The sincere romantic gesture
a perfect smile
a glance while holding hands
a dapper looking style
The whispers though out the evening
a passionate enduring kiss
a twinkle from that in your eye
while talking, that peckish kinda kiss
The Pièce de résistance is simply
you and I
all we have to do is
stop and steer
The heart of the matter
We are the Masterpeice
the center of the stage
is ours
ten zucchinni slices
1 cup of cottage cheese
1/4 cupparmesan cheese
garlic minced
2 eggs
green onions chopped
1/4 cup of chopped portabello mushroom
1/4 of diced sundired tomatos in oil
1/4 teaspoon of anchovie paste
1/2 cup of crumbled bacon
5 olives chopped
mix stuffing and line a greased cookie sheet
and stuff or layer the zucchii bake
until goldedn brown top with a hot tomato sauce and cheese
in a British way,
not an American way,
I am kind peckish
Why did the chicken cross Abbey Road?
Because it was there,
but which came first?
Obviously, not the egg,
as it has no legs.
The first chicken to cross the road,
feeling peckish,
not one to throw in the towel,
when told, 'Walk, don't run a fowl,'
and, faster than a speeding pullet,
or so it is said,
was one giant leap for poultry,
one small step
for a Rhode Island Red.
But, by the look on the freckled face
of the old speckled hen,
arriving alive on the other side,
her tranquility was not expanded,
when she heard the words announced,
'The Eagle has landed!'
Roll In Sin
Rulers are just straight measuring sticks
Buddy clubs and straight jackets
Ladders behaving like flowers
Black rose bush learing over the pastel shined Tulips grown
A different life green and blue
People can represent and stay true
In a suit
What is common with people that don't have the loot
What did I learn
What did I throw away
Feel value
In the works
A peckish primal poverty
Needed to outlast Trump
More than guns at the border
Respect
I impost them
The 5a.m bunny rabbit has no clue
To the price of food
Who am I praying to
Don't I need to know what it means before I try to pray
APPLE PICKING
“Adam, are you hungry?”
Asked Eve, seductively.
“There’s a lovely juicy apple
On a low branch of that tree.”
“I must confess I’m peckish,”
Said Adam longingly.
“But God said that it doesn’t
Belong to you or me.”
“There’s on-one here to see us,”
Eve answered, craftily.
“Except for that old serpent
And he said it was free.”
“I’m still not sure,” said Adam.
What if God should see?
“He’d evict us from the garden
And then where would we be?”
But Eve could be persuasive,
As women tend to be.
And so they shared the apple
And the rest is history.
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
Turtle so slow
Has emerged from below
How does he breathe down there
Without any air
Don’t ask me how
At least not just now
I’m feeling a bit peckish
And could stand a nice fish dish
Earlier, I saw some bass
Hiding here in the grass
Ah, I see you there
Swum by with no care
I will have you my pretty
Though you are itty bitty
With a frawnk and a swoop
I will fly around my loop
What’s that in the deep water
By that pesky old otter
Shinny shad make nice meals
If I can just close the deal
It will never sense my presence
And I will leave only my oily essence
A last lunge and a lurch
And I’m off to my perch
I’m the most graceful of birds by the way
And really should be in a Monet
Bandicoot's bounce over my dead lead head.
Grim the outlook,
I am the grimness in my own storybook.
Moods are my mannerism's.
Gooey nose - a stonking flu
got me
now I mimic a monkey
with my bullhorn blowing.
When will the sun rise my eyes?
Blighted by sniffles, I dizzy and sway
to the 'Drug Mart', there to gag and goggle;
at so many meds for a bunged-up head.
Handfuls of hope
back to the laze-upon floozy chair
guzzling pills a popping.
Later, write this,
mayhap get pissed on some bitter brew.
Bandicoot's snoring.
A little peckish.
Here a glimmer
there it is, the shiny light,
feeling svelte in a sky bright blue.
