Long Overcooked Poems
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Childhood Xmas memories, mine are not so fine.
Daddy would overindulge in the Christmas wine.
Mother and the turkey never could get on.
The ham overcooked, boiled dry on Xmas morn.
Presents were a problem, so many to be bought.
Mum and Dad said Santa must have forgot.
Thinking of Xmas past, I must pause awhile.
As in remembering, I also have to smile.
Carols in the church, gentle flakes of snow,
falling on our faces as we gazed from below.
Frost on the window at bedtime as we play.
Certain in the night I heard Santa's sleigh.
Cowboy suits and guns with caps that bang.
Sweeties, cuddly toys and dolls that sang.
Best of all the feeling of magic in the air,
Christmas Eve family, kneeling united in prayer.
Bazball pimps now shrimps on the barbie
So low did stoop scoop of Nincompoop soup
Trumpet the thump it Bazball strumpet crumpet
Bravado of trio with brio plus lardo & avocado
Braggadocio Pinocchio mumbo jumbo gumbo
Bizarre under par no cigar mis-steak tartare
Phony baloney mony mony minestrone
Fish & swish delish dish of death wish Gibberish
Wacky ego from hero to zero tacky shi*show taco
Don’t give a f*ck not once but twice spliced duck
Flame grilled chances spilled one trick pony
Gobbledygook spooked overcooked zabaglione
Slurry in a hurry won’t worry say sorry curry
Baggie green vented spleen terrine
Why would you even risk it brisket
Takes the proverbial herbal verbal biscuit
Ashes hope killer dope quesadilla
Oz supernova it’s already over Dover sole
Lamb to the ripsnorter slaughter
Drole rigmarole goad toad in the hole
Baz puns like Mao’s guns in bao buns
Gory no glory story does bore me Tandoori
Bazball goals down golf holes silly sausage rolls
Canned slices of fanned tanned Barmy army
Starc tsunami lark umami like spiced pastrami
Bavette baguette of bet will forget any regret
Baz & Ben flower pot men smarmy salami
Stumble derails still no humble pie tales
Scallops with dollops of lolloping Codswallop
Bazball boast spit roast with burnt toast trollop
Snipe this tripe is as ripe as our Gripe
Gabbatoir bete noir Pom bomb Dauphinoise
Done like a kipper without Warne’s flipper
Stellar Aussie fella mortadella from the cellar
Hoodwink stink of our skipper.. all cheesy hype
Shocker if this is our Test best.. zest of fu*k fest
In the locker of Davy call in the navy cos Bazball ain’t gravy
“I fight the good battle!” I thought:
But a warrior
whether Christ’s or the Devil’s, or Self
is still “A blade held high” demon
of sorts, though the conscious motive
May be of highest righteousness--
the transformation of darkness into light.
The demon
(our second-hand creation)
(manipulating matter
but not the originators),
a recycling of lesser egos
claiming the Formative Light
our own
though pure and complete
before our jealous
acquisition--
Divine relationship denied
(the arrogance of man),
agnosia perpetuated--
our insufferable debate over
that tender-less chicken
or her overcooked egg;
And oh--the science!
We squeeze even our genitals
into a singularity
(the academics juiced answer to all)
when denying the enriching trickles--
the crushed, the spirit-runny,
our essence, the immortal soul,
with each bathwater tossed.
When, in our power to create
truly as The Omnipotence:
from nothingness;
out of canvas yet
uncut from the fabric
of time--
not with warrior knife
nor artist brush
but by faith alone--
by love and grace…
Grace that has kept man alive
prepared to some day make
of sleeping, self-possessed children
fully awakened
independent
Gods.
Failed humans
The forest he traveled had many paths
there was always something new to see
like a white tree that once wanted to be
the tallest one in the forest, but hubris
had made it to lose barks and naked stand
He thought of Israel, this foreign plant
among tall coniferous
In the glade where rabbits sit to catch
the morning sun, a group of people had
occupied their leader was an enormous
woman with fake blond hair, her man
was hateful, suffering from stomach
ulcer for all slight received when he
was a boy of nine, by his mother
there was also the tall man with three
legs wore a jester hat and told jokes
There was nothing funny about him and
his prop revolver, but he dreamed of
going into show business
in the clearing sat a group of unshaven
shopkeepers trying to sell dreams and
stolen inventions, enticing big bears
with a bunch of carrots
finally, under a bush sat three cooks
who failed the catering exam because
they had overcooked Idaho potatoes
They were the result of a mad god's
attempted to create new humans on
stolen land meant for olive trees and
vines, with a soil too dry for cabbage
In the afternoon, the failed humans had
disappeared what was left, a carpet
of white butterflies and three frogs
It's because of the bacon.
