Long Cooking Poems
Long Cooking Poems. Below are the most popular long Cooking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cooking poems by poem length and keyword.
want write poems that not
bout politics life's weighty
absurdities death's grip all
simple poems contentment
son's enthusiasm energy
wife's cooking heroic endurance
kitten's bouncing curiosity
old cat's slowing solitude
dog praying hard reform
colors fall newness spring
mowing leaves grass gazing
on in forest looking beyond
tree tops lake mirage day
venus mars night
bach lifting toward
mozart floating down
heaven singing love conquering
fulfilled voluntary unions bodies
cooperation nations peace
strength through peace soul society
treading softly near edge
old habit making safe path
some sweet day will
Maybe there was love shown
the cooking and the cleaning
it’s difficult to have known
with all of the demeaning
When you can’t tell the difference
between a trophy and detention
awards that lack significance
received the same reception
I always felt a counterweight
would appear with my success
a strange way to demonstrate
encouragement to try my best
Then there’s siding against
occurring automatically
Why not take my side?
not add problematically
Insisting on cleaning my room
when the doctor told me rest
make it last all afternoon
It’s shocking, causing stress
Then there is the privacy
why has my post been opened?
Do that but do not speak to me?
Like trust communication’s broken
Someone needs too encourage
“You can do it!” Or “good luck”
Not install the fear of god
the anxiety to self destruct
I guess that the love on show
was the cooking and the cleaning
It must be the way you know
thanks for that as it was my needing
I think you tend to look outside
rather than too your family
I guess you did that all your life
a habit to not standby me
If I’m not shown love at home
then where else would I find it?
Why raise me as you have known,
when you know you didn’t like it.
You can’t even talk to me,
there is no form of trust
foundations that extraordinary
are a metal bound to rust
You identify the opposite
of what most mothers do,
it causes inner conflict,
the love is out of view
the past is only relevant
because you've never changed
this makes it appear evident
you get a kick out of the strain
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse ejaculation) beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Snap... crackle... pop... microwave went kaput
After start button pushed
immediate auditory signal issued
nsync with billowing smoke
time saving convenient contrivance
rendered defunct trucked to dumpster.
Pre owned electronic contraption
unpredictably went on fritz
malfunction occurred without warning
luckily spouse, the Misses
she instantaneously intervened
lest towering inferno engulfed
yours truly and wife
poetic license expended
to identify latter counterpart.
Rather than dish out
(and scrape together)
scarce legal tender
strong probability resident
(housed with Highland Manor apartments)
will vacate premises within near future
abandoning useable microwave oven.
Another option? Nearby thrift stores named:
Habitat for Humanity West Norriton ReStore
sells kitchen appliances
close proximity to our living quarters
if unsuccessful pursuit...
Worse case scenario?
Shop at Bath, Bed and Behind (er... Beyond),
Bestbuy, BJ's Warehouse, Boscov's
Home Depot, Loews, Macy's,
Target, or Walmart.
Splurge (potentially breaking poor piggy bank),
plus overspend checking account funds
readily pitting yours truly into the red
money to purchase brand spanking new
cooking unit versus consuming
frozen and/or uncooked foods
remember Euell Gibbons?
Twenty first century western civilization
steeped in capitalistism
I find existence
palpable (barely), incompatible disagreeable,
yet ill prepared
to revel in luxurious self sufficiency
think sweat of one's brow
living off the grid.
Christmas is the season of joy!
It’s the time to party and enjoy!
So I bought whipped-cream cakes for my boy.
I wonder if he still thinks of me giving him a toy.
I overheard the Christmas anthem on the street.
I saw my friend Ernest bopping on his feet.
“Would you like to come and do the toast?”
I said “Bye! Not now! I still need to roast…”
My grocery food bags were as many as Christmas balls.
Shall I make a star-spangled dish out of these bowls?
And I thought of cooking buttered-chicken with parmesan cheese.
My woman loves them much and so I could please.
As I was looking at those Christmas lights under the moon,
I felt the rush of excitement heading back soon.
I was enclosed in isolation for years in a Mideast dome.
Yet now is my moment to spend Christmas at home.
