Best Wooden Spoon Poems
A solitary man
I make my way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life I know further and further behind
I wish to be alone
away from the busyness
the incessant noise
my many responsibilities
life’s never ending activities
work that is never done
all of life’s many conflicts
I reach the top
sit down and cross my legs
As I look out at the landscape
my village is a small mass of thatched roofs
the people barely seeable
I see smoke rising from a central fire
wondering if I will be missed
From this distance the lake appears so small
I imagine it fitting into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds me
stretching my eyes
distracting me from the pebbles beneath me
blades of grass are now myopically large
I watch as the ants toil
Are our lives not the same?
Seasons change
Summer to fall
Winter to spring
I witness it all
My beard lengthens as my mind enlarges
Secrets have been revealed
Disconnected yet I am a part of all
I grow downward into the ground
Others come to the mountain top
seeking wisdom
They sit with me for a while
never staying long
Each takes from me so that they may give
I am a man transformed
Arms outstretched reaching to all the horizons
covered with foliage
The seasons continue to change
I send my leaves down to the village
beconing them to come to the mountain
no longer do I want to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
You come to the mountain top
But I am no longer able to audibly speak
All that I know resides in the rings of my seasons
Still you partake of my wisdom
Putting your ear to my trunk
You can hear my lonely heart beat
aware of my breath whistling through leather like leaves
I attach my seeds to your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down from the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to our village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village you shake your coat
Seeds fall on the fertile ground
Finally I have come home...
When it's soup season on Poetry Soup
Ingredients are in large selection
Creamy chicken soup is yummy
for both body and soul
it is simple to fix
Step one:
Joseph and John catch the chicken
it runs wild in the back garden
Step Two:
Robert and Richard pluck the feathers
and takes out the entrails
no one else would do this work so well
Step Three:
Wash your hands (I bet they smell)
Step Four:
Tania and Evelyn
fry the chicken in butter
together they sing a cheerful song
Step Five:
Ilene and Jan
is responsible for
leek, bell peppers
and carrot in the pot
their tools are humor
not razor sharp knifes
Step Six:
Hiya who is "chicken" in the group
adds boiling broth stock
Linda tells her to be cautious
kitchen window has been misted by steam
Step Seven:
Let the soup boil for ten to fifteen minutes
Sara says to her husband Bill who stirs the pot
Step Eight: Crème Fraîche
Paula and Heidi adds an extra dash
and taste a little with a wooden spoon
Step Nine:
Victor chops some fresh parsley
he feels refreshed and hungry today
Step ten: Pick your place around the table
Welcome to Soup - Enjoy
When we stirred the pot
Mum pulled out the wooden spoon
Wisdom Tree
A solitary man
Makes his way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life he knows further and further behind
He wishes to be alone
Away from the busyness
The noise
Responsibility
Activity
Work that is never done
Conflict
The need to be in control
He reaches the mountain top
Sits down and crosses his legs
He looks out at the landscape
His village a small mass of thatched roofs
People unseeable
Smoke rises from a central fire
The lake so small
it looks like it can fit into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds him
He feels the pebbles beneath him
Blades of grass are myopically large
He watches as the ants toil
Are their lives not the same?
Seasons change
Summer to fall
winter to spring
He witnesses it all
His beard lengthened
As his mind enlarged
Secrets have been revealed
He’s disconnected yet part of all
The base of him grows into the ground
Others journey to the mountain top
Seeking his wisdom
They sit with him for a while
Never staying for long
Each person takes so that they may give
The wise man transformed
Arms outstretched
reaching to all the horizons
Now covered with leaves
The seasons continue to change
He sends his leaves down to the village
Beckoning them to the mountain
Not wanting to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
He’s no longer is able to speak
All that he knows
resides in the rings of his seasons
Still he offers wisdom
Put your ear to his trunk
You can still hear his heart beat
His breath whistles through the leaves
His seeds cover your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to your village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village
you shake the seeds off your coat
They fall on the fertile ground
The wise man
has finally come home.
They place my vowel
Under barren landscape
Sipping from cracked porcelain cup
Of an alienated heartbeat
Devilish grins
Slapping Karma’s bottom,
A quarterback’s misguided win
Liar’s prophetic retinas glaze
With metric, disciplinary ruler
They place my consolidated lyric
On upper hand
Of cubic zirconium petulance
Their torn, lanolin coated tissue
Degrading polyester embedded uniform
Mislead by “savior’s” belief
A desolate embodiment of character
They observe me
With cherry coated pupils
Through rusty, iron bars
Its frosty echoes
Portraying fickle sonatas in these stale winds
Yet,
My ambient tear
Is simply a hoax for their recycled victory
Holding wooden spoon against my waist
Ready to crawl
©Drake J. Eszes
I stand at Nikko's door, for I'm now in the Philippines.
She greets me. Oh, how young she looks, like someone in her teens!
"You're just the way I pictured you," I tell her with a grin.
But then, this girl I'm talking to says, "Oh, I'm Nikko's twin!"
"Oops!" I blush; then at the door, the "real" Nikko appears,
in her hand a wooden spoon and on her face, dark smears!
After hugs, she says, "I'm making chocolates. Try them out!"
Sweet caffeine with coffee? That's what I'M talkin' about!!!
Day turns to night. We sit and eat good food while chatting too
about ourselves, like long-lost friends, and plan fun things we'll do!
Written by Andrea Dietrich
For "First words over Coffee" Contest
Sponsored by Michael J. Falotico
Cook the green beans
As you always do
When ready drain the water
Add a little oil then heat up
For a minute can add garlic
Crack and egg into the beans
With a wooden spoon mix together
Until egg is mixed all through
Now serve with the meal
This vegetable with egg can
Be served with every meal.
Grab a wooden spoon, and choose a mixing bowl
A breakfast that is piping hot is worth its weight in gold!
You can make them by the dozens, or one or two will do
Make them for your next of kin, or neighbors you have got
Even for those teenage boys, ...(the ones who eat a lot!)
Let's see you fry a stack of cakes that tower on the plate
The stack is high,...but folks will sigh with happiness inside
So get the griddle piping hot, and warm syrup too
And don't forget a pot of jam and marmalade is good!
Applesauce, gets an A+ ,.......and often gets applause!
Yes you can! Whip some up.....it's as easy fix to do
No need to go to I-Hop. Just make them on the spot
Wake them up to something yummy
Fill a tummy, make 'em happy, maple syrup needs some sopping
Buckwheat makes the grumpy jolly, just stir the lumps out 'til there's none
And someone's sour mood is gone, when sourdough is stacked at dawn
Flapjacks wake the sleepyheads, before they run straight out the door
They'll turn right back to have some more .....three or four, or five or six
Butter oozing down the sides, sticky syrup glazing eyes.....mouths will water
hear the laughter.....add some nuts, or raisin eyes, make a face a big surprise
Yum! Yum! Yum! M & M's add some fun, and add a chocolate prize!
And if you dare, to be so bold
Flip your flapjack, pan-fried gold.....Just grab and hold your frying pan
It 's in the grip, ......then flip ! You can !!! And if you're lucky it will land
upon the plate........not on the floor, across the room,......
but one mistake......, just mop it up, and try it all again!
Practice tennis while you're at it,...Ping pong too...., and batter-up.....
Up it goes........and down it comes........Something yummy for your tummy
Pancake's, flapjacks .......hotcakes, hoecakes..
Pick your favorite, flip them high........ make them small or any size
Make a ton........!!! It's worth a try !
__________________________________________________
For Didactic Food Contest: sponsored by Tammy Reams
10/5/15
With none in my infant's mouth, I was born
Even though a big silver spoon I craved
Of an affluence, I was left quite forlorn
Hence, contentment without the spoon I craved
For myself, a black wooden spoon I made
Spooning my mouth with every contentment
Said I then to my heart: 'good it's self-made'
Oh! I love the darkness, my excitement
In my tea cup, there was a stubborn storm
To break my spoon it gladly desired
With a strong resistance and great reform
Courageously said my spoon: 'you're fired'
The stubborn storm it calmed, where art the loon?
So adorable! My black wooden spoon
N.B: I have used 'my black wooden spoon' as a metaphor for contentment.
Stanza 1 expresses my wish to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth (I.e to be born rich)
Stanza 2 expresses my self-discipline, diligence and contentment since I wasn't born rich.
Stanza 3 expresses that there are trying times difficult to deal with.
Stanza 4 expresses how contentment calms covetousness especially if one is a loon.
You are the stuff my culinary dreams are made of.
Unending shapes and sizes.
From skinny linguini to the rounded orecchiette
and squiggly fusilli.
As my tongue tastes morsels of your saucy tubular goodness,
I compose a rhyme of the ancient marinara to atone
for my over-the-top pasta love.
Stuffed, plain, buttered. Swimming in Sunday sauce.
The tastiest were those plain whites I pilfered from the pot
before nonna caught me. Whack! with the wooden spoon.
It’s rumored my very first uttering was mangia – an oft-heard word
spoken by mama as she attempted to feed me.
“You’re going to turn into a rigatoni
if you don’t eat something else,” she implored.
Ha! If I were a rigatoni, we’d be cugini.
I only liked you, beautiful al dente you.
And semolina only, please. I accept no impastas!
You’ve been with me through thick and thin,
mostly thick ... around my hips.
Late night comfort snack,
midday bowl of depression-busting goodness.
The breakfast of strong Italian women!
You are Sophia Loren’s guilty pleasure.
Mine, too. With the emphasis on pleasure.
One bite and I am transported back to childhood.
Visions of homemade pasta drying on pristine
white flour sack towels tantalize my taste buds.
You, dear pasta, are la bomba.
My love for you is unending, until we all farfalle down.
Social conscious, the brain behind the hand,
it’s wooden spoon ready to smack the non-conforming adult /s/,child/ren.
Driven by western views of political correctness,
it dictates how we should be and what we should become.
Weaving its web within the fabric of society,
legislative acts and the cynical ideals of who?
Always ready to shout out your wrong!!!,
never commending those who are right.
Forced upon minorities in a stereotypical way
look these people need to be saved,
it’s one sided propaganda eagerly displays,
many shames of what were acceptable ways.
Power, control, suppression, aggression
this seems pretty prejudice to me,
why else would it segregate the people,
instead of helping the people to be free.
Let’s disempower the people,
then they wonder why?
These people have no control!
I don’t know why they act surprised?
Social conscious dictates social change,
social change denotes someone pays,
the ones who pay force change,
so social conscious always wins at the end of the day.
There’s two sides to every coin,
but only one to social conscious,
who is the conscious behind social conscious?
think about that……..
when i was a silly kid ,
'round the age of 17;
i pulled a trick on gran'ma,
it was really kind'a mean!
while gran'ma was a' snoozin',
like a spy down underneath;
i crept into the bedroom,
& swiped her false teeth!
early the next mornin',
i heard someone fussin';
pots & pans were a' flyin',
as it soon turned into cussin'!
i stepped into the kitchen,
gran'ma was squishin' tomatoes;
she reached beneath the cabinet,
& tossed a bag of potatoes!
stars, moons, & saturn,...
swirled above my head;
gran'ma went on a rampage,
i swore that i was dead!
i raced into my bedroom,
reaching below the bed;
i pulled out a jar of dentures,
to the kitchen i quickly fled!
there stood gran'ma,
madder than the maddest cow;
she smacked me with a wooden spoon,
as i unleashed a screechin'..."OWW!!"
i learned a vital lesson,
it's healthy to keep the peace;
seniors are sweeter than honey,
but never kidnap their teeth!
I'd like to speak romantically of spooning and mooning but, alas,
My childhood inspired a thought much more vivid and, well, crass.
As a rule-breaker I oft had a wooden spoon applied forcefully to my bare white moon (ass!)
Flames race up the fireback
As sparks burst beneath the latest logs
The largest is well past seasoned
It will not last long in this late Winter third load of wood
Radiance warms my forehead and stretched out right foot
As I sit in laid back acceptance of my masonic mastery
The carved wooden fish caught in the inlaid brick joints
Smiles and stares forever up at the Four by eight mantel
It's the cast off of a wooden spoon
carved twenty five or more years ago and burnt here
When it cracked after years of use.
The fish smiles on
The fire spits and sputters
for more wood.
To a birthday party I was invited,
as an 11 year old I should have been excited.
I really didn't want to go,
the people there I didn't really know.
The day arrived and mum drove me there,
I exited the car with such little flare.
"Those pants your wearing, now they are brand new,
Not to take care of them would never do".
I stood at the gate as mum drove away,
weighed up my options, should I go or stay.
I could run to the park and play with the gift,
call back later and wait outside for a lift.
Knowing what mum would do if she found me out,
so inside I must go of that there's no doubt.
Once inside I handed over the gift wrapped toy,
It was tossed onto the couch, the ungrateful boy.
Now I must admit, I was a strange little dude.
I had a problem eating other people's food.
So when lunch was due and at the table we all sat,
I wasn't going to eat at all and that was that.
As I lifted my fork and pushed food around my plate,
The lady said, "you better eat something little mate".
Now was that a threat? or was she being kind?
I better do something fast, a plan had formed in my mind.
A light bulb moment, I could pull a ruse.
The new pants I wore, the pocket were loose.
feigning that I was chewing on my spuds,
they were removed from my fork and into my duds.
The sausages went in next, they were a little tricky.
The gravy that covered them made insertion a little sticky.
In went the peas and a couple of chips,
my front pockets were full and felt wet on my hips.
When I left the party with a bag of lollies to take,
my back pockets were filled with the kids birthday cake.
Finally home, mum yelled, "What all over your new pants?"
Wooden spoon in her hand as around the kitchen we danced.