#oven
the cooling rack is quiet now,
but the kitchen still smells like a choice—
the decision to stay in the heat
until the centers were heavy and true.
we are the leftovers of a long morning,
the two most honest things on the counter,
resting in the space where the flour has settled
and the steam has finally turned to scent.
people come in looking for "sweet,"
but they leave with a palm full of "real."
they don’t see the way the blueberry
leaned into the cinnamon’s shoulder
when the draft from the window felt too cold.
they don’t see how the apple
softened its spiced armor
just enough to let the blue ink touch the gold.
it’s a quiet sort of magic,
being two different recipes
written on the same stained page.
one of us is a question of "how much joy can I hold?"
the other is an answer of "how much heat can I stand?"
and somewhere in the middle,
where the crumbs of sugar and spice collide,
there is a third flavor—
one that tastes like understanding.
we aren't just muffins anymore;
we are the proof that honesty
doesn't always have to be a sharp thing.
sometimes it’s as soft as a berry,
sometimes it’s as sturdy as a grain of spice,
but it is always, always better
when it isn't cooling alone.
so let the giant mouth of the world come.
we are ready.
we have been through the fire,
we have found our edges,
and we have learned that the sweetest thing
isn't the sugar on top—
it’s the way we share the warmth
until the very last bite.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 5:11 PM UTC
it’s a strange chemistry on the cooling rack,
the blueberry and the cinnamon side-by-side.
one of us is leaking blue,
staining the paper with a messy, honest joy,
while the other is a study in structure—
diced fruit, golden spice,
and a crust that knows how to hold its ground.
on paper, we shouldn't match.
the blueberry is all "hope" and "softness,"
a rounded promise that might collapse
if you look at it too hard.
the apple cinnamon is "sharp" and "sturdy,"
a spiced armor that carries the weight
of a woodstove in the rain.
but watch how the steam rises together.
when the room gets too loud,
the cinnamon provides the walls—
that steady, spiced logic that keeps
the blueberry from spreading too thin.
and when the morning feels too heavy,
the blueberry provides the light—
that burst of bright, staining color
that reminds the apple it’s okay
to be something more than just "held together."
life together is a series of balanced temperatures.
when the room gets too loud—
a giant mouth that doesn't know its own strength—
he provides the walls.
he is the steady, spiced logic,
the reliable routine of the cooling rack
that keeps the blueberry from spreading too thin
or staining the floor in a moment of panic.
he knows where the edges are;
he knows how to keep the sugar-crust intact.
and when the morning feels too heavy for him,
too gray or too rigid to move through,
the blueberry provides the light.
it’s the burst of bright, staining color,
the "just because" excitement
that reminds the apple it’s okay to be more
than just a masterpiece of perfect squares.
she is the warmth that doesn't need a reason,
the soft place for his sharpest edges to land.
we are two different versions of "warm."
one is the heat of a sudden hug,
the other is the glow of a long-burning fire.
one is the excitement of the door opening,
the other is the reason you want to stay
inside once the door is shut.
together, we turn the kitchen
into something more than a room.
we are the proof that you can be
leaky and precise,
soft and spiced,
a mess of blue and a masterpiece of gold.
they sit on the same wooden table,
not because they are the same,
but because they both know the secret:
that the best part of being a muffin
is finding the person who isn’t afraid
to hold you while you're still hot.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 8:05 PM UTC
he is the scent of October
waking up the house before the sun does.
not just sweet, but substantial—
an apple cinnamon muffin
with edges toasted into a golden, spiced armor
that smells like a woodstove in the rain.
he’s got that slight sharpness,
the kind that comes from real cinnamon
biting back just enough to keep you awake.
it’s a sophisticated heat,
tucked under a crust of coarse sugar
that crunching under a thumb
like a secret shared in the dark.
the world is a giant mouth,
but he is the thing that doesn't crumble
the moment the teeth find him.
he is the weight of diced fruit,
softened but still there,
keeping the center heavy and honest
on a morning that feels too hollow to face.
he isn't a promise of breakfast;
he is the reason people stay
a little longer at the table.
he’s the steam rising in curls,
carrying a scent so thick
it could coat the sharpest edges of a room
until everything feels a little more rounded.
he is made of good things
that had to go through the fire
to get that golden.
and he stays warm long after the oven is off—
the kind of heat that doesn't just sit,
it glows in the palms of anyone
brave enough to hold on
while he’s still hot.
he moves in a very specific rhythm,
a kitchen timer ticking in a language only he speaks.
there is a geometry to his sweetness,
every apple piece a perfect, deliberate square
placed with the kind of care
that knows the world is mostly chaos.
he prefers the tin that fits just right,
the ritual of the bake,
the steady hum of the cooling rack
that sounds like a song he's heard a thousand times.
he carries his own quiet weather—
a spiced masterpiece
who doesn't need to change his temperature
for the sake of the room.
