Cake
You can eat it too!
My frying pan
Is half empty

Hate me
Because I am good
No!
Because I am great!

Michelan Stars
Trips to Mars
Candy bars
Mason jars

Drunk I am
Said the can
To the packet
Of ketchup

Baker's square
I worked there
Line cook nook
Splatters shook!

The kitchen man
Burns the water
The ******* fan
Yearns for slaughter

Impatiently sitting on the bench ahead
Cup stares at me as if wanting to be fed
So I grab Cup and find a boiling kettle
Fill Cup with water hoping it will settle
But Cup begins to steam and nag
So I search the cupboard for a tea bag
Choosing one from the others, I quickly drop it in
The water changing colours, makes me throw it in the bin
I think the dark stuff is something bad
And Cup seems to look pretty sad
So I try to swallow the black stuff away
But my method seems to make Cup dismay
Before I begin, something hot hurts my lip
I didn’t realise that Cup could nip
So I hurry towards the kitchen sink
Tip Cup upside down, before I can think
Cup throws up, being upside down
I forgot Cup got sick when moved around
So I put Cup back where he was
I can see that Cup feels better because
Cup is no longer steaming or spewing any more
Come to think of it, I don’t know why I touched Cup at all!

When can you call yourself a poet?
When you write down a word?
When do you let yourself know it?
When you are finaly heard?

When can you call yourself a poet?
When you get a like or a love?
When do you show it?
When your confident, sort of?

When can you call yourself a poet?
When you get a sunshine?
When do you let other people know it?
When you reach a headline?

When do you call yourself a poet?
When you are published?
When do you flaunt it?
When you are considered established?

No.

You know when to call yourself a poet.

When your hands are always moving
When your writing about even the kitchen sink
When your mind is always turning
When the white becomes stained with ink.

As I’m leaving I run into you on the kitchen floor
Sharing with the appliances your miserable company
Giving me your melancholy stare
I can help you not be alone but I can’t help with lonely
You called me boney as I put my back against the cabinet and sunk into my seat on the hardwood floor
Now we both feel lonely don’t we
We aren’t a pair, a puzzle, or each other's other halves
We’re not even complicated togetherness
We’re two people and we’re alone
No amount of bodies on the kitchen floor will fix that
I had to go but still I sat, in the ditch next to you hurting my neck looking up to speak
I missed my ride home I was looking for a girl that I knew, she had the same name as you, have you seen her?
Sam says she was last seen in the basement dancing, equipped with a convincing smile
The ******* the kitchen floor looks like she's been here for awhile
But I’m too boney to lift her up and make her dance side by side with a memory
I guess we’ll never know who she is
Where did the dancer go? She’s dancing with dust bunnies under the fridge
She drunkenly holds onto the steering wheel
This version seems a bit more real
I don’t feel as well as I used to due to two names just listed on the loudspeaker
Thank the lord that I don’t
Or I’d be dancing with the dust bunnies, reliving a memory, feeling lonely on the kitchen floor
I’ve certainly been there before
Nobody ever sat with me, I erased it from memory
This is the difference between alone and lonely

The prince and I are not friends,
though he seems a nice enough guy
and I respect him and I value the role he plays.

However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
knew him better
and fed him snacks.

As a boy
the prince would slip into the palace kitchen
between meals.
Sometimes he would persuade
his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister
and he would make them laugh.

I know this because of the prince's note.

The prince sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.

A cheeky boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and showing kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
now remembered and valued by family
and also by royalty.

What do you think of that?

In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.

Seven cooks in the kitchen, making spaghetti,
Each one hurrying and rushing to ready.
My *** of bolognese, succulent, simmering,
Sits on the front right burner, heat shimmering.

One chef diligently tossing a salad,
Another one turns on a calm Italian ballad.
"Help!" Cries a cook as she comes running in.
"My Alfredo sauce won't work! It's much too thin!"

"Not to worry, my friend," I console the bereft.
"My burner is hot, take my place." I move left.
Things are a bit more crowded with her,
But I happily give my sauce a good stir.

Things are running more smoothly now,
'Til another chef bursts in (also having a cow).
"The spaghetti is cooking, but keeps boiling out!"
I think long and hard as the chef starts to pout.

"I'll push my *** back, so you can still see,
"My sauce will be fine for a minute or three."
My time in the kitchen has made me a quick learner,
So I smile as I move bolognese to the back burner.

"Stand and watch through the oven door," I said,
To keep a chef from burning his garlic bread. Another chef needs melted butter in her dessert.
Letting her use the microwave can't hurt.

All these chefs doing their work in a blur
Prevent me from giving my sauce a needed stir.
As minutes pass— five, eight, twelve, sixteen—
I begun to understand what the phrase means.

Although the situation is very fitting,
There's just too many cooks in the kitchen.
I don't want to let the wind out of their sails,
So I take a step back, waiting and biting my nails.

Time to dish up, and all chefs leave the area
And I approach my sauce on the verge of hysteria.
It's now much too thick, the bottom is black.
I've neglected my job while picking up slack.

There's no one to blame, I should've learned
If you move to back burner your dish will be burned.
Other chefs are being praised by our boss,
And I'm in the kitchen with a *** of bad sauce.

i am sitting on a cobalt blue stool
in your placid, dull kitchen
with my head in my hands.
you're gone.

there is a hazy
veil of grey
that covers the late
afternoon sky
and a stagnant silence
stretching to the ceiling.

everything is still;
the empty glass
in front of the
vacant violet vase
and
your ill-fitting
jean jacket
that is lying on the
dark wood.

my stomach crawls around.
my eyes are almost shut.
my legs are numb.
you are not here.

only the clock ticks,

and tocks.