For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice

Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within

A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce

a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh

and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth

Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye

Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander

heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock ***'s always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!

And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh

when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash

I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!

Ahhhh!!!!!

*chicken broth

For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice

Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within

A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce

a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh

and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth

Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye

Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander

heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock ***'s always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!

And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh

when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash

I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!

Ahhhh!!!!!

*chicken broth

how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah

©2016janetaylor

liquid crystal display
glimmering salacious self-imagery at you,
your lips parted and breath
staccatoing along, flitting just
behind the beat, like your aunt's
first dance at the wedding reception (before
she's had enough to drink) or
her last (when she's had
too much)
she was in the passenger seat
on our drive homeward, leaning in
to the driver's seat conspiratorially,
oblivious to your beauty splayed out
exhausted in the backseat.
"she's my
baby niece, and you better not
**** with her
heart, you hear me missy?"
and I assured her I wouldn't as you
laughed and laughed, bell peals
in the backseat and church bells
echoing in my ear, past and possible
future, sodium vapor lights
slipping away along the highway as
your aunt slid back into the passenger seat.
"so"
"so"
"she's quite a
character," I say, bemused, and your
eyes crinkled at the corners like
newspaper redesigned during crumpling as
kindling for the fire, blue and blue and blue
in the backseat.
"that's true"
"just like you"
"just like me" you agree,
crossing your legs, legs that go on
for dynasties in thigh highs and
your dress riding up too high for my eyes
to focus on the taillights ahead of us when
paradise is in the rearview:
love is
cold lobster bisque
in a big bowl in bed in the morning,
two spoons and a carton of orange juice
arrayed on the covers atop our
entangled legs.

I can hear the world around me
I can see what's going on
I just cannot voice my anger
You see, my muscle strength is gone

"I'M IN HERE....CAN'T YOU SEE ME?"
"I JUST CANNOT MOVE MYSELF'
"PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE ME"
"DON'T PUT ME ON A SHELF"

I'm not a fragile bisque doll
In a chair for all to see
I'm a prisioner of my body
But, the body still is me

'I'M NOT DYING WITHOUT FIGHTING"
"I STILL THINK AS CLEAR AS YOU"
"I CAN'T RUN OR WALK LIKE YOU CAN"
"BUT, THERE'S LOTS THAT I CAN DO"

I am a man held captive
My cell is muscles, flesh and bone
I don't know how to describe it
I'm not stuck in here alone

"I NEED SOMEONE TO HEAR ME"
"PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE I WAS HERE'
'I KNOW IT'S NOT THE LIFE I WANTED"
"I NOW KNOW DEATH I DO NOT FEAR"

ALS has killed my body
But it has not killed my mind
I am in here, same as always
Still full of thoughts, some harsh, some kind

"I AM IN HERE AND I HEAR YOU"
'I TREASURE ALL THAT LIFE IS WORTH"
"LIKE LOU GHERIG SAID BEFORE ME"
"I AM THE LUCKIEST MAN ON EARTH!"

Anthropogenic artefacts
Heart attacks
hearts attacked
Dead calm gyre
Tide line debris
You and me
and I
Beach combing
the detritus
of us
and them
and they
Invasive spaces
hidden faces
aroma of decay
Kicking over seaweed mounds
Lost and founds
Seeking out sun sparkled jewels
the aroma of decay
the plastic looks like ruby
the netting gossamer light
life moves amongst the mass
massing moving living
and dying
I save one shell
to liberate the memory
To fix it
in the opalescent bisque
pocketed
treasured
that tide line
left behind remains
from us
all of us
Everyone tries
amongst the stinking tangle
of uselessness
of spoil
to see the value
to seek and love the life
appreciating
interpreting
beauty in our tideline
Personal life left overs
the things we leave behind
left behind
beached beyond doubt
dried beyond quenching
Those hours
objects
people and places
those cruel elements
took away
Stripped from us
only to dispose of them
because they could
because we could not stop them
Tide line
physical
metaphorical
epitomized by those eyes
that shell
the reason
why walking on beaches
makes us feel better

In my small town supermarket
they have a soup bar.
It's self-serve
and they allow free samples.
But,
Free sample
means samples
as in before you buy soup
so you can try a little sip
to see if you like
the clam chowder,
beef and barley which has too much green pepper,
or squash bisque
before you fill the paper cup
or the larger one
with hot
delicious
soup.

