Dysregulated
A compass circling its needle,
while every horizon
steps aside.
Dry syllables
catch in the throat,
then clatter like dropped cutlery.
A long word,
stitched together
mended with mismatched joints.
It arrives as a diagnosis,
leaves like weather—
not asking the season.
"Styx"
Eyes that run rivers
reflect Styx crossed.
The Journey commences
spilled from inside
the nowhere land,
risen from a metaphorical drowning -
poetic,
worldless boundaries
of a tablecloth moment,
where shining cutlery is set just so,
in the correct placement -
The Last Supper,
we sit across from each other,
grace is not uttered before the meal
there is nothing left between us -
poetic.
What’s left?
A life stolen -
I let you go.
What will be, will be.
Along the road,
another life, calls me,
Home.
What will be, will be.
I let you go.
Along the road,
Life calls you -
Home.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
They changed their flags before sunrise,
and called it weather.
By noon the microphones were blooming
like plastic flowers in dust.
Reporters asked straight questions;
answers arrived sideways,
oiled and smiling,
wrapped in patriotic ribbon.
A man declared himself the nation,
the worker, the owner,
the speech, the applause,
the hand that signs its own praise.
He wore green glasses in famine
and praised the harvest.
He wore dark glasses in fire
and admired the shade.
Truth stood outside barefoot,
waiting to be invited in.
No one heard her knock
above the cutlery of ambition.
Wherever the platter was fullest,
there rolled the faithful.
Principles were folded neatly
and kept for ceremonial days.
Someone asked why the hen
still sat upon the egg.
The minister promised progress,
a cushioned chair by evening.
We laughed, because laughter
is cheaper than revolt.
We laughed, because the room
was wired to record our silence.
And still, every season,
the chair arrives before justice.
The first encounter, a jittery state,
I was a whirlwind of nerves for a pivotal date.
He messaged and reached out, a gentle touch,
making me feel like I mattered so much.
In the heat of his day, I was Number One,
the spark of a romance had finally begun.
We sat for a meal, the mood was just right,
with pasta Carbonara—my purest delight.
But then came the horror, a tragic display:
he tackled his pizza the "gentleman" way.
With a fork and a knife, he sliced every piece,
I prayed for the soul of that pizza to cease.
Despite the sad cutlery, humour was there,
a funny, sweet energy filled up the air.
When he leaned in to kiss me, the world fell away,
a "treasured and seen" kind of magic, I’d say.
I felt truly valued, a feeling so rare,
like every soft word was a gift or a prayer.
The night reached its end near the parking lot light,
and his chivalry seemed to have taken a flight.
He stood by the door with a wave and a grin,
while I looked at my car and the darkness within.
"You’re walking me there!" I asserted with pride,
and he marched to my door, right there by my side.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three shadows slipped through fluorescent halls,
silent as the dismissal bell's dying hum.
The home ec door—unlocked, of course,
swung wide on hinges slick with grease.
I kept my post beside the lockers,
listening for footsteps down the tile.
The scent of brown sugar and butter
drifted out like a traitor's whisper.
My friends emerged,
the chocolate chip cookie dough bowl
cradled between them,
gleaming under the exit sign's red eye.
Spoons plundered from the cutlery drawer~
our spoils now.
The bench by the soccer field,
pockmarked with old gum,
became our banquet table.
We dug in, sticky-fingered, laughing,
each mouthful sweeter for the sin.
(I only took a taste.
Just enough to lick the spoon clean.
Just enough to be complicit.)
Next morning, the janitor found
the empty bowl washed
and left politely in the sink.
No note. No crumbs~
only the smell of chocolate
and vanilla lingering
like an apology no one would ever hear.
*Related memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/adventures_in_home_ec_class_13676
Fires flame from the face.
Doors shriek and squeal; cutlery and crockery crack.
Floors and walls quake.
Mountains crumble.
Violent volcanoes within
erupt
Eyes glow
with a glaze and
blaze.
Fires flame from the face.
Violent volcanoes within
blaze.
It's considered bad manners if you pickup your food
with the fingers that extend out from your paws
So many traditions surround
these inane culinary laws
Some days ago I watched a kookaburra
prepare a piece of meat
So unlike a human who need
a knife and fork for everything they eat
First he/she took it in his beak, thumped it on the turf
did it several times until a piece broke off
Then he opened up his beak, tilted back his head
downed this mini morsel with a mighty scoff
Humans are the only species that maintains a large variety of utensils
to prepare their food and then do dine
Followed up with crockery
to scull a glass of wine
Set the table, put cutlery in its place
add a clean white napkin on which you wipe your face
Me I prefer to be like the laughing kookaburra
Pick my fruit and park myself beneath a spreading shady tree
to dine in peace and eat my fare, much more naturally
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
From a favourite spoon or pet,
AI’s turned to cutlery set.
