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A trail of smoke rises,
A died down pyre,broken clay ***,
Crows eat scattered rice.
In Hindu funeral ceremony,which is largely symbolic a  terracota ***,symbol of mortal coil is broken by the son who leads the rituals.Crows eating the rice and eight other grains is considered suspicious.
Three parts of water and oil

And one part of yellow grits

Salt and twenty minutes on the stove.

You don't have grits, throw in rice.

You don't have cornedbeef, throw in hamburguer

Or merguez mutton sausages. Or mix them both !

The secret ingredient of Scheharazade's Island Kitchen's Fire Engine is love.

She harbours in her smile

That grin of the kind of instant wild grits

Boiling for immediate bubbling,

Waters exploding from the ***,

Swelling, flowing, bursting,

Simmering until the point of bliss is reached.

And from an imperceptible move in her nostrils

You can guess the bulls in her cornedbeef mew the thyme of Heaven.

Her love is the kind of consistant batter

Blessed with okra, pumpkin and goat pepper.
I went to your favourite place to eat
the place that you always upload on your stories
In hope that I would run up to you.
I miss your face
Aaliyah Salia Jul 2019
There were so many sacrifices,
so many lives taken,
so many lives given,
and yet we are ungrateful.

We want more happiness,
so we neglect what we have right now.
We become greedy for more,
for more and more of everything.

Why? Why can't our hearts be satisfied
with what we have?
Why do we need this and that?
and everything the rich have?

Can't we just live our lives the way it is written to be lived?
Can't we, for once, ignore the evil
and turn to good?

Is it so hard for us?
Is it so hard that if you don't dream
you won't live?
Let's not forget to be thankful for everything we have and don't have. After all, life is too short to be greedy.
shamamama May 2019
-----------I weave my grand                     mother's spirit to life--------
             when I paint with my             words what she dreamed
             in her life.  My grandmother's kimono sat in the dark never
            worn; so needs a     dusting--I lift it up      into this light to be
           seen, to be heard,      to be felt, fabric of          loving  heart
          dreams to be.  It's     not perfectly shaped   or tattered or torn,
         rather fermented       beyond her time  to      take form.  My
       Grandma loved  to        eat her white rice          she ate thirty
      seven million grains      of rice by the time         she reached her
      104-- Born on a             sugarcane plant'tion         on the coast of
     Oahu, a child in               the tropics then a       teen in Japan. Her
    family returned to          their roots to learn,    & grow, reenter the
   cultural force. She                discovered her              new talent as
                                  ­              K  I   M   O  N  O          
                                               ­     A R T I S T
                                       Kikuyo  Yamamoto became
                                     liberated as an artist and then
                                     her life changed as her family
                                    demanded she leave her position
                                   and marry away to a Japanese man
                                    who lives in California (my Grand
                                    father).  The matchmaker said it
                                     would work really well....She
                                   endured life as an American farm
                                     wife, then life in Japanese intern-
                                    ment camps. Five  children, nine
                                    grandchildren...Dear Grandmother
                                     I know you had lots to surrender-
                                           I honor your life as mother,
                                           grandmother, and artist --I
                                          wove this poem in the form
                                       of  a kimono for you  May your
                                         spirit rest in peace. I love you.
This poem is woven with rememberence on the eve of mother's day, to honor and love the enduring nature of my grandmother. Long ago she shared with me, her possibility of a career in sewing kimonos when she was a 20 year old in Japan, and how it was not a choice within her family. Marriage was the way. She was born in 1909, and lived till 104---she loved her bowls of rice; I have heard each grain of rice is a god, so may she be empowered 7 million times over with the god of rice in her spirit belly.
Jordan Hudson Feb 2019
Born for this life
Raised for this style
Others don't get it
Running by miles
Not about speed
Style by intent
Rice by you, nice by me
I'm not tryin' to be
Quick like you
I made it what I like
So negative
Don't you know
What style is
It's all about one's thoughts
What I bought
What I see as great
What you see as fake
It's an art form
As one can say
It would improve
Only if I could choose
The one I use
I am stuck with this
All the limits
Make me sick
So limited
So limited
I am stuck with this
Rice has me glued
Limited from you
I am stuck with it
My rice car is all I can afford right now
IncholPoem Jan 2019
Alternative  prizes
are   ready   for

RICE  and  NICE  plant.

                                          Alternative  of  prizes
                                           are also  there.

A  flying     digital  clock
can  release   your stress
by  singing  
Lady  Gaga   and
Justin Biber's
slow  songs.

                                          Alternative  of   prizes
                                            are  also  including-

                                    A   digital  robo  cat

                                    eagerly    will  wait
to  have   fried
sea  fish  to
compete    your
neighbour's  two   natural  cats.
Pyrrha Jan 2019
I feel like my body is made of grains of rice
When you hold me I collapse and slip through your grasp
You just aren't the 'forever type' are you?
One day someone will either slip with me or help me hold us together

Then you'll see what you could have been with me
Listen, I wrote this at 4 in the morning im not even 100% sure what I was trying to say here.
K Balachandran Sep 2018
Bristling green rice plants,
Make waves reaching the far hills;
Wind’s jugglery spooks!
Jon-Luc Sep 2018
Rice is thrown from the pews
Flowers are embroidered upon the
Faces of those who stare at the stage

Mustn't we not decry departure
Are we to lay idly by
**** goes astray




Speak, for you have a voice.
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