"condiment" poems
What did you do to your hair?
It is not fashion or regarded as a
good sight, for sightseers whom fight
for the best sight to see.
Nor is it complementary to your main meal face,
no condiment would ever accompany you,
let alone a boy in a start of the month, moon-a-new,
relationship-race.
It is not natural, nor be it an attempt to
blend into your surroundings at large,
as a red and blue fringe
will never be camouflage.
So, what did you do to your hair?
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
The tree of knowledge was the tree of reason.
That's why the taste of it
drove us from Eden. That fruit
was meant to be dried and milled to a fine powder
for use a pinch at a time, a condiment.
God had probably planned to tell us later
about this new pleasure.
We stuffed our mouths full of it,
gorged on but and if and how and again
but, knowing no better.
It's toxic in large quantities; fumes
swirled in our heads and around us
to form a dense cloud that hardened to steel,
a wall between us and God, Who was Paradise.
Not that God is unreasonable – but reason
in such excess was tyranny
and locked us into its own limits, a polished cell
reflecting our own faces. God lives
on the other side of that mirror,
but through the slit where the barrier doesn't
quite touch ground, manages still
to squeeze in – as filtered light,
splinters of fire, a strain of music heard
then lost, then heard again.
3.2k
What do I have at my disposal?
A knack for always wanting to write
My intuitive messages down.
But it’s got no substance,
It’s got no meat.
I’m all bread and cheese and
Condiment without any meat.
It’s fitting for a vegan, I suppose,
But not for a poet.
The poet has to lead breadcrumbs
For the reader in order to get to the meat
Of the poem, the substance, the protein.
Where is it?
I’m lacking substance where I have all these
Nice little toppings and sauces and vegetables,
I have a dipping sauce for this sandwich,
But no meat!
I have to go to the store,
I have to keep honing my skill.
I have to develop a hunger for meat.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
I am mustard
sometimes spicy
sometimes sweet
attached at the heart
and limbs
to my other half
when not alone.
At first glance
I appear monotone
but with more of me
you experience a mixture of my
browns and oranges and yellows
previously believed non-existent.
I am ketchup
emotions dipped and pulled out of me
like fingers;
my dark red self sometimes
hidden behind brighter colors
meant to attract.
As a condiment
I am always there
available for your use
as a compliment or enrichment
but never a main dish.
Sometimes I am squeezed
from my small plastic comforts
thereby forcing me into the unknown
to which I respond as
nothing but a watery blob.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
Fill my craving with your zesty rind
In the mist of my longing, come splashing
Ingest my inn with your piquant smiles
Will you rain like dew for my pipe is parched?
Drizzle my windows with decorative light and
Melt your *** in that multihued bend
Be my condiment in this insipid snack
But preserve your liquiscent state
No! Not in the canister
Who says this dye belongs to Freud?
After you entice my eyes and tongue.
Then citrus filled my air now back to stanza one.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
The jungle drums beat
With a maniacal fervour
And their secret shame
Becomes fodder for the masses,
The hidden cannibalistic tendencies
Of our kind,
Ignorant of dignity's
Desperate struggle to survive.
Pride becomes a common condiment
And the ravenous hunger
To belittle others
Is sated at last.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
The guy at the diner failed to mustard Jake's hot dog
As he was eating it he felt as cold as a marsh frog
Yucky was the flavor without condiment
Chomping it down, a tasteless torment
As the fries on his plate were doing the backstroke
Having a jolly swim day in a puddle of oil
Asked for industrial towels to wipe up the slick
Before it caught wind of the Environmentalists
A complaint has been filed about their bill of fare
Nothing served over the counter would we wish to share
Placards will be shown over the Diner's facade
Warning customers of this ecological disregard
They won't water down their words like the Diner their drinks
Before you enter in you'll stop and think
About the Blue Plate Special with Salmonella on the side
Do you prefer your Botulism broiled or would you like it fried
Gastronomic delights such as they will make you pay
A stint in the infirmary is sure to come your way
With a tossed salad of pain, relievers, and antibiotics
Which none of the above will be deliciously exotic
If you can take the cooks looks and stomach the smells
Along with the service that's slower than snails
There's normally a coupon in the daily mail
Buy one get one free!
Ahhhh.....what the hell
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Activate prior knowledge,
like a tumor that resembles
a painting of Churchill,
circumlocution
more like an echolocution…
or is it echolocation,
perhaps electrocution?
The sigils of universal coincidences
have finally revealed themselves.
They’re aligning for you
right this very second.
A hair from your head
laying in the bathtub
that reminds
you of a letter
from a long forgotten
language.
A random pattern of a scratch
on your arm from a outstretched
coat hanger in a department store.
An odd configuration of blood
on your arm after you dispense
a pesky mosquito.
A rorschached blob of a condiment
on your favorite shirt.
It’s out there trying to tell
you something very important.
There.
In those things lies the truth.
As much as you don’t want to
believe in it…
As much as you want to
deny it.
It will not live
up to your
memory of it later
on.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
and
The pickles
on the shelves
in the condiment aisle
are readying
themselves
for the winter
The half-sours
stand at attention
The garlics stand
at parade rest
Dill chips are
stacked so
their eyes cannot see
out the jar
Mrs. Smith's bread & butter
pickles will not be on sale
again until late Spring
(so tasty are these)
What a long cold winter
awaits those
underachieving cucumbers
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Deep inside the mind the same thing tries to find a way out
What else is possible in the present with regards to an uncertain future?
Answer remains the same
Future is somewhat uncertain
Always it’s the present that shapes the future, even if the mind has a desire for something else in an uncertain future.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
Breakfast salt served with honey on
Is a surprising treat to my tastebuds
So I'm looking forward to lunch
When honey hits the spot so perfectly
Who thought meat would take it so well?
So tough choice to make come tea
With what to take this condiment?
It's too versatile
All I know is
Tea will be served sweet
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Have you seen her yet?
haven’t you still met?
the little girl that you bet
would grow up to be
a woman
your favorite object?
So she could marry
a man whose beard
covers his double chin
and whose hair likens
grayish and doddering lint?
so she could be a
piñata doll to the cane?
a helpless dame
to scoundrels who became
guiltless sinners
only to taste her breast
and spit on her shame?
When will you see her?
this damsel you’ll set
soon in distress
but in the mind of whose
you’ll set a dream of
turning her into a mistress?
You must be quite sly
you’ll surely agree
in your little trap
she is much liable to sink
that she can be as strong
as a man or even Hercules
but would she know
that there would be
no one
when she would feel
human and cry
barely a soul around her
to hear her pleas?
That she is to trick
herself into faking
her real sentiment
into a heartfelt grin
because she will be
nothing
but a smiling condiment
amid the flavorless crowd
because how else can
she make you proud?
Will you tell her
that she was born
with her skin
not to cover her body
but to cover it again
by animal silk?
or better yet,
cotton, jute or laced pink?
That just a glimpse
of her ravishing thigh
can cause an ********
a sublime indication
of a man’s lusted high?
What about the time
when she would shudder
with desire
of feeling love
in its prime?
Or when she would
want to fly across the seas
and the mountains?
Would you simply
push her within
a four walled room
and shut the doors
while she rips the curtains?
Would you let her
learn to write
with a pencil
or make her sit
by the stove
by the window
in deadly still
while growing men
learn how to pay a bill
how to exercise a will
and gasp at life’s thrill?
She would still be a girl
if she came into this world
you made for yourself
a precious pearl
you’d only carve her into a stone
so she could be unfurled
to the wind and the perils
of man
Because you barely built
a world for her
along with him
together
little would she know
that we live in a
man’s deadly clan.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
i don't quite know
how possible it
is to psychoanalyze yourself
to figure out the tender reasons
why you place people so
delicately on your plate
making sure the mashed potato
man and baby corned tooth
woman don't touch
like sticking a fork in
yourself trying to
pull out how she
made you feel
in 6 words or less
the language gettting
muddled like word salad
that only you can understand
eating and loving
becoming synonymous
like you asking me if
i (still) love you
and drowning my
chicken in the fiercest
bbq sauce
it's fleshy white
skin
crying out like
a blemish
on history with
no take-backs
like using
every condiment
and coping mechanism
trying to cleanse
my pallete of
you
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
*We must take life indiscriminately for nourishment , has Earth been used for this purpose
Content in the Milky Way yet trapped in some cosmic food chain
Seeded , cultivated , harvested , stored
ingested , wasted and forgotten
A condiment grown in some celestial
garden
A spice to tickle some alien palate or its
'Blood thirsty dietary practice'
A cheeseburger under the lights
A Slim Jim at the Five and Dime* ...
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
How can one be simultaneously emotionally barren yet still feel?
When it all comes to a crescendo and the ****** is resolved
I find a sweet release coupled with a bitter after taste
As the fascinating flavor remains constant on my tongue
I try to release, to interpret, to feel, to taste normally
To rid my tongue, my heart, of this inevitable condiment
Yet it remains, it lingers, as thorn in my neck
To remind me of the days of frolicking in the garden
And of being the one red rose in a field of weeds
But pity did I know, that my leaves fell, my petals became discolored, and my stem leaned to a side
And soon I too was encompassed in weeds
Pity did I know, that all the weeds I saw before, were once roses
How ironic
And I join them as another arises
One that started as a suspicious bud
Yet it blossomed unbothered
And became a beautiful white rose, in a field of weeds.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
Dissapointment
Comes and goes
Condiment
Just flows
No one cares
They just walk away
It just like rotten pairs
Distastful
Scream for help
Nobody turns
Then a dog yelp
Then they turn
When i talk
Nobody listen
Im just a wall
A petition
Everything an obstical
Absruction, impediment, hindrace
A barrier
A trouble
It's distress
It's frustation
Sometimes iys anxity
Sometimes its shy but insucure
No diligence
No perseruance
No industry
No vigor
No carefulness
No intensity
No attention
No care
Not evedigent or painstacking
It's all
Its dissappointment
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
What I've Got,
I've got a lot
I got a third chance
to Resurrect my Life
Around Two People
Who Love Me, Love Me a Lot
In the Norhwest Heaven,
Heaven sent
A Chance to Reunite
with my Mother, she and I are just now getting a Chance
to get to Know each other.
My Mother's Husband is a Trip
An air of Fresh Breath,
a Mint Condiment
A House of Loving Animals,
Quite a Variety, I might add
A Place to Open my Spirit to Nature's Wonder,
To Let Her In, Hear Her Plea
Walk along within Her Comfort
And get to know the Inner Me
God bless, I've Got A lot.
{ My Poetry Home is not forgotten, I have been transformed by my online Family, I really Appreciate all the comfort and wisdom}
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
A guru supplies wisdom willingly
as if its nourishment offered
with no calories.
As if Guru's
smile is condiment,
honor is bread,
and chips are his hug.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 11:45 AM UTC
The art invention AI, the Allsay, I'll-gorithm,
Aiaia ai
let me say this is poetry, I did not write,
but found
enlightening:
*dhe-
*dhē-,
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to set, put."
It forms all or part of:
abdomen; abscond; affair; affect
(v.1) "make a mental impression on;"
affect
(v.2) "make a pretense of;"
affection; amplify; anathema; antithesis;
apothecary;
artifact; artifice;
beatific; benefice; beneficence; beneficial; benefit;
bibliothec;
bodega; boutique;
certify;
chafe; chauffeur;
comfit; condiment; confection; confetti; counterfeit;
deed; deem; deface; defeasance; defeat; defect; deficient;
difficulty; dignify; discomfit; do (v.);
doom; -dom;
duma;
edifice; edify;
efface; effect; efficacious; efficient;
epithet;
facade; face; facet; ******
-facient;
facile; facilitate; facsimile; fact;
faction (n.1) "political party;"
-faction;
factitious; factitive; factor; factory;
factotum; faculty; fashion; feasible; feat; feature;
feckless; fetish;
-fic;
fordo; forfeit;
-fy;
gratify;
hacienda;
hypothecate; hypothesis;
incondite; indeed; infect;
justify;
malefactor; malfeasance;
manufacture;
metathesis;
misfeasance;
modify; mollify;
multifarious;
notify;
nullify;
office; officinal;
omnifarious;
orifice;
parenthesis;
perfect;
petrify;
pluperfect;
pontifex;
prefect;
prima facie;
proficient; profit; prosthesis; prothesis;
purdah; putrefy;
qualify;
rarefy;
recondite; rectify; refectory;
sacrifice;
salmagundi;
samadhi;
satisfy;
sconce;
suffice; sufficient;
surface; surfeit;
synthesis;
tay;
ticking (n.);
theco-; thematic; theme; thesis;
verify.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by:
Sanskrit dadhati "puts, places;"
Avestan dadaiti "he puts;"
Old Persian ada "he made;"
Hittite dai- "to place;"
Greek tithenai "to put, set, place;"
Latin facere "to make, do; perform; bring about;"
Lithuanian dėti "to put;"
Polish dziać się "to be happening;"
Russian delat' "to do;"
Old High German tuon,
German tun,
Old English don "t
dondiddondondon just the facts.
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like an alien,
Flying in my little spaceship,
Searching for a place to call my home,
Somewhere to call my own.
I must be from another planet.
What’s normal here,
Isn’t normal to me,
It fills me with fear,
That abnormality,
Isn’t so strange anymore,
How horrid.
Spite and strife,
Common friends,
Together until the end.
Such cruelty,
The normality,
Of hate and evil glee,
At the sacrifice of someone’s purity.
I know humor is subjective,
But I think objectively,
Some things are just not funny,
And shouldn’t have jokes made to laugh at.
Is that so revolutionary?
Does it ever seem to you,
That people are becoming crueler?
Is it just me?
I hope I’m wrong.
Video after video,
Of people whining and complaining,
And screaming at the waiter,
Cause they didn’t get,
The correct,
Amount of the condiment they ordered.
Fights in the streets,
Over petty disagreements.
Road rage at an all-time high,
Why?
People make mistakes,
They do it all the time,
**** it up,
Grow up,
And move on with your life!
I wonder,
What planet I came from,
Cause it sure wasn’t here.
That could be,
The reason,
Why I feel no one gets me,
We are two different species….
Society just loves to complain,
About how things aren’t that great,
But instead of changing anything,
They’ll just complain.
Always putting someone down,
To push them up,
The cowards!
Always easier to hurt another,
When you can’t look in their eyes.
Type your hatred down,
Send it in an instant,
Can’t take it back,
Don’t feel regret now.
I question,
My origin,
Because I refuse to believe,
That I am,
A part,
Of whatever we try to be…
I’ll put a drop in the bucket,
In the hope that,
Kindness will overflow,
And overthrow,
The darkness,
One day…
Sometimes I feel like an alien,
Looking for a home,
Somewhere to call my own…
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 5:59 PM UTC
Words scatter in my mind and I get this image
of a girl.
White dress.
Beauty curls her hair for her and the sun shines her sidewalk.
But the sidewalk wants to eat her.
Take her white dress as a condiment and her beauty as a side dish.
She crosses a crack
Feels it open beneath her feet, but precious to her mother, she leaps.
A back is safe,
A girl stays beautiful,
And a sidewalk starves.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
Enthralled by freedom; Enchanted by
Ourselves. Beauty was its condiment to
Lionize all of which we were co-creators
Of and thereby honor the majesty of play.
A wondrous thing layer upon layer
We wove an artificial world into a
Masterpiece fit for kings-it was so
Much greater than the world we
Knew, filled with inspiration, and
Rich in complexity, superbly colored.
It commanded stay here! Live here!
It can be yours forever. But it was
Not to be. The afternoon grew late.
The dusk of evening covered us in
Shadows. My friend or was it I
Said: One more act then it is all
Complete and we never need leave.
Was it I or he that said no it all must
End-Mother and Father wait and
The table is set and our play is over.
The common place always brings
Us back and we remember our duty
Is not to the enchanted land. Did I
Or you stay on alone I do not know.
It is but a play and as the Bard has
Said Signifies nothing the characters
Like us return to dust with all their
Pomp and glory but still we yearn to
Play again like Twain to dream a better
Dreams; for the plays the thing...and
Though it must end still we hear its call
For Eternal youth is its long sought goal.
Indeed it is our duty to be born again.
For Mom & Dad
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
Agatha Abernathy slapped clay on a wheel and spun with her bare hands all manner of things to hold in your mind. She slept through thunderstorms as if a storm front were a blanket. There was no such thing as too many cats; and marmalade was a condiment.
Agatha had nothing to say.... And nothing to keep to Herself.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
I know happiness because I have shared the bed with Mr.McSorrow, and gave birth to ‘little anxiety’, who grew up to be Mr. Panic.
Panic, he shakes his sweaty hand every morning, but when he was the ‘Little Anxy’, he played in the park alone..may be some day with the ‘Kid Lonely’..
Like his Daddy ‘Mr. McSorrow’, he knew how to run and hide, but never learnt well enough, to cry when under the bed..not a sign from his mother, you would recon..
I know Mr. Happiness, this is why I know him, because he is that guy who I bumped into at the condiment aisle..
Met him at the condiment aisle, because I’m ‘Mrs. Wimpy’, who is right playing ‘Ms. Smiles’..
Ms. Smiles is special, she is an alter of Mrs. Wimpy who avoids crying, and in the condiment aisle, she lurks..
Lurks there long to meet new men like Mr. Adventure and Mr. Music.. oh! Also, Mr. TapDance....he’s the best one, you see !
So today, it’s Mr. Happiness himself..
And we all know Mr. Happiness and Ms. Smiles are meant to be..
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC