"batter" poems
You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Not for long, anyway. Cake doesn’t settle well when it’s all you’ve had to eat. It’ll churn like butter inside you, and creep up your throat to project like a cannon, barreling through a wall. Cake won’t sit right with you anymore. At the mere mention of cake, your insides will crawl with disgust and an association of icing will replace your taste buds with ***** You will never be able to enjoy cake—at parties, as a delicacy, with ice cream—because you got greedy and wanted to eat your cake first rather than save it for such an occasion. Now all the different kinds of cake you fantasized about trying—black velvet, coffee cake, buttercream pound cake—will only be a reminder of your pitfall that led you to make yourself sick with desire, for cake. You can’t get the icing off your tongue, the smell of batter baking has festered in your nostrils wired to the pungent taste of red from between your teeth. But it’s all you can think of when you’ve been wronged by your favorite dessert. What sort of chemical reaction in the bowels of your stomach caused all of this sorrow? What rejected the cake? Your body has a way of telling you things—we should listen more. Cake is not sustenance, it has no value as a nutritious food. It doesn’t help, only hurts.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
I am her comfort
Her safe harbor and refuge when the storms batter her
I strengthen and reinforce
I polish and I smooth
After a time, back out into the world she goes
Storms are my allies
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Addiction *****
It's such a killer
Addictions fun
A raging thriller
Weathers its a bag of twack
Or a fat green sack
It doesn't really matter
You could shoot pancake batter
**** or ****
*** with Beth
Just remember its not fiction
That disease you have is called addiction
See it works in such a horrid way
It controls you'r thoughts and what you say
And when it comes down to the end of the day
You probably going to do what it takes to pay
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
You have played softball for years
You know the rules
You only get three strikes
4 strikes?
What a generous umpire
Take a seat in the dugout
You've struck out
There is no doubt
Batter up?
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
Hard on the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.
Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam ****** by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.
Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.
Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Kick me while I'm down.
Beat me til I'm spitting blood.
Let me beg for mercy
Tell me I'm too ****** up to love.
Watch me fall apart.
Hand me the blade to cut myself.
Pour the ***** in my soul.
Tell me I'm too gone to help.
Tie my hair back,
As you push my fingers down my throat.
Watch me cry and hate myself.
Tell me I'm stupid to emote.
Batter me With misery
I'm just a piece of ****
I'm nothing more than a waste of space,
So treat me like it.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
My soul will sail away
And let the winds
From my troubling yesterdays
Fill its tattered sails
And carry it wayward
Bound for a better future
Although the waves will batter
And the thunder will crash
I know my vessel will reach harbor
Surviving to set sail yet again
When I find my soul restless
Longing for the next journey
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk
By Aknier ~this is fictional~
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
the cake I made this morning
was a disaster
the ingredient to get it to rise
I left out of the cake batter
when the timer rang
to say the cake was cooked
I looked in the oven
and the cake was as flat as the cook
it is vital to have baking powder
in this cake recipe
and to omit it from the ingredients list
has made a fool out of me
this afternoon I'll be without a fine cake
for afternoon tea
and I'll have to settle
for some bread and honey
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
**** men
predatory *** hounds
chasing skirts and tights
aching **** idiots
disciples of Eros
Christs of fetish
reconciling nothing
veiling that principled demeanor
of feminist culture
"of don't objectify me".....translation
sensual form is not natures ruse
machine Eve must
override override override
well the id does not negotiate
the superstructure
of affected political tele-reality
starring
the liberal chattering class
who speculate male motives
to be some vainglorious power trip
while corporatized media personalities
feign out of control lust
as a mental disorder
and
sit up like shuddering Pekingese
yessing the lascivious
as a fiction
no ladies
its not just power
theories are not testosterone
it is pure unadulterated
relentless
irreducible
urge to merge
like the beluga **** channel
sea world as you've never seen it before
where male dolphins
batter and gang bang
the weaker ***
in search of feral harmony
in an overbuilt society
yet to become a civilization
are we
scissored between a wild ****** id
of the damed
and the Victorian sacred
of the damed
oh you silky damsels
makin men moody and humid
pure **** heroine
a poison ivy of ***
like a rash
givin men folk the itch
cant stop the twitch
rubber *******
in a rubbing frenzy
from your soaking heat and odor
we are a rumbling of muttering torments
for the forbidden taste
of you
oooow
oooow
we are pan in a mad dance
for glistening shanks
and buttery kisses
we are the early bird looking for the worm
hunters decreed by the liturgy of heaven and hell
a constellation of infatuation and lechery
mad with adoration
love slaves in a raging furnace of desire
*** addicts
that just say yes
turgid dogs
hole sniffers
voluptuous monsters
all johnny apple seed
and sometimes your salvation
as you are ours
knowing that sometimes
real eroticism eclipses morality
and yes my darlings*
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven
Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven
Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.
