A dash of rhyme,
A pinch of time.
Pop! Zap! Zoom!—
Add an onomatopoeia.
Lines and stanzas
fill my page.
Stir it all together,
to make a poetry stew.
Never ever keep your kids guessing
Morning’s menu ~ Love wrapped in a breakfast's blessing
a little rice
a little water
time to boil
and start
the meal
I doze off
dog at my side
smoke fills
the house
smoke alarm
screams
the dog quivers
time
to open windows
turn on fans
erase signs
of my mistake
on a bright
summer day
sit outside
holding the dog
until the air clears
one blast
of siren
if in town
two
if out of town
I hope
no one notices
the smoke alarm
o how people [in a small town] can talk
I still see her ghost.
She's at the woodstove cooking and baking.
Perfumes still roam the air.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
I appreciate that many love it
And want lashings on their meal
Scattered over soup or curry
(I can’t see the appeal)
It’s popular and I recognise
To you, it may taste fine
Peppery, on your tastebuds
‘Delicious’, ‘divine’
But for me, it’s bitter, nasty stuff
I’m sorry, I must conclude
(Because my own tastebuds insist):
Coriander isn’t food
Once our home was filled with love,
from God up above.
My kitchen had delicious foods cooking away,
as children played near by.
Many family and dear friends,
laughed and loved in my rooms of old.
One by one they went away,
all promising to come back someday.
My once pretty garden is now all weeds,
even the birds will not come near.
I'm A Forgotten Home,
I once was filled with love.
Cock-a-doodle doo.
I smell you.
Oven baked; pan fried.
Shake n' bake; even brined.
Any type will do.
Chicken, I love you.
Fond Sunday dinner memories
Roasted in other recipes
I prefer my chicken fried
Each recipe is vintage
Delicious dream comes true
Crisp perfection upon a plate
Hours to prepare
Islands of chefs perfect their chicken
Coated with ranch or lemon
Kitchens record each bite
Every recipe is right
No recipe is wrong
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Granny’s recipe card is splattered with butter,
the ink blurred where her thumb pressed too soon~
butter, sugar, flour—all accounted for.
What’s missing is the way she hummed
off-key hymns between sifted clouds,
how the kitchen held its breath
when she cracked an egg one-handed.
The cinnamon? Yes.
But not the weight of her sigh
when the dough resisted,
nor the way her wedding band
left a faint silver streak in the batter.
The streusel is just crumbs and brown sugar,
unless you count the dust of her laughter
as she scolded me for sneaking bites
of raw dough between my teeth.
Bake at 375º, the card says,
but not how long to wait
after the oven light goes dark,
after the scent stops being hers
and becomes just a memory.
*If you'd like to read the accompanying memoir vignette, you may do so at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/intangible_ingredients_13578
choose a single word
take the first letter
in seven lines stirred
wit makes it better
take the same letter
add it in each line
chop some trendsetter
words, it'll turn out fine
add the right spices
six syllables must
fry the sorted slices
half-cook and adjust
let the water boil
add the required salt
garnish hot rhyme oil
Curry's made, no fault
Her secret ingredient is love.
Grandma doesn’t have the most glamorous kitchen.
Her baking always chef worthy.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
My kitchen will hold the key,
love like warm oven brie.
Too many cooks here so flee,
this is my holiday plea.
Only one needed cook bee,
with dinner and hot tea.
The broth must not taste like the sea,
but with a touch of glee.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spine cracked like parched soil,
pages swollen at the edges
with spills – cinnamon, grease,
splatters of tomato sauce.
Her handwriting, a slanting vine
across lined paper: add more salt,
stir till it feels right,
Grandma swore by lard.
Faded ink blooms where tears fell,
once, beside funeral cake.
The spine breaks open like a secret told,
pages swollen with stains – cinnamon ghosts,
thumbprints of butter, a splash of burgundy bold.
Her looping script, a faded charcoal host,
maps forgotten Mondays, birthdays gone cold.
Pinch of patience, scribbled beside roast recipe~
an ingredient never bought or sold.
The binding frays where gravy pooled and dried,
a topographical map of meals that fed
more than just hunger. On the margins
her notes bloom: Add less salt; He likes this bread~
Double for grieving written between lines, implied,
the quiet alchemy where love was spread
thicker than jam on all the years inside.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pierre, a très petit French squirrel with savoir-faire
Dreamt of chocolat sauces beyond compare.
He shouted, Sacrebleu!
“This chocolat hazelnut fondue
Needs more je ne sais quoi, I do declare!"
Mother's cooking wasn't good -
she either burnt or
undercooked. Even sand-
wiches were awful.
Having said that, my
cooking's the
same!
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