"cookbook" poems
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like recycling scar tissue you refuse to show
Like holding the words to a cookbook containing the recipe for disaster
Like the blood of an open wound placed by the whip of an unruly master
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like when you finally learn the meaning of you reap what you sow
Like a magnificent sand castle washed away by the sea
All the sand becomes one and denies the right to be free
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like the sting from the phrase I told you so
Like a deer caught in headlights frozen dead in it's tracks
Like gazing the stars if we could just climb the smoke stacks
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like excluding truth from what you think you know
Like playing life in a game of poker, and the *** is everything but cheap
Karma has the high hand, face up, read'em and weep
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like running through red lights because all you want is to go
Like a jack of all trades who can't fix his own heart
Like the tortoise that took off before the race even start
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like a hundred oars and no arms to row
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
She knew
It would be good
as she stood
under a sky more colorful than blue.
As she stood
on a threshold of something
that smelled like the silk and satin
he had slept on just the night before,
She hoped for more
than red lights flashing,
than hearts surrounded by fences.
But, she only heard the mashing
of sweetened heartstrings not fully cooked.
If only she had looked
for something more than a cookbook.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
satisfying, slightly sweet
an orange spindle shape
something enjoyable to eat
very good for your health
crunchy in every bite
yet full of robust wealth
to improve your eyesight
with a hard and rough texture
it's green bloomed leafy top
helps balance out its flavor
such a great nutrient to savor
diced, grated, wild or raw
shredded even sliced when fresh
in any cookbook there are so may
ways to prepare this delicious and
enjoyable golden orange vegetable
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
The love of a grandson
to a grandmother
is a special bond.
It cannot be broken.
A grandmother's presence
in the eyes of a grandson
makes him behave
more like he should behave.
He looks up to her.
I look up to you.
I often wonder
what experiences you've gone thorough.
What has made you into the you today?
You've gone through so much yet,
I've only known you
for 22 years of it.
Through that time,
you've shown me
what a great grandparent is.
You attended most of my
Concerts
Plays
and Musicals
with loving support
Every birthday,
Christmas,
Valentine's Day,
and Easter
without ever missing a beat
you would contact me.
I thank you
So
SO
SOOOOOO MUCH!
I often feel guilty
for not always contacting back.
I really need to get better at that.
As a kid
there was nothing better
than looking forward
to your Christmas presents.
The science toys,
the cookbooks,
and of course,
the Hot Wheels.
There was nothing better to me
than knowing
that I would get a new track to put together
or a new car.
As I've matured,
so have the presents.
the Alinea cookbook
is like a sacred document
I look at it often
and it always amazes me.
Thank you for inventing
"Grandma's Orange Stuffing"
Its always my favorite part
of the Thanksgiving feast.
(Way better than dad's)
Although this poem
isn't very poem-y
I hope you enjoy it
for the rest of your life.
You're the only real grandparent I ever had,
and I love you with all my heart.
Thank you for all you've done.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
[Given to Frank Bidart]
You won't become a gourmet* cook
By studying our Fannie's book--
Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House
Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss.
Nevertheless, you'll find, Frank dear,
The basic elements** are here.
And if a problem should arise:
The Soufflé fall before your eyes,
Or strange things happen to the Rice
--You know I love to give advice.
Elizabeth
Christmas, 1971
* Forbidden word
** Forbidden phrase
P.S. Fannie should not be underrated;
She has become sophisticated.
She's picked up many gourmet* tricks
Since the edition of '96.
3.2k
On the floor of the river styx, frogs burrowing peer over muck duvets to watch me press like a violet between the cookbook pages of the water and the land. I went overboard-
I am addicted to the darkness between worlds.
Somewhere above me, I see the moon. She doesn’t try to warn me, she doesn’t bother reminding me that I can’t breathe. Heavy currents like snakes blur her face into fractured crystal tears that wash me over with sweet exasperation.
Sedated by the salt toward the other side, where the ferryman flips my coin and hums a tune without words about all rivers rushing toward the sea.
He doesn’t ask me why I chose this route, just grins a toothless grin
And winks
And tosses my coin into the water
without
So much
As a wish.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
I am so proud to announce my new cookbook
The Four Seasons
Let's cook, lets sing and shout
have fun with each recipe no doubt
oh I so hungry I have went all out
oh my I hope there is no drought...
I need my herbs thats in my garden
so please I cry let it rain, don't let it harden
oh yes dear Lord give me a pardon
where my veggies can grow but not random .....
To make all our foods
so delicious that they include
the best tastes that concludes
our hearts and stomachs so happy to alludes.....
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Well the doctor told me I was out tears ?
The doctors told me I would never sweat again ?
I am 10 lbs UNDER weight & will never gain it back ?
I won't regain a lot of lost muscle ,so I won't be able to lift 200lbs again ?
My appetite is 1/2 what it has been my whole life?
My blood ,heart,other parts ,fat,cholesterol etc. are as good as a teenagers?
My credit will straighten back out this yr.:)
I think the cost savings in KLEENEX,DEODORANT,FOOD, & then knowing I can't lift means my back won't hurt,saves ON CHIROPRACTORS and PAIN KILLERS :)
Plain food tastes "fine" now I can sell off my cookbook & kitchen junk collection:)
I have missed out 30 yrs of junk food , I might as well go for it now :)
with that cost saving and a small loan I can pay off another house & paint it PINK just to freak the neighbors out :):)
Hey I am "POSITIVE" that is a good side to be on :) R.C.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
A picture of us
sits next to your bathroom sink.
I saw it as I rummaged
through cabinets
looking for toothpaste:
I was sunburned, wearing braces,
and you held a wooden spoon
with the same smile,
crooked nose,
and bushy eyebrows
in the kitchen.
You would come home early,
I would chop
onion and garlic,
garlic and onion,
to Metallica blaring
on your stereo.
We can stir the ***
until our hands blister,
but something added
cannot be removed.
There was the summer
we built model rockets,
the summer you took me to meet
our family in Greece,
and all those summers
we ate Krispy Kreme and fished.
I didn’t become an astronaut,
I didn’t learn Greek,
I threw up over the side of the boat,
but because you came home early
so many days in a row – just for me –
that was my favorite summer.
Today, over the
chop-chop-sizzle
in a broken-in kitchen
we fill a stained cookbook
with dog-ears,
small adjustments.
The same ingredients
never taste the same way twice.
We reclaim a day
out of years lost.
Then that photo
by your sink.
It was a small
Father’s Day gift,
survivor of four moves
and twelve years
of self-discovery,
still reminding you – and me –
of summers spent
breaking in kitchens
and recipes
we’ve been making for years.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
What are the words cooking?
The flavor you add
Telling the story your fab
Your words being the ingredient on the grill
The concept you set at will
The emotion captured being a thrill
Your words having a roast
The dialog that everyone will boost
Imagine your poetry being the cookbook known coast to coast
This is an outstanding achievement at most
It’s a feast illustrating in your own words
You heard!
Just bring your words and the reader will bring their ears
A chance to open the reader’s mind
Having a strategy all combined
Win the reader over
Your confidence the reader will discover
A discovery at the BBQ that everyone will be talking about
It won’t be a theory perhaps stuck in a bout
But it is words that can
Assurance that will
Yet confident still
Words grilled to perfection and just right
Having those very words that will crave the reader’s appetite.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
We're all ingredients in the humanity stew
The sad clowns
The prescription abusers
The chickens running around without their heads
This dish can never be out done
It's killing me
Ashes from Pompeii
The braces of teenage heart throbs
****** black and blues from abusive relationships
Fill the pots and pans
A homemade meal per say
Chain linked sausage fences
Add some Epsom salt
Some beef chuck
Giblets
And Simonides of Ceos
Daphoenus bones
A dentist and a retainer
Cornets, pirouettes and percocets
Awkward magazine subscriptions
You can buy the cookbook in all its opacity
See it in the Intrepid Museum
There is work to be done on Mount Olympus
Therefore we should go see a movie at the drive in
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I remember
(as though it were yesterday,
though it was far longer ago) -
He was clean shaven
with sparkling hazel eyes
and far more worldly than I.
He remembers
(when pressed)
I wore a skirt
that was just barely too short
and my legs shook from cold
as we talked.
I remember
(better on some days than others)
his love for alternative rock
and his fascination
with rebelling quietly
against social norms.
He liked to cook,
he told me -
The Anarchist Cookbook -
and laughed.
He remembers
(without hesitation)
the way my eyes
softened just before
our lips first touched
and how my hair
in the breeze
caught the fading sunlight.
I remember
(without fail)
the late night screams
in frustration of his
hatred of gender bias
and his inability to ever
not be brutally
honest.
He remembers
(with distinct pleasure)
the mid-day screams
of passion
and the feeling
of my skin against his;
my breath on his cheek.
I envy
the way he can
focus
on remembering
only the good;
albeit none of the
substance.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 7:40 PM UTC
Well Alice looked in the cookbook for a new dish
The night before, it became her wish
But what could Alice prepare
However, I offer a word of caution in beware
Alice found a dish to serve her guest
If anything, find a good restaurant that should be the request
The cookbook with Stuffed Rice and Chicken
The name sounds worth eating
However, I just saw the chicken dash out the door
I guess the chicken felt I he will not be anybody’s guinea pig to explore
So that was his chance to run out and ignore
This was something the chicken couldn’t take anymore
Alice may have to serve the guest toast
But I can assure you the guest will have a lot to boast
Perhaps word of mouth being coast to coast
A cookbook is something one creates
But not eat at your own risk and discover why you were sick from what you ate
This is your time to make a quick exit before it is too late
Excuse yourself and perhaps reschedule another date
But that would require you to participate
But the best thought is run for your life
Don’t even wait to get advice
You don’t want to know what else could possibly be left in the kitchen
A dish being an unknown that no one seems to want to eat
It’s like a competition, but in this case, no one wants to compete
So Wendy’s said, “Drop in and have a Hamburger”
Yet eat while you can
As for a cookbook dish, don’t eat until when
At this point, I have reached my end.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
So this is the spine:
The cover is made of the songs you played
The blank pages carries the shadows of the time that passed by
I've sewed it with memories that stuck
You are gone; I am hurt
I've got a brand new cookbook
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
I found a letter my mother wrote to my sister in her old cookbook;
”Lock the front door and go to bed in my bed – I will call you - Mom.”
If I could just go back for a moment to that time and that place - our small house with the gold painted walls - my mom walking up the steps, coming home from work in her nurse¹s cap.
Just one more day, sitting at the dining room table, the open window at my back letting in the late summer heat, the early evening light, the droning of a lawn mower. The six of us at the crowded table, spread with the summer food - slices of tomato, baked beans, cottage cheese, iced tea in a ceramic jug.
Just one more night, out on the front curb, listening to the whispering adults on the front porches; lying back in the cool grass, watching the fireflies, waiting for something ominous to move in the night sky.
There was no time without my mother then - and it’s true - she will always be there.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
I'm finding out
Growing up to be an adult
Is a lot like cooking
And boy, am I a horrible chef
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Your resume has spoken
And everybody cracked
under the pressure of holding it back
Because this right here is what you call
A cookbook
Where like-minded fools can read and understand.
Look,
Your history grade is historical
Critical thinking astronomical
I'm lol-ing right now over the joke you've grown up to be
Unable to understand any text hidden between the lines,
Your beauty hidden behind the vines.
Copyright borderline infringing, certain words not phrases
Th-th-the laughter. Its killing me!
Oh Dear Martha.....
HA HA HA Haaaaallelujah
Your face..... so stoic
Or maybe its my reflection bouncing of your heart
Ironic
that you even have one
Did you steal it? Or buy it?
Cuz the last time i checked the bank never had
Any money you kept because everything was spent
On time the-watcha-ma-call it-
Greatest Investment?
Withdraw from the process of creativity:
fixing and healing broken things that had nothing to do with your years
you can't have it all, that's the world of reality.
My oh my
I should've given an "F" a few doors ago (a long while it's been)
otherwise B. S. Relations wouldn't be so bad
not to mention the problem with your height:
You inability for growth
and be able to see from the other side.
Dear dear dearest Martha,
I'm sorry...
Please do accept this "letter of apology"
take this as your first lesson in the workplace,
*(take it from me however you want it
I've been through the darkest and the brightest)*
there's the door.
"Next!"
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
The only thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that love is inescapable.
Love will find you. Find you naked, shaking in your darkest caverns clinging to heartbreak and faded polaroids with trembling hands. Find you locked up in towers fortified with fear. Find you upside-down. Find you alone once again walking the streets at one in the morning praying for street lights to fade behind you. Find you standing before tombstones or ice cream trucks or a preacher man. Find you hiding from your mother or God or both. Love will find you.
Love will take you. Take you to the place you parked your car that night and noticed for the first time the way their skin in the moonlight had the unspoken power to shatter your own. Take you through the annals and ventricles of your heart and peel away at the scars like super-glued band-aids. Take you to the hills and home again. Love will take you.
Love will bind you. Bind you to your family like the pages in the cookbook your mother used to prepare your favorite meal. Bind you to the girl who makes you shake when she's cold or the boy with eyes warm and clear blue like hot springs. Bind you to yourself. Love will bind you.
Love will break you. Break you down to jigsaw puzzle pieces your grandparents attempt on Friday nights, hands shaking with arthritis, and leave you incomplete. Break you away from your callused convictions and shove a blunt fist into your softest spots and leave you covered in scratches. Break you the way earthquakes break buildings or alcohol breaks families and bones; unforgivably, irreparably. Love will break you.
Love, desperate and strong, simple and tenacious, fiery and fierce.
Love will find you, take you, bind you, and break you.
And you will not escape.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Open up a can of humans into bowl.
Add dashes of corruption and manipulation.
With a cup of the government, pour it slowly and discrete.
Dont forget to add money, taxes, high politics.
With a bag of bullets,
Drop about 20 deaths per minute.
You will need 2 tablespoons of police brutality, child abuse, ****
3 cups of pollution and overcrowd toxic factories.
With spatula,
Flip over green gardens and wildlife.
Flatten it with concrete and buildings.
Chop up living creatures and get rid of any access fresh produce.
Add this to the chain of fast foods and overly priced merchandize.
While stirring, don't forget to add rigged votes.
Once mixed, bake in tanning bed till fake golden brown.
Make sure it isn't black.
Let it rise, but not plus size.
Take it out and stagger around it putting it on social media,
Retweeting, tagging, sharing, liking.
Let it cool then glaze it with conspiracy theories then you're done.
Enjoy America.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.
The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and wore her wedding dress early.
The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
And another day starts pushing
first poetry like lines
from a retired Marine
Larkin cookbook who stops
singing because I asked
if he was Army
I've never heard Das Veilchen
but Mädchen hitch hiked to hear
Reggae Prince far wide beat
in and around
Aalen perhaps the softest sound
from a Brother I've never
heard or had.
Joan and her Wild punk song really
icon and cult forms
from Assisi 142
Mercy mercy was
it my whole faith then
and now
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
I can't remember the last time
I dreamed
And that makes me sad
Almost nostalgic
For those days when my brain was too full
To not dream
Those days that marked me
Colored me full
Colored me pretty
And interesting
Like the pages of a printed
Special movie edition book
Now I'm more like
An old leatherbound cookbook
Beaten and worn from past usage
Torn pages
Yellowed corners
Used
But might as well be empty because I am used no more
Full of beautiful recipes and possibilities
But too weak and fallen apart
To be reconsidered
I can't remember the last time I laughed
With someone who understands me
With someone who couldn't say
"Oh that's so funny"
When I tell a joke that's not
And instead berates me
For being so lame
But in a loving way
But this does not make me nostalgic
Because you always find someone better
People come and go
So do dreams I suppose...
Somehow it's different
Somehow it's not the same
I need to have dreams to know I'm still alive inside
And people can only prove I've got a physical body
That's all
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Chill baby, it's the all acoustic set. Going home for the holidays.
A few laughs with Pops,
And never mind the drumsticks, her comes the *******
Here comes weeping
In a Shiite village,
400 dead in Sadr City,
And pass me the yams.
Did you see that interception?
Here comes the 3rd and long.
Here the sun falls away
In the twilight of winter.
I dream the Electro Light Fantastic. I'll see ghosts in
The mirror when I'm dreaming. None the wiser,
I saw it in fits and starts.
Better than waking on
New Year's morning in jail with the crazy lady 2 cells over yelling for a cigarette
Every twenty minutes
" Officer, can I have a cigarette?" I want to tell her
To shut up, Instead I ask
Her to get me one too.
And then I knew it's all come round.
Young and Stupid reporting for duty.
Not that it's my rag mag
Sad rag, nothing doing while
I try these new wings on for size. Its just the all acoustic set in a world of static.
Hazy cigarette voices
In trebelo. Though I threw
It out with the cookbook,
I have it all hanging on my sleeve. I thought it was all the rage. Later I found it was
Taxing on my soul.
This all acoustic set, away from the city lights and cyberspace. Left to one's devices, one sinks further into the page. What do you
Expect when candlelight
Falls across the flickering wall?
Two league below, a U Boat
Swims the Atlantic, Lost
In possibilities. Some mind
When I'm tongue tied like a lizard.
Kinda brings up Helsinki,
And she comes in all bells
And whistles. Me, I'm
All acoustic, something like a blank face, Low on cash
And overdrawn on character.
And the sun lights before
Columbus dragging up the rear. Man these ghosts
Linger in the hallway,
But it's better than crashing
The car into the statue
One Thanksgiving Eve.
The all acoustic set says
Death is a bore, Especially
After the ride in From France
I gave up meat some time ago, I gave up on you after
I got to the moon.
Well, it gets me out of the sun awhile. We'll get better when
The world catches up.
Sorry I changed the end around, but I thought it
Was the only out of Knoxville
Never mind The sage gravy,
I've got to tighten the lug nuts. A tither, but nothing on the rent.
And Hitchcock does the math,
While I corkscrew around the truth. While others weep
I dream of women laying in the sun. I guess it's better than ice cream in the rai n.
Who said pumpkin pie?
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC