want write poems that not
bout politics life's weighty
absurdities death's grip all
simple poems contentment
son's enthusiasm energy
wife's cooking heroic endurance
kitten's bouncing curiosity
old cat's slowing solitude
dog praying hard reform
colors fall newness spring
mowing leaves grass gazing
on in forest looking beyond
tree tops lake mirage day
venus mars night
bach lifting toward
mozart floating down
heaven singing love conquering
fulfilled voluntary unions bodies
cooperation nations peace
strength through peace soul society
treading softly near edge
old habit making safe path
some sweet day will
roots wrenched from the soil
tendrils ripped from trellis frames
I scour myself raw
clutching a fragile harvest
in my bare, cold, trembling hands
A knife slashes through
the bruises and bitter scars
etched deep in my skin
leaving only what still glows
and can sustain my hunger
steam clouds coil and writhe
from the pot of shattered parts
softened by the heat
rendered down, made pliable
enough to begin again
I devour this dish
a meal for my well-being
inflamed with spices
for renewal, bite by bite
to face tomorrow's trials
I’ve never learned the art of a reliable recipe,
only the art of guessing who might eat it.
I will learn what you love,
the way you take your coffee,
that you’d rather have mustard on your sandwich,
that you prefer your toothpaste tastes like fruit instead of mint.
You see, I try too hard.
My food can’t be one flavor—
that would be boring.
I stir,
and stir,
and stir,
adding more until the dish is heavy, uneven.
And when you eat it,
you’ll taste the coffee grounds,
the mustard,
the toothpaste.
It’s not because I think it belongs—
I couldn't stop myself
kept reaching for anything with your name on it,
hoping the thought of the meal would soften the sour taste.
I serve the same dish to everyone,
each batch a strange new mix
of flavors I don’t even like—
and I wonder what keeps them here:
do they hunger for filling,
or for something truly mine?
I’m not sure I’ll ever know.
So I will watch you chew,
watch the fork sink to the side of your plate,
waiting for the scrape of truth—
for you to push the dish away.
I’ve left the recipe wrong on purpose,
hoping you’ll taste the absence,
and ask what I might make
if I cooked with my own hands.
Have it
At room
Temperature
Before cooking.
No marinade.
Just coarse salt
And pepper.
Hot heavy pan
Medium to high heat.
Flip when seared.
Dark brown.
Lower heat.
Lotsa butter,
Mushrooms,
Chopped shallots,
Drops of
Lee and Perrins.
Squirt of lemon &
Dash of parsley
At the end.
Have a warm plate.
Drop it all from the pan.
Keep plate
On low warm.
Let it sit for 20min.
Tenderloin is delicate.
In summer, sluggish sense of sloth he gets,
stops the lazy time, for clock’s hands he sets.
In hot kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico.
He snoozes in shade, sun cooks omelets.
Altho' fearless it was flightless
I do declare
and when it found itself earthbound
was the dodo despondent in despair
or even think
it would become extinct
if it knew it was in
deep doo-doo
somewhat akin
to the the missing link
unafraid of man
who thought them dumb
as they come on the quiet
an easy prey for sailors
a whole new different dinner diet
but there was nothing to be done
for suspiciously delicious
history they could never outrun
or ever leave Mauritius
simmering on low
expectations of cooking -
i’m slowly stirring
I still see my mother
sitting at the kitchen table
copying out her favorite recipes
from the Women’s Weekly magazine.
With pen in hand,
she’d carefully write the recipe,
word for word in her notebook.
There are hundreds that
she collected over the decades.
That notebook, with its dog-eared pages,
crusty stains and side notes,
is now in my hands.
The thing is, I don’t cook—
my other half is the chef in our family.
Now and then, he’ll ask me for
Mom’s notebook to try one of her
secret recipes, although he likes to add
his own twist to it—
it needs a bit of spice, he says.
But nobody beats Mom’s cooking!
Oh dear sir quyeer, its headed for the weir.' And the keepers
Are changing.' Quite a nuisanse indeed.' ( one must fear?)This body is most
Foul..' the stink shall be intense..Many will desert, and your despair become immense.'
The art of preparing a roast
Is different from that of a toast.
Don’t cook it too dry,
Nor crusty like pie,
More moist will most boast of the host.
Trump is cooking, busy kitchen
Wants America to pitch in
Every voter's fondest wish
Taste and savor final dish
February 8, 2025
Feast time
Potluck, store bought
Cooking together too
Sitting, eating, enjoying the food
Thankful
You got me you got me baby
You got me, and I am your lady
You got me eating out of your hand;
I am your number one fan
You know, I am your lady;
And I've been working hard
I've been working all day
Your the reason why I do it this way
Hey hey hey hey I am your lady
Hey hey I am your lady
When I get home , I'll see to you ;
I am in those high heels, those sexy shoes
When I get home, I'll see to you
In a diva dress serving you top table Eton's mess food
I've been cooking on gas , turning up the heat
Oh yer baby I'm ready to eat;
When I get home , I"ll see to you
I am wearing those high heels and sexy shoes
You know, what I'm gonna do?
I am gonna take you to our favourite dining room
Gonna get down to The Groove
Serving you the way you like me to
When I get home , I'll see to you ;
I am in those high heels, those sexy shoes
Autumn begins with one fact,
Sounded by first egg to crack.
With eggs mixed In a batter,
The outcome won't matter
Because smoke is filling the shack.
Cooking is life
Food for people
In each culture.
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