Simmered Poems

Fungi

I like my fungi
sauteed in butter 
in a pan with a chopped clove
of garlic, parsley and plenty
of salt and pepper.
Or sliced and simmered
in chicken stock
with arborio rice
and topped with parmesan
cheese in a creamy
mushroom risotto.

I like the musty,
earthy smell
that some fungi have,
the exquisite delicacy
of the gills, 
the soft, spongy feel,
the variety of shapes 
and colours that range 
across a pallet
of grays, yellows,
pinks and purples
through to a bleed
of vibrant reds.
Fungi feed
the senses.

But most spectacular 
of all is the fungi
that hides beneath my feet
in a buried network 
of fibres thinner 
than a human hair, 
connecting a forest
in one enormous web
carrying nutrients 
to hungry roots 
and the secret language
of trees. Poetry
is like fungi.

When Life was Simple

Third in the Write Sixteen Beutiful Lines Poetry Contest



When we lived beneath thatch-roofed houses,
Curry simmered in pots,
Flames flickered from firewood gathered
From hills and thickets.

When bullock carts creaked
Under paddy loads,
Harvests reaped from fertile fields,
Bicycles spun on dusty roads.

When sounds of hand-pounding paddy
Echoed from homes everyday,
Women weaving at fly- shuttle looms
Sometimes till late night.

And  when caws of the crows
And chirpings of tea cricket at dusk heard.

Then we helped one another -
Life was simple,self reliant,and beautiful.

No Victory Day when the Genocide is NOW

No Victory Day when the Genocide is NOW

The Nazis were defeated in war
their ideologies simmered
germinated in the wombs of today's monsters
many may not know
Zionists and Nazis held hands in the dark
they kissed and collaborated
now the Zionists carry the flag
changed the color not the atrocities
playing the victim
while they dance and slaughter
an army in diapers, while they kill your daughters
today's Zionists
condemned by the true Jews of the land
liberate the Gaza camp NOW

Chicken Piccata

Tender chicken breast filets
Lightly dredged in flour
Sauteed then simmered in sauce
lemon and capers
served o'er spaghetti
Romano
cheese

The Beautiful, Answered Prayer

Ask, and it shall be given you . . . "
from a portion of Matthew 7:7 King James Version


The valley was scorching. Air simmered despair
as its people prayed for rain.
Eyes cast skyward, they cried, “God, bring us relief.
This drought will be our bane.”

One evening a deluge came over the land,
washing their fears away.
They woke to sweet petrichor. Glorious light
flooded the break of day.

The Journey Within

A battlefield of delusion 
A victim in the walls of her own conclusion  

Smothered by the tapestry of threading thoughts 
The guilt lurking, persistent knots

Blind to the bright and forgiving revive 
She descends into the depths of another disguise 

A breath like suffocation 
This powerful realm of obsession  

The worn pages flip one by one 
Her vision scattered before the setting sun

A burning flame that simmered 
A dimming radiance in her eyes that once glimmered

Expect Changes

Expect changes that you know will grow this love in time

Expect these changes which should not be dreaded, but open each of our hearts like ROSE BUDS
Expect changes of a frantic bride waiting for her groom.  

The types of changes which tips its hat to an AUTUMN AFTERNOON. Expect fiery changes that may consume each of our hearts in flames. 

One beloved to another expect these changes of subtle pains that come with TORRENTIAL rains 
Expect changes of social madness at a spring wedding of BLISS when kissed.

Now seasons turn with a twist
And all is fair on a summer afternoon. Expect changes which may stay 'til the festive SPARK of JUNE. 
When all has SIMMERED and is fancy and steamy, acknowledge these days as FINE and DREAMY.

Then the LAUGHTER of spring and summer mingle when autumn touches and more to tingle.  
Soon WINTER RUSHES in, a lightly falling snow exceeding the joy I hoped for akin to HUNGRY  WAVES LICKING THE OCEAN'S GLADDENING SHORES. 

Expect changes with impossible meanings, and fair weather dreamings!

Cultural Crux

Is there anything you root for in our garden now? 
Must I cultivate it to make it grow? 
Can't seed so many plots, I know.

Is there anything you savour in our melting pot now? 
Seasons changed, and our flavours compound, 
True essence to distil.

Blinded by what familiarity steeps 
You know our brew only too well, you see. 
I taste bitterness, you drink me.

Remember, 
The days when cultures were raw, 
Just fresh and jubilantly spicy?
Where exactly did that zest go? 
Preserved, yes. 
Unspoiled, no! 

Simmered away as steam from a kettle, 
Aromas mingled over. 
Vaporous, hardly distinguishable.

Whatever happened to our cultural bouquet? 
Trying to bottle it is so hard.

Is there anything you relish in our feast now?
These days our palates just don't know. 

We're still simmering.
 Taste! Taste!

Hollow Chest

Bonfire fly it’s light high into the nigh
A flicker where I see you countenance
Ironically to splay the feast
In that glimmer
Something simmered
Two never be released

Touch me, rub me, kissy
Ask you if you missy
Princess in a grim’s fantasies
Another night I sit to sing to the sky
Sang this sylph dirge mellifluously
Arc rampart tracing hearts in the stars

You took my breast beat from me
Hollowed out my chest cavity
Scalpel edge serrated blades
I gaze up velvet lips edict low whisper
Keep it no there is no returns
It’s broken

YESTERDAY a refrain

Toasted teacakes,parmesan cheese
Croquetted chicken,fricasees;
Apple dumplings,yogurt creamed
Welsh mutton,in pudding,steamed.

Baked Alaska,Banbury cake
Lyons ices with  Cadbury flake;
Gorganzola buttered roll
Side salad oil drizzled,in a bowl.

Melba meringue,warm mince pies
Filet mignon,mushrooms and fries;
Sunday roast in dripping jelly
Onions and peppered tripe belly.

Trout poached,not microwaved
Slowly cooked,and no time saved;
Thick fishstock,bouillabaissed
Beefsteak so lightly braised.

Hash browns,sausage,gravy and mash
Casseroled stew or goulash;
Poached,simmered maybe pressure cooked
Tempting meals from Granma's book.

Love Applause

then might we be One
who's husbandry you
have made me
night you excit me in
silence
that your voice shall sing our
love in song
than that we shall be
flowered, kissed, and satisfied

Than might we be as one
that you have madest me wait
simmered my passions
might you handle me
handled me into your purpose
that you may never need to
lie to evade me

Might we be as one
in truest lovers Honesty
as lovers
united together
in a quirkes of belonging


Then with one
another might
 we love
never to speak of 
us apart
might we love
might we love
might we forever be in love

I Do

I don't care
Wrinkles have appeared
I see ripples atop water
Sure as your laughter.

I don't care
Time have sagged your sociable self
I know the firmness of your faith
Your closeted strength I know so well.

I don't care
The spark in your eyes seem rare
Have simmered to a glint
Yet warm as your heart within.

I don't care
Your once sturdy hands and feet
Have slowed like wheels of time
I find as kind as you.

I don't care
Who cares for you
Like an inner guide by your side,
I do, I do, I do.

*

Bereavement

Let not the heat of anger scorch one's soul.
Simmered down by a rain of sorrow,
New life can be had from the ground below.
There, the soul gives birth to a seed of joy,
Sustained by memories of those lost to time.

It Is Just Soup

In the unquiet chamber of a kitchen, 
where brittle leaves of thyme and sage sway 
in unison, to the hot hum of convection
crooning softly from a stove of iron.

The guests hang waiting, by turns,
for their moment in the simmering cauldron.

Thick, steaming whispers of warmth
curl around the herbs like a secret, 
as the ample arms of winter wrap the day,
in a slowing cloak of comfort.

The soup, a slower surrender of spinach,
blooms in the broth—verdant and tender at first,
then shrinking away, like sunlight at solstice.

Wilted strings of greens tie memory
in their tendrils, mingling with the earthy echo
and unrushed tones of rosemary.

Garlic, its own pungent alchemy, intrudes
as a perfume, lingering like an unpaid mistress,
an alabastered addition to the elixir, a liquid hymn,
of patience.

Bones simmered to capitulation,
cradled spoonsful of succumbing, each sip
an immersion into the gentle resignation of day.

Ladle gently circles the pot and the world slows,
even more, as though time, too, seeks refuge 
in the simmering depths of the ordinary,
and the richness of the balm, in stillness,
at the center of the supper.

The Facilitator

You asked what fueled such angst
As though therapy lay wait
But as I told my story
Your smile dissolved before my eyes;

And I thought with much surprise
Moonshine could be my friend
Your words floated like ice
Yet my simmered soul stayed bubbly.

You seemed to know my husband
So snug you sat lecturing
And as I held to my story
You said, "...you do you, and he, him."

Morning became electric
You eased up testing waters
I hugged a natural high
While boomerang had you bowing.

*

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