"chefs" poems
They grace our tables
with their elegance and their beauty,
Support us in our careers
as though it was their duty,
They listen to our problems
day after day,
The same old problems,
They´ve been listening to since May,
Chefs, accountants, nannies and councillors
are just a few of their talents.
And when things are hectic
they mostly keep their balance.
And what do they get
when they've worked a long hard day.
I'll tell you something gents
they don't ask for any pay.
So how can we show gratitude for what is clearly so demanding.
Its quite simple
Gentlemen, please be upstanding,
The Ladies
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:35 AM UTC
I went to the Cordon Bleu
And my name is Pierre
I work in the kitchen
I’m a French chef extraordinaire
With fine French food
My name is synonymous
But I am an addict
I attend McDonalds Anonymous
When I make a quiche
I just want to hug it
But I keep getting cravings
For a Chicken McNugget
Fast food or French food
I am conflicted
Fast food or French food
Yes I am addicted
The 12-step program
Keeps me on track
I have to fight my desire
To binge on Big Mac
I pretend I’m a food snob
My life’s full of lies
When I buy burgers
I must wear a disguise
I should come out of the closet
Admit my transgressions
Then they would accept me
For my fast food obsessions
Maybe the other chefs
Would heap me with praise
If I smothered my Big Macs
With Sauce Hollandaise
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the story of two lonely souls....
Who found each other, without cajoles...
Neither had ever had a mate....
Yet Jack and Gill decided to date.....
They felt an instant connection....
As both were Chefs and had a fixation....
One for Chicken the other for Bacon....
And so decided to take their direction....
From what they had learned in life....
Party animals that they were....
And perhaps now you can concure.....
Their feelings for each other....
Was so far from any another....
People just didn’t understand....
Why when they walked, it was always hand in hand....
They never strayed and held tight to their ways....
Believing their world was just another phase....
But eventually the world would accept you see....
That what they had was called * “ smaltzy “....
*Yiddish word for rendered chicken / animal fat or a garish over the top fancy party...
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying ****
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
and addiction.
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already hooked on the dark.
So lock the door
&
draw the curtains
&
be content.
The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
because
hunger
is BIGGER
and eventually
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
like Hiroshima
force fed the sun
because
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.
Be content
for the civilians and their children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
dead mothers
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
topples families,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
nobody.
Be content
for the people
who aren't
you because when parents ******* in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the ****** business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence
in crossing.
Mothers may find safe shelter in the sewers
but it reeks of prepackaged liberty
express delivery
to
every where.
Be content.
Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to ******* a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
than
to
be
content.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie
He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss
So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.
“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”
No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way
So what he did next
was truly “the ****
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.
This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland
Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”
He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”
“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”
So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Morton’s Veloute
Ought to be silky
He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.
It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon
He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits
It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”
“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick
“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”
“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”
“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”
Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”
“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar
After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk
By Aknier ~this is fictional~
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
Green
Refreshing
Maturing to become
Grains that will feed us
WIth the sweat of the farmer
WIth the tears of the widows and daughters
WIth the sorrow of the indebted ..
WIth the curse of the deprived and downtrodden..
We don't see the stories behind the scene
We relish the fancy recipes of the Master Chefs
Of fragrant rice, golden rice and the slim and slender grains
We forget the dark, thin, slender bodies who make it for us...
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
I miss getting way too ******
in chefs corner
and i miss giving way too many ***** about school spirit
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
A hand-shaped heritage,
it opened its huge palm
and waved at us,
welcoming us in
It made us farmers
It made us chefs
It made us factory workers
It made us business owners
and inventors
It gave us higher education
to dream taller and wider
It bridged the gap
between two peninsulas
to include everyone
It smiled upon me,
and patted me on the back
"Well done, lady poet
Well done"
Nov 24, 2009
Nov 24, 2009 at 11:52 AM UTC
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Imagine the outrage
If a band, all-male members,
Refuse to play tunes
for the opposite gender.
Imagine the uproar
The venue would face
For excluding a half
of their customer base.
“It’s rank discrimination!”
The ladies would moan.
If the males got to listen
while the girls stayed at home.
Yet the Bulletproof Stockings,
That band that wears wigs,
Exclude guys from their concerts
Not just chauvinist pigs.
“It’s a matter of Faith!”
The girl band members say;
No guys at their gigs!
No men hear them play.
Yet I’ve heard pious Pastry chefs
Don’t get to choose.
