Are you qualified
to comment
Are you predisposed
to care
Can your envy
make it better
When you rip
and then you tear
Sleeping
with the devil
The critic
stirs his pot
Trying to recook
the stew
With all the things
— he’s not
(Dreamsleep: November, 2025)
I refer you to my answer to a very good comment by our
Stalwart poet Joe Dimino.' You neef only Peel away to view..In the
Meantime i offer; all love to you.!
my dear friends,
i am writing to address
a memory of sorts:
a lovely barbecue,
evening, on the beach.
you all brought
ingredients
to pile on my barbecue.
you all brought your onions
your palette knives
your cutting board
and one of you were
cutting onions.
at the beach.
the juices, they pricked
pricked my sockets for droplets.
oh, it was lovely,
the sizzling crackle of veg.
and i took my chair,
i examined the burns.
the sizzles, the pops, how the knife had painted
the onions
onions!
red onions in the sky .
it scorched my eyes
oh! the taste!
and you were all so thrilled
to share your creation
the meal was fantastic
filling for the night, but for days after
i couldn't rid myself of
onions
without cutting them away from my eyes
so i vaguely remember
in a dream like state,
one of you took your palette knife
and scooped them out for me.
i cried and shook for hours in relief!
and, oh! what a time.
and, oh.
onions.
You ready yourself to perform that poesy;
a pen is held firmly in your fingers
as you concentrate, while eating pickled onions,
and reach for the notebook that’s by your side.
Yet once you’ve taken that book in your hand,
then pointed the poised pen at the page,
while chewing on that pickled onion,
there’s a distracting sound you’d rather not hear.
A bell at the door, a bong from the clock,
while a first line of verse is rather undone?
You do rather wish to grab that jar of pickles
and throw it at the door. Or at the clock.
(23 Aug 2023)
Wishing some times
turns sunshine to rain
Tender falls the rain
as i speak your name
don't waste my time
tryna break my heart
you knew the outcome
from the very start
Love me Tender
Never wanna let me go
sappy love songs
Sh*t thought I let you knoiw
Aint wanting hurt
don't like bruised feelings
got look into who
and what I'm dealing with
Tender falls the rain
as i speak your name
tell you this means to me
Love and tender kiss
you sopossa be my Missus
Tell me what this is
since this involvest me
standing behind the curtain
rehersting your favorite script.
Tender falls the rain
siggin on suttlease
swaggin like you the mistress
betta get wiff me
love don't need much
collabration
Gal just do your thang
I need yo blessed assurance
Ask you let me have my way
Tender falls the rain
Baby love me Tender
Speak it when you speak
my name
Baby what's for dinner
we've had our hard times
you and i
Throught the good and bad time
some how
we got by
Now that your here with me
Baby let's stay together
say you love so
that you'll leave me never
tender Falls the rain
as I speak your name
gloomy sharp steel wire
stripped onions, sheding white blood
primal tearful fear
Onions in my meatloaf, in chili, and in sloppy Joe's they make us smile
In scalloped corn, and of course mashed potato gravy once in a while
Onions are chopped, ready to be slopped into everything here
For my husband and I adore them, hold their taste the most dear.
Others can have their ketchups, mustards, mayonnaise, and such.
Onions are flowing around in soup and whatever else we dream up
We have a pile of onions in the laundry room, behind the wall of clothes'
If they were found to be nuclear, we would pretty much be okay to glow.
Onions on the counter, onions on the stairs, onions in my dreams.
We love them in all capacities, even fried, and boiled with our beans.
I know it sounds excessive, but I learned about them from my mother
They are supposed to have healing properties, according to her brother
We are never sick, so maybe onions have saved us some hospital time
We raise them in the garden, and they come out tender and so fine.
Onions in our meatloaf, in chili, and other wonderful homemade dishes.
Please let us enjoy our onions, they increase the taste of fishes.
UN-FEELING ONIONS
Russian onions are all angry onions
They brook no differing opinions,
Disdain for our tears is obvious
To our suffering they are oblivious.
When we peel them, we cry -
They don’t like us - but why?
1st October 2019
………………………………………………………………………
NOTE In English we describe onions as “strong”,
but in Russian they are described as “angry”.
The decision is so right
We won’t countenance a fight
When you are at Bunnings you see
The onions are first on the bread
To stray will risk you being dead
And then your sausage cooked just right
Then waiting for your bite
Will mean the onions won’t slip
Causing a hazard on the floor a bit
So the argument is made
Tradition or safety for your sausage and bread is the blade!
© Paul Warren Poetry
a = a and b = ? when preceded by a k amswer in 30000 words
A quandary could be said to be quadrilateral in formation but rusted tap thinks that water is very very soothing. Ok then thought the beaker I can fill now. Great. It is never to be said that a static shape is a star or a moon. Nor is it a combusting solar sway. Architect of arc. Ancient arrival. And still the wobbly know it all pan sits half on and half off the ever increasing hob space. Great isnt it? Practice two wobbles in an attic then whirl around flamboyantly. Flailing jumping arms and legs in a mish mash of seasoning. Sprinkled. Now go and paint a pretty flower on a sleeve. Nice. Lovely. And it is in the far reaches that a lot of ornately dressed melons queue to purchase loaves of bread at noon. Haha to all of that. And a curd of curry. Xxxxx ornithological Z z z
Small town, broken window houses
dead roses hang in kitchens
leftovers of other women
who eat beef in dark rooms.
We are not like them.
Don't touch us, not ready.
Our oven mitts are on.
Men can knob themselves
while we grind knives.
We don't want to be under the pale man
who puts his spoon in his cheek and moans.
We are good girls. No need to explain
why roses hang stiff and feel soggy.
How many licks will it take
before we peel off our panties
like we strip onions for soup.
Men can guess, but dampness
is not a sign. Liquids leak
when the onion is hacked,
breaking cells and releasing
a distinctive odor on tips.
her eyes filled with tears
but she goes on singing
and cutting onions
my little round sleepers
with lots of coats on, mud
huggers with a tribal bottom
perfectly lined up at the
bus stop of spring, soft
under cold loam, a miracle
despite the banality of hidden
numbers; time to drink tea
as I wait in a cooling garden
Onions
My grandmother calls me into the kitchen and tells me that it is time that I learn to whip up a meal that will snag a man’s heart.
Grab the onions.
Little did she know, I have already peeled back the bipolar faces of onions. First the outer layer which is usually pleasant. Then one more is funny. And then another is sweet and another is mean and another is selfish. They are all opposite tastes of everything you are. I realize I loathe them.
Grab the knife.
Little did she know, I have already cried from dicing onions. The malodorous stench still lingers in my throat. The putrid smell still stains my fingertips no matter how many times I have washed them. I have tried so many times to love onions. I have fried them, grilled them, sautéed them. Nothing works.
Is there any better way to ruin a meal?
A
lot of
people cry
when peeling
onions; the trick is
in not forming
such a strong
emotional
bond
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