Losing one's lunch
is not so hot
but dropping your dinner
when a fish dish wish was the plot
could be your worst nightmare
as not a morsel will pass your lips
as meals go it's now toast
and you've had your chips
Break, dish, hurt.
Gone, clipping the floor.
But it’s not until Wednesday when the garage truck arrives.
And the garage man brushes against it all.
I’m certain.
I think things break like that because of an invisible avalanche.
In my mind, it’s tumbling, and grumbling downhill.
The broom comes out later and everything is.
I wasn’t worried about another dish.
I’m not worried about the next one.
The garbage truck comes in two days anyway.
It’s like that dish just:
Learned about the floor a little too soon.
Some have better things to do,
before the crack of morn,
than digging for earthworms
in the dew-soaked dawn,
but no not me, you see,
as, the longer I looked
for the creepy-crawlies,
the more I was hooked.
'Why that time of day?', ask you may,
well, as my daily wish, is a tasty breakfast dish,
I had heard, somewhat like the bird,
the early worm catches the fish.
(Ode From A Fisherman)
When I go a fishen, I don’t need no bait,
cause I don’t have the time wait.
Now the fish I catch, are very big,
I use this little home made jig.
Cast it out, start reeling in, real slow,
oh I got a big one, 40 pounds or so.
All day long I catch my fish, throw them back you see,
how big and pretty they be.
At the end of the day, all is well,
I have my fishing stories to tell.
Well the truth is, my fishes, tails, ends up bigger than my fish.
might go to bed hungry, just one less dirty dish.
As a poetic chef,
I am ready to create a specific dish.
As I look in my book of recipes,
Limerick jumped off the page.
I must check to see if I have all the ingredients,
humor - got it.
A-A-B-B-A rhyme - got it.
7-10 syllables each line - got it.
Now to create this specific dish.
Add five lines of rhyme,
A-A-B-B-A.
Then add 7-10 syllables for each line.
Stir well,
now add extra humor.
Bake until you see the laughter browning,
serve warm for a plate of smiles.
Nigerian most famous dish,
parties’ preferred meal.
Toothsome and eye-appealing,
cooked in rich red sauce—
spicy and tasty.
Delicious!
Yes.
When You Just Aren’t
Like Anyone Else
Ever... Yeah, Whatever,
Phone A Friend.
HELLO? ring ring
So You Can Selfishly
Quit Trying, One Way
Or Another.
Ohhh... There's The Edge
There's The Edge!
PLEASE!
***
You Can Do It
The Easy Way,
Or The HARD Way.
OR...
I Quantum Quack
What Wonks Here
It's Hard, It
HATES THE FALSENESS OF WORDS!
***
And Then, Well "Living."
***
Am I Supposed To Talk About
The Inevitabilities Of Life
But The Appreciation
Of The Miracle Of Actuality
All In Summary Here?
***
But, Satisfied...
.....&&&&&&&.....
*There Are Infinite*
BETTER
Other Ways
To Give UP
& Give IN.
***
&&&
It's Beautiful, Just
Appreciate
ALL Of It.
Slow Down.
***
That's Something
I Just Had To Try.
*sigh*
-Gray Squirrel
10-01-2025
Caught fish, ebb tide.
Shared dish, pan fried.
9/ 20 / 2025.
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
A dish of disappointment
mocks the kitchen chef
two anomalies sitting on his cutting board
all in their glory, dumbfounded
... and unappetizing
plated for aliens and not humans
or for a horse that doesn’t know better
this recipe’s giving him the blues and he’s seeing red
where …
his yellow brick road has two strangers today
two lost food groups
arriving earlier in hearses
a funeral procession
mythically carrying the deceased to his kitchen foyer
… some blue cheese and an old dill
that are down for an undressing
of his bitter words
like, fudge, where’s the beef
… or better yet Mars is up there
as a cloud of despair hovers over the kitchen
not a spaceship as one might think
darkness begetting light
salt, pepper and garnishes spooked
… a ready barf bag crashes this meal
Another day, another dish
Time to make the meal for the family of five.
Fresh from the store, lay a huge red fish
Here in the kitchen is where she will strive.
The family on the couch, Sitting, Watching, Waiting
On the outside it's just another dinner to be made
Food being placed in a pot, oven or bowl.
The sounds of cutting from a sharpened blade
Deep down however, she put her heart and soul.
The family on the couch, Sitting, Watching, Waiting
Food is music, she thought to herself
Each one plays its own unique tunes.
Like the upbeat sounds of the herbs on the shelf,
Or the jazz-like sounds coming from the prunes.
The family on the couch, Sitting, Watching, Waiting
She watches as the food dances in the pan
Like a lively town square on festival day.
Moving with grace and joy as more join from the can
The fish looks as if it just came from the bay.
The family on the couch, Sitting, Watching, Waiting
The dance quiets as the music is done
The sounds of outside begin to blend-in
The family joins to the table one by one
The husband says, “this looks splendid”
She yearns for the result: Sitting, Watching Waiting
Sour soup dish taste
Better with rice
Add ingredients
To seasoned it.
Matzo ball soup, gefilte fish
cook me up a Jewish dish
Kneidels and kreplach, knishes too
a bissele Chinese, egg yong foo…
Chopped liver and herring
and if you’re so daring
Grind the horseradish to bits
serve mit red onion shpritz
Nisht fargessen dessert
rugelach and torts
Roe v. Wade’s overturned ~
it's kosher to abort
we ate at a fancy restaurant tonight – me and daughter Lou.
I knew my order before arriving, but Lou reads the menu.
Freddy, our waiter, came back several times but she was not ready.
I had not eaten since seven a.m. I was shaky, sleep-deprived, unsteady.
Lou was torn between a crab dish that looked awful, soupy and such.
and a shrimp plate that anyone would love to eat, and I do very much.
Another waiter came by and recommended the soupy mess.
In a loud way, I pretended to wretch, I have to reluctantly confess.
Lou took one bite of the foul-tasting muck, and pushed the crab dish aside.
Ending up sending it back, ordering the shrimp dish, with potatoes inside.
At her house she fixed us cherry chunk yogurt with heavy chocolate cake.
I loved every single bit of it, glad I did not order that crab soup mistake.
Where ever she goes the cameras loom.
They're on to the scent of her perfume.
She sucks the oxygen from the room..
Forever in the public eye, all daily movements scrutinized.
She must dot all x's and circle her y's
Transparent as a bronze gold fish.
Isolated, observed, on a petri dish,
craving for some privacy, a daily wish..
She pulls up her quilt and sleeps until noon,
aware of the face she'll be wearing soon.
She sucks the oxygen from the room.
The potatoes are cooling in a pretty blue dish.
Looking like hillside stones or sleeping piglets.
While waiting for the litter to cool off.
I thought about the many wars being fought...
On our beautiful blue planet of the newly forsaken.
Millions of innocent lives selfishly taken.
How much money and time have been wasted.
Lobbing bombs into robin's-egg skies, no wells of life being dug.
No mustard seeds planted, while white crosses are sown.
From which nothing but heartache ever grows.
The potatoes in the pretty blue dish have cooled enough to eat.
Wars tend to harden over time and will never cease to be.
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