Long Chef Poems
Long Chef Poems. Below are the most popular long Chef by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chef poems by poem length and keyword.
Sandwiched by the lies spread through your body
what would it look like if you saw it as whole
whole like a loaf of bread...sliced front to back,
sections missing when the chef goes hunting
vagaries of form light on the moonlit night rhythms of fireflies
positively negative impressions prejudice our eye’s glance of plus or minus
defining an outline of shadowed presence barely known here at all
danced through the trees, enraptured by outline’s disguise she appears and
disappears... swaddled whole groves stand at attention awaiting orders
underground rivers moving slowly in time shape the insistence of land
illusions of spatial bound threads harmonize irregularities of mind
consequential prattling pervades discourses of old guard and new
Queen’s knight to black Bishop...strategic placement instructs magic’s game
In the name of...all that is and has been...no longer forever more.
The food was chased by a bent tine fork
Along the surface of a smooth glass plate,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
A similar force confronted an unyielding cork
But for this event, on this mechanical date,
The food was chased by the bent tine fork.
A stab of grace presented the French basted pork
And lingered face front like scavenger bait,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
Such moaning and discontent, could it have been more late
From a Five Star Diner in the village of York?
The food was chased by a bent tine fork.
It was not prepared by a chef but by a dork
More worthy of satiric praise than glowing hate,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
The Maitre d’Hotel offered his black plastic spork
Immensely gracious but too late.
The food was chased by a bent tine fork,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
Flags & Beams,(eighth or sixteenth notes)
-----------------------------------------------
Much more than this'
it started from auh
simple kiss
on a day I will never
forget
pleasing and teasing
fun
we had just begun
our romance
one that comes off the page
lights camera action
the premire attraction
something the world
'wants to see
me and my leading lady
are having our first baby
the congradulations
to she and me
---------------------------------------------
( a shift in trimph and power)
THE TRUMPETS STARTS AUH PLAYING!
------------------------------------------
I'm the what
in her thoughts
the beganning part
denotes
a cherished rtogetherness
one adorned
and one to reminces
baby how's about that kiss
been waiting all day
it's on me tonight
tell the chef
to get it right
darling oh what ah night
me and you
thats right
by the way you look out sight
time for romancing
------------------------------------------
the color section
------------------------------------------
catch auh groove
cut uauh rug
click my fingers
enjoy the hug
what's the mastro thinking of
oh what auh night
for dancing
Putting words on paper does not make a poet,
Writing a recipe does not make a cake.
Knowing how to comment on football does not make a coach.
Reading just one book does not make an intellectual...
Saying yes and love, oui and amour does not make a polyglot,
Knowing how to paint a picture badly does not make a painter,
Putting a band-aid on someone does not make a healer,
Heating water and cooking pasta does not make a chef,
Being half-informed does not make someone an expert,
Knowing several things and subjects does not make a wise man,
Being white does not give any privileges,
Loving women does not make a 'womanizer',
Stealing a kiss does not make a thief,
Filling out your income tax form incorrectly does not make you a crook,
Killing sleep does not make someone a scoundrel,
Taking a nap does not make you lazy either,
Knowing how to speak well does not make you a loudmouth,
Knowing how to live with art, it's not a farce...!
Side Order of Regret
by Odin Roark
Some walk the banks of rivers and shore,
Back alleys and deserted parks,
Seeking,
Or
Escaping.
Such are the questions of eyes pondering
The night people of one’s fantasies;
Those entities wiser perhaps
Than some are willing to enfold as reality.
Alone,
Stars and moonless nights
Engulf everyday tolerance,
Embellishing fear and question
With hunger for the un-illuminated.
The open-all-night neon engulfs.
The lost sidle up to decision’s banquet table.
Cold plates on the left.
Hot on the right.
All white.
All right.
The chef of dreams hovers
“Bet you remember 25 cent beer,
Pearl onions,
Pickles,
And the God-awful olives.
Well,
This ain’t a White Horse Bar,
So enjoy.
You earned it,
Even though
You acknowledge survival
As an unearned trophy.”
That’s how it might go.
Those who traverse Stygian gloom,
Happening upon their midnight-sun smörgåsbord diner,
Where alter ego
Finally stops,
Smells the coffee
And prepares to admit,
“Hold that side order of regret.
Having almost everything does just fine.”
The purpose of authority is to remain in authority, not to dispense justice. (Anonymous)
There are lofty careers such as chef or physician,
But none is so low as a politician.
We vote to send them to D.C. to represent us,
But once they take office they start to resent us,
And retaining the job is their only ambition.
We've a two-party system, supposedly better than one,
But they're constantly bickering and little gets done.
Each session is rife with innuendo, and slander,
And pure diatribe, and, of course, gerrymander,
But when they vote to raise their pay, they pull as one.
Republicans and Democrats by name,
Self-promotion and duplicity their game.
What a politician says is proving
He's lying if his lips are moving,
But we elect them, so we've just ourselves to blame.
