Long Floured Poems
Long Floured Poems. Below are the most popular long Floured by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Floured poems by poem length and keyword.
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
As a young child
breakfast time was my favorite time of day
Mommy hovered over the flaming stove
as she sizzled a bundle of my favorite meals
tuna, corn beef, sardines , and steamed sausages
served with a side of white grits
dashed with warm butter as gold as a coin
I sat at the table and gobbled down the meal
like a contestant in a pie eating contest!
Fast forward to the present day
as I matured into adulthood
I no longer have the craving desire
for this type of cuisine,
eating grits now gives me
the feeling of indigestion
forcing my stomach to spew it out
like lava from an erupting volcano!
Now I just stick to enjoying
a cup of brewing decaf coffee as hot as the desert
with sprinkles of succulent sugary powder
and a bowl of chicken souse seasoned in high sour lime
and bird peppers as spicy as chili
with light floured coconut Johnny cake!
Come along now she'd say to me and then together we would knead
two strong arms and a floured face, this woman had love and speed
It was Christmas Eve, and I will never forget her zeal nor her passion
"Where did daddy hide my birthday cake?" she'd ask with a tiny smile.
She was born on Christmas Eve, so that made her as close to the babe
as anyone could get. In those days we didn't have much money,
mom would always give us pajamas, including dad.
Today as I recall our tiny silver tree, I feel blessed and very glad.
It was the seventies back in the good old days of Montreal,
we were rich in tradition, wealthy with love and laughter. We had
genuine guidance from struggling immigrants who knew the value
of sacrifice and love.
Later in the evening after a good plate of pasta and meatballs, dad
would whisper in my ear, " Figlia, go get your moms cake" and
without being told where it was, I would go to the garage and fish
the cake out of the cantina. " Candles were lit and Christmas was
honored in the family, Happy Birthday mom, Merry
Christmas Jesus!
Early morning in half light
setting out to bake some bread
getting out the tools all need
shining steel and burning heat
6 quart mixer of heavy weight
shining bowls of stainless steel
spinning hooks of the enamel white
heavy motor of ozone stink
hardened glass and red thermometers
measuring cups of precision use
machine ground wheat of brown and white
salt of sea and golden butter
glasses of water heated just right
packets of yeast poured with in
golden honey from wild flowers
mix together and set to bubble
steel cups filled with white flour
even smooth with knife for butter
poured into the spinning hook
spinning in an orbital pattern
adding both salt and butter
spinning till as smooth as satin
adding then the brown wheat flour
turning till it ascend like a ladder
pouring out on floured counter
kneading with fingers lightly floured
shaped to fit the loaf tins waiting
there to rise with yeast breathing
oven heated to medium hot
filled with steam for the crust
baked until a golden brown
with the kitchen aroma filling
new fresh bread hot from oven
set aside to finish breathing
then to slice for the eating
covered with butter and golden honey
The parking lot full
of all the familiar faces,
we are early -
all the old people
driving carts,
at the door,
waving us in…
we are them too
the remnant
of a relative crowd.
My oldest grandson
has experienced
the marvel
of a household of kids
and the singularity
of just him and his bro.
We don’t see the girls
as much
they’re out of touch…
divorce yields fruit,
but so does time,
and time again
pulls and stretches,
as if we are pizza dough,
puts us through
the sheeter,
we are floured white
as a ghost figure.
We wave with our flags,
jovial, “Happy June 30th!”
as our church celebrates
early, not mid-week.
Nearly fifteen, my grandson
wanders by himself,
with his great-aunt,
with his brother,
with me.
Each person
has personality-
happy, grumpy,
doc…
I’m happy but
what good is that?
Comes in handy
when friends stop
by. My sis
came from her business
and is doing business
on her cell.
The eight year old’s
stomach hurts, wants to
wander with his shoes off,
can’t get his sneakers
back on,
eventually will say
he enjoyed it all -
the fireworks
lit up his eyes
into all sorts of sizzles,
fizzles, colors and all.
And my husband, yes,
you guessed
is grumpy,
and I sigh,
satisfaction in the wind
yet
the importance of patients…
patience, dear.
He’s out of the sun,
in the car,
tuning out.
I’m the cartoon,
tuning into
the sun
that melts.
He’s parked his chair
away from the crowd -
the rest of us.
I grab the chips.
As my hand slips
into the bag
having only touched the first bite,
“Can I have the chips…”
Delightful family,
heat, kids, memories -
ah, the warm memories.
Love it all, ever after.
7/1/2023
Every year at Chanukah,
Like from divine command,
My grandma made the cookies
All her grandkids would demand.
These humble sugar dainties,
Cut in shapes and rolled out thin,
Served as harbinger that Chanukah
Could finally begin.
But each one, crisp and delicate,
Came with the possibility
That part of it would snap away,
Because of its fragility.
So lions rarely kept their tails
And candles lost their flames.
The sturdy dreidels, still intact,
Were prized for lack of maims.
A colored sugar dusting
Coated each and every shape.
From sugar sparkles on your clothes
You never could escape.
My grandma passed her cutters down
To me, and so I strive,
With floured hands, to help to keep
Her recipe alive.
Today I gamely baked a batch;
My kids made the request.
I picture grandma’s smiling face
And think she’d be impressed.
1 cups of strawberries
1 cup of raspberries
1 packet of cherry Kool-Aid
5 Tablespoons of Amaretto
1/2 cup of sugar
mix well and set aside.....
1 cup of soft goat cheese (milk)
1 cup of cream cheese
1/2 cup of toasted almonds
1/2 cup of black walnuts
1 cup of white chocolate
2 Tablespoons of vanilla
1/2 cup of sugar
mix well and set aside.....
4 cups of sourdough ( already made and risened)
on a floured board roll the dough, to an even 1/4 inch.
square the edges. spread cream cheese mixture and top with fruits
roll into a log.
cut one inch circles. and bake for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown.
in a bowl.
1 cup of confectionary sugar
2 tablespoons of vanilla
5 tablespoons of water, mix until smooth
add more water if consistency isn't right.
top the sour dough rolls and serve!
Ice cream and water
Why, even bother
Cinnamon peanut, butter
Fresh churn collards
what is the purpose of man
Cooking in saucepans
On the stoves and. . .
candy under the iron
flavored running water, (nobody's trying)
who'd taught us?
taught us
Spring not a well
Floured fishes
Like golden fishes
Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
wHo placed the Carmel on the stove to long
Cause it burn, it's burn
Carmel left on the stove
what do you mean you didn't know
Honey Hut Cheerio's, Sugar Pop's oh! I meant Smacks
who'd taught us?
taught us
Spring not a well
Floured fishes
Like golden fishes
Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
Raisin Bran, Captain Crunch
Ice meltdown to water on the back porch
I didn't even call yo warm turn to boil
Faded brown orange tan sugar syrup
Leaves me with
without ashes. . .
Burnt Molasses
04/3/14
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the fabric remembers her hands~
floured fingerprints on crimson petals,
the knot at her waist pulled tight
as she turned from the oven’s glow.
heat curls the edges,
fraying the green leaves
where gravy once splattered~
a stain, a story.
Mother wore it like armor~
against time,
against hunger,
against the silence
of an empty kitchen.
Now it hangs,
a ghost of cinnamon and cloves,
still holding the shape
of her laughter.