poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
Categories:
utensil, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
Best kitchen utensil, invented by man -
By far favourite, fantastic frying pan!
Be it onion, French toast or eggs and bacon,
My fancy taste buds, drooling unmistaken.
With a light and magic touch of oil drizzle
Lamb loin is seared to savoury sizzle.
Veggies' blend roasted on a pan, to die for,
Never boil them in water, plain wilted bore!
Ah, pancakes, my goodness, grandma's homey treat,
Made with love and care - will knock you off your feet.
And last, not least, ultimate joy of French fries,
With extra depth - all times blessing in disguise!
I know with healthy eating habits I'm screwed,
In regards to fried carcinogenic food.
I should have dumped my pan pal long time ago,
But in denial, I just can't let go.
Way too late to contemplate of what I should,
It’s panned into my identity for good!
February 22, 2023
Categories:
utensil, humorous,
Form:
Ode