Trump soon will start his reign again, but here's the thing,
This country needs a leader, not a king.
Kamala mightn't have been much better,
But would've tried harder if we'd let her,
And she wouldn't treat the job as just a fling.
Now Republicans are thrilled because they won,
But the uphill fight for them has just begun.
What they seem to disremember,
All power to them is not surrendered.
No matter what they may propose,
The Dems will stubbornly oppose,
And they'll find themselves back where they were…
Square one…
And both Houses work the hardest
When they're getting nothing done.
This country needs a captain
Who can steer the ship of state.
Let's hope that…somehow…Trump will beat the odds
And not continue second rate.
For the next four years, I guess,
We'll have to bide our time and wait
For him to tweet us just exactly where he stands,
And that the country's in the very best of hands.
Of hubris, overweening pride,
(a thing the gods can not abide)
and all the hassle it may bring:
of this, and blowfish, do I sing.
The former, we will meet anon
(it merits being mused upon,
are hardly handed on a platter):
accordingly, we'll take the latter.
The blowfish ("fugu" - Japanese)
enjoys a life of idle ease.
When menaced - as his name suggests -
(to ward off foes) puffs out his chest.
Another little trick he has
("defensive posture", all that jazz)
is, if he's eaten, it's his humour
to poison (hugely) his consumer.
How Bando Mitsugoro (the eighth)
was turned into a wretched wraith
will be our theme. A living treasure?
The humble fugu had his measure!
Kabuki actor, Bando was.
Revered throughout Japan, because
he was the latest in a line
of famous actors, half-divine.
The fugu's flesh is fairly fab,
far fitter for a feast than crab
or shark-fin. Sharp Ketana blade,
the finest in the cutler's trade,
is used to slice the fish so thin,
you hold it up, lets daylight in.
The poison adds a frisson more,
to thrill the jaded epicure.
For years the fugu chef must train,
avoiding eyes, heart, liver, brain:
a little poison titillates,
but too much means the Pearly Gates!
But Bando was the kind of man
who says, "Who can't? I know I can!"
He ordered up a dainty dish:
four livers of the fugu fish.
The poison doesn't touch the brain.
You're dying slowly, but remain
awake throughout. The living treasure
could die (and could repent) at leisure.
So if you're feeling braggart-ish,
and in a restaurant that's swish,
impressing others is your wish,
remember Bando and his fish.
Today’s my sister’s birthday.
We are 16 years apart
And very different, even if
We’d had a matching start.
There are 2 brothers in between;
Our family had been 5
For 10 years plus, before my sister
Even was alive.
And yet her smile gives her away –
It’s something we all share
And when we get together
There is laughter in the air.
Our tastes in many things don’t mesh –
In music, travel, food
And how we look – my hair’s gone white;
She’s blond and she’s tattooed.
She loves the heat and I do not;
We live in different climes.
She’s quite the chef and I don’t cook;
I spend my time on rhymes.
So on her birthday, I reflect
On traits we each can claim,
Though we both began our lives by sharing
Parents and a name.
Should you want to know my secret
That which I keep as my own darling pet
That which keeps me happy
I shall tell you about it merrily
Yes, I do care to pamper myself
Mainly though the kitchen where I do enjoy being the chef
Eating healthy
Does keep me light, as light as a leaf
I also care to make sure my cosmetics' supply is full
Else, I would not feel that I do look beautiful
Yes, a perfume is always handy
As would be a lipstick or my shades, so shady!
I do indulge myself in matters pertaining to freedom
See you I do live according to my ideas
I care not to live a life so grim
A life lived according to the rules of ancient grandmas
Yes, I also do love keeping fit
An hour at the gym is worth a good treat
Looking good in my skin
Makes me believe that every little trick of life I shall win
More, my secret is in penning down my lines
Yes, a way to ease my overloaded mind
Brimming it is with imagination
All ready to become works of my own creation
Lastly, my secret to happiness is having been given a view of the open skies
Yes, a mere blessing it is to have been given such a glance
Never shall they be described, not even in any works of astrology
Indeed, I do know that someday, after death, I shall wake up to another ambiance!
Yes, I do bask in indulgence
My indulgence is mine own elegance
Else, see you I would not be so happy
Else, I would not always be so preppy!
29 Jan 2015
Syrup the cat was a sous- chef, her soup hit the spot.
her concoctions of rabbit and mice made a fine pot
you cannot make me taste that. You cannot! Cannot!
yelled an out-of-control kitten who was a bit of a snot.
Syrup kept stirring her concoction of kibble and bit.
she did not mind at all that the child was having a fit.
harried mother of the tabby kitten put down her sweater of knit.
giving a responsibility lecture to her child, a chit wit.
child’s loud wailing and mewing did not make her mommy proud.
her antics were ridiculous, annoying, and totally loud.
grandma said watch this, and she threw soup into child’s mouth.
yummy in my tummy! The kitty yelped as the soup traveled south.