Against ****** prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven
To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven
Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.
4.2k
Throughout our childhood, our grandmother would turn to us,
in her yellow-lit kitchen, brandishing a rubber spatula or meat
tenderizer to warn us against falling to temptation. She’d witnessed
too many good people disappear into what she called
a consumption of the soul,
and as my cousins licked sugary batter off their spoons,
no one could have known that one day the candy-coating
would melt from their eyes to see their mother
for what she had done the last six years that now showed in her trembling hands, glossed vision, and a temperament that splashed into anger, flowed into melancholy as easily as she had found herself downing bleary bubbles at the brim of a precipiced fountain.
She was promised her very own message in a bottle, and this keep-sake
manifested in cousin Libby’s dreams, floating down a wine river
that gushed from the slashes in her mother’s wrists. Somehow I knew
these nightmares were born from warm and heady “sleep well”s
mumbled from across the darkest of rooms which held so many glass
ghouls with names and strengths so real, they even scared
my grandmother into silence as she stirred the pecan pie for Easter dinner. She offered to let me lick the spoon clean, but I simply
asked for straight sugar instead.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Does anyone remember when
Baseball fields were full
When you always saw a hundred kids
When you drove by every school
Pick-up games of baseball
On every field you'd pass
But now the only scrub that's there
Is just overgrown, clumpy grass
I drove on by a park today
One that I used to play baseball on
The backstop was all broken
And the dugouts, they were gone
The field was full of garbage
Weeds and echos of the past
I remembered times between the lines
With a long forgotten cast
"HEY MISTER...MOVE...WE'RE PLAYING HERE"
"CAN'T YOU MOVE SO WE CAN PLAY?"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, SWING NOW BATTER"
"YOU'LL NOT GET A HIT TODAY"
I'd crossed into a baseball game
One from many years before
The ghosts of players long deceased
Were still playing here some more
I crossed back to the dugouts
Stepped behind and they were gone
But, as I stepped back to the old coaches box
I could hear their haunting song
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"
I sat there watching the game take place
On a field not worth a ****
At least not in the present time
Then a kid hit a grand slam
He touched them all as he ran by
I saw it plain as day
The only thing I wished was that
I could join them and play
"HEY MISTER, STAND ON HOME PLATE"
"THEN COME WALK OUT TO THE MOUND"
"WE KNOW YOU WANT TO JOIN US"
"WE KNOW IT'S HALLOWED GROUND"
I did the tasks directed
I joined the players from ago
And as I ran up to the rubber
I went as fast as I could go
I could feel myself get younger
I didn't know if it was real
But, they say as you get older
You're just as young as you may feel
I pitched two good strong innings
Then the echoes chose to fade
I knew it was just imagination
Of long lost players I had made
"COME BACK AGAIN TOMORROW"
"YOU CAN THROW THAT PELLET KID!"
"WE'VE GOT TO GET ON HOME NOW"
and...go back...you know I did!
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of our English classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is
the decapitation of innocent
grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher
the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem
Now you were never one for boredom;
you enjoyed sitting on the grass, getting a soggy ***
you enjoyed the crunch of crackers snapping on your tongue,
you really enjoyed
and I still do not know why
making up haikus
you enjoyed the long languorous spaces between lines...
and I guess that really was just you.
But recently the silence has been getting short its rudely interrupted
by forced laughs and nervous glances from eyes that recently went shopping
You jump at every crunch or crack, scared of well…
I don’t know .