If gay brides want a cake
It’s a crime to refuse.
An Orthodox authoress
who published a tome
would be most put out
if male buyers stayed home.
So if girl musicians
seek public expression
They ought to think twice
about gender oppression.
Its great that they’re keeping
an orthodox home.
But enough of these concerts
For women alone.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
*'Oh Ainhara, you always seem to know what to
do...'* Esshi chuckles. "Thank you very much.
Have you done the Queen Mother's flower
arrangements?"
"Yes, all of them have been watered and
now they are being placed around the palace."
Esshi nods. "Good. Thank you very much.
Carry on then."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The florist smiles and leaves as Esshi places
the vase down on a clean counter as well as
the inkpot and quill while staring at the
paper.
'What should I say...?' she wonders as
she hears the meat sizzle. Bale is washing
the carrots and potatoes and chopping
them into medium-sized chunks.
Esshi blinks and smiles. 'Got it!'
Folding a paper in half she writes on
the paper, using her best calligraphy.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When she's done, she places the quill
in the inkpot and gently blows the paper.
'Perfect!' Esshi beams. "Bael? Where do
you keep the serving trolleys?"
"In the back!" he says as he pours in
the ingredients into the paella pan
and mixes gently.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi goes to the back room and sees
a rose-silver serving tray with wheels
which she rolls out, placing the
bouquet and note on it while waiting
for Bael and his team to finish cooking.
Bael smiles that proud smile before pouring
some soup into a bowl and placing it on the
serving tray.
"Thank you, Bael."
"Not a problem. Do give our Queen my
regards." he faces his working staff.
"If they're done, bring them over!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Almost instantly, the chefs bring small plates
of their Queen's favourite treats and top it
off, a fresh brew of Jasmine Pearls.
"Thank you all so much." Esshi says gratefully.
"It's our pleasure." A chefs says as Bael
claps.
"Well done, everyone. Now we best get on the
Queen Mother's meals. Go started! I will see
Lady Esshi out."
Esshi covers the food as Bael opens the door
for her to leave. She is stunned to see Ainhara
there.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh my, Bael!" Ainhara smiles at him. "You
certainly worked hard."
"The life of a Chef." he beams. "When you're
done, do come by again. I'll have some meals
waiting for you!" he winks at them and
returns to the kitchen.
"The shipments?" Esshi asks.
"All are being presented, documented and
stored away by the Queen Mother." Ainhara
says. When she sees the flowers, she smiles
and the words on Esshi's note makes her
smile even more.
"Let's make way." Ainhara says as Esshi pushes
the tray behind her, making their way
for the young Queen's chamber.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
This is for all the men
Who tell me I am beautiful
I can't hear you
Through all those years
Of being an ugly duckling
This is for my dog
Big blue eyes
My baby snugglebug
Sniffing for donuts
Chewing my hands in the morning
And the nail biters
And the chefs
Who lose fingers to the meatgrinders
And the farmers
Staking lives
On a drop of rain
I am vain
This is for the men
Who have faith
I am not the ****** Mary
Just another pretty face
Another lacy thong to take off
This is for the underwear makers
The firecrackers
This is for the characters
Who explode in the night sky
Like the fourth of July
And ordinary people
Are blinded by the colors
This is for the mothers
And the big brothers
And the Prozac poppers
This is for the bees that have stung me
I've eaten their honey
And my cakes would not taste
So sweet without it
This is for the surgeons
And musicians
And fishermen
For the men who have bought me dinner
And never seen a return
On their investment
This is for the beards
And chest hair
This is for my little sister
Who is finally growing up
The word "love" on her tongue
And this is for America:
Land of the free
Home of the mancave
Beauty is only as deep
As your mineral rights
The copper and coal mines of your eyes
Beauty flies as high as kite
Melts away like cotton candy
After a baseball game
This is for the men who called me beautiful
For all the beauty in the world
All the beautiful
This is for you
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Gravy boats filled with piping hot gravy
Grand upon a slice of meat
Generous helping must be served
Great times had mopping every morsel off the plate
Gourmet chefs make oodles of it in restaurants
Gluttons woof much into them
Get me some now...
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
addressing my southpaw weakness...
don't know... my left hand is a bit...
weak...
started to train it...
by extinguishing cigarette
butts on each other knuckles...
have two vacant slots to fill...
and plenty of whiskey...
why?
i paid my Shylock...
i was **** with the Gorbachev
**** on my right shoulder blade...
now comes the fun part!
the lesson...
of boxing, with not boxing gloves!
i want the middle finger knuckle
to... hurt... the... the most...
like Tom Waits'
circus narrative...
