"buttermilk" poems
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Hark! Take heed, for this cake be both mighty and magnificent!
1.75 cups flour
2 cups white sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
0.75 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 cup (as in 8 fl.oz/250mL.) strongly brewed coffee (make more and drink it!)
1 cup buttermilk (or 1 tbs. white vinegar+1 cup milk mixed well, blah blah)
0.5 cups cocoanut oil (or 0.33 cups basicallywhatever oil), a little less if ***
1 tsp. vanilla extract
OPTIONAL:
2-3 shots (60-90mL; 0.2-0.33 cups) black spiced *** (Kraken, if at all possible)
I also want to experiment with whiskey/burbon.. if you try it, let me know!
--Flour, sugar cocoa powder, baking soda+powder, salt mixed in one bowl
-- eggs, coffee, *** buttermilk, oil, vanilla in another
Slowly mix the dry into the wet until as homogenous as possible.
I use an 8"x8" (20cmx20cm) pan @350F (175 C) for about 40 minutes, but I check on it at round 30 minutes because some variance may well apply. If you use olive oil, or avocado oil, or whatever other more fluid oil, I find a slightly hotter oven (375 F/190 C) can be advisable, but pay attention to your specific scenario! The worst that's happened for me is the top gets a bit crusty, but that pleasantly works with the overall moisture of the cake, especially with olive oil and the *** addition.
Do the toothpick test to see if it's ready!
Frosting is applicable, as well, because this Magical Cake is not horribly sweet for how horribly sweet it sure is. I usually just sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on it to make it look all fancy for my classy friends and band-mates.
ENJOY!
Bake responsibly, but have some fun.
Also, suffer the decimals!
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
charcoal
oxblood
poppy
pomegranate
maroon
cranberry
cherry
creamsicle
orange soda
saffron
lemon
egg yolk
buttermilk
sunflower
olive
forest
lime
mint
ice
blueberry
royal blue
navy
bubblegum
fuschia
salmon
grape
lavender
wine
chocolate
espresso
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.
She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.
With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.
That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.
Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.
For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
I've sat near the holy ones, and I've lost shame before the people.
I've torn my scarf into shreds; I'm all wrapped up in a blanket.
I took off my finery of pearls and coral, and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.
With my tears, I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over, and borne the fruit of bliss.
The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter, no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion; seeing the world, I wept.
Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder: now with love He takes me across to the further shore.
~~~~~~~
mere to giridhara gupaala, duusaraa na koii |
jaa ke sira mora mukuTa, mero pati soii ||
taata, maata, bhraata, baMdhu, apanaa nahiM koii |
ghaaM.Da daii, kula kii kaana, kyaa karegaa koii?
saMtana Dhiga baiThi baiThi, loka laaja khoii ||
chunarii ke kiye Tuuka Tuuka, o.Dha liinha loii |
motii muu.Nge utaara bana maalaa poii ||
a.Nsuvana jala siiMchi siiMchi prema beli boii |
aba to beli phaila gaii, aanaMda phala hoii ||
duudha kii mathaniyaa, ba.De prema se biloii |
maakhana jaba kaa.Dhi liyo, ghaagha piye koii ||
aaii maiM bhakti kaaja, jagata dekha roii |
daasii miiraa.N giradhara prabhu taare aba moii ||
____
Notes
I am the translator of this poem, "Torn in Shreds" by Mirabai. I did not copyright it; it's in the public domain and everyone is free to help themselves to it. I simply request that it appear with my name as the translator.
Johanna-Hypatia Cybeleia
4.8k
Doe eyed, staring, steaming.
Chocolate, toffee and coffee,
Cream and buttermilk
Or black and white.
Roused at dawn
To yield the warm succour
meant for their long dead offspring
Morning, mourning for natures call of motherhood.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Mine Is Gopal
Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
I've sat near the holy ones, and I've lost shame before the people.
I've torn my scarf into shreds; I'm all wrapped up in a blanket.
I took off my finery of pearls and coral, and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.
With my tears, I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over, and borne the fruit of bliss.
The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter, no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion; seeing the world, I wept.
Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder:
Now with love He takes me across to the further shore.
3.5k
To you i would give the passion of the sun
and the shine provoked from simmered grass
and if the moonlight was not safe from your eye,
it's buttermilk glow i would surely pluck down.
To you i would give the midnight chimney smoke
that sillouette on the sky putting cobbles underfoot.
Take my taste of salt as sea white mer-men come
a breeze in the laughter of workmen's homecoming.
I give the feeling when swallowed by field flax
pinpricks of cotton, i'd lay you down bare-skinned.
You empty the film on my flesh camera,
I keep the removal cuts.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Have you seen her ?
Her skin is like winter
Her hair as strands of gold
Her eyes a cerulean shade
Though she has unsteady hands
Yes ! She is in Wonderland
The ground is of sweetly confection
The clouds are of candy floss
The waters , of buttermilk
Though each grain of sugar is a little white lie
Oh how gracious , sounding oh so pleasant
And her name is Alice , soft like the finest taffeta
Do you happen to know where Wonderland is ?
Haste , Haste !
Oh yes I do , I have been there many times !
You must be willing to devote yourself completely !
For wonderland is of other-wordly proportions
But if you must know , She is in a the pretty box . Motionless in white
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
As I am absorbed
in ol' buttermilk sky,
I stand ***** whilst my bare
feet skim neighbor's roof.
I'm pulled West, up. Setting sun
fans rays. Here, I am emitted
in nebulosity.
I care not what
hankerings loosened, let go,
drift back to earth,
to rosy, lilied yard
where chain link encumbered.
Clinical conclusion drawn
in misty misconception
no longer.
Intrinsic am I as air.
Spread my molecules
in scintilla of light. Yes,
even into gray of smog,
as I must admit,
to ***** parts. These
may rain acidic intrusions
in your backyard. Too
much to assimilate?
I never asked for
what rained in mine.
No impurities
have been intended.
Still, I must emit.
My sky awaits.
Catching next cloud out.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
Buttermilk pancakes, fresh off the pan
Returning from the barn, eggs in hand
Nostrils burning, the airs so pure
Pine trees, trails, they're the perfect cure
Woods resembling the appalachian country
Leaves all orange, no, golden like honey
Ancient wooden or old brick homes
Miles of national forest to roam
Trails worn thin by generations of family
I swear, the sun shines brighter, seemingly
Preacher is always dropping by to eat
Lance is out hunting fresh deer meat
And we... we are here to enjoy it all
And occasionally have a trampoline brawl
The point is, this place never feels wrong
Dry Prong, where I feel I truly belong
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
Mustard greens and butter beans and sweet cornbread all around,
And don't forget the crookneck squash, fried a deep and golden brown.
Mounds and mounds of butter, on the corn and on separate plates,
And Jesus’ blessings, our bodies to his service, before we satiates.
Buttermilk biscuits, pull-apart-monkey-rolls and corn muffins too,
And braided bread baked tenderly by Grandmother, just for you.
Country Ham and red-eye, fried chicken and sawmill gravy,
Ready to entice with all things sav’ry.
Sweet Vidalia onions sautéed in bacon fat,
‘Cause Big Daddy always knows, just where it’s at.
We gather together, hand in hand, pressed cheek to cheek in glee,
Our hearts knitted in happiness, we are family!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
*grew my hair too long, watched it get cut and
all the snippets
fell to the floor,
decided my hair had not been
long enough
started all over again,
longer longer deeper longer,
pasting the snippets together
hoping the parts are greater than the
hole I am forever filling with
Haagen Daz vanilla buttermilk,
wise choices of words,
the satisfactory completion
of finishing and the joyous anticipatory
of starting all over again
undecided if today will be
a day where I tend my love, or,
need more being attended to
every poem I every writ
is just a
snip snip snip
of instant instances seconds capsulated
that run on into one long sentence my
gorgeous blonde 5th grade teacher, who had a crush on me,
(and vice versa)
would red ink wink critique as a
run on sentence and I could not agree more
snip snip snip
becomes a life
of one run on sentence to living larger and longer,
want a becoming life,
life becoming comely,
only commas and no periods,
period
exhausting the indecision of living
so pasting snippets seems more manageable
but not so much fun, indeed, in deed,
too much **** work, this cutting and pasting,
so gonna give you the rough and tumble of my words
as they pour out and as long as they keep coming back,
I'll keep on pouring and ******* and godpraise
this word well that runs dry never
my poems are not too long -
if you have learned to taste wisely -
how to taste gloriously languorously language
my poems are not too long,
life is too short to leave all these
demoted spaces of empty,
in between the raging and the loving,
the aching, fretting and the heaven sending thrills
of thanking the powers to be for everything
I got blessed with,
even my curses are just the flip side of*
***snip snip snip
so much from just one cup of coffee***
<>
six minutes of Aug 13, 2016 life, something you might call a
snip snip snip
SIP
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the
stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all
day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that
place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she'd have but
little luck
Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes
away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to
say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the
boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched
rightly out,
With flopping and with flapping it made a great dis-
play,
But I never stopped to question, what could the boat-
man say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country
shawl,
And come with learned lovers or with what men you
may,
For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
1.5k
Fine legged Samantha held my hand
emerging from her shell,
buttermilk from Safeway's
matching her milk skin,
then a stroll to buy a camera.
Being that intentional,
she only wanted a semi automatic,
a shutter priority to capture my widening smiles.
I was fully into manual
to capture both
her occasional wiles
and throw of tousled hair.
With slide film
we walked to Lloyds Park
Camelot of the possible,
as though Manhattan peered
from the east.
Clearly the days before
the Summer drought,
our slides captured well preserved images
lasting into time.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Bald like an eagle when born
Loud like a war has begun
Hot like lava from a volcano
Warm like an apple pie
sweet like the tears in my eyes
sour like buttermilk
*solf like a quilt
This is me all of these thing and i will remain the same
even from all this pain.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 1:24 PM UTC
Step down from the drone of mid-afternoon sting
to the cool of a bowl in the shade of a spell
where the sphagnum-crawled rocks crouch with buttermilk blooms
and the bog violets pour out their purple perfume.
You will find in the hollow a sparkling jewel
erratically spattered with glittering pools
where the shards of the sun slice their way through the haze
to repose on the throne of the hummock's soft plush.
And all is deep-rooted in moist verdant freshness
with climbers entwined around cascades of vines
and all that's contained in the small mountain's hollow
perpetually thrives in the gold dappled light.
Creep cautiously down to that cavernous bower
immerse all your senses and drench every pore
with the contrast of coolness and shimmering beauty
where you'll tremble and shiver for want of the heat.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 7:43 AM UTC
This nature of me,
the skin over my bones over my poetry,
I've missed this tender discourse,
the rhyme and reason of my slight frame held against glass.
I see myself better when I'm not trying to cry,
and I'd left this naked art so long
I could no longer tell the difference between
a night with stars and a night without.
This is buttermilk to starvation,
drowning twice and coming up for air.
The first mouthful aches like forestfire,
by the third I am a gulping animal.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ'✿⊱╮
Silken buttermilk pudding
kissed by vanilla
With gelatin, it stands firm
and gently wobbles
Adorn berry sauce
Gems of fruit
Slick!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
I was exhausted of sitting in the car,
In traffic jams at noon.
Travelling a distance too far
In an attempt to reach soon.
Glad I was home when I expected,
I started telling my Mum about the day.
I continuously blabbered,
Not giving her any chance to say.
As I was done speaking,
She asked if I could come with her,
"Sorry, I can't", I said after thinking,
Shopping isn't something that makes me feel better.
"It's the grocery to be bought", she said,
Hoping that I might budge ,
I denied again,
And so she struck a bargain:
"I was thinking we could have sweet buttermilk."
I heard without lifting my head,
and with a child-like grin, I began to trudge.
I can control my desires well,
But I am a foodie with a sweet tooth.
I'd be in heaven, I can surely tell,
If I have book, couch and food.
"Choose a shop before we are way past it,
It was fun today", she said, smiling.
Isn't this what we live for?
It is the time we spend, and not the lure.