It doesn't mean
"free soup"
to eat while walking
through the store
and not buying any soup
after the sample is gone
and then
as if to add insult
to injury,
leave the empty ramekin
with your sample tailings
on a random shelf,
sometimes even with a little plastic spoon
and a used napkin,
tucked behind a roll of paper towels
or toilet paper
or catfood
on your way out of the store
to stand in the parking lot
and complain to other petty soup thieves
about how "some people"
get stuff
for
free.

In this light,
bisque white cup
lit right,
shadow left,
two-fingers+thumb loop
loop south,
mug chamber,
shadow side inside right,
top edge,
defined to the eye,
as a light gray oval trace
with refection highlights
at 10 and 5,
unseen bottom,
one gulp left of cold black coffee.

Lingering coastal fog
  climbed up the seaside cliff head
    The windward crest-edge
       sprawling  out
        the rolling waves
        misty breathe,
       shapeless as an ocean
      sigh betides;
    cloyingly crawling
  through the lush
hillside meadow verdure

The clinging mist dissipates
   like teardrops soon forgotten:
      the Dawning of the day
          caressing the evanescent dew;
             an ebbing tide
               remembered for a while...
               Dawn awakening
               newly sun kissed Daffodils
            animated with felicity and mirth;  
         lilting ballerinas
     gracefully swaying,
   contagious with the leavening
    serendipity of the westerly
      sea breeze ~

        Velvet bisque painted
            daybreak constellations,
              embossed by sunrise
               splendor ~
              each root bound bouquet,
            kismet choreographed ballerinas
         in Spring's  Rustic  Ballet


                        Jesse

~

Fortress


Stone by weathered cobble I build,
calloused hands ache in sweet surrender
Mortar’d affection of a coalesced consistency,
mixed and blended, bound by love’s tether

Stacking to heights of protective design
Patterned on roaming hillsides, serpentine wanderings,
Lush green fields crawl, blue sky diversions,
as song birds whistle to the day

And I sweat, my brow now drenched,
muscles pushed to horizonary boundaries,
tattered clothes sway in late afternoon breezes
Still I push on, fitting, finding, filling this need

Something so precious as glistening morning dreams,
crystalline musings, fragile bisque castings
Destined for my world, beyond battlefield dawns,
sifting serene country settings…quite peace

The long day ends, I marvel at my accomplishment
steadfast and suited to defend in sunset flames,
turrets of observative reachings soar above
timber and heavy iron chain…gated sanctuary

Now my love you may rest…
beneath starry heavens and comet renderings,
upon your bed of satin feathered sighs…
For I have built this fortress…around your heart

Hair as dark as newly turned earth and the sass of an alligator. Barefoot she stands stirring a *** of Craw dad bisque. Working up a sweat making a meal for her man, she could charms the hiss out of a snake. Creole in her nature, with a touch of hot peppers, she has a flare for making a bow fiddle sing. She loves to dance from sunset to nearly dawn, give her a little moonshine and watch her spread her wings. All southern woman, a true swamp land child. A flame of Cajun fire that can only be loved but never tamed.

Everyone in the city knows me,
I’m the man who plays with Dolls.
Made of Bisque and pretty china,
I will play them all.
No one knows me any better,
Than my doll Marice,
For when it came that time,
She knew I had no peace.
So in the end,
I sit alone
In front an iron chest.
The lock is jingling,
Yet my hand lay stiff,
The screams inside a gentle kiss,
That makes me wish,
A new porcelain doll

You have to stay home all day
to make bread
While it rises three times
before it gets cooked
Punch it down twice
Then its ready for the heat

Think of something else to do
Pay bills and balance the checkbook?
Write letters or poems?
Read the last 100 pages
of "Look Homeward Angel"?
Stay in the kitchen and make soup?

Simulate the restaurant's baked bisque
one small pie pumpkin, cut and steamed
one sliced leek
one fat carrot
two **** chopped apples
Cumin, spike, olive oil.