Yeah, it looks good on the menu, sitting there at the rim of the plate. Glistening. Archetypally ridged and ruffled. Positioned perfectly next to the eggs over easy, the pancakes, buxom and buttered, the sausage links, dwarfed but respectable.
Net, the Grand Slam holds its own. At $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas), it's still a bargain. The eggs are fine. The pancakes are as good as any. The sausage links are, you know, OK.
But the bacon... The bacon b-a-con. A swindle, a masquerade, a false promise, a double-cross, tissue-thin, gossamer, anorexic, nervous (nervosa in Spanish), frail, skittish, fragile, and afraid. Overcooked, ipso brittle, short crust, and crumbling. Try to cut a slice, and "snap-chink!" Chips fly everywhere. The knife (if you use one) smacks the porcelain. The fork is stunned, helpless; its tines useless as the spoon.
"Crack!" Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to do that. Do you want me to brush it off your plate? Hey, a little piece went in your salad, a bacon bit. Do you like bacon bits? I think they're good. And there're not usually made of real bacon."
What are you gonna do with your eggs now? The Grand Slam doesn't come with toast. Everybody's looking at you, waiting to see your next move. "Yeah, I like to mix eggs with my pancakes. You don't do that sometimes? Really? It's good. You want a bite? No? OK..."
It's not the cook's fault. What's he supposed to do? He can barely see the damn things on the grill. Can't blame the waitress or the shift manager. The pigs are probably regular size. You can't expect the stock holders to take up pitchforks. What do you want for $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas)?
That's why I stopped going to Denny's.
Note: The person who lived next store to me growing up invented bacon bits for McCormick. True story.
798.
Ang Alamat ng May Nanalo Na
Bakit at paano nga ba
Na ang tawag sa
Kanilang ayaw mag-protesta
Na natalo ay “May Nanalo Na”
Bawal RAO magreklamo
Dahil “Finish Na” ang laRO
Kanila ang Ginto
May bacon pang sobrang luto
Ao! Aw! May sumigaw ng “Ihaw”
Katayin RAo asong nakabubulahaw
Barking on the wrong tree RAo kc
Biting RAo the hand of Mineral Mommy
Para raw si Mojo Jojo ng Puff City
Overcooked daw ang Nognog ng Makati
Dahil kinagat din ang Liberal
Tama lang na Dina magtagal
Kaya karaka-RAka, binuo si MiJo…
Inspired by Miriam Hall kung saang nagluto…
And also VP Jojo na ininsulto
Ito ang multo ng pang-TWO sa pwesto!
Cge sbi pa ng: “Push mo yan, teh!”
Umasa… Nasaktan… Nagbig-BAE!...
Macho-gwapito migo ni Jose…
Kaya react nila: “Wag kang pabeBE!”
Wag kaung mag-alala sa Birheng Lola
Matakot kayo sa kanyang Valedora
SAF44 at Warriors F4... ipaghihiganti
Sa pagpatak ng Countdown to thirty!
-07/29/2020
(Dumarao)
*Alamat ng Kanilang Mga Expressions
I notice the single placemat within the circle of noise,
Placing my phone on the cluttered side plate,
I can feel the Christmas spirit resonating through,
The crowd of extended families unwrapping each other’s joy,
A tear drops onto my unused napkin,
My mind races with memories of family togetherness,
The phone reminds me of the unsent WhatsApp messages,
I spot the waiting team slalom through the chairs,
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a waiter offering me the red, white, or rose wine,
I must have blanked out for a quick second or two,
As for some reason I chose the red wine,
I’m not a big fan of red wine,
I notice something unexpected,
A noise behind my ear struck me subtly,
Hesitantly I turn towards the surprising situation,
“Would you like to join us?” A lady to my left asks alongside her children,
Tears flood my unconscious shirt,
“No-one should be on their own” another added “Join us!”