I was unknowingly overcome with guilt,
And we reached home, while I was still thinking.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 1:10 AM UTC
Time moves forward,
The earth spins its silk,
On mornings wed with buttermilk,
Your ingénue sleeps,
Under a honeycomb sky,
Weeping sweet into her dream soaked eyes,
The walls of your heart were a dusty rose tapestry,
An interior of toothache and sticky ghosts,
He called for that criminal kiss,
For the warmth of the reminisce,
Her limbs were snug,
Gathered like a bouquet,
Thrown at your temple floor,
Sleeping wrapped within his holy grail,
Blossom spilled from his hallowed lips,
You whisper I taste of rosewater and new worlds,
Meaning the summer was lost inside us,
Consumed by a religious hunger,
In a locket of wild heat,
Arrest your memory before I forget,
As us criminals often do,
I fly alongside hope,
Like a honeybee in rain,
And pray I will make your sermon change.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
I hope its a Saturday.
I would start by waking up before you do
(since I'm always the last one up)
and I'd cook you breakfast in bed.
It seems simple I know, but I'd start early
at, like, 7 am
and cook every kind of pancake and egg I could imagine.
Like eggs in a basket or cinnamon bun pancakes,
or maybe just the buttermilk kind.
I would tap the maple tree out back
and boil up a batch of the sweetest maple syrup
you had ever tasted.
Every time you would taste syrup after this,
you would think of me and this morning.
Then I would cook up all of the bacon I could find
until it turned black and crispy
(too burnt for me, but I know you like it that way).
I'd pull all of the mangoes and oranges and grapefruit out of the fridge,
and use that Jack LaLanne Power Juicer,
you know,
the one that we haven't used since it arrived on our porch.
There will be too much pulp for you,
but you'll drink it anyway.
I would finish up by brewing your favorite coffee-
isn't it that Columbian kind?-
and wake you with the smell wafting through the apartment
(like those Maxwell House commercials).
You would come downstairs wondering what was going on,
and where I was,
since I am never out of bed before you.
And you would see a table covered in food
with me ironing all of your work shirts for the next week.
It would be so **** we'd make love right there,
on the dining room floor
ignoring the food that was quickly becoming too cold to enjoy.
And then I would erase it all
and leave you.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
Some place
Some time
There was a tea shop.
Open not just in the mornings,
But at noon and the evenings too.
Mornings, the menu read
Uzhunnuvada, idli,dosa,
Uppuma, vellayappam,idiyappam,
Sambar, payaru curry,kadala
And several chatnis.
Noon, the menu read
Aviyal,achinga,pachadi,
Kichadi,pulisseri,thoran,achar,
And several kinds of buttermilk.
Evenings, the menu read
Sukhiyan, bonda,
Pazhampori, parippu vada, mulaguvada,
Diluted milk, black coffee
And several forms of tea.
There was a cook in that tea shop.
There was an owner for that tea shop.
Both had a son each.
Those boys went to the same school.
They studied in the same class.
They sat on the same bench.
Whenever he was hungry,
One of the boys thought of
The owner of that tea shop.
Eyes widening with admiration for
The great man that he was!
He could eat anything
Whenever he was hungry,
Reaching for it in the container
Or poking his head into the food shelf
Or entering the kitchen itself.
He could take anything,
The boy salivated.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
But, whenever he was hungry,
The other boy thought of
The cook in that tea shop.
He lauded him in awe of
the great man that he was.
He could cook and eat
Anything any time any quantity,
He imagined jealously.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
Wait, don’t leave yet,
Dusting off your bottom
After reading an average poem.
Sighing indepthly
Or grunting lazily
Or belching sourly.
You are free to leave after
Answering a few questions.
Who owns this tea shop actually?
These schoolboys from the tea shop,
Whose sons are they actually?
There is another boy
Besides these two
In this poem!
Who is he?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Stormy Sky!
Buttermilk stained sky.
Almost mackerel.
Scaly streaked.
Stripes in pile of cloudy sky.
Clouds tinged pink.
Textured in cream.
As standing brave sentinels.
Guarding heaven's gate.
Fearsome portent.
A warning to the lofty ships.
Sails lowered.
Make for shore for sure.
Cumbersome cumulus.
Expecting birth of storm to descend.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC