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Dave Robertson Mar 2021
Bay
I grew on after she was gone
unaware that routines of love
high days and Sundays
had woven spells

Bay leaf smell
kindnaps back
to a kitchen where windows,
steamed with riches baked and boiled,
wombed us from the outside world

Born to patience and a place at the table
each chair full, with more squeezed if needed
while more than food sustained us
Brumous Mar 2021
The appetite of a people-pleaser cannot be appeased,

due to the want of satisfying everybody's needs
morseismyjam Mar 2021
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BONE SALT: the taste of the future.

The only taste.

No life, no death, only ΒΟΝΕ.
This was inspired by this polygon video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9Yq8FGO3ek
Credit where credit is duel.
Ash Regent Mar 2021
lemon, a touch too artificial
sugar, a touch too sweet
in an owl painted mug, a touch too hot

that first sip hits like a memory
it drags with it the smell of coffee
       black, no room
and the taste of your name
the sound of a coffee shop
       of a donut shop
blood orange slices and citrus frosting and paper straws
       soaked
              soaking
                     disintegrating

the memory dissolves alongside the straw
and the back of my throat burns
at a touch too much
it rings in my ears, trailing behind Freddie Mercury
crooning about how he doesn’t want to die
       i told you i didn’t want to die anymore that first night
and i pretend i don’t hear you singing along
i pretend you didn’t see me cry on the side of the road
       for two hours
i pretend i don’t miss the way you held my hand
i pretend
       i don’t
              miss
                     you
the second version of a poem written to help with the grief of the end of a relationship
Ash Regent Mar 2021
lemon, a touch too artificial
sugar, a touch too sweet
in an owl painted mug, a touch too hot

that first sip hits like a memory
it drags with it the smell of coffee
black, no room
and the taste of your name
the sound of a coffee shop
of a donut shop
blood orange slices and citrus frosting and paper straws
soaked
soaking
disintegrating

the memory dissolves alongside the straw
and the back of my throat burns
at a touch too much
The first version of this poem where I try to handle the grief of the end of a relationship and the little things that set off a memory
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2021
TW: eating disorder*




I am walking underwater.
The food I will not let myself eat
falls into the garbage disposal with the thud of voided misuse
a rising steam of self-hatred
as my mouth hangs open
hungry,
waiting for endorphins that never come
and self-denial still does not
meet my confessional act of contrite penance
it still feels like a sin
to eat
or not to eat
and there is no pleasure in gluttony
or in fast.
asg Mar 2021
spend the night sober and wake
up drunk, tangled in legs and sheets
giggle at his snoring until he
rolls over.

nuzzle that sharp point of his nose
and mumble words of
affirmation, breath warm and tingling,
raises the peach fuzz on ears.

get up and go to the kitchen
house shoes and robes? maybe it's
nice enough to open a window
or two, and you might burn the bacon so.

argue over who cooks. start grabbing
things out of the fridge: jam, eggs, butter
that's non dairy, and cheese that isn't
cause it just doesn't taste the same.

hold hands, place fingers on nape
of neck, squeeze, rub the small of his
back, tease his lips open for a taste
just a taste, maybe take a break in the foyer

get out two plates.
eat.
Keli Mar 2021
I'm not very picky, unless faced with:
      Icky, sticky, pumpkin!

                Oh! How I glower!
                When faced with that sour,
                  Slimy, stringy, slush!

                          So I groan,
                                And I moan,
                                      Then I run.

  My arms flailing!
       My feet, slap, slap, slapping,
                          The cold, hard, floor.

                                         'Till a hand grasps my shoulder,
                                            And I'm dragged to the table..

                          Then, I'm pushed into a chair,
                                   And a spoons pushed into my hand,
                                      And that foul mush, is pushed into the spoon.

               That is forced down, down, down,
                        My gagging, unwilling, throat.
Reminiscing my childhood...
Can I serve you a delicious poem
in the plate of paper?
I will tell you.
This is a secret.
I can be your best chef.
Indonesia, 2nd March 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Robert Ronnow Mar 2021
Carrying a sleeping baby.
Cleaning after a successful party.

Camping beyond mountains more mountains.
Playing trumpet on the streets of New York City.

Eating although the food supply is deeply compromised.
Flying with Democrats and Republicans, evangelicals and atheists.

Flying like a fruit fly that won’t quit mating.
Cool as a hummingbird in a stream’s wet spray.

Abstaining wholly, absent from worldly life.
Two dogs fighting but not biting hard.

Chanting as if the planet were mending.
Gourmet dining, devout prayer, loving Mary.

Evenings watching tv. Scotch and Star Trek.
Taking off Emily Dickinson’s clothes.

Meeting in the meeting house, arguing and praying.
Planning a legacy as if you knew enough to control events.

Pursuing happiness as a naturalist or humanist.
Spinning with the planet, performing the history that surrounds us.

Killing many Germans, saving many Jews.
Doing less until one thing’s done well.

Fainting from staring at candles through stained glass windows.
Morning, a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second warming your
        bones.

Manipulating symbols, solving equations.
Disregarding tweets and facebook persuasions.

Sitting with a tiny Buddha near a rushing stream cutting a gorge.
Running, disciplining myself, making myself healthy.

Ingesting drugs, throwing die, drinking sludge.
Growing varicolored corn.

Participating in the cause because it’s impossible not to participate in
      the effect.
Running over a chipmunk, groundhog or a skunk.

Lying face down in the emergency room facing doom.
Waking up Monday thinking Sweet Saturday! but soon remembering
      your trick knee.

Turning the towering young thunder of my anger against my sons.
Regretting the callow dispassion with which I met my parents’ quietus.

Lawn mowing, leaf blowing, yapping dogs, napping old people.
No jets but a rooster mornings, cows and goats.

Al is painting an apartment. Sirma is cleaning the floors. Felix is taking
      out the garbage.
Deciding tentatively I slightly prefer Heifetz’ to Oistrakh’s Sibelius.

No cedar waxwings, no chickadees, but beautiful moon!
If you’re alone as you get, why are you crying?
—Collins, Billy, “Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes”, Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House, 2002.
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