COMBAT
Look at the placemat, land sat
Begat of that play nothing prevails
I place my hat on a hook
Threw it didn't take a first look
Muskrat Nebat fell on the bell
Trip and fell down the wishing well
On that,pack rat Larrirette he can hardy find his belt
My, oh my he needs it to hold his pants up
Palm cat drinking non-fat milk
Mcnatt the rat cooking Decon pelets in a cast iron skillet
I myself with Nebat, Larrirette and Palm running around the kitchen
All this drama, no carma
Display does that doormats down at this address
All this drama going on in my small house
So I open the door as we all ran out
Someone hollered --------------------COMBAT
5/7/18
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
Copyright © 2018
After all these many carnivore years
You can call it guilt or you can call it fear
I've made up my mind to decide
I'm going vegan this November time
So I broke down hard and read some books
Heard some tapes on what it took
From veggies steamed to veggies raw
From beans of green to yellow squash
As my nightly dreams were all filled with meat
I pushed back hard with collard greens
But still had no clue of what to do
With a turkey substitute
And that is when a friend came in
Who Tofu's the line at turkey time
So I read more books and heard more tapes
On Tofu fried, boiled, broiled, and baked
Opening up my kitchen to fine cuisine
Minus the best part...that being meat
As I promised myself I can make this work
My Tofurkey would be the finest in edible art
I had bought my Tofu by the pound
Lucky for me it is pliable
As I stretched and pulled and pulled and stretched
Until I had something that looked like a head
With my artistic abilities seriously in doubt
I'm pretty sure what I conjured was the head of a cow
So I pulled and stretched and stretched and pulled
No ones going to call me an abstract fool
As I bring to boil the "Rodin" juices in me
And baste at my skills repeatedly
Where I come up with a turkey, giblets and all
And just for good measure I gobble a turkey call
Of course cooking the thing is another road and
I sadly lost Tofurkey 1, 2, and 3 in the explosion
When 4 hit the score I invited my friends
Whose friendship with them will take time to mend
Just because a turkey looks like a turkey, don't mean that it is
I'm now learning all this while I clean up the mess
As forks went to the mouths at the very same time
So did the retching along with the crying
But in a month they'll forget this entire sordid ordeal
When they get the invites for my Christmas holiday meal
With my time in the books and tapes I will spend
Looking forward to Christmas and a delicious soy bean ham
My humble tribute to our dear poetess of Soup, Andrea Dietrich as she will be celebrating her birthday on September 5. I am posting this poem earlier, so that she gets more wishes on her birthday and that it be a memorable one.
A brilliant poetess of the Soup family,
Never does she fail to encourage new poets;
Diligent in doing her duties with zeal,
Relishes watching movies and writing reviews,
Enjoys cooking and eating healthy food.
At home, a loving wife, mom and gramma.
Dedicated in doing her job as a teacher.
Inspite of her busy schedule, I wonder when I see
Each day, a fresh exquisite flower of verse,
That blooms and adorns her poetic rockery;
Reaches out to all dear members of Soup,
Inspiring them with her genuine comments;
Cheerful, charming, lively and fun-loving:
Her upcoming birthday will be incomplete sans all your wishes friends
Black Crickets
The sad side of the darkness,
is the mirror in which I see,
my reflection alone,
this night and every night,
you go home.
I understand there is a reason,
like a season,
yet things are;
beyond change,
when we are unable to see
past the point of the moment.
Where you are;
is not here.
I am not able to feel the beat.
The rhythm of the air,
in which we live our lives,
most of the time.
Your smell is gone.
I am disturbed by this.
Slowly I have walked around,
the kitchen... the bread is cooking.
It is nearly 2:00 am.
Yet, I can not be taken away,
to another place by;
the simple...
if ordinary magic,
of the oven.
I keep watch on the time.
Twenty minutes.
I walk out into the back;
the yard,
the barn,
the garden...
beyond.
It is cold,
we are old...
I hope you will,
be back.
I know the way you feed
your wife and children.
I see you asleep at daytime
as though it were night.
The bamboo floor
complains about your
body weight and
length of unconsciousness.
You move and change
position to achieve
the most comfortable
stance, and the kubo (hut)
you have built for your
family shakes, and the
loosely fastened or nailed
structures creak, and
it irritates the lizards
adopted by your
hospitable house.
The vacant, fertile backyard
shouts to waken,
but you are deaf.
The tansan (bottle cap) of newly
opened liquor of your
neighbor falls and
touches the ground and
clangs and, now,
cures your unique deafness
and wakes you up.
Your kumpare (male friend) invites you
for "one shot,"
but you violate some
math rules and
equate one shot
to two cuatro-cantos (gin).
You come home
zigzagging, uttering
words not found
in your undrunk vocabulary.
Before the door
you throw up and
feed the dogs
with your delicious pulutan (viand).
Your hungry wife
screams in anger
and sets innocent, empty
kalderos (cooking pot) in flight.