And your poetry,
Well, you barely write anymore because you just can’t seem to muster up the energy and you’re just tired and its nothing to worry about and it doesn’t matter anyway because you have an English essay due tomorrow yeah-
And the grass misses your ***
And I miss you
And there’s someone in your place, a lethargic parody, too frightened to pick up the phone, frightened by nothing at all
There’s a black hole in the shape of a friend
hidden behind the comets of comedy and asteroids of avoidance there’s a small hole
I reach in… grasping for a hand,
I catch glimpses. tufts of hair. old coffee smiles
but… nothing
so, I try again
I reach in, grasping for a hand, or even a bone
I catch glimpses of skin, hair, teeth, bone. Nothing
and each time I throw myself into the silent abyss,
batter past the comets and asteroids and reach into that dark expanse I find less and less,
I miss you
I am right outside,
whenever you’re ready to,
we can talk a bit
I’m trying my best ,
and I really care for you ,
but haikus are dumb
accept it, it’s true.
The spot of grass is waiting right where you left off,
the crackers in the tin are there just waiting to be scoffed.
if ever in that silence
you feel yourself alone
just know that in my house,
you’ve found yourself a home.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites,
and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights.
the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried
as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried,
and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi
says today! god , to his land was ferried.
Afar, the bronze herald of worship time,
the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime.
and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual,
line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual.
but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy;
tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy.
mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung;
‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’.
‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor ,
‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners.
mummy is the last one , picking over the bones,
she always has been , for what a family she owns.
A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree
heads bow down and a pigeon flies free,
from the onion dome , below the staccato claps
‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps ,
and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow ,
and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and *****
soars high , and takes a bow .
hey presto! the night has come.
the moonless night of the homecoming lord.
sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us ,
laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord .
Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse ,
revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered ,
and coaxed never to leave the house
while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter.
The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet
the lord is home , to get things straight,
while the men all out on a greedy conquest;
pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still,
for the beckoning bait .
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites
gone now is the carnival of lights.
a goddess fled , a father bled
a child scrapes off the waxy remains ,
the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
So the church Christ was hit and buried
Under its ******* and its rubble.
In cellars, packed-up saints long serried,
Well out of hearing of our trouble.
One ****** still immaculate
Smiles on for war to flatter her.
She's halo'd with an old tin hat,
But a piece of hell will batter her.
3.5k
Move rack to lowest position,
Set to three seventy-five.
Pour in one and a third cups water,
Sprinkle egg whites (package A),
Blend on LOW till moist.
Beat on high (but remain patient)
Stiff peaks will form when gently
Dunking a spatula into your batter
(Be sure beater is AT REST before checking).
Sprinkle in cake flour (package B)
A little at a time on LOWEST setting
(Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges).
Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan,
Cut through batter gently with a butter knife
In a circular motion
To eliminate air bubbles.
Bake for at least thirty minutes
Or until top crust is golden brown
(Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times).
Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle,
Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife.
Gently remove your cake.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
My job is to bake cakes
I once magically created cakes of every hue
Cakes that tasted like fruit or cream
And others that were super sweet
Still, others that were filling and heathy
I was only limited to my creativity
Then the cake bosses
Ordered me to bake only vanilla cakes
They said that all cakes are the same
And my cakes must meet their standards
Yet their criteria was vanilla and plain
I was forced to throw off the fruit and cream
And mute the rainbow of colors
Even to add vanilla and sugar to my heathy cakes
If that wasn't bad enough
The cake bosses pressured me to fill unrealistic quotas
And to treat all of the cakes the same
Even though they are, naturally, flavored differently
Then my budget was cut and bakers were downsized
Next, I had more cakes to bake and less time to prepare
I was even told to do without eggs and milk
But the cakes must meet even higher standards
How does this taste?
Does it leave a bad taste in your mouth too?
It's not a piece a cake
But I choose to bake on
Believing that I can still bake special cakes
The batter just gets thicker everyday
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.
Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Strawberry jam; it's so sweet and crisp
Pour it in the batter; give it a whisk
Now take the pan and pour it in
And let the baking begin!
You wait a while; 15 minutes or so
And take it out; remember how it was batter 15 minutes ago?
Well now it's sweet and hot in the pan,
Thanks to the addition of some strawberry jam!
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 9:31 PM UTC
My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.
Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
“*The folks are as good
as the people*” he’d declare.
But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
rarely
as good
as the people
the pitcher as the batter
the husband as the wife
the striker as the goalie
the salesman as the prospect
the child as the parent
the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.
Then you
know:
“*It’s all over
but the crying.*”
Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
“it’s over?”
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
How victorious is victory?
Who is defeated in defeat?
What is the final score?
Who won again?
The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
beginnings,
and
rebeginnings
of life
shared and solitary.
So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores
so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?
18.i.11
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC