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Steve Page Apr 12
When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.
Grew up in the 60s and 70s. Butter was seem as a luxury not to be wasted.
s Mar 31
Today, I watched my chai come to a boil, and likened the first bubble on its surface to the sighting of an evening star at sunset.

I missed the fire of a gas stove in the undramatic simmer of my tea, as I patiently waited for the induction to heat the milk pan.

The sky looks like the backdrop of an old studio here on many days, I thought, and photographed the pantone-esque blue to lemon gradient. Maybe I'll use it as my background on the next zoom call.

As the world shares a somber summer vacation together, I don't know how to feel anymore.

It was a poor film about maska bun that brought me to tears, because I've forgotten how to discern good content from bad.

The dark circles are fading, and I catch myself, too often, thinking about my nine year old self, intently cutting magazines into meaningful compositions.

I always made do with staying inside.

It feels wrong to be at peace, but the indoors are doing to my skin what socks do to my feet.

I'm worried about not having enough sanitary pads, and also about entering the job market during a recession. I don't feel useful either.

I am however, counting my blessings and my breaths these days. It's like we're all living in a dream that doesn't make sense in the morning, or in a meme that isn't funny anymore, or in a game that has run so long that we've lost track of who's winning anyway.

I'm grateful we don't have to have an opinion these days, at least for a while.

I'm grateful for this cup of tea, and toasted bread and butter, mostly because it's suddenly okay to simply watch the tea boil, and think untethered thoughts about the toasted bread and butter.
Grace Haak Sep 2019
hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum

i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory

my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon
shamamama Sep 2019
how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
first,
silence--
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
trodding, until
it gets quieter
and quieter
and quiet
then
turn
off
flame,
the
ghee
is
ready
strain,
and
bottle
haven't done so in awhile, love making ghee
Siyana Sep 2019
Homemade spread on crumpets and toast
A thin slice of me, wherever you go..
Bed & Breakfast at the Chateau Marmont..
Where you'd write me letters in an ivory font..
Your old soul haunts through the strings of my guitar,
as I play the songs we'd once sing in the car...
Drugs, Loneliness, Deception & no through roads..
Isn't that just the way our lives were supposed to go?


I hear your music sometimes, on the radio..
a stairway to heaven is just as close...
Sorry that you only thought of me
as a string you played, yours sincerely....
About a romance between a musician and a waitress. When the musician becomes a household name he starts to see her as a groupie rather than his girlfriend.. as he dives into a life of substance abuse and rock star virtues..
annh Jul 2019
If I want
flour, water, yeast, and churned cream
I’ll consult a dictionary;

If I want
a loaf of raised hopes which she spread thinly with the charity of others
I’ll read a novel;

If I want
unleavened lassitude, greasy with the guilt of neglected privilege
I’ll write poetry.
‘Always be a poet, even in prose.’
- Charles Baudelaire
Sometimes I lie
When people ask me those questions
Like “who inspires you the most”
Or “what is the most influential thing to have happened in your life”
Sometimes I talk about
Women in science
Or growing up adopted
Or being a struggling reader when I was in third grade
I never talk about my mom
I never talk about feeling like I had missing pieces
Not just in my heart but in my mind
Like someone pulled out the naughty things
The bad things
Leaving me with only leftovers.  
When people ask me for my best story
Sometimes I talk about how
I faked a peanut allergy
And how a boy stabbed me with an epipen when I ate a peanut butter malt in front of him
Thinking he was saving my life.
I usually avoid the part
About me wishing that those drugs were lethal
That an epipen could end it all.
I find small talk to be so hard
Because there aren’t enough good bits inside me
To make it through a conversation.
If you see me
Can you just do that thing
Where we make eye contact and nod slightly
Smiling sometimes and not stopping.
I don’t have anything
Truthful left to say.
Open to constructive criticism.
K Balachandran Apr 2019
sky dining table.
much loaves of bread, butter heaps;
windswept the leftover.
Crow Apr 2019
always leave room for me
in the margarines of your life
Sorry if it seems a little pat
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