As a can trash full
I am all mixed up.
As flushed raw sewage
I am all mixed up.
As grit and concrete
I am all mixed up.
As boiled bouillabaisse
I am all mixed up.
As fall forest leaves
I am all mixed up.
As odd jellybeans
I am all mixed up.
As a bouquet blend
I am all mixed up.
How to stop this chant?
I am all mixed up...
1/21/2023
Her canvas awaits the first scoop,
She dips her brush in the soup
Bouillabaisse caresses her canvas,
Stirring the senses of her palate
She dips her brush in yet
As the stove heats up her palette,
Painting the dawn sky
With tints of butternut squash
Split pea flavor colors the trees
Minestrone sways the flower in a breeze,
And roses find their hue
With brushstrokes of tomato soup
She adds a stroke of egg drop too
Just a touch of lentil soup will do,
Her canvas seems so edible
She lets it simmer for a while
She can taste her painting's flavor
With each brush stroke to savor
Now she's ready to eat,
Time for a bowl of soup!!
5-11-2022
A Merger With Food Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
Still dizzy after our fall, ears ringing with fear,
Crammed in a hole we dug with our hands,
We toss away moments of galloping rage,
Scattering secrets we once kept to ourselves,
Suave as the wind, a gentle breeze on our breath,
The stale stench of liquor blown out to sea,
We sigh and surrender to a flogging so sweet,
We barely take note of the scene that unfolds,
As our blood slowly boils and drips in a stream
Onto the planks of the deck down below,
A crimson puddle licking our feet,
Our flailed carcass once again strapped
To this tallest of masts, bound to our word,
With an odd bit of luck, we make out to see
The fruit of our labor bobbing on waves,
Bloated fish that have died and now rot in the water,
Cooked by the sun, this uncouth bouillabaisse,
A stew so putrid, a taste so foul, yet a feast for the gulls
Screaming above (and the sharks scheming below),
Till our minds churn and vomit such figures and words
As no tempest or storm could ever withhold.
We swim, swim, and swim, but die on the shore.
I sit here with chin in hand
My pencil poised on paper
My mind is buzzing
Words tumble and fall
In all areas of my brain
They fight for a place up front
A bouillabaisse of letters and words
Searching for significance
Demanding to convey a sentiment, a thought
With eyes closed
Ideas form more quickly
My pencil is ready
My fingers grip tightly
Eager to record each expression
One word, two, a phrase springs to life
Words flow as a poem begins
The page fills quickly
My pencil is content at last.
Hungry in France
Garçon, garçon
bring hot soupçon
bouillabaisse accent egu.
Qu'est-ce que c’est, qu’est-ce que c’est?
Sounds like I’m un peu coucou.
Sacrebleu, Sacrebleu
what can I do?
In French all I learned to say
was frère Jacques frère Jacques
and café au lait, olay!
Starving; I am starving;
I’m hungry as a hog
still snails will never touch my tongue
nor the legs of a frog.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
May 24, 2012
For Cyndi's "Un deux trois"
Ignore it if you want - I just couldn't get the poetry form down.i
my forte and my downfall
elegant thoughts, parsed perfection
effortlessly strung, priceless pearls
tailored, fitted, mitered, alliterated
craftmanship evident to Medieval guilds
perhaps too literal, haloed, overly sincere
but you, with your scantily clad jargon
middling maudlin untold descriptions
how can posies exist
needing both water and wine
to complete the sacrement
sun and rain, imperfection of perfection
ability that adds what's missng
ruminated thoughts sought, prayed
wished, the Holy Grail as yet unfounded
oh, my secret brothers, the map reads so easily
you who know the ingredients
in Merlin's bubbling kettle
a bouillabaisse for the chef's nose
while I eat cold potatoes
Tainted Feathers
Man made bouillabaisse
oil and water don't mix
chocolate quackers
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