Sniffing better, sleep later.
angry pouty blonde wants straight hair
misunderstood redhead wants to be a blonde
annoyed brunette hates her mother and her curls
evasive curly-haired teen wants thinner hair
peckish thin-haired girl wants to be a redhead
Welcome to age thirteen
Melting snow,
Cool breeze,
Crowded crows diving in a row,
Return of the unfriendly bees,
Colorful rainbow in the sky,
And the strange songs of the talkative parrot;
These are signs that Spring is around the corner.
Again, she has defeated Queen Winter,
With that incredible show in the parking lot.
She is now wearing the crown and three ostentatious rubies;
Oh my golly! She can also poise better than all of the beauties
Gathered during the Ms. Universe beauty pageant.
Sigh of Lent,
Palm Sunday,
Cheerful children at play,
Green gardens decorated with confetti,
Happy humming birds flying high,
And the young grand-mothers in bikini;
These are hints that the celebration
Will commence early this spring.
One duck is already being trailed by an offspring,
Meanwhile, the zebras are being chased by one peckish lion,
Which can no longer run like a supersonic train.
Amidst all of that, somebody is going to have fun.
Copyright© March 2009, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of many poetry books:
“Sparkles of Love and Etincelles de l’Amour”
“Mounts And Valleys of Love”
Rumbles of boredom lead the mouth to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes.
A need now to refresh this domestic pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in an untidy kitchen
or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of former slicks
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish we are for leftovers.
Waiting in the barbers for my hair to be cut
Didn't matter the queue was long and didn"t tut
I waited in line also for the clothes shop too
Wasn't concerned about the length of the queue
I felt rather peckish so again I waited my turn
The queues of life is what we all must learn
If you want something today be prepared to wait
Come in good time or you will be running late
Slowly but surely the world will return once more
Shopping at shops is something to adore
Please don't consider it a chore or a pain
For the alternative is they will be closed again
Woke up this morning, it's one of those days.
I see the bright sunshine through a grey, misty haze.
My head hurts, my eyes burn, I hurt in some places,
That used to be located in different places.
Hobble to bathroom to soak in the tub,
And take ibuprophen in lieu of back rub.
Shampooed and relaxed I feel a bit peckish.
Some scones and some tea would make a nice breakfast.
No flour, no butter, my cupboard is bare.
I tell you this morning has started with flare.
I just grab a bite on the way to work.
Paid for donuts and coffee, spilled the cup on my shirt.
Got to work late so I stayed overtime.
Didn't get home until just before nine.
'Cause I had a flat tire and had no spare,
So I called a tow truck and had it repaired.
My neighbor came over with all of the news.
Sometimes that woman just gives me the blues.
She'll talk about anyone who isn't here.
Wonder who she talks about when I'm not there.
I finally flipped out and just had a cow.
It's good that I did 'cause I feel better now.
Tomorrow will be a much better day.
Today was a bad day, what more can I say.
Rumbles of boredom
lead me to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks
amongst the soaking dishes.
We need to refresh this pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds
of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.
What would you do, if you did,
get up close and personal with a fish.
Would you ask him a generic q,
like 'where's the nearest public loo?'
Or try your best to respect,
his blubbering, southern dialect.
Granted I would be quite phased,
and think I'd gone rather crazed.
But once past that, I'd marvel too,
and tour the underwater zoo.
Find out just what fish do for fun,
take a bask in midday sun.
Or play a game they call flippers,
the trout are up against the kippers.
Just maybe fish could be my friend?
How though, when their day could end,
chomped down deep inside my tummy,
fish and chips, oh, they are so yummy.
I couldn't ever keep such truth,
about my peckish, junk-filled youth.
But knowing how they live and play,
such fun and laughs within the bay.
I think I'll leave it just for now,
if my stomach will allow.
Mind over matter, it can be done,
a meat free life can be fun.
And maybe I can bring a friend,
make talking fish the newest trend.
Help everyone around me see,
that fishes, are like you and me.
05.26.2020
Contest: Brian's Choice V
Sponsor: Brian Strand
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