From wholesale flattery,
To flat sycophancy,
To queries, easy balls to bat.
From a fish-catching stork,
From plain spoon to warped fork,
True pet nor yet vigilant cat.
_____________________________
Happenings | 06.12. 2025 | cat, fish, flattery, humour, truth, limerick
Note: A study reveals that AI, ‘agreeing much more than not, sucks up to people’. Even more than people sucks up to each other in face of vested interest. Their answers often border on sheer flattery. Its performance much below the expectations. It seems to have promised much more than can deliver.
The Madness
Can you imagine a Jewish family
on the West Bank, showing friends
the furniture, artwork, and silver
stolen from a Palestinian home
Proudly eat from a lovely table
using cutlery in a Palestinian family
ate from, not to forget, the bed
that has four carved posts, could
Has the mattress been stolen, too?
Is there no empathy, a fleeting
moment of guilt? We think not
Hatred is an easier emotion
I'm going to keep writing regardless of the outcome
I'm going to keep clicking my keys and my mind
I'm going to create from nothing what I need
I'm going to give it all I got, cuz its what I do !
I will share my thoughts whether you like it or not
I will give you the best of me, and you decide
I will not be a cower in face of gossip and quarrel
I will not fold just because you think I'm too much
I'm going to write like a true writer until it gets dark
I'm going to write in the sun like a bard of old and win
I'm going to share my light with others using only words
I'm going to be the girl I was born to be, tall tales are free
I'm going to entertain you with words and phrases from ?
I'm going to sparkle like bran new cutlery, be it fork or spoon
I'm going to serve it to you every day with a smile
I'm going to be a poet whether you like it or not
I'm going to keep writing regardless of the outcome
I'm going to brave it and write until the day is done.
- World consumption is increasing in line with population growth and
prosperity - change light bulbs and there will be light - quote by poet
Among the antiques
Large aesthetic prism chandeliers
will aim stars in your eyes
Let us embrace this sparkling light
A decorative object
Each prism as a shiny mirror
from rock crystal
or semi-precious stones
such as quartz and amber
A wilderness of mirrors
Crystal glasses, silver cutlery and decanters - multiplied
With the prism chandelier above the table
where words bloom in every celebration
A timeless rhythm of togetherness
amidst laughter and shared moments
The ravages of time has been preserved
shadows
”When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”
—Lauren Eden, The Lioness Awakens
i was raised by the dark—
mother taught me to swallow
the unsaid. my tongue split
on edges, learned to sip honey
from blades.
shadows don’t starve.
they chew the unspoken:
hiss of struck matches,
salt of a wound,
a fist clenching grief
like a prayer.
i wear my scars as cutlery.
each night, i set the table
with my father’s silence,
my mother’s marrowless bones.
i eat what the light abandons.
i drink what it fears.
Her wings are sharp and rusty
Her might is all a musty
Tears of rust she cries
As another soul dies
Someone minding their buisness
Not in a gang just walking the street
Going home after work to make ends meet
But they met with the angel of death
One quick stab they took their last breath
A breath that could have been saved
But in peer pressure the person caved
And took the soul of young one
This time a child
Someone so meek and mild
Timid like a cat
They wouldn't give it all that
They was a child of 5
A chance to be so alive
Who else has to go
Before the law is changed we can't say so
So say no to knives
Unless you need them in your cutlery lives
Say no to peer pressure
Get keir starmer to read this poem
And how for many it hits home
Keir starmer we are done
No knives
Save lives
Her wings are sharp and rusty
Her might is all a musty
Tears of rust she cries
As another soul dies
Someone minding their buisness
Not in a gang just walking the street
Going home after work to make ends meet
But they met with the angel of death
One quick stab they took their last breath
A breath that could have been saved
But in peer pressure the person caved
And took the soul of young one
This time a child
Someone so meek and mild
Timid like a cat
They wouldn't give it all that
They was a child of 5
A chance to be so alive
Who else has to go
Before the law is changed we can't say so
So say no to knives
Unless you need them in your cutlery lives
Say no to peer pressure
Get keir starmer to read this poem
And how for many it hits home
Keir starmer we are done
No knives
Save lives
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