"breads" poems
Come and Look, Come and See,
What is at the Bakery!
Dazzling, Lovely, Amazing too,
Something Special Just for You.
Delicious Cookies, Cakes, and Pies,
Tons of Delicacies Before Your Eyes.
The Scent of Sugar All Around,
Goodies, Donuts, and Breads Abound.
Sweet Tooth Calling, "Give Me More,"
Starts in When You Hit the Door.
Cravings Growing for the Treats,
Have to Have a Load of Sweets.
Absolute Bliss as You Give in,
To that Tempting Sugar Sweet Sin.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne
the bakery made them at his behest
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later
rush hour was madder than usual
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?
the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well
his fiancée came to him that night
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest
the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
He's not a man of many graces,
fewer teeth than tongues
but he won't say much with his lips.
He's at his strongest when you push,
but never from a kiss.
See,
he's stubborn in every way that doesn't matter,
in every principle that has no lesson.
I've bent the spines of fragile men
to see how far they'll go
before they break,
before they'll form into a crest
of his back that I can't dig from my head.
I've watched them fall in love with me
because I thought that maybe
one of them would empty me,
but they didn't.
He is an ill-mannered world,
the kind that breads creation.
A manifestation of passion and fear.
With eyes that dug twelve foot tunnels in my veins
and went there to die.
A man of simple needs,
plesantaries and shaky knees.
But he doesn't want to see you quiver,
he only wants to know it.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
*Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!
A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!
I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!
She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!
Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!*
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"And people say that the Palace is
the heart," Lyn murmurs, looking
around the town. "The heart of
Aurelinaea truly beats within the
town."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Quite so, My Lady." Esshi nods in
agreement. It rings true; Aurelinaea
Palace rests and grows out of the heart
of the large island. It is even whispered
that there are secret passageways long
lost, that only the royal family know.
The towns are pulsing with the lives
of hundreds of thousands. From the
Palace, there is one street, a vein,
thick and wide, that leads down to
different parts of town.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
And like a heart, one vein connects
to many; thick and thin, wide and
narrow; several pathway, with
and without wooden fences, are
made of three colours; red stones,
yellow stones and green stones.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
All of them are winding around,
leading to several coloured houses,
gardens, markets, docks, grand
angel fountains that rests upon the
mosaics, bridges and the canals.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The air is full of many smells, perfumes
and fresh flowers, fresh cakes, cookies and
breads, fresh produce and fish, fresh cut
grass and the sea. Smiths hammers away
at their swords and armour, people laugh,
children run and play around, cats meow,
dogs barks, seagulls cry and people laugh,
sing, talk and eat as they sail on the canals.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
you may cry now
hello seattle
coffee beans on the window sill
wilting sunflower
i didn't know
you would leave me in a battle
thought you'd save me they ****
but new blue skies every hour
ginger cat meows
only him and i in apartment
tv is on laptop charging
clothes on floor and bed
how you left it how
sit on the chair i can't
you aren't sitting with me darlin'
cat is hungry wasn't fed
open fridge there is a note
buy one milk and three breads
your handwriting
when do you come
cat is ok he ate in boat
in bathtub toilet paper shreds
i write in book keep in margin with love like rome
why is there soap you put in the fridge?
humming bird mind
air conditioner legit
empty mailbox work to do
photos of bridge
ice cream so fine
nice to be happy a bit
maybe it will last, coo!
bet your house messi score that
he did not he missed goal
change channel mancini's scarf on coatrack
blues miss him too do they
will you read this on your bat
cricket is good you are better, soul
is there internet or is there lack
hope you will find way home yay
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
Hundreds of homes sit
Cookie cutter produced
With manicured red rose bushes
And fences painted by immigrants
The suburban white breads
Flock to these copycat communities
Eager to fit in with their pale skinned
Blue eyes babies and mother-father pair
It’s all pleasant and just a bit
Creepy; the lack of contrast
How are we to manage happiness
With such tasteless lives?
-x-
I’d like to take a hammer
To these mass produced homes
And hack their roses to mush or
Kick their fences to splinters
To make a **** original piece
No matter how bizarre or damaged
So that our skin color, our *** would be
The last thing to be seen as ‘weird’
Maybe then we’ll be content with the contrast
In a home that just breathes our presence
Even if we’re out and about; living
No part of us, even our home, will conform
To the standards of society
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
~Christi Michaels~
**Dark Shadows of My Soul
Memories finally revealed,
Yet always known.
