#brioche
~a message from Lori Jones McCaffery~
Indeed.
But old g-hosts, familiar and friendly.
À la Casper, are comfy ones, who cozy
with us as need arises, and need
never falls, only rises liked fresh
oven-baked brioche bread, of which
the ghosts do smell, for they well recall
their prior human foibles,
and one be,
a home scented blessed by the smells of
caring…and they bring to us STILL living as
a reminder how lucky we are to be
alive
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
----
Titular:
"Nowadays, it means that you
are an empty, non~deserving of
whatever title you take for granted"
A poem,
but if be untitled,
if it be a titular,
what are we to make of it?
the title is the 🔑
but to be untitled
is
an acknowledgment of
defeat
the key to unlocking
the inner-est construct,
from within, or without,
is the title.
without
which
the poem cannot
constructed,
deconstructed,
and then
reconstructed
it is:
the clue
the hint
***** it,
it is the soul insight
that leads the reader's eyes
to the water,
to the enquiring,
the scent of
mmmmm,
that!
is worth investigating,
that fresh baked,
right out of the oven,
you know it when you
smell it, and your tracks,
suddenly stop, turn around,
cease the scrolling,
go back,
get ****** in,
and roost within,
exclaiming,
**** that title,
that came from the right in,
not a glancing blow,
more like a right hook,
Happy-attached to a line and sinker,
and the poem that leaves you forever
thinking,
cannot ever
get enough
of that fresh bread aroma,
and the great brioche
the bravado
of one of those,
{who knew, who knows?}
that the nexus of
the next intriguing title
of the
next poem,
and the next next poem,
is not
an empty
unwashed titular,
of the
un
en~~titled
an yet,
more a tease
to our curiosity's
cat,
to the
as of yet unimagined,
it is in
that invitation,
for your preparation
to be
astounded…and advantaged…
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews,
aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys;
pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship
him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed
long drive, long day, to get to our
tiny slice of heaven on earth, a
no-points-required destination,
and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent
charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be
trouble for the ladies later in life;
he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper;
great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I?
order half a dozen more on Amazon,
exactly the same? is there any limit at all?
but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the
funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom
sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three,
poem hooks in his convection invention mind
and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too,
is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies.
to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets
for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are
invading his head,
yet to to be,
written, including this child's future,
who he, will write by himself
and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer,
to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet
to be written and hopefully read....
the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his
dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and
senses going crazy with new sights and smells,
and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some
perfect baby!
and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when
not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done,
good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even,
brioche french toast for breakfast and of course,
miles to go…
nml
4:18am
9/12/25
Shelter Island Keep
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 4:33 AM UTC
“***What does baking require of us?
It requires patience, thoughtfulness, an eye to your surroundings, otherwise known as
simply paying attention and responding accordingly.***”
more gourmand than gourmet,
who believes like the firmament above
that the transportation of
the human soul is enlightened,
enlivened
by the aroma of scent of
an endless freshly baked loaf of bread
need to confess,
never held
a rolling pin,
nor had a mustache white
made of flour
upon my face,
and if ere the toaster oven
had not been
installed invested or even invented
in a kitchen,
the only thing
I would ever have
preheated is the body
of a woman who truly
was loved
complete and insane
daily for
sixteen
years
but the perfume of a
newly baked brioche
can bring me to
tears
just as a newly unearthed,
the child of a poem
writhing within me
emerging, even surging
from the soiled placenta
of my
souled~soiled mind&heart,
borne and born
yeah,
even
bre(a)d
so I read an article about
a baker from France,
reading the words above
and wonder
what did I miss,
forfeit,
after a lifetime liftoff of
a badly chosen careered life
that i did trust love
or so I thot!
“***wondering why bakers are the way
they are. There is a quietness, and a kindness, to their lives that veers into almost monastic behavior. Perhaps it is simply the ancientness of being a fire maker — tending a hearth really brings something out in a person.***”
how I glowed and flowed
with recognition of the
esprit de corps
(borrowed identically
from French to our
Anglais lexicon)
in all acts of creation,
a fabulous trade,
a new conception
eye spied on the streets of
My Manhattan
understood the mesmerizing
heat of a crackling fire
for children of all ages
and the why~when
the birth canal opens,
I must be alone with
the quietude that
tries and fails
to hold the raging
heated hot juices inside,
kept nope, not in check,
so formatting them into
a disc shape,
lest they spill unseeded floored,
a pour of ooze,
crisping the lost flesh
of flames eradicating
from
the plenitude distractions of
short term, this modern life
<>
Sunday,
in my America is a holy day,
a sabbatical
marked by rituals sacred,
brunch, football games
or maschostically
even two on a
Josephian
coat of
many colored channels
all this followed by
with a desert tray of
patisserie,
PBS (1) ****** mystery tv shows
of British origin
for a somewhat lessened
yet still violent contested cultural
amuse bouche
In between,
the ladies squeeze in
a Great British Baking Show,
which says when suggested
you’ve been bested
and
‘Yo Boy,
time to **** Nat
them deserts make you fatter,
by mere visual osmosis’
and contemptible contemplation
and that contested kitchened
atmosphere
antithetical to introspective
inspection
which life ingested in you
overly oveyly
aplenty
in placed,
so now I wonder
if this,
a career chosen
by youthful me,
the maledom masculine shouting of the
traditional trading room,
where ego was nourished
within a veneer of analytics,
rationed rationales reasoned,
was down to the nearest $ sign,
was it
the right place for me,
and how it sponsored within me,
a need ultimately
to sit
in ancien worn
by fig & vine
in uncomfortable Adirondack thrones,
a bright need
to sit by the
saluting salutation waves of
a constant lapping bay,
and the conversation of
a current thrusting empowered
tidal basin rivers
waters both
lightly salted fresh water
in piety poetic
combination,
all fed by genteel
small mountain streams,
all flowing, by gravity sent,
to assemble ingredients
of
verbs, noun words in
an adjectival temple,
unkempt kept simple,
in different voices
well hid **** deep
beneath his skin, his bone,
for to simply order up;
a bake off up,
a meringue of
poems
and to better understand what
our well definable,
oh so human
l i f e
***requires,
even demands
without surcease,
of us***?
all the while
we
twogether
areexpelling the rap we
breathe
and the scented heaven
of holy wine and
unlimited
loaves of
yup,
b r e a d
nmlipstadt
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 1:01 PM UTC