Long Kitchenette Poems
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The Old Man Could See
By Cat Ferman
UCLA, 1969
My dad's late for class again.
He spots a girl from Sweden
And asks her out again.
My mom says so unsure, but calmly and kind,
"I suppose that would be alright,
I guess that'll be just fine."
And from that moment on
They stayed together
In the warm weather
Making each day more alive.
My dad, Mr. Ferman, a Jewish local man, refused to leave her side,
And although a good man
Was not a Lutheran
Interested as he was in reading the new testament
Which he did.
-------------------------------------
Winter break arrived, and my mom missed home.
Not sure she would come back in the spring
She gave her mom and dad a ring
To tell them about the man who made her heart sing
My dad's parents gave her a ride to the airport that morning.
With no delay about it,
My dad prayed about it
Then he knew what to do.
At the very last minute
Searching the kitchenette and everything in it
To keep the girl he loved more than anything
He grabbed his passport on the way out the door
And he had no luggage or money, as he was poor.
When she checked in, my dad and his parents sat in the car, briefly,
Before my dad would ultimately go in to make peace with goodbye.
But first
One last try:
He asked his parents again,
"Mom, could I please have some-?"
"No."
"But why?"
They had no good answer for him.
Because though she was loyal
Her blood to them wasn't royal
No matter how noble she was.
An old Jewish man in the airport
Sitting next to them
The old man could see.
Reflecting back on moments in his memory
He saw love in my dad's eyes he recognized in himself
For the wife he had who was in poor health
From old age
Who didn't have much longer to live
As both were getting older
And the seasons were getting colder.
He decided right then - my dad needed a friend
So the old man who could see
Told my dad, plainly,
"Well, I was going to sell this ticket, you see
To that man over there with all that money,
Surely, that would be the best for me,
But,
I'm going to give it to you for free."
50 years later
They're still together
Seven kids and ten grandchildren later
The stern clarinet player (and a generous doctor)
And the angelic, maternal and artistic oil painter.
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.
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.
Oh how very marvellous then. Synchronised shopping in a ship stream. Level out no lever in a gale. And swarm to sale rails like oversized tanks on waves of euphoric energy excursions. When waving rattles around dressed in a dressing gown or a kimono be wise to put on the correct footwear to adhere to the fashion ignited by the carpet stench. For it is never to be wiped nor adjusted the sofa of steam. Stagnant can then. Fortresses of dressed up closets clamouring for fetish funds to enlighten the brain of benign baked branches. But stem no frozen celery soup in a tight fitting dress. Discos are for dangerous driving doughs. And dough is a dough and a dough means to shape shift and spin into an ever decreasing pressurized paste. Generally speaking a display of distinguished discussion is merely an offsetting of informational ink. Dot then. And forms fake fingers. What is that? A misplaced misprint of an error in a mother tongue. How can that be? Why, one should ask the aisle in the supermarket for they are often very very wise. Simplistic simpletons seek spending some. And the others give give give. And all whirl around in circles endlessly. Round and around. Frighten not a ten inch flea on an amusement park. And please take care when buttering bread for bread can be quite fragile and sensitive to the smears. Thanks very much then. And give a bow to a cup. Hahaha missionary muscle of mussels and rice. Hahahaha melancholic melon moving moodily. Hahaha breast of butter. Culinary cylinder coming. Good good good. Now bake. Great. Xxxxx kitchenette z. This is the p y q reporting on the appropriate discussion for an atomised ant in an apron. Z.
Form:
Curry. Cumin. Saffron.
Mmmm, the hallways always smell of spice,
her seventy-year-old body perfecting the rhythm of movement
from icebox to oven in her efficiency kitchenette.
Tangerine wall paint cracks and mixes carelessly
with bits of spice yet lingering in the air; it
follows her, this aroma that eats the eater,
dancing around her skirts
like faeries honoring their faerie queen.
She knows this, and smiles at the sliver of sun peeking through her window.
Down the corridor
people begin their ritual of recognition, then sniffing,
and finally a smile that reveals anticipation.
No one goes hungry inside Apartment A6 and everyone has seconds.
Lunch and dinner, breakfast too
if a body is moving about as dawn surfaces.
Though small, her main floor seems to expand
beyond the boundaries of walls,
everyone cross-legged and eager to devour dishes
few could pronounce and none could forget.
A legend among the two hundred desperate palates;
today, however, souls wander lost through the hallways
because the lucky have snaked their way into heaven
and left the masses to a barren, tasteless fate.
As the onions, okra and potatoes, flavored
with a hint of saffron and even less ginger,
entice bodies five deep and ten across,
our greedy fingers and mouths offer no thoughts of others
going without while dripping sauce falls onto our legs
and Berndi seems content with the pleasure she’s wrought.
I alight from my ebony ford
Porched beneath the shady mammoth tree
One hand holding mommy
The other some grocery
As she leads me through
The mini pansy garden
Up the the rickety wooden planks
To our home in mid air
Small but sturdy as ever
On my goliath banyan tree
A small kitchenette for mommy and me
A barbie cushioned boudoir
Rested upon by welcome week-end guests
Evenings spent with bunnies at play
Love rocketing in the rustic air
Bedtime in quilts as the winds whistled
Through flying curtains and vanishing windows
Listening to tales with wide opened eyes
From the storage of books dad left behind
Peeping at the stars swirling in the summer breeze
Half drowsy eyes amidst echoing words
Throwing ladders into the clear dark sky
Effortlessly ascending as Jack on the beanstalk
Holding net on my herculean shoulders
Cautiously stealing into the gates of heaven
Thronging with some sleepy old gods
Abducting dad with quickened speed
Manufactured locks to hold him in custody
In our tree-house hideaway
That he built for mommy and me
THIRD
Balveen Cheema
September 15, 2015
Contest: A Child's First Home
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
*40 years down the line our tree house has been weather-beaten and destroyed.
The Ford of pre-independence is in the Ford Museum, Mumbai
Get up bring your book and blanket
Through the hall way cross
And through the kitchenette
Over dark veranda down the garden stairs
Enter the shelter and cuddle up wet
Feet in the bathtub ready to dive
Four huddle and cuddle together alive
Shivering shaking and not from the weather
The wooden door’s shut and the sandbags are piled
Candlelight flickers on eyes going wild
Grabbing the book opening page
Clinging to riders in soft purple sage
Some of the words are easy to spell
Others emerge like a slow learning spell
Soon I am lost from the crumping and bumping
Riding a horse in a ten gallon hat
Till the siren’s all clear puts an ending to that
Back up the stairs under yellow red sky
Back into bed under covers to dry
Nowt now to worry we’ve dunnit before
Such a big boy now well into four
Hid under the covers
Learning to snore
This is a blast from the past
Nightmares were the first horses I rode
Almost into puberty
Every house and flat in Knotty Ash
had a backyard bomb shelter
Further into the city they were
communal usually next to a tramstop
As were the cement water tanks
Covered of course to keep
them clean for the Home Guard
The memory’s as true as I can recall
America was purple
Form:
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.
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