Dinner Poems - Poems about Dinner

jam in a sandwich jam upon toast jam in puff pastry jam Sunday roast jam in a donut jam served with fries jam on a cracker jam curry and rice jam mash potato jam in a bowl jam on spare ribs jam casserole jam cheese burger jam and fish jam meat loaf jam sausages jam kebab jam on best ham unfortunately though we’ve run out of jam! ...

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The sun will shine, The moon will rise. The nights will always glimmer. The birds will fly, The bugs will glide, The people will hide for winter. Everyday subsidies, Everyday I survived, I still don’t feel like a winner. All the plates will be shined, All the guests get invites, But I’ll still eat alone for...

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Roast beef with all the trimmings Roasted potatoes Carrots, broccoli and peas Lashings of gravy Cauliflower cheese Glass of wine. Bliss!...

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pour me a glass no place like home time slows down till life’s on pause you and i take a deep breath finally put up our feet honey-do list falls to the side nothing matters but the now for at least this little while we’ve earned our kudos we are victorious masters of our universe AP: Honorable Mention 2025 Posted on April 9, 2025...

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Oh, just be my guest, I pray Come to my humble home, I say I am eager to serve you, please Everything from pottage to cheese. A full-course dinner, no ifs or buts The entire gamut – soup to nuts! Cooking from nose-to-tail dishes Granting all your gourmet wishes. Dress for the occasion, head to toe Come hungry, oh, you’ll love it so, From crabs,...

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I set the table; I did not. The pourer did. The poor did not. The seats are cold; merlot is warm. The pourer asks; there are replies, sips, guzzles, sighs, manners. I am satisfied as each one’s drunk. The pourer leaps from spot to spot, wincing, squinting, craving approval. I smile; I nod; with each intonation, accent, sound of a lady and a gentleman. The...

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Microplastics microplastics in our food that steak dinner was excellent my compliments to the chemist ...

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A snack before dinner Just doesn’t seem right, For it could diminish A good appetite. At least that’s the message My mother would spout, Which I took to heart when No more than a sprout. Those adages somehow Don’t work anymore Yet still, in my head They are hard to ignore. When I’m feeling hungry And mealtime’s not yet I’ll pop a few olives So I don’t regret Ignoring advice That’s been...

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Every night, while I watch, she stacks the dirty dinner plates: carefully, habitually, with the grace of a woman who has learned to love herself. Intentionally, methodically, cleaning dishes at the sink, she is at her most beautiful. This is her nightly rhythm. The dishwasher is always off because she needs to feel the running water on arthritic hands. Our kitchen window faces...

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It's a perfect day for bananafish. But I know! It's not your favorite dish. So, I can make you a plate of oven-baked orangeprimate, and an appleoyster salad if you wish. ...

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Dinner date time Both eat warmly Get rid of cold....

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Tis' a calamity A dinner, to which I must oblige For it was a request of my family To whom I cannot deny Mother welcomed me in warmly Her expression rather wry Father is late and will be back shortly And to her I cannot defy Take a seat, back arched upright The aroma of Mother's cooking is brimming with life Mother vigorously encourages me...

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Christmas geese run loose on corporate lawns So why should I stand in line at the markets When dinner is free ranging on asphalt in visitors parking With a bag of stale popcorn I’d forgotten Carefully placed upon the ground Bread crumb leading to that place Ensuring Holiday dinner on my plates ...

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We sat in the fallout of last year’s gift exchange— smashed angel centerpiece taped back together as good as a rogue bomb if someone mentioned it. Our voices dragged like anchors through an ocean— low, cold, summoning something older than Kris Kringle. I strained to recall a time when it wasn’t like this. The kitchen table— a battleship, whipped tension and potatoes. Dad’s knife slipped...

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Dinner scraps, primal deathtraps. Life’s meal is the class struggle, and some of us are left starving. We are the movement of the masses, a sleeping colossus running on corporate time. Dinner scraps, merciless steel traps. We are measured only as commodities. We give our lives as wage chattel. We make our homes or lose them on the edges of a time clock. Dinner scraps,...

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