Bake and let it rest

i'm not trying to
write something good
i'm trying to write something
for myself

something to remind me
i'm still alive
breathing feeling
existing in this world

to be honest
i don't know why i'm trying
it's like i've been away
from myself too long

i'd like to go back to
maryland for another weekend
your hand in mine
a long walk in the dark
for an overpriced dinner
but i still remember that
cup of bisque
how the inlet stank
creeping through deserted
pitch black parking lots
the late night fishermen
set up on the overpass
sunburned legs
boardwalk taffy

i'd go back through
williamsburg
winding roads through
the historic district
to the red roof inn
maybe a little drunk
a little young and a
little dumb
i can't recall why
we didn't just take
the car but i sure
don't regret the walk

guess i just miss the
sense of peace
in my gut
so foreign to me

i have this feeling that
life is about to change
drastically
significantly
and i'm not scared
just a little nostalgic

it doesn’t matter
to anyone else
but i’ll always remember
the way the ocean looked
under the bridgeway
apple fritter for breakfast

i’m scared
of growing up
how pathetic when
i’m literally an adult

fuzzy socks
pulled up to my knees
my favorite t-shirt
the blue pokemon one
so old that polywhirl has
completely worn off
i’m going to sleep tonight
like every other night
with my stuffed wolf and
your arms around me

tomorrow i’ll get up
go to work
get the things done that
i didn’t do last week
you’ll pick me up at 3:30
and let me in the driver’s side
i’ll check the mirrors
and white knuckle my way
up the hill to the dentist office
where i’ll be reminded that
my genetics are against me and
i need to wear my retainer more

(i get reminded of the
genetics part enough
every time a holiday
or disagreement rolls around)

i don’t want to be famous
i don’t even want to be rich
i just want to make enough
money that i can afford therapy

because i could write three
poems a day and i don’t know
if i’d ever get to the bottom of it all
i think i’ve started to make
some sense of it and then
something will remind me that i don’t

like the other night at the bar
when i recounted something
i’m almost sure i must have
mentioned to you before

but i must have been mistaken
because you set down your drink
and looked at me and said
“that’s really ****** up
that she would ever say that
i’m sorry that happened to you”

so it’s safe to say that
ignoring it isn’t making it
go away and thinking
about it is only making me miserable
so i guess all that’s left to do
is write about it

and there’s not much to do with
pages and pages of your own
thoughts so i guess i’ll just
keep it to myself for now

but i’m not trying to write
something good i’m trying
to write something
for myself

The triad of writer, lover and
the loved, she in the night of
raptors.

Gone the ability for thought,
the skin for touch, the heart
like unpainted bisque.

Her clammy hands, the drip
rivers ****** lacerations
born in the saunalike cataract
before, it seemed time
became the stranglehold
of Now.

Decades even later, years
uncover the silt of pain.

Together was not possible.

The rant began.

The cataract consumed her.
She unbreathed

goodbye.

Sphinx still
riddled.

She sat for me
clothed in sand

and waited

saecula saecularem

Amen,

Gentleman.

Last call.

Time gentleman.


Caroline Shank

Should you hold up
the hollow crystal sphere
with the glass ballerina
up to the light
you will see.
Oh, how delicately
she drags her bisque slippers
with a crackling clink
across the mirror surface!
Oh, how delicately
her folding arms
paint excuses
with an indigo tincture
in the shape of questions?
Oh, how she drops
like a wilting little tulip!

They’ve said
When the heart is weak
The mind tango along
Temptation whispers
Then it shouts
I know to desire
Something I shouldn’t have
Is against all my beliefs
But I must admit
What a delightful scenery
She almost reminded me
Of the crab cakes dinner I enjoyed
Last night
Plumped and juicy
Just couldn’t wait
To get my fine *** home and
Sink my teeth into them
But anyway
Let me explain
I took a glimpsed towards her
Oh boy I drooled and drooled
Like the lobster bisque chowder
Or was it the New England ?
That's besides the point
I swear
Everybody ought to try some
But anyway
Her cherry painted lips ,
looked so pleasurably plumped
Just like a New Zealand mussels
In other words the best money can buy
Her exotic profile had
My mind running wild like fine wine
Made it almost unbearable
To control my emotions
I’ve said hello
Unexpectedly
She smiled and winked at me
Quickly, I’ve made my way towards her
Quicker than a Maryland hard shell *****
running away for it’s life
Secondarily Conversations sparked
And let me tell you this,
She sounded confused and in disbelief as I was
I’ve asked her what was on the menu
She expressed
She wasn’t sure what to get
For everything seems
So deliciously appetizing  
As she stared into my soul from head to toe
And for sure you know I had to return the favor
Suddenly,
I couldn’t help thinking
Hoping for a small chance
That She would make me
Part of her menu
Wishful thinking I tell you
Body smelled so tastefully satisfying
Just like cotton candies
Just the way I like it
Her Peanut butter complexion
Forevermore drove me insane
Hair resembled black pasta
Originated from Italy
The natural glow of
Her skin reminded me
Of my favorite olive oil
Imported out of India
I can almost taste the aroma
I started to imagined
Her kiss tasting
Like Strawberry smoothie
Simply delish
She shook my hand
Told me her name
Was Filet Mignon
I couldn’t help noticed
Her touched felt
Just like an Angel cake
And the lord knows
How much I adore Angel cakes
Especially when accompanied by
The perfect bananas split
Butter pecan sundae for desert
I tell you wouldn’t that be
The perfect treat
Sweet with the right
Amount of sour
I bet she is foreign
Her outfit was
So delightfully intriguing
Like a whole Maine naked lobster out the shell
And I must say,
It’s been a while
Since I’ve traveled abroad
And luckily
In her flirtatious ways
From time to time
I would noticed her taken
A seductive glimpsed towards me
Like I’m some sort of toothsome
Seafood salad
Maybe she is hungry
Just as I am
And
Being the generous
Gentleman that I am
It would’ve been
My desire
To feed her hunger
And perhaps,
She could provide
The main course
As I provide the deserts
Just the way she loves it
And of course to top it off
Caramel Candy stick
always on the menu
If that’s what her heart desired
Now as it seems like
We both have the perfect ingredients
That’s needed
For an awesome enjoyable meal
All that needs to happen
Is for us to nut
Out of the grocery store
And noodle into a place
Where we can start cooking
The perfect meal
And I guarantee it would’ve been the best meal of her life!

