Everything you see is fashion
From just simple tattered dress
A carpenter hammering a nail
A boy riding a bicycle
A lady poses for a selfie
Throng of people walking the street
A taho vendor in the sidewalk
An office lady typing on her computer
A simple bartender mixing wine
A cook cooking in a simple kitchenette
A construction worker hauling debris
Those passengers lining waiting for a bus
A painter painting sunset at the bay
A mother breastfeeding a baby
A cow eating grass in the field
A bee hopping in every flower sipping for nectar
The busy street like Binondo during Sunday
The passing of the Comulus clouds
The scattered leaves on the backyard
The birds plucking dried grass for a nest
The ads on tv commercial and billboards
Those ramp model ramping on a stage
A newscaster casting the news on tv
Two person playing chess religiously
People in political rallying on the streets
People praying inside the church
A family eating their lunch on a buffet resto
Two people walking hand in hand
Everything that is not moving and moving
It's all fashion for me.
We all have those moments. Moments in life when you know things will never be the same for you. For me that moment was seeing Fred's black Pumas on the stairs after he had passed away. The empty shoes gave me a flash back. I saw him standing at the kitchenette counter in his scrubs and the same all-black althetic sneakers preparing my morning coffee and vitamins. His light blue scrubs unable to hide his hulking shoulders and chest , yet loose on his flat stomach. In his stead i'd find a freshly pressed coffee, vitamins and water bottle in a row on the counter. A true care taker of a care taker. At one time, these little acts of service became a welcomed routine. Now... the same shoes sat empty and lonely on the steps toward where we used to live. Which was now just an empty room. Fredy'd never have a chance to Be. A chance to better himself. A chance at Love again , which I know he had a lot of to give. The empty shoes filled my heart with sadness. The thought that his large heart no longer beat in his chest was almost too much for me to bear. Who could ever fill this man's shoes? As a Brother, a Son, Grandson and Caretaker, as a Lover or as a Best Friend.
Pets are busy! Fowls are busy!
Bubbly Bunny, Classy Coney!
Go in a hurry, jump in a scurry!
Modest and merrier Moby
Decent and dandyish Duffy
Baking pastry, lovely candy
Adding honey, made it tasty
Turned sticky, frosted heavily
Juicy! Choosy! Dainty! Yummy!
Master Mickey, Kooky Kitty
Made the kitchenette fussy
Looking busy but not hasty
What's it all for? There's a reason
Remember, it's a holiday season!
PLACE : 1st
The checkered curtains, and spic and span wood floor, I light a fragrant candle.
And the the creme de la creme…..my red Keuring coffee maker, is always at the ready to please. No percolators, grinding beans, not a need for tea bags.
The water in it is always hot and ready. Plus
a variety of K-Cups that hold the contents of what I wish to make. Any variety of coffee, tea, hot chocolate. Hot cider, too!!
I used to grind beans, or use tea bags, boil water, use a chemex maker. All require time and safety.
Then …use special brushes..to not scratch the maker.
All I do is pop in a K-Cup and in a few seconds, there is my beverage of choice. It’s my favorite appliance.
Gives me time to enjoy life and write poetry, as the rivulets of rain, run down the pane glass windows!
1/5/2023
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
All spices high and mild; nostrils filled with its aroma
Whether flow with the Ganga colliding the bourn,
Or sang with the chirping of the Sparrow sitting on the roofline,
The hot spicy heat prickle of the Ghost Pepper Chilli cuddling the tongue
The wild breeze nudges the chest while walking on the land of Sohra,
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
All spices add a pinch; just like sugar and salt an Indian lore
Add spices to the game and flaws
Add spices to the love and lust
Add spices to death and conquer
Add spices to lives and victories
What a life be; if without a tint packed with spices
Critters born and die; but good and bad is inscribed in their graves
Spice are harvest and contained; but the tale of aroma
Begins from my kitchenette and voyaging across the overseas
What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
My beloved tekeli pitha!
They are rice cakes from Assam.
They are made by steaming them in a kettle (I call tekeli) lid.
Tekeli pitha
or
Kettle cake
tint of jaggery
making love with crushed coconut
cloak in grained rice
and spell of sesame seeds
steam and serve me
i tucked into the pithas in my kitchenette
I live with the aroma here in Assam
I carry the recipe to you there in London
Khar!
or
An alkaline extract!
my mouth drools
o! momma
everytime I think of the dish
whether it is the beloved
amitar khar (i know as papaya khar),
tiyohor khar (i know as cucumber khar),
khar dal (i know as khar with lentils),
not to quit
sometimes with dry fishes or meats
dish itself is the contentment when served
i call it as 'quintessence of Assamese Cuisine'
elixir from the ashes of burnt dried banana peels
hey
when imbued
the khar dish with platter of steamed rice
whether i am glued in Assam or anywhere on this earth,
my heart's cravings...
portraits the way of a yarn-
'the viridescent melody muffled the white snow mountain dance in folk tales'
o! momma
khar with some rice
smell from the grandma's kitchenette
that fills the whole abode
my little heart and my hungry tummy too
Pithas or Rice-cakes
this are native legacies
wrapped with fondness
served on english platter with elate
Roadside stalls
Buzz with traffic's cadences
Benches lined up with the critters
Along the whirls of leaves and the roars of branches
'The tea tumblers cuddles the pithas'!!
Listen,
can you hear it
your taste buds losing interest?
A buzzing in the air
black-winged hoverers
flit and fly across the kitchenette
drawn in by the smell of tantalizing flavors.
Too hot for ovens to be on
too lazy for the frying pan to warm
a chilled gazpacho from the fridge
cucumber, onion, pepper, jalapeno,
garliced olive oil, lime juice, balsamic
and a floating entourage of fly in the soup.
"Gazpacho or Andalusian gazpacho is a cold soup made of raw, blended vegetables. A classic of Spanish cuisine, it originated in the southern region of Andalusia. Gazpacho is widely eaten in Spain and Portugal, particularly during hot summers, as it is refreshing and cool". Wikipedia
Morning
My Muse
Floral gym shoes
Terry aqua sleeveless dress
Eggs frying on my stove
Whole wheat toast, aroma utterly entrancing
Brazilian Bossa Nova notes filling all rooms
Floral tablecloth embracing sparkling utensils, glasses dishes, cups
Smiling, red petunias rest on the shiny, tall microwave
Saying grace, hands folded in the kitchenette, her holy place
June 12, 2019
8:45am PST
Coffee and The Poet
The clumsy poet, had spilled
a giant mug of coffee on her
beaming kitchen floor!
At a parallel time, came a
gentle thumping upon her
kitchenette door.
Twas her ravishing Muse!
With a basketful of enchanting
poetic ideas to explore.
How grateful this bereft poet
turned out to be.
No more searching for elusive
words, quite happily, much to the contrary!
June 6, 2019
10am PST
Red hot charcoal,
Cut dried ’ loggy’woods,
Up with flaming grey smoke,
From the mouth of a round stove,
Creep through the nose
Of a warm muddy Kitchenette.
“What a great escape “
“Indeed,every cottage must have its nose”,
Said Mrs Rahbi to herself.
Sometimes an
Obsolete
Old bulb inside him
Flickers on
And dimly lights
His woozy thoughts
And thirst to write
A song.
Recall he's human,
That's to say, he
Thinks he
Still adheres,
Not just a washed-up
Singer, missing
Schedules to
Appear.
The stained and
Scribbled rhymes
Of scattered nonsense
On the floor,
Three gulps of Vodka,
Bring applause,
Adoring fans,
Encore.
Gene Bourne
06-01-14
.