**** these teenage girls cutting...
how about their start burning
themselves,
with hot, metallic objects?
how's that?
less blood!
ha ha!
two knuckles down...
two to go...
i'm giggling with anticipation...
while, i, eat,
the, pain! ha ha!
who gives a **** about
predictability,
preachers / theologians
or stock brokers?
so who?
the Turkish barbers,
the English tailors,
the French chefs?!
who?
the roof, the roof,
the roof is on fire,
let the ************ burn...
we don't don't need no
water let the ************ burn,
let the ************ burn...
i'm a simpleton...
catch the genie... catch the lamp
sort of scenario...
otherwise?
bon voyage / bon soir /
mon amí!
god, i hate the french!
it's like...
you want to lick them...
face to face...
and then... punch them...
my type of ****** nationalism!
comes the third knuckle...
and the cigarette...
it will be put out onto!
- like an interrogator might...
you show the victim undergoing
the torture, with yourself
prior...
and then?
torture the **** out of them! ha ha!
i.e. who's the buckle,
who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?!
oh please! please!
don't mention the oysters
of the elbow!
have some common decency!
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
A SESTINA FOR BRIAN
How being born on Christmas Day can make
some people think that you have this passion
for being so compassionate and construct
all sorts of things like Christ the Great Carpenter
did for living spaces of all levels
of human dwelling. You have always had to create
things for dwelling spaces and you always change
It’s like you have been going in your innate passion
since you were a baby. I saw you in winter, to make
a snow igloo. You had everything planned and constructed
this igloo right by the side of the house. It had this level
of true sophistication for a boy of your age. You could create
wonderful things: towers and tree forts and then change
to art work to decorate our house.
Brian, I’ve known you to go out of your way to make
breakfast for us. I remember the strange passion
you had and made us peanut butter and banana constructions
of pancakes. You did all sorts of culinary things on the level
of perfection to even make the best chefs just create
something to quench their envy of you. You never change
Now, when you got older, you still possessed this desire to make
you went through Penn State Ogontz and kept up this passion
to create other things and learn enough to construct
buildings but you needed the education to earn a living to create
things with your hard-earned degree and actually change
and re-arrange houses or interior of places on a different level
Why your inner mental and emotional makeup came out in such passion
that all who came into contact with you when you failed to construct
a certain project to your own perfectionistic liking and it made
you very angry and you used such profanity and it just changed
you from this compassionate and soft hearted soul into creating a raving demon out of you.
The way that you used to go out of your way and created
A wonderful family unit from a wife to a pair of children made
you bring out another facet of your personality: the father level
The two children came out of that union as some construct
from your desire to keep on creating through this passion
to keep up on revising and re-building so that you always change
@2006 Linda Barrett
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
Arms
And hands
Scarred by passion.
Cutting
And burning
Just a way of life.
Doing
So much
For so little.
Passion
The way
A chefs life.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
I used to have a lot of bartender friends.
Even tipped them when I could.
Then I stopped missing her.
That girl I thought I had met in a former life.
That line works great by the way.
I used to know a lot of drug dealers on a first name basis.
Still do, I guess.
But I haven't memorized their numbers.
Everything's a distraction.
Still I prefer to hang around chefs.
Get in with them and you're set.
My ex used to say, "a good meal can be better than ***
I'd have to agree with her there.
In the long run,
if you calculate the cost of dinner,
***** endless packs of cigarettes,
diapers, engagement rings,
plan b pills, condoms, apology flowers,
razor blades, caffeine, kitty litter,
mortgage payments, and ****
doing the party's dishes
after gorging on some homemade
hueso de chuleton al chimichurri
is a lot cheaper.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC
It takes about
two hours
to make it through
airport security
nowadays.
If they catch you with
a pair of nail clippers
they beat you
with a rubber hose
in the back room.
Yet in every terminal Ive been in
they sell ceramic mugs.
You ever broke a ceramic mug?
That **** is crazy sharp.
I mean they make those Japanese
super sharp chefs knifes outta the ****
And I cant bring a ******
disposable razor with me.
Security my ***
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
They're warm
In the winter
**** good
With a splinter
And far better chefs
Than the men
They're sweet
And sincere
They look great
From the rear
I'd like
A nice harem
Of ten
:-))))
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC