Short Skillet Poems

Smell of hot skillet 
brown butter with bread 
fashioned bread soup...

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the cast iron skillet
sizzling over the blaze
legless bullfrogs roar...

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hitting yourself in heart with a cast iron skillet
appreciating less than nothing about yourself
i watch in sorrow...

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Old Uncle Jack while sampling the fine cooking of his still,
Was knocked out cold by the cast iron skillet of Aunt Jill....

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Skillet is hot
belly is empty
so in goes
the pork cutlets
to fulfill
our needs of
a great supper
    to be.

wrote 11-20-08...

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rumor was she smacked him over head with a skillet
last week he was sent to hospital with a concussion
had the prophecy come true?...

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“Wake up, breakfast is cooking.”
Bacon in cast iron skillet,
sounds and smells, wafted through the tent.
“Coming”, the crackling bacon got me!...

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Chicken, yogurt, garlic, ginger, 
garam masala, cayenne, 
turmeric, cilantro simmered in a skillet. 
Mint, and mustard-seed sauteed
aromatic till it pops. Inhale, 
taste India....

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“Wake up, breakfast is on the fire.”
Bacon and eggs in a cast iron skillet,
the sounds and smell wafting through our tent …
“We’re coming”, the crackling of the bacon sizzling got us!
...

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ticket
skillet
biscuit
brisket

A ticket at the public skillet,
buys a warm biscuit with beef brisket.

8/9/19

Contest: Your Turn For A Tyburn Contest

Sponsor: Charles Messina...

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In the old graveled alley, overgrown with weeds,
at footfall, locusts sprang and leaped,
triggering a riot.
But soon their swelling motion
subsided like fried popcorn on a skillet.
...

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Poetry for breakfast 
Delivered with dollops of metaphors
Coated with delightful snippets of fun
Rolled in a skillet of imagery
My eyes dance with delight
As I read the words of my internet friends
Bringing poetry to life...

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Take a pound of beef liver

   Shake it in flour

      Chop up one fair sized onion

         Fry in hot skillet

            Turn head and hold nose

                Feed to dog

                   Barf!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved...

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It all starts with the cornbread
buttermilk, of course
seared in an iron skillet
crunchy outer crust
southern tradition
slap-your-mom
good!

Crawfish, Andouille sausage,
crumbled up cornbread,
onions, celery, apples,
cranberries, pecans,
cinnamon and sage,
moistened and
baked!
...

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While sitting at the kitchen table my spirit;
Embarks listening my nose for the baked biscuit;

I am invested so heavily in simplistic tradition;
Hot baked buttered fresh out the oven wicket;

Grandma told me and grandpa get out the skillet;
Cause that chicken and gravy for Christmas;


12/30/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©...

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Picking up the trash
I brush past you.

You say: "mind the ice."
I smile - a mental picture
of my comic duck-walk.

Halfway to the garage
I hear your voice again,
as if your throat were within mine.
I feel your salty gravity
as a presence dipped in my blood.

At the sink,
you kiss my cold fingers
hum a song from ‘Frozen’,
while stirring hash in a skillet....

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Black coffee for sunny mornings and hangovers,
or with the rich cream of a female ungulate caregiver.
A quick Danish for the tardy to arrive,
crispy bacon for first responders.
Duck fat in the skillet fry’s anything better -
let’s it slide off a plate.
Wipe tongues with Oolong,
Be sure to keep a store of nuts and berries.
Chocolates and red wine restores blasé taste buds.
Keep writing love menus....

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light switch in the dark
fright switch
whirr of wings
unallocated
swift hither 
pulse race over ice

bat 

on the ceiling
fridge top
skitter of featherless wings
timid fear in the air
now clinging to a skillet hook
throw open the screen
wait
blurred flight-pass

out now

thread carefully
sew together a scattered panic
put heartbeats
back into their drum
make coffee
puzzle the moments...

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Biscuits

Biscuits in the oven,
Biscuits in the pan.
Gravy in the skillet,
Shortening in a can.

Good old Southern Breakfast,
Ham and bacon too.
Pancakes on the platter.
What things can Momma do?

Orange juice fresh from squeezing;
Coffee in the pot.
Some like cream and sugar;
Some just like it hot.

Love is in the oven;
Love is in the pan.
Your Momma sure does love you,
As only Momma's can....

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I went up river in a canoe.
I had no paddles. I was all thumbs.
I scuttled her in the foothills; 
the valley air chokes me.

I tried to drown but was too
resilient. I foraged for food.
I made water from jumble ice
in my seasoned stygian skillet.

I tried to sleep through it all
but became resistive to the valerian
root. I’m no Rip Van Winkle.
I’ve lived this way for 1,080 days. . .

I live this way still. . ....

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Last night,
You beat my meat and blow my mind
Later, you overwhelm me
With every single grind.
Cranking and cranking
Untill my hunger roars.

When you turn around in that apron
I adore your every curve.
I like it hot and juicy
Alittle pink in the middle.

I can't wait to see that steak
Hit that hot cast iron skillet.

Put some onions on that steak
Perhaps a few mushrooms too.

Girl, you know I love your cooking
But I love my desserts too....

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Round heels of crumpets,
aromatic lavender jam.
Poached eggs in a skillet,
succulent portions of ham.
An awakening stretch had heralded
a yawn mouthed long and loud.
While rain fell down in splatters
from the dark pewter clouds. 

Dated Macintosh slicker,
hoary exhausted gum boots.
Tenacious steps into nature
in search of family and roots.
The fallacies of the wind
twists hair into long plaits.
Across wide fields of enchantment
new journeys await....

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If I could spill my soul
onto the floor or a skillet
let my heartbeat liquid 
and spell out a creation song

I would yell, yell, yelp!
Yelp, about my unfolding self
and just how magnificent
I have become because Jesus

Christ, Krishna, Muhammad,
told me something beautiful
and that fragile bubble
which protected me, myself

burst into reality and me
just I may not my self and I
crumble to the science
of no God without proof.

POOF!


Dean Walker...

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Pain
Takes over
Tears
Won’t stop falling
I just can’t stop crying
Fear
And blame
Sweeps over again
I just sit and fall apart

I’m falling apart
And no one knows it
I’m crying
And no one hears me
I’m depressed
But no one cares
So why should I try?
I should just give up this life

Falling
Failing
Running
It’s what I do
I can’t help it
There’s nothing else to do

Why should I care?
Why should I try?
Because Skillet told me?
No. Not possible
Not this time...

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Claws step over ear bones,
tap on the tin roof. The cabin
creaks like an ark.

All day winding along
a Kentucky ridge line,
to lodge a night
in a bow-beamed shack.

I fry bacon and bread
on a smoke-licked skillet
as black as a fossil;
then settle down to listen
to April starlight
sweeping timbers.

Dark pelts pace moon trails.
Night birds hunt;
sloe washed wings flick shadows
through briery pines.

I sip an amber glass of bourbon
eavesdrop,
on my sleep-walking soul....

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