"crockpot" poems
I am not sure if you enjoy stew or not. But it's one of my favorite things.
You take some of your favorite meat and bring it to a simmer, along with a couple vegetables and a couple seasonings.
Chopped up nice in a good chicken or beef broth. coming together to make something new. Made thick with a little water, a little flour.
Especially on cold days. You can't go wrong with A beef or vegetable stew. Though there is no wrong or right time to eat a good stew.
There really isn't a recipe you can follow unless there is one you really just want to try. I mean it's a stew come on and live a little. That's why it's one of my favorite foods. The amount of creativity and what you can add to it.
Today I'd like you to try one.
I want you to take some of your one of a kindness and a couple of smiles. Season them with a little of the way you inspire those around you. A couple of your laughs and smiles and throw it in this crockpot that we call life. And
If you feel like sharing I'll bring a spoon and eat from the bowl of your hands
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
Shake the demon lover
in the effulgent post-Chelyabinsk world,
where death breathes you back
into yourself and backwards you walk
through those coupled images, so posed,
charged with feigned desire,
the lighting just right,
the angle meticulous,
smushing foreheads with golden rings
on your fingers.
You had a dog.
You had a crockpot.
A kid was on the way.
Shake the demon lover,
rip yourself from her arts district loft,
where the music is in French and always beautiful,
glide down the rusted rails,
cruise past the headshops, the pawnshops,
say the word Tuesday and wonder if it means anything
other than the third day of the week.
You shared a bed.
You shared a bed.
You shared a bed.
Shake the demon lover
and her words track you,
her text reads,
"Come over, friend."
And she calls you friend,
she shouts you friend,
she pants you friend,
as you end the affair for
the sixth, seventh, eighth
time, one last couch
**** and never speak
to me again.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
1 cup jitters
3 cups drained confidence
6 stalks worry, finely chopped
2 tablespoons crushed hope
6 cups toxic shock
2 slices defrosted denial
1 leaf shredded Roe v. Wade
6 seared As-salāmu ʿalaykum
1 can LGBT despair
3 pints refried refugees
Marinated anger
DACA pain
Stir jitters and confidence to coat.
Sauté worry, blend shock and denial.
Combine dread and crushed hope.
Transfer all to a crockpot.
Fold in Roe v. Wade.
Cook on high for 6 hours.
Pour stew into large bowl.
Garnish with grief.
Serve with side of pain
and salad tossed with anger.
Open a bottle of What To Do Next.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
This poem is a response to one I wrote five years ago: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2605739/in-which-i-am-brutally-honest-about-my-mother/
My eyes blaze with guilt,
and an outrage at being guilty.
No, at being wrong.
While I waited for the crows,
I was devoured by the chasm
between my father’s brows.
Felt my stomach drop
as I fell into the ground.
Even when I’m right,
I wish I were wrong.
But that’s just how it is to be the victim.
See, my mother was played with by god.
She’s quick to love only to be abandoned.
I remember her whispering to us,
in the middle of some nights
as if we were the daughters of Medusa.
My mother was hurt by god
She did not create sin but
she’s spent most of her life running with it.
Running from it,
running to it.
And I think at some point
she felt too distant to be worth it.
I thought I wanted to hate her,
but it’s impossible to deny her humanity and
to keep trying would only end in tragedy.
I know I’ve ignored her and
I know that worsened the distance.
I want to personally lay the burden
of how I love onto her shoulders,
tell her “You taught this to me.
I watched you love others from the mountains to the sea and I’m
sorry for the years I didn’t let you love me”.
But healing happened in a crockpot,
that wasn’t plugged in.
As a child, I felt so betrayed
because she was my favorite,
and yet I felt so alone
on nights when I couldn’t use her back
as my pillow.
I tried to understand the kaleidoscope of her broken pieces,
and yet I wish I persisted as I got older.
I thought I protected my peace,
and maybe I did,
but it took me ten years to warm up
my shoulder.
I was sad about the absence,
until I became mad and indignant.
A case of unrecognized bias.
By having two drug-addicted parents,
and a lot of black-and-white thinking,
One had leaves, so the other was poison.
Two different flowers in the same garden.
And in that garden,
I’m weeding out the past
and digging in the dirt using only my hands.
Creating stability and forgiveness at that.
Forgiveness for my mother, who has grown despite my doubt.
Forgiveness for my father, for dying
at the hands of the devil he couldn't live without.
I am perpetually digging even further for hope.
And there is always potential for hope.
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 3:38 AM UTC
Nothing is more beautiful than sipping tea or coffee
While admiring lovely roses as they sprung into view
this beautiful June Morn
Or Even
hanging out on the boardwalk looking out to sea
Thinking of grandmother crockpot beer and beef stew
However, how can it be more memorable?
As old tires buried half way into the front lawn
Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about Dawn
Your classmates ...Cassidy and Tate
who recently passed on
Then you notice stifling weeds babies between the lilies
You bounces back when reality jogs your memory
The stifling **** suffocate the lilies
It’s a life lesson to learn from nature flowers
Unhappy raucous behavior every passing hour
through life little things
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
i am the
crockpot
on the
counter hot
above my rubber
bottomed feet that
scrape when
you move me
something's bubbling
around my edges
is it soup
or discontent
how should i know
i'm just the crockpot
something's burning
on my sides
is it chili
or my confines
i can't tell you
i'm just the crockpot
leave me out on weekdays
say you need me
say i'm useful
to keep things warm
all afternoon
but before you know it
touch me and
you'll get burned
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
Seventeen
is an oversized
triple-xl
sweater with arms and neck to fit
a toddler
and as you puff up your chest
with pride and indignation
designed to fill the Hefty-bag-sized body of
cheap acrylic yarn,
you struggle to push your arms through
sleeves like penne pasta
and a collar like a stale donut.
Seventeen is
unfinished
like a great American novel
stewing in a powerless crockpot
that bubbled briefly
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
I'm getting ready to play this Insane Game, Insane Game
All these vocies in my head keep screaming at yea, at yea
Now who thinks their mind is stong enough to stand up, stand up?
They said my mind was unstable, so call me Crockpot
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
At 3:00am I lay awake
wondering what is this
weird smell???
burned chocolate chip
cookie I would call it
but surely that's not it...
Is it the weird mingling of us?
A dream woke me
(I think - it could also be
the medicine that makes
me into someone you like
again)
Oh,
But the dream
was about spit up.
I think because I'm
so worried about him
and also because it's
probably the thing I see
most in a day
At 5:00am I finally rise
from the warmth of our
body heat burrito and
on my way to the coffee ***
I see that your crockpot
concoction is burned
(hence, the smell)
And I just wish
that someone cared
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 4:57 AM UTC
Tis the beginning of a delightful season,
I am inspired to hibernate from summers treason,
The young that run amuck, the partiers that don’t give a ****
Are all put at ease in the brisk cold breeze.
I shiver with delight to roll down my long wool sleeves,
Nothing is better than sweater weather,
And Birds that cuddle in their blankets of feathers.
I feel revived as I inhale the fresh scent of rain,
The heat exhaustion has caused much sweat and pain.
Streets are adorned in colorful fallen leaves,
I bask in the smell of smoke flourishing out of chimneys.
We hold each other tight reading our favorite books next to the fire,
Warm mugs are filled with grandma’s fresh apple cider.
Our crockpot is full of our favorite homemade stew,
Herbal remedies on the stove are a brew.
The kitchens decorated with pumpkins and spices,
Ready to be carved, and turned into piesez.
We grow closer in our homes in this delightful season,
Cuddling by the fires and loving without reason.
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 2:52 AM UTC
Passion's energies
You feel from the energies inside
Needful release of such
Needs slow release
Like a "slow cooker"
******* true to true attraction
Synergy.
Sharing your soul through the hot
movement of your body
Holding such "steamy elements," inside
You steam up and then start to explode
As the Crockpot has warned you to lift it's lid
Do not?
One shall not know true blissful enjoyment
of the experiences of sharing "a stranger's romance"
With that one which he deeply has a desire
For
Inside and out
Of the fashion and the **** little underpants.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
They say sleeping is as close to death as you can get while still alive
They being the doctors
The psychologists
The psychiatrists
The scientists
The ones you go to when you try to meet death on your terms
The ones who poke and ****
The ones who ask but never answer
They say sleeping is necessary for mental health
Dreaming allows our brains to process events and emotions
Our brains are just machines after all, they might need a tune up too
Dreams don't mean anything, contrary to crockpot theories
Don't take it to heart, don't put too much faith in that aging computer
My dreams are nightmares that play out gruesome events- memories
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 10:47 PM UTC