An appetizer, essentially an
out of this world guacamole
quasi Neptune salad,
regarding self taught cook
earning prized counterpart
five Michelin stars,
when the missus artfully, carefully,
cannily, decorously, deftly,
and happily prepared
earlier today June 21st, 2024
for her favorite buzzfeeding nincompoop

otherwise known as yours truly
barley distilled friggin
human impractical joker,
(who just learned
how to walk ***** this morning)
gifted with absolute zero
sense and sensibility,
nevertheless whose modest
absinthe pride and prejudice
subsequently qualified him as Übermensch,

and admirable taste tester de jure
concerning culinary pop slop queen
cuisine of Schwenksville
of aforementioned dish
prepared courtesy unsung chef
at 2 Highland Manor Drive:
she made with the following ingredients:
vidalia onions, progresso tomato bisque,
pickles, gluten free pasta
cooked leftover coffee and filtered water
and crushed nature's promise tomatoes.

After above culinary creation completed,
she slaved away mostly all of yesterday
concocting pièce de résistance meatloaf entrée
fit for her kingly gourmand,
which complements included
butterball ground Turkey
peppered with green beans and corn
essentially the remaining bulk
made from everything
including the kitchen sink
plumbing the depths of innovation
remembering aromatic, emblematic, and idiomatic
savory eats of home and hearth
of Old Rotten Gotham
sliding into the behavioral sink.

When frequently motivated
me once upon a time little butterball
oven admirable spouse dons toque
(chef's hat that dates back to the 16th century.

Different heights may indicate rank
within a kitchen and the number of folds
can also signify a chef's expertise,
with each pleat representing
a technique that has been mastered.

As testimony to a successful endeavor
an array of cooking accouterments
(including scads of disparate utensils
plus various and sundry leftovers)
truthfully and essentially
Unrecognized Food Objects in refrigerator
constituted stock in trade scullery.

After successfully cooking,
expending and buzzfeeding me
a veritable Smörgåsbord
the industrial wife
(with just enough energy to spare)
readied herself to potschke
with assortment of ingredients,
she (the pleasingly plump wizard -
me ***** tonk woman),
whipped wonderfully wrought

provisions for the palate
one of a kind ruthless babe
(wrapped herself in homemade
swiftly tailored pigs in blanket)
aforesaid entrée fit for gourmet
capped first course
with snicky snack sammich hors d'œuvre
a combination of almond butter
(whole nuts crushed in blender),
unsweetened almond milk
topped with Welch's grape jelly.

Nightly awake
It’s three in the morning eczema in my legs
scratches like a myriad of ants and feet hurt
it is diabetes looking for an outlet,
I walk around the flat, a good thing it is large.
From somewhere a dog whines its owner shush
the dog must be in pain but can tell no one
where it hurts.
I hear the lift going down its owner is taking it out
for a night walk or to a vet, perhaps the dog
Has toothache
I think of drinking a glass of wine but since it is
dawn I settle for a cup of tea and a bisque
as the blood sugar is too low, I add a teaspoon
of sugar.
Looking out of the window in my study I can
see a light of a flat from a window in the opposite
the building, someone else who can’t sleep.
I massage my feet, the infernal scratching has
subsided and soon it will be morning.