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M C Oct 9
A watched *** never boils
It just stews and spoils
Raw emotion roils
with hidden meaning
that coils inside hats
made from tin foil:
Salute the loyal
All hail the royal
Society demands toil
Cars demand oil
We all carry addictions
Fun  burdens
Potato chips on shoulders
or maybe running when we're older
from the past
or what's ahead
Shatter the lie; we started off dead
Even living is a distraction
Even disgust can be attraction
Nothing is connected.
The world turns by effect from action
Choose illusion resurrected
share life with those affected

Looks like my mind flew the coop
so I'll shut up and serve some soup
Zan Sep 11
I walk into the kitchen and my adventure awaits
I get out a bowl and put in 1/2 cups of butter.
I look at the creaminess and imagine its fate,
Soon it will become a delicate structure.

Next, you sift the sugar gleaming in the light.
Looking at the two separate things in my bow,l
I mix it together and they do not fight.
They go together so easily and it fills my soul.

Across from me is the basket of eggs, clean,
brown, and round, right from my backyard.
One and two they look so pristine.
Yellow in the center and the whites as its guard.

I open my creaky cupboard and grab the vanilla
I smell it, so sweet, but I taste it, it stings.
Its what gives it that something but its a killer.
Pouring it in as I sing.

Coco, its just like the vanilla, its bitter but sweet.
It get everywhere when I pour it,
it puffs up in a cloud of a sweet treat.
So fine and soft, it fills my spirit.

Finally, to finish the sweet brown goo
you add in a bit of flour,
it keeps it all it all together and completes the brew.
And just like that, it been a hour.
My brownies
I hung my apron to dry
let the wind carry it, cradling
cloth with branch claws and
dancing legs all the way to hell
and back, embroidering glory
in each stitched parsley leaf,
I unthreaded each with a brittle needle
used each thin thread to create
my own tapestry.
Just a reminder that my first poetry ebook is 75% on Kindle for this week only:
Donna Aug 7
Pasta mayonnaise
ham sprinkle of salt pepper
That’s my lunch today
Made Lovely lunch today or me and Son **
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.

I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,

Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Another reminder that if you want a free ARC of my poetry collection, just write me a message. :-)
you smear haldi,
groping the fish
like a beggar grasping at coin.
each fleshy slice
similar to tree rings
smothered in salt
and cast into the plastic
tuberware casket
blood still red near the bone.
already you fantasize
about every delectable dish
mustard seed on your tongue,
meanwhile, I stare at the eyes,
not queasy
but uncomfortable,
scales clinging to my shoes.
haldi is Hindi for turmeric. I learned to cook while in India, so much of my cooking vocab is actually not in English anymore. xD
The former Chilean soldier,
sits with a straight back,
eating Paila marina,
the same thing he makes
every Sunday, although
his wife and children are gone.
He delights in the long-ago flavors,
the rich swirl of saffron fire,
the unlocked mussel shells,
ginger-skinned shrimp
and floating onion slivers.
"Served without pretension,"
the saying rings in his memory,
the deep voice of his abuela,
as she stirs the liquid gems
in her wide, copper ***,
shining on a darkened stove.
“Only some things really matter,”
She often explains.

He always waits silently,
squatting nearby, inhaling the scent,
mouth watering, eyes catching
the lift of her great ladle.
She will turn and smile at him,
the way no one ever has.
He is warmed and fed already,
before even tasting the meal.

Now he is rich, wanting nothing,
sitting in his well-appointed house,
sipping the best wine
and listening to soft music.
Yet he sees and hears none of it.
Only the world in his bowl
is real to him now.
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken smells
like a TV dinner.
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