"bisque" poems
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 pot'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
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
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.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
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 pot'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
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
A lost soul,
swept up in a bisque of one's inner thoughts,
feelings of sorrow fill your heart,
thoughts of woe filling your head.
A lost soul,
in a sea of loneliness,
driven to despair,
all dreams fading away.
A lost soul,
falling from the sky,
waiting for the inevitable,
a future yet to come.
A lost soul,
with pain in their heart,
and brokenness in their eyes,
complete loss of joy from their once bright smile.
A lost soul...
A soul forever gone.
~Corrie Anne~
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
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!"
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
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
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
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.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
#*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*#
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
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.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 8:01 AM UTC
~
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
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
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.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
The picture of perfection
bisque, fired and annealed
a picture perfect complexion
heart and soul, revealed
Eyes, there comes a light
girded in leather mail
ever ready for the fight
a balancing, of scale
Her minute cracks, are her scars
her words flow upon the screen
emotions, clearer than brightest stars
gleaning rhyme, sincere and so serene
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
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
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 2:13 AM UTC
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
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
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
Apr 10, 2023
Apr 10, 2023 at 2:19 AM UTC