Long Kitchenette Poems
Long Kitchenette Poems. Below are the most popular long Kitchenette by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kitchenette poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
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
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
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
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.
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
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
Nope! I haint gonna crack'n on the heat... just yet
until the cowed chickens come home to roost!
Sunlight streaming thru window
body electric of mine doth whet
begets hardiness to acclimate
against PECO shut off threat
ideal opportunity to spouse
analogous to her being my emotional pet
snuggling while standing in kitchenette
but accidental twerking
can guarantee yours truly
(me) being recipient of epithet.
I bundle up to stay warm
inside my cold man cave
particularly as average outside temperature
for November twentieth
two thousand and twenty three
hovers between high and low
fifty degrees fahrenheit
nearly brisk enough to see my breath.
I and/or the imaginary paramour
take our separate showers
during warmest hours of the day
less optimal to engage
in neighborly horseplay,
but more ideal for mistress (ha)
to pad around the unit donning her lingerie,
which nonverbally signals
(and greenlights)
more than voluminous words,
hence, I seal lips of mine
despite sudden aroused frisky urge
to burble exhibiting
debauched casanova behavior
accompanied courtesy illustrative
of suave debonair popinjay
rerouting spontaneous seduction today
indicative of throbbing
bulbous anatomical appurtenance,
which protrusion nullifies necessity of x-ray
to identify sudden
source of vasocongestion.
During daylight hours fresh air
arbitrarily, humorously, and noiselessly
streams and wafts
thru screened windows
ushering invisible scents
and audible sounds
of the webbed wide world here,
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
our neck of the woods
since seventeenth year
after second century Anno Domini.
Civilizations since time immemorial
revered fiery celestial ball
establishing their respective mythology
which scheme attempted to explain
divine thermonuclear processes
sustaining the nearest star,
which Sol Invictus did enthrall
housing an astronomical object
comprising a luminous spheroid of plasma
held together by self-gravity
within the heavenly vault
divine creator didst install
which supposed movement
in the sheltering sky
signified daytime and nightfall
linkedin with planet earth
a veritable, observable, honorable,
and admirable terrestrial tetherball.
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
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