"broiler" poems
English with 26 letters, is generally thought to be the simplest language on earth. A language built up on 26 letters is amazing.
But within just handful of letters, how many words can be misspelled..
My childish attempt to rhyme and write...
ei or ie, we are confused when we write,
it's then the words jump to end their lives.
Homonyms, homophones, homographs
It's fun to know the very facts.
Bear tried to **** Jack with its bare hands,
Jack had to bear the brunt of the bear.
Speed is what we thrive to do
If we forget to Brake, will break a head or two.
100 cents makes a dollar
Jack sent his wife to buy a stroller
She smelled the scent of a broiler
And forget all about the stroller.
The people who lives in Desert
do they have dates as their Dessert?
The dinner was perfect
The wine complemented the feast
The hosts were perfect
And were complimented for their treat.
The King who reigned Prussia
Rode high holding his horse's reins,
But his horse started to panic
As it started to Rain.
Drew looked at his new site
The building looked a perfect sight
When asked for the legal owner
He cited the document which held his right.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
I should love you as an eight year old,
asking to be excused from your third grade class
to go throw up in the bathroom.
Leaning over your desk in fevered prayer,
hunched over two tender nubs of breast.
Sitting down with your counselor
and a pack of giggling girls to have “the talk”
while bleeding into a *** of toilet paper.
I should love you as a twelve year old,
blue eyes lined and lipstick smudged.
Crouched behind the bushes, expelling chunks
of non-digested pizza and coke.
Taking two bottles of tylenol and laying down
on your kitchen floor, watching the broiler burn.
Calling your boyfriend, and whispering
so your mom won’t hear
“I love you, I hate you, don’t go, leave me to die”
I should love you as a fourteen year old,
thin as a pencil, hair black and straight
Walking with a humming in your head
to your eighth grade classes, slipping away
to the library and reading books on dying
and so you steal a bottle of ativan
from your grandfather’s medicine cabinet.
You take 10.
I should love you as you are now.
Seventeen, eyes darkened to a jade,
and burnt out on suicide attempts.
But I don’t.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
The ticket stall is empty
Sunlight bounces off the pavement
And reflects off the double doors
There are no posters in the frames
In my town
Most places are too cold for pretend
Against the white
In thick black letters
The headlining show
“Theater Closed Broiler Broken”
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
They called me a temptress
Rolling the dessert cart out always makes people say the oddest thing
You’re a temptress
I always assumed they were talking about the desserts
The ones I’ve repeated so many times I can rattle them off from memory without the cart in front of me
I never thought they’d be talking about me
I am dessert
I am cake
Not chocolate, I’m not dark enough to be called by such an unimaginative and racist name
Cheesecake
White and pale because I’d never dare to tan without bottoms on
Light brown just around the edges because I can’t help if those bottoms happen to be a little cheeky
Cake for the way my *** looks in the leggings I wear nearly everyday
Cake because I know you’re watching when I tip myself into the freezer to scoop ice cream
Cake for the way the girls tap it as they go by
I am cheesecake
I have creme brûlée skin
Light until I lay out in the sun, under the broiler
Browned to perfection
Covered in darker spots where the heat was too intense, freckles dancing across my cheeks
I am a creme brûlée
I have a cobbler mouth
Pink, nearly red lips
A perfect circle right before I kiss
Sweet and supple like a raspberry
Tangy like a cranberry if I bite
(I have yet to find a boy that doesn’t enjoy that)
Words, sticky sweet, spill out like melted ice cream
I am a cobbler
I have key lime eyes
The centers lined with pumpkin
Sometimes they turn blueberry
It changes with the seasons
(The pies are seasonal too)
I have pie eyes
Maybe when they said temptress they were talking about me
Cake that could be called chocolate when it’s wrapped in black dress pants
Creme brûlée skin that’s all covered up but my face and my hands
But see, see my freckles
See how they cover every inch of me
Cobbler mouth asking if there’s anything else you may want
If you want something to drink with that
My voice dripping out two pitches higher, sticky sweet
Blueberry eyes, almost always, the blue of my shirt brings it out
Even if I’ve only seen that flavor served once
Maybe I am dessert
Dessert
The first thing that gets dropped
Always last choice
Those who say they’ll save room still start with a main course
Dessert
Only eaten if your main course didn’t fill you up, wasn’t satisfying enough for you
Only touched if your girlfriend or your last **** or your lonely aren’t satisfying enough for you
Dessert
If you’re full would you like one to go
Keep me in your pocket, save me for another day
I’ll wait, I don’t know how not to
Dessert
They always called me a temptress
I always assumed they were taking about the desserts
I am dessert
Maybe they were talking about me
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
///
I am the foe, too-
a foolish foe of my muscle's friends
they are well known, the difference between friend and foe
They have sent me in the jail
and after then, for me they have granted a bail
now they are trying to grow my flesh and bone
they'll eat me day after tomorrow
I am the dark in the heaven
talking too much about the right
that test less, too worthless
as the humanity boring to my friend
Last night they ate a fat cat
who turned to make him as a fat less
he has too many friends,
they have grown as like as my foes, too
They have thought me as a broiler chicken
wish to send me at the right time in the kitchen
I am the dark in the hell
yet I sing a song of humanity
and ready to make myself to move into the fire, too
I, a foolish foe of my friends, too
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
These are the days she fears the most.
When she wakes in the morning,
there's something askew.
She will try and get out,
out of her warm, soft blankets
before the buzzing of her phone
reminds her that she must work.
These days, though, she'll fail,
and stay cocooned until ten minutes
before she has to make the short journey.
She'll normally crawl out of bed,
pour a hot cup of coffee with one sugar,
drink it slowly while inhaling
her first nicotine fix for the day.
These days, though, she ran out the door,
coffee in hand, and didn't light the first cigarette
until she was already on the main road
to the hell hole she was employed at.
Usually, by now, her mood will have changed.
However, these days it just seemed to get worse.
Stuck between broiler and fryer,
she sat with chalky vinyl gloves
scrubbing the dirt and grease away.
She would think to herself,
"Haven't I done this before, to myself?"
These were the days she hated most.
When her co-workers ask,
"You're not your normal self?"
"How am I to be normal when I am
stuck here with people much better?"
She should know better, by now,
to not think this way,
but everything today was pointing
towards the barrel of a gun.
She finished her shift, eight minutes late,
ran to her car to be saved by the grace,
the grace of her car and a warm voice on the phone.
This day was finally getting better,
but then she walked in the door
where it was do this, do that,
screams here, screams there,
crying here, crying there.
These days, everything just got worse.
She finally mustered up enough anxiety
to tell everyone she needed some space,
so she took her best friend,
on four doppy long legs he stood,
for a short walk around the block.
She was finally clearing her head
of the overdosing thoughts,
when her ****** nosey neighbor,
stepped out onto her walk,
making conversation uncomfortable,
after five minutes she got on her way.
This girl finally decided
that it may be time for another cancer stick,
to wash some of the nerves away.
Once back around, she still was on edge,
pretty typical of these days, at least.
She went to her room,
and made yet another phone call,
to the same one as earlier,
it helped a bit more this time through,
until children came into the picture.
Normally, this would be fine,
even liked, but these days,
No.
No one was allowed inside this girl's head,
for these were the days she feared most.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
A girl is born
They are happy
Hoping next one will be son
Next one
Also a girl
Parent’s are happy
But not society
Oh almighty !
Why?
God replies ,
‘’ Being boy like you is easy
Life’s good
maybe sometimes cheesy
Free-domed
Can pitch in makin’ decision ‘’
Rogered words
One acknowledged
Other knowledge-less
One tried to aware
Other are a way away
If boy’s wrong
he mistakenly did that
He is fair
In the girl’s facts
She is falsifier
We boys too face some obstacles in deed
But definitely not suffer from half hour regular bleed
She
Should stay 4 days far a month like broiler hen
Far from parents care
and
suffered in 1 AM at night
suffocated for a glass of water
ordered to not to touch tap or filter
gazed on Banyan’s strips
ragged , whistled and horn beeps
Despite these ,
Bidya Devi Bhandari is President
Srinkhala khatiwada engineer
There are many such Bhandari Khatiwada’s
Showing us by their ability
We are no more living in
Male dominant society !
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 9:31 AM UTC