I graciously accept after they make the decision for me,
They share that they are from Lincoln,
As they collectively lift the small square towards their table,
I can’t believe the surge of care that I’m being shown by strangers,
Stories were poured as the red wine wrote the words to a great Christmas Lunch,
I laughed to many a tale about their previous Christmas trips,
Smiles simmer in this cauldron of enjoyment,
The red wine even produced miracles,
Overcooked beef became irrelevant in the cape of chuckles,
To be included in such a positive way, real and not in a forced manner,
Opening the door to showcase the missing piece on the mantle of Christmas,
I’m glad I chose to go down the stairs,
I felt a little overwhelmed by all the morning family togetherness being showcased,
But my faith in humanity has been restored,
As long as the flickering light within the hand of Christmas remains,
I will try my best to rise to most challenges,
As today a small gesture had a hugely heartwarming effect,
A large impact that will not fade in time.
Checking the lights on the dashboard when they flash and stay red:
it's the oil that needs to be changed or the engine that requires
maintenance, and in frigid temperatures who would venture outside and get frostbites?
A car is a necessity, a commodity and besides daily pleasure, it may cost a lot indeed.
Running to the grocery store through the backdoor when milk is low,
and guests wait for a fresh coffee pot and you put on a face not so mellow,
and much worse when you forget the roast in the oven...the bird you admire,
and smoke fills your kitchen...you just dial 911 and scream, " My house in on fire! "
But the worst one that can send you into havoc...
when the mean kid down the block throws a rock
and your window shatters and the cat flees with the swiftest animal beat,
but the dog gets vicious and runs after him by exposing his sharp teeth.
Ever forgot to send your mom a Christmas or Easter card?
She'll call you the same day knowing that the Post office won't deliver,
and what her voice will sound like? Soft or harsh, or angry as a bard?
I can imagine the words she will say, " Have you forgotten something, dear? "
These are just few of them that can drive you crazy like wild kids who love to fight
and make you head spin and ache until you sit down and take a break by a lamplight,
" Ouch!" You got burned from the splashing water while draining your steamy pasta...
you complain,"It's overcooked and not al dente!" And like mother you exclaim,"Basta!"
* The word "Basta" in Italian means " It's enough "
Raw emotions
Churns like oceans
In my mind's eye
And my heart's cry...
Is left unheard again
Where have you been?
I will not worry
I will not hurry
I'm just concerned and I want the best for you
My ego of I'm-better-than-you is thrown out the window and front door for you too
Constructive criticism is what I need
I don't want your destructive put-downs
Humiliated as it already is...this engaging greed, I don't feed on, for it's not a good flower, but a bad weed
Don't give me demoralizing comments that gives me unhappy frowns
I earned the right
To have standards of being a positive poet wholeheartedly
I fight the good fight
To have the aptitude and ability to move on to other substantial things fortunately
We went through a De Ja Vu with a touch of Desperation
Hey who are you to say that I'm an exasperation?
I live to be a true role model inspiration
I sacrifice myself for others' sensation
"Live in the now"
Is an Incredible saying...without saying I'm just saying
Somehow I don't know how
To respond to my endless, foolish praying
Nobody cares about me...or at least it feels like it from so far away
I'm so upset because I want the spotlight when everyone else steals it from me today
I will be stronger than they'll ever know
I will go where the wicked wind will blow
I want to refrain from complaining
No more name calling...self-sustaining
Arrogant comments are not needed anywhere
Refrain from driving me insane or in utter despair
Even if it's just a hair...
Yet, you still don't care
Strikes me odd really that you are acting Real Nasty
You're something else, unfeeling and sassy
I'm not ready
It's difficult being me
I'm so unsteady
Felt this uncertainty
Throw me your confetti
Celebrate my downfall with me
I'm an overcooked spaghetti
The trash will accept me possibly
If I ran far away from yesterday,
I would compete with tomorrow
I'm in this race together with you
I will regain the strength that shines anew
It simmers. This constant invisible, hovering
like a wasp in the forever periphery threatening
lightning strike yellows, sudden and unbidden. It spills
and spools, down into black stripes melting and melding
to pools of what could be oil, what could be memory.
What could be regret now slick with – what?
A splash of anger boiled, with sprinkles of blame out of date;
mixed with grief curdling, poured into a well of questions
overcooked yet left raw, still somehow
roasted and burnt-snap-toast /
ed too tough for even a
crouton of relief.
It’s a recipe I can never master. Ingredients
lacking, my baking tray left to crust.
‘The Chronic Pain’ special.
'The Looping Blame Game’ starter.
“Welcome to Self-Sabotage Restaurant and its
rotating menu of dishes which you serve yourself.”