Arches set deep within stone
Labored creake of hinges
Massive wooden doors
My breath, heavy just moments before,
quiets upon the entering.
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Three steps down,
Entering the majestic room.
Domed ceilings. Stucco stained
with colors from long, long ago.
I walk towards windows.
Tall, deep n' narrow overlooking My Realm below.
A knowing. A deep seated
rememberance of a life once lived.
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Secrets, locked away in gilded boxes..
Vessels holding unspoken truths
Trap doors leading to dungeons
concealed beneath intricately woven rugs.
Taste of the air. ****** breads,
roasting meat.
Acrid smoke wafting from Soddy hearths
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Raven ringlets cascading.
A waterfall down my open back.
Pearl woven braids
adorn the crown of my head.
My ******* constrained.
Rising...cresting
With each breath.
Brocade and lace lay gently
across my hands, kissing my fingers
My neck long, regal. I hold posture of a Princess.
My full skirts sweep and polish
these stone floors from time till eternity
Will begin the journey.
Delve into this sordid past.
Facing, long at last
Deamons. Lies of Old
Embracing now
Dark Shadows of One's Soul**
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
My happiness comes from me ask my friends and the world around me blossoming in a spark of crimsony red moon glow on forethought walks through the shivering lenses of percept that trickle down our backs as we enlighten ourselves with all that is in between and unseen.
It is as if our aged limbs were caressed into a symphony of leverages and their shapes. We cannot be cadavers. We are arms of cheer and picture jasper, adolescent googled-eyes gathers with virile fixations on our partners as we prey on the map lines subtly employing our eyes as we dart across each dimple, pimple, freckle, and gently worn rash lines.
These are the dogs of our incessant barking. Idling for sincerity, as actors swiftly press Winter into us while our limbless diction presents our inadequacy Rd upon our ugly and I'll-tempered neighborly-things. Aliens of the afternoon, first floor agony and karmas standard for living in a reduced climate One.
Wearing down the hooves, undulates from Pepperdine mark trails with breaking breads and twigs and bones. Undulates from another world, behoofed and bemoved, curdling their sappy reselling a of drat and unkindly remarks. And we have begun to wonder when evolution will kick-in. When will the military come for them at the doors and vacate is all from our nontoxic lie-shrouded apartment complexes, condos, and cabins. Slaughter numbers of letters and integers right out in the street; loonies in the town square and the moose are crying.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
She was as crazy as a Norse horse
with a wild bleached mane and madeyes,
always willin to do anythin for ya
with a ''come on then''
her moods would drive you insane,
wrenching compassion and anger from your heart in equal parts,
spewing venom when talking of her ma,
it would hurt to listen, yet it was easy to see this sulphuric froth
as just rage being rage.
In her kitchen she concocted over spilling potions
banana and coconut breads, her time was your time,
her table always spread, with baskets and jars,
Valerian by the bottle she sculled to help sleep,
baskets with moss and golf ***** Scottish tat in a heap
and beliefs, worn and threadbare like the carpets
in her tiny, orange doored flat
with a gerbil called ***** and a hamster called pat,
and dear wee Jamie who spouted that Halloween mantra ''crap bat''
we filled and hung balloons with sweets and let the kids skewer
the hell out of them, it rained chocolate in the corridor for weeks,
and that is what I loved about her madness,
is that it dived and it did, and it speaked
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 7:06 PM UTC
The baby looks just like you
Lots of people say it
I tell you often
He has your eyes
Your lips
Your
Ears n nose
As he's getting older the resemblance is more obvious
He needs fresh air
Going for a walk
I collect your cigarette ****
Lots of thoughts eating away at me
We've been friends for years "me n her"
Hope I'm wrong
But we always seem to be babysitting
You never refuse ?
The old sayings -" I never took notice of before"
Didn't really understand just what they meant
Haunt me !
Playing over in my restless mind
"Familiarity breads contempt"!
Two's company 3's a crowd !
I head straight to the doctors office
I hand your cigarette end to him
He collects the baby's DNA
I wait
I wonder just what DNA stands for
My name gets called out
The results are in, !
Tension rises in every part of my being
Sweat drips down my spine
I feel I've stopped breathing
As my racing heart beats in a loud deafening tone
It's confirmed
My life's just crumbled
In a moment of time
My identity ripped to shreds
I'm no longer
A best friend
A god mother
Your wife
I wonder have I done the right thing ?
"Curiosity killed the cat"!
Another old saying
Just realised what DNA means.
DO NOT ASK!
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Everything in life has a pattern,
Even Chaos.
The study of Entropy, I'm sure will
Pay off.
But how much will they let us experience
Before reviving our spirits?
Or will we lay dormant,
confused, cold, and lonely?
Before there's more of us
consumed, old, and owning.
A sense of pride for our lives, which we call experience.
Memories.
The ones we remember, and the ones why people fear us.
Entities.
Skipping the embers, and going straight to ashes.
We say they are laws. But that is just madness.
The conservation of ashes, breads no life, only more sadness.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
Come softly
silver rain, come
softly now my thoughts,
heavy as October's reddest hue
in hours shed these patched conceits
of dry leaves, curled
along the Summer road,
become some vast appalling wilderness...
Your hands, an Autumn dream,
cast a thick red sap
upon the swollen planes of my body,
crouch in a stealth pathos
of grey leopard cells,
as they well, wild with faith
and thirsty prayer...
Come away
from these stale Summer breads,
for your kisses
are a much softer fate
than wisdom, come
the ease of rain, softly
silver rain...
Stay the solemn night
with leaves, bedeck
my perilous flesh,
let it ascend
its grey latitudes
in blizzards of dogwood,
kindling songs on paperchains...
My hands,
string an alphabet
of silence, tied
by hours of rope,
inviolate, palms
clasped to glass, two
hummingbirds, quiet...
Stilled, joined, unbind
to close into fists, come Autumn
the season of bearing,
the rich red earth darkens and drinks
our tears, and now, never
the ease of rain, falling,
come softly,
softly silver rain....
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
"Don't drink that coffee," my friend shouted at me,
"That caffeine will **** you!"
he said impatiently!
Drinking water is bad for your health,
the feds put fluorine in it
to **** you by stealth."
Paternally he whispered,
"Whatever you do, don't drink cows' milk.
the sucklings its made for
aren't close to our ilk.
The consumption of pigs and animals that ****
most certainly will keep you
from obtaining sweet bliss.
And stay away from creatures that swim in the sea,
their svelte tasty bodies are filled
with deadly mercury."
And then he looked aghast at my plate,
"Tell me you're not eating that excrement," he sighed,
"Do you really want to die...
from eating french fries?
Don't you know that fried things are the scourge of the planet,
cooked in hydrogenated fats by
some woman named Janet?
Avoid eggs, if you can, and by no means eat the yolks,
your cholesterol will rise,
that's no funny joke."
Then, with a scowl in his voice he said,
"Avoid plants grown in this country,
sprayed with pesticides and poisons
by corporate monkeys.
And stay away from foods grown in the East,
they're probably fertilized by
humans, dragons and beasts.
Potatoes, tomatoes have starch and acid,
that eats up your guts and
make you grow flaccid.
Lemons and limes will ruin your pretty white teeth,
making you go snaggle
right in your sleep."
With a superior air he ended his harangue,
"Beer, wine, and all forms of liquor,
Can you think of anything that
will **** you quicker?
Don't eat rich chocolate--it'll make you a ****
humping everything in sight
like a mad deer in rut.
Cakes, breads and cookies too,
contain sugars and flours that's
sooooo baaaaad for you.
~~~
I'm hungry and starving and don't know what to do,
I want to eat something
but afraid to give it a chew.
Though all of this leaves me feeling quite uneasy and queasy,
I'm closing the door and
doing as I pleasey!
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
I smelled honey and goat cheese
Been kneading the dough
in Mom's traditional bakery
Met one gorgeous crazy guy in the 60's
Over the french breads and ovens
he fished me out
with a twist and turn
all through the night..
We did the twist and shout
The crowd applauded
on this dance floor..
we did the twist and shout
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:47 AM UTC
Cautious be the message
Wise be the words
Moderation be the compass
Since words fly like birds.
They can spread like germs
Or can travel from middle earth
They say they spoke to aliens
Some even spoke at birth.
Infectious, malicious, deep-cutting,
belittling, sour, off-putting.
Caring, hopeful, truly sincere,
peaceful, sweet, a kiss to the ear.
There are many forms a word can take,
like the variety of breads a baker bakes.
Love and Hate, yes,
two ends of a pole,
yet as similar as panther is to shark
is to flamingo is to mole.
Now how does that work?
your mind is seething.
Well think about it,
all the above are breathing.
Similarly, words are very alive too,
living in our minds freely in sort of a word zoo.
Certainly diverse their engines of
meaning and intent,
but once in your peripheral they float
around lividly like your favourite scent.
They can aim to degrade
or to even inspire,
Or aim to find truth
from those of a liar,
Or aim to show anger
or some just for fun,
My message is simply remember,
that you are a gun.
Your mouth the barrel,
your brain the clip,
Your vocal system
both spring and grip,
In a world full of ears
every word is a bullet
your tongue is the trigger
Be careful when you pull it.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
illusions soil damp with summer rain
we are silence creeping softly
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter tea and stale buttery breads
our stealth footprints leaning to the shadows trail us
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
turn to whisper your hush-now's and stifle the laughter
tis serious things afoot in the majestic night
seed lain with casual grunts
by the farmers son come of age
till foolish boy reckons what hes done
but storm riding in and no time to dawdle
bread in the basket and skittles in the cookfire
whats to be done whats to be done
he sweeps his mistakes aside and plows onward
like his pappy would have done
illusions soil fertile
and fools will take to heart any tale
so we have come sneakin' and creepin'
to harvesting our due
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter teas and stale buttery breads
feed the fools mind with all manner of delusion
and while we sit and sup in the heavenly scented field
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
he will be singing and dancing a madwoman's jig
under a lunatic moon
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Bread and circuses
Our world today,
In our sweet, free homeland.
We grow fat on breads
Pastries and sugars
And watch our
Sit coms on tv
Oblivious to the world around us
What's really happening?
Outside these walls of our free country
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Come softly
silver rain, come
softly now my thoughts,
heavy as September's reddest hue
in hours shed these patched conceits
of dry leaves, curled
along the Summer road,
become some vast appalling wilderness,
your hands, an Autumn dream,
casts a thick red sap
upon the swollen planes of my body,
crouched in a stealth pathos
of grey leopard cells,
as they well, wild with faith
and thirsty prayer,
come away
from these stale Summer breads,
for your kisses
are a much softer fate
than wisdom, come
the ease of rain, softly
silver rain,
stay the solemn night
with leaves, bedeck
my perilous flesh,
let it ascend
its grey latitudes
in blizzards of dogwood,
kindling songs on paperchains
my hands,
string an alphabet
of silence, tied
by hours of rope,
inviolate, palms
clasped to glass, two
hummingbirds, quiet
stilled,joined,unbind
to close into fists, come Autumn
the season of bearing,
the rich red earth darkens and drinks
our tears, and now, never
the ease of rain, falling,
come softly, softly silver rain....
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
the light is infected
its disease casts a haze on my weather beaten
its denial of warmth radiates down to my very soul
razor thoughts are the bitter seed in the fertile soil of her filthty mind
vertical sunlight uneven on your confused thoughts
at least illuminate the way
as you forge the path to certain shade
benith palm trees etched out against the tropical horizon
she braids her hair
as she steps slowly among the rose petals
deep eyes entice
as her loose garment falls away
barefoot she weaves her way
from distant vision
to standing before you in deliberate slow motion
letting you drink in her natural and sleek form
before it is joined with yours in hot embrace
seas of sand
and the taste of ocean on the air
salty and swift to the senses
deep with the memory
of a thousand times
on the rolling waves deep in the atlantic's nights
only dreaming of her smoky form leaning into you
as she whispers your name
the light in the porthole
is infected with the muttering of the skippers madness
as he swears to take us deep and far
to a no-mans land of uncharted sea
leave us scattered like dry bones
on the wet soils of nameless atols
with the bitter breads to be our banquet
and the dog that chewed off his finger as our ale
i climb the wave
to spill us off the crest
abreast the next
just to tempt his ire
but he rights us without a word
sailing in a wide circle
we are round here on the charts
but squared away and shipshape by
the hairy old seaman's eye
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC