I'm always excited to see a cake
When I walk into a room.
But the thing about this pastry
Is that I don't think it's very good.
I grab the plate with this sugary delight
And begin to dig in until
I realize
Once again
That cake is almost always not what I wanted;
There's too much frosting,
The flavor is nonexistent,
Too crumbly and dry.
I've began to realize that
It's not the cake I'm excited for,
It's whatever is going on that I am happy about.
If there is cake, then that means there's an event.
And I'm happy about the event.
The cake is a mere distraction.

blankets laid
like pastry
twirled and
crinkled
made to nestle
precious
heads
in bed of
curled and
covered comfort
buttered

​
wrapped up
little packages
alive and
breathing
​

heaving breaths
of depths
unknown to
waking worlds
through softened
lungs and throats
and mouths
and gooey
molten middles
​

with shield of
fragile sleep
held up
to barricade in
and barricade out
​

as steam floats
gentle warm
and wistful
blissful up
from tender
scalps
​

from dreams
in gold and
chocolate



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

There is nothing quite like a Caramel Apple Thumbprint Scone
I bought two tonight, one for the road and one for home.
Sometimes I buy one for me and one for Mum,
Didn’t bother to tell her I ate them both…every… last… crumb.

Tonight on my way home I decide to buy a baker’s dozen
The trouble with that is I ate six and got an upset stomach
Now here I sit upon this throne, tootin’ and thinking all alone
That there’s nothing like a Caramel Apple Thumbprint Scone….hic!

K.E. Carman
2017

She could scallop her fruit inside
her delicate ring tonight
though her pantry gleamingly sound  
that a surge sped with her gait
but thwarted round her waist
that a basket full of poetry read
as crystalline in her heart
even rose her bed
with flowers festooned till midnight
as elegamce flatly trimmed parlance.

dear . . . sweetie,

the projections of your essence is the type
to cook up a future of you;
of the home you call your heart,
or how you let it spill across the metal table,
just to knead it back together to construct wholesome smiles.

yours is the form of communication i've never known,
a presence that haunts me -
as the scent of your perfume lingers at the back of my tongue
as i taste a sweet fruit,
or how your stories speak to me
as my eyes trickle such mundane appliances around me.

you have taken not my heart, nor my soul.
you have extracted from me fragments of my time;
where i find myself caught in the air, mystically
hearing the songs that were stuck in my head when i first met you.

you are the soundtrack to my little death.
you are always right in the corner of my mind, just as i want to see you:
half-baked, smirking, and vulnerable.