"curried" poems
Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card
Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check
May I take this Learner to Living afar
Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met
For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command
Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb
Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand
To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore
This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks
With Curried Words much tempting to forget
At expense of Duty is no longer meek
And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget.
Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn
The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry
He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense
--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--
The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers
With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace
Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
When Mother Teresa
Saw the Leaning Tower Of Pisa
She Knew that Julius Caesar
Would renew her visa.
Eating curried pizza
At a bar called Mitzvah
With ex-scrooge Ebenezer
And the Mona Lisa
All three did concur
That nothing defeats
Or beats her.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
Unmotivated
to go out
so...
It's curried fried eggs
tonight!
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.
Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.
Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.
In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.
The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.
The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.
Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.
So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Tinkling rhythms engulfed us
As we sat in a cuban bistro,
Surrounded by the populace
And having nary a place to go.
We spoke of many things
That curried the other's favor,
Then I noticed her silver rings
And decided I'd wait no later.
This stranger that sat before me,
Blue curls atop her pretty head,
Observed my hand steadily
As it dropped off the table's end.
I reached into my bag and withdrew a rock,
It's complexion of gold and plaque shining silver.
Her reaction was that of pleasant shock
As I wished her congrats on turning a year older.
Now, a year and some days later,
We've both reached a special place.
Day to day I get to face her
And feel my lover's warm embrace.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
A cat came into my dreams last night
a great big ginger beauty
but instead of curling up
he lashed his tail all snooty
"I saw you thursday night"
he said, with a tear-stained muzzle
he wasn't pleased at all with me
but why? Wow what an awkward puzzle
"Haggis in your arms, that's what!
How dare you do this to me?
there's only space for one of us
upon your boney knee.
That lad is such a fighter
he chases me all day
he bites my **** till it is plucked
I try to run away!
Ok I sometimes taunt him
push my **** into his face
but understand you silly man
your lap is Vincents place!
Room for us both? That is not true!
Remember my huge belly.
Balancing me upon those legs
Is like juggling a jelly!
I know I snuggle up with him
when it's cold and mum's not there
but already Haggis is snuggling dad
I almost have to swear.
So keep away my skinny pal
from my naughty feline rival
'cos the battle to keep your lap for me
is like the struggle for survival!"
Hmmm..he has a point I guess
he was a wee bit worried
that Haggis causes him so much stress
I think he'd have him curried!
I see them snuggle on the bed
and butter wouldn't melt
I know if Haggis comes to me
Vin will give me a belt!
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
that
keeps this wordy would be poet,
honest
all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
of
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
all
in
one
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice
~
5/31/17
4:10am
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
As I cooked our lunch
before we were to part
you sat at the kitchen table
busy with cutting and sticking
just like a wet-afternoon child
waiting for her drink and biscuit.
Only it was Curried Cauliflower
and with those crispy rolls you like.
I stood in my apron behind
a pretence of minding the pan
rapt at the loveliness of your tilted head,
the intricate movements of your hands,
the concentrated purse of your lips
I so wanted to place against my own:
to draw you into the longest kiss,
the longest, deepest, barely imaginable kiss.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
Fate, fate, fate
well what an awful mess I've made
tried to solve this jigsaw puzzle
ended up hardening the shapes
Oh fate
falling like a thousand bricks in my way
foils my plans
of loving you properly
destiny, you tender tease
Why?
Why'd you shatter my bones?
Leave me lost, void of control
in a shallow grave I made
lay my former misguided passions
covering shackles on my legs
lose lose lose
all I ever seem to do
when all that I comprehend
I try to hang it on a noose
inside a
room room room
filled with opaque absolutes
and curried apprehension
broken bottles with no excuse
Remedy, oh remedy
my free will thinker
embodied by poisoned truths
I dream of only you
sweet, sour dues of resurrection
have yet to stumble in my life,
promising no goodbyes
But fate fate fate
Led my former love astray
It's better this way
It's better this way
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Weekends
In the afternoon sun
the asphalt road shines like an ice rink;
flanked by green trees that
cast black shadows,
helped by the breeze
they flutter slightly,
soundless articulation a symphony for the deaf
My memory brings me
the aroma of curried
chicken and rice,
but since it is Friday, it will
be smoked haddock, boiled potatoes and
stewed carrots
Still a twenty minutes drive,
before getting home,
shadows merge with the evening and
the ice rink is a memory
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
On the map there 's a tripod
And an eye blinking trying to focus
Far away on a land called Tierra de Fuego
And there goes my Muse's Range Rover
Greenlaning la luz del amanecer
Tracking butterflies orchids grasshoppers and dragons,
Sad salads and fired bananas and dew
And all sorts of bits and bobs
Keeping corrections to a minimum.
If it looks Topaz
She didn't do it !
She's more like aurora,
Traveling long distance with laughter
Or lenses cooking light with cuddles
Or stir frying a full curried moon over the volcanoes
Of seven types of fired bananas
Always worried about aperture and exposure
My muse wouldn't live without her lens bathing
Diving and swimming into the warm and shallow depth of field
Just as she wouldn't live without her daily dose
Of nine megapixels of bioluminescent plankton
Because my Muse is an addict
My muse is a Nikon D800 addict
and an aurora addict as well
Earthing and grounding relentlessly
The inner storms of morning light
Leading to her native archipelago
Of Tierra del Fuego !!
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
can't sleep,
tried to count sheep,
but the little buggers won't jump the fence.
can't sleep,
tried counting sheep,
but the pesky little critters, are to busy eating,
to jump the fence.
can't sleep,
busy trying to count sheep but the little f^ckers won't stay still.
can't sleep,
feel like i might have mentioned this before, counting sheep is a feckless chore,
but one i must try once more,
either that... or..
eat the leftover
curried lamb pie.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Is Platypus a ****** Or is it quacking duck
Not proper as pet
What to feed this bizarre thing that is odd as
An Australian, strange people the down under
Half criminal half saints
They used to be impossible British Say, 1922.
Their diet was egg& chips, now they are sophisticated
Chips with curried sauce
Always willing to fight for the USA proud soldiers with
tropical hats that make an easy target.
More sheep than people so what do you expect they shear
sheep and like it, chips fried in ewe fat.
The platypus takes no interest in this can it be made into
a Vietnam duck, a country the Aussie were lured into invading.
Australia is in a way a Platypus can't make up its mind whether
it is a far eastern country or a European settlement.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 3:14 AM UTC
Each crest-wave melts forward unto a cyclic downward unto a mix-exchange at the bank of the channel, fluid between the Georgia Strait and the passive Pacific, all the way from probably-Australia. The overcast is claustrophobic, sort of-- Victoria feels like a small wet cottage in a populated happy brain-cell, so when the clouds roll in all you notice are the creases on the faces that look as they grunt and push their eyes half-closed, exhaling a nicotine cloud in pensive thought toward a day job. Dunhill cigarettes always give off the faint odour of soy sauce, and the blue rot of the Johnson Street Bridge ticks away, caught in a state of eternal construction. In the aisle of an apartment somewhere else inside the city, one can smell the delicate remains of Indian food, curried and waiting for years ago to come again. The narrative has never been more than sheer observation, not to watch what comes and goes, but what flows across the fractal void of every-angle. There are dots on the rocks, and legs on the waves.. butts in the moss, and hours in the days. If 'forgotten' is the outcome of my every effective attempt, it will change nothing up those sleeves of mine. And nothing left exempt.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Sullen she sits
in her shimmering fabric
scowling at her adoptive nation.
Listlessly scrolling
for soap-opera news
in her language.
Half-hidden behind the register
where she sells something every few hours
to someone from her country
purchasing those weird snacks:
dried minnows with mango,
fish with curried betel-nut,
tamarind-flavored dried shrimp . . .
Hey lady, you look funny
with that white paste
smeared all over your face.
You look like a ghost.
Did Buddha make you put it on?
Hey lady, don't you know how to smile
and serve the public?
Maybe you should learn English.
Why did you come here, anyway?
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
_In the legend of the lovers Tristan and Iseult, there is a small, magical, immortal dog named Petitcrieu who "ate half the sadness of everyone he met." He didn't gift any type of forgetfulness, but instead bestowed the ability to bear the sorrow easily._
Bells are ringing wet and pink
on a muscled shoreline of skin,
lining me with their tolling.
Their knell is so heavy in the ear,
it sinks into the sand chokes
trapped on my frozen tongue.
Someone great has vanished again.
The clang and clatter escapes
out of this red chest oven,
bangs around the wild world.
Grief is announced, by way
of cacophony. Where are the dogs?
The ones who eat our sadness
with their bellish barking?
Who look into our brief eyes
& remove the worst of the sting?
Who serve the moon, defy the sun?
They have gone missing.
Sorrow rushes through the waters
a blued frigate with a headwind,
overtaking the heart, the head,
the curried spine...
In this age, sadness is the magazine
that all of us are reading.
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 10:42 PM UTC