he is the honest bite, the singular heat,
and the most reliable comfort
for anyone who knows that sometimes,
the best things are the ones
that stay exactly as they are.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 7:56 PM UTC
the oven stayed on too long today,
but I am still the softest thing in the room.
baked into a paper liner,
holding myself together with nothing
but a bit of sugar and the hope
that the blue inside me doesn't stain
the hands that reach for a piece.
my friend—the one who holds the map
while I trip over the sidewalk—
tells me I am made of "good things."
she says I am a blueberry muffin,
a small, rounded promise of breakfast
on a morning that feels too heavy
to wake up for.
she worries about the crumbs,
and she says it like she thinks
the world is a giant mouth
that doesn’t know how to say thank you.
she wants to keep me in the box,
keep the sugar from falling off
onto the floor.
if i’m a muffin,
then i’m the one with the most berries,
bursting open just because
i couldn’t contain the excitement
of seeing you walk through the door.
so I’ll stay soft.
I’ll keep my sugar-crust intact
until I find the person who knows
that the best part of the muffin
isn't the top, or the berry,
but the warmth it leaves
in the palms of the people
who were brave enough
to hold it while it was still hot.
don't worry about me getting hurt.
i’ve got enough sugar
to coat every sharp edge I find.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 10:49 PM UTC
the stove stopped turning on
it always acts up but after a few
swift blows from my swift blow maker
some well placed percussive maintenance
heat flows like normal. now however
my repeated beatings only anger the thing
each shuddering creak of the underlying
machinations i google
why won't my oven work
but they want me to be specific How
when all i really know is That.
each comment on related issues calling for replacement
that won't do they reply; can you even get a new oven?
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC
Feel the lull of sleep
On a roll that will rise up
In the oven's womb
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
(ah...a flickr of nostalgia washes over my psyche for those days of yore, when going to the local playground ranked as a big deal to offspring well prepared for young adulthood).
Paradise visage and eyes a bulge with dollar signs
whets imagination with PowerBall ticket bought
expect the usual outcome after next drawing
to yield monetary naught
temptation for instant millions
human foible to reach for elusive *** of gold
streak of universal desire
for potential wealth overtakes rational self
with delusions of grandeur caught
allow, enable and provide flirtation
with fate to experience rich draught
envision emancipation from penury
a distant battle fought
and tacked hard scrapple existence wrought.
at the core
legal tender in such precious chronically
in short supply within this family of four
though times eye desire at least
another son or daughter more
at such urge (long silenced of this
ram by ewe to who) did vehemently roar
boot budding young girls
I whole-heartedly love and adore
who rush into my arms whenever back
from trivial pursuits
nearly squeezing out digested gore
when casually and nonchalantly
turn the key to open the front door
akin to the finest crafted clock work
to sound the time of day
they still dance and frolic like kittens or puppies
bring newspaper and slippers
sharing silly concocted faux pa lore
inviting me to play make believe games on the floor
enjoying revelry without keeping score
yet…creating memories I will forever store.
Financial straits
make our existence hand to mouth
all grandiose aspirations to succeed
in life frequently head south.
Creative endeavors find excitement
and linguistic pleasure
thru the attempt to pry
poem or prose from mind
deliberate semblance to communicate
and extract idea from cranial rind
words that synchronize suitably
in poetic third eye bind
readers may espy hidden puns
within this rhyme lined
with challenges or commiserate
and complement via words of positive kind
although large sum of money would be a dog send
delivered by one blessed angel in disguise
redemption and salvation considered thankful find.
Much rather be cursed with excess wealth
Deliverance to life, liberty and mental health
Depravity foreign concept never to rue by stealth.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
The heart is a warm brazier,
When full of love & happiness.
The heart is a cold freezer,
When full of hatred & sadness.
The heart is a happy place,
When full of loyalty & trust.
The heart is a sadder place,
When full of deceit & mistrust.
The heart is a hotter oven,
When full of hottest feelings.
The heart is a colder pole,
When full of negative emotions.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC
The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles
Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells
We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast
Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong
The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools
In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's
Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed
I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a blow job to a kiss
We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse
Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet
I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
My mother, Sylvia Plath,
These days, I might laugh,
Electric oven, you know,
I was too young to know,
One way to go--
It was an electric stove!
I was too young to know,
I used to live in dread,
I learnt what blackmail meant,
She got cremated, you know,
I was too young to know,
These days, I might laugh,
My mother, Sylvia Plath.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
I'm in the gutter, skinny and pale
God bless me with a poetry sale
got lots of words but got no food
somethin to eat would improve my mood
words could be my bread and butter
i can type them all , without a st stutter
someone send a cheque to me
and put my poetry on tv
21st century pam eyres
I really hope that someone cares
let the poetry spill from my lips
as I'm dreamin oven chips
(c) p skez and ms rigs 07/10/2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale ******* that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC