"dollop" poems
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
HALF A POUND OF INSOMNIA WITH A LARGE DOLLOP OF TIREDNESS ON TOP
Sleep lies languidly
upon the chaise longue.
I sit uncomfortably in
an old wicker chair.
We stare at each other.
Say - nothing.
Neither of us
blinks.
I have counted exactly
two thousand and 2....3. . .
sheep.
They fill up the room
with a loud baaing.
There is no grass in the room.
But I am more awake
than ever.
Sleep and I
do not see eye to eye.
Sleep annoyed by now
goes to the window
where even the moon is
dreaming.
A hill
long gone.
Trees snore
their breath rustling their leaves.
"Why do I always
have this trouble with you?"
Sleep snaps
without looking at me.
I try to change
the subject.
"I didn't know you
could manifest like this?"
I venture for the sake
of the argument.
"Oh no...now you've gone
and trapped me in a poem!"
In the early hours
of the coming day
even Sleep
falls asleep.
I yawn
exaggeratedly .
Hum KLF's
"It's three am eternal!"
Each of the now 2000 and 4...5
join in
with a tuneless
baaing.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 5:06 AM UTC
Looks like you need a drink...
What'll it be, let me think...
One thing you should know, Little Miss,
I'm not a bartender... I'm just winging this...
Hmm...
Arc in a cocktail shaker
Filled halfway up
Throw Melz in the mix
Just a dollop
Let's see now...
Spoonful of rhymes
Make that a table
Few drops of Conor
If he's up and able
Almost ready...
A touch of Tea
Maybe a tad more
A dose of Frank
In a little pour
Just about done...
Cap it up
Shake that shaker
Pour it out
Top with Silver
Ahh...
In a cocktail glass
Now sprinkle with Dani
Let's not stinge
Sprinkle aplenty
There you go, Hon... Take a full swig
When you see the bottom, your pain wouldn't seem so big...
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Okay, so there might be a possibility I have maybe slightly convinced myself that I may theoretically have developed the beginnings of the tiniest dollop of a smidgen of an enormous crush on you.
So please don't break me.
REPOST IF THIS IS YOU RIGHT NOW
please comment I love to read thoughts on my work!
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
It was a Friday night,
I was on the phone with my grandmother when I looked at the clock suddenly remembered,
it was time for the ritual.
I immediately hung up on my grandmother,
and stripped of my clothing.
The ritual required I be naked.
I then took some goat cheese out of my refrigerator,
and put it in the microwave.
I waited.
The goat cheese seemed like it took forever to melt,
but it only took a few minutes.
In those few minutes,
I just sat there,
and played with my left ******
Finally, the timer went off,
and it was done.
I took the melted goat cheese,
and poured it onto my body.
It burned,
but I suffered through it.
I would do anything for the Goat Gods.
Anything.
Once the melted goat cheese was poured onto my body,
I began to lather myself in it.
Soon, I was covered in melted goat cheese.
The smell,
was horrendous,
but in a way,
I enjoyed it.
Then, I removed the goat blood from my refrigerator,
and poured it into a ***
which had been on the oven all day,
waiting.
I began to boil the goat blood.
I took a sip of it.
"No" I said as a shook my head in disappointment.
I had been ripped off again by my goat blood dealer.
There was no flavoring in it.
It tasted like goat blood.
So I threw in some carrots,
and a dollop of horse radish.
While it was boiling,
I went to my bedroom,
to my closet,
where I found my goat mask.
A real goats head I had carved out and made into a mask.
I put it on.
When I had it on,
I felt like one with the Goat Gods.
When I returned,
the goat blood was done.
I poured it into a Tupperware container,
sealed it,
and put on my shoes.
By now,
the once hot and slimy goat cheese,
was dried,
and stuck to my body.
It was crusty,
like the crusties you get in your eyes,
just all over your body.
I walked out the front door,
across the street,
to my neighbors house.
I tried to open the front door.
Locked.
They knew I was coming this time.
Last week,
they forgot.
So I left the goat blood on their front steps,
and left.
When I got home,
I immediately went to the TV,
sat down,
and turned on "Antique Roadshow".
I looked out my window,
and saw my nervous neighbor grab the goat blood,
and bring it inside.
"Soon they will join the Goat Side" I said as I repeated it to myself, "Soon they will join the Goat Side".
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
peanut butter
more than tar on the road
peanut butter
with my naan and my rice
lay it on the noodles
and peanut butter with tofu
don’t forget a dollop
with the curry too
good pasta and pizzas
become better
soaked in peanut butter
Ye Olde English Sandwich
flames like a dragon
fixed with half a bottle
of the New World Inca paste
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
Mystery Meat
You'll find it sometimes
in what you eat.
What it is, you might ask?
It's Mystery Meat!
Smells kinda weird,
and looks just like ****
I don't want a dollop.
No, not even a scoop.
I don't even want it in Mystery Soup.
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 10:29 AM UTC
I've got a lollipop in space,
she's my saving grace,
with a gentle wrinkled
grandma's face
She has the Stars on a string,
makes the constellations sing,
and wears the sun on her hand
like a pinky ring.
She's light,
a delight,
always right
with a smile that fights
the blackest of nights
and hands that cure
anyone's plight.
She sugar on berries
when the path gets scary
and filled with the void
of wicked fairies.
A dollop on top,
the cream of the crop,
the rain in the desert
where it doesn't drop....
An Illuminating Force
nothing can stop
My grandma in the heavens.... my Lollipop.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
Force and fluidity and
Strength
Swimming through
Thick-as-porridge water
Fifty meters gone by
Calm and serene ripples of laden
Muscle and
Waves
A dollop of chlorine soaked into your skin
Fragrant beyond belief
The artificial lake
A square
Of stony beach and
Eight foot deep
Marina trenches
Catch your heavy breath
And react to the adrenaline
Sink deep into the
Blue-black liquid
Admire flecks of
Melted silver emanating
From the fluorescence above
Land on the bottom
With weighted feet then
Push back up and break the surface
Breathe again
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)
When its time to wash the dishes,
I make proper preparations for this serious business,
I strip down to my skivvies (shorts, in a prior generation)
Cause there will plenty blood and gore afore too long
Soap and water flying about, the ceilings and the walls,
Not to mention big, big puddles on the floor.
Multi-colored sponges of sizes varied,
Some Brillo-sided, like extra armor on a tank,
By Dawn's early light, turn the clear water
Into a heaving, breathing soapy concoction.
Woebegone and woe betide, dried and sticky maple syrup,
You are no match for super-strength orange dishwashing solution,
Of the Greeks did praise, a single dollop packs a mighty wallop!
Ain't afraid of any stain, decomposing, half chewed, culinary rejection.
Don't even bother with rubber gloves, cause that's for sissies.
The dirtier the better, cause I love the sounds of
All out war, the rushing water, the futile screams of
Grease departing this world, down the rabbit hole,
My gleaming, victorious sinking of the enemy shipping
You think I am the first to celebrate in verse
This storied fight of right over dirt?
Recall please this famed couplet, for now be known its true inspiration!
"Oh, say can you see by the Dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"
Though Men Like to Load the Dishwasher (You Didn't Know?)
Is another poem of a similar ilk, when technology is unavailable,
It is fact verifiable and unassailable,
That if you give a man some room and some privacy,
Ignore the shouts and war cries from the kitchen emanating,
Male aggression can best be expiated,
When playing war games in the kitchen, a live action movie,
A video game that never grows tiresome,
And violence is necessary, for the enemy's complete annihilation.
Thank you my dear, no medal need be awarded,
Scored this poem as my just reward.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
dollop of jet black ink
on a backdrop of white,
framed in almond
soft doe eyes.
lashes that bid me stay.
draw me in,
dionaea muscipula.
everything is a blur
except for your gaze.
i hear music
when our eyes meet.
tease me with your smile.
oh, but i long for you
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Dylan is dead.
no, not Bob, you Philistine,
Dylan Thomas who implored us
to rage against the night;
so are a passel of poets
and penners, but not I
Emily heard her fly buzz,
well before her eyes shut; she
was a wee bit obsessed
with the reaper
Hemingway's also a goner;
guts enough to shove a shotgun
in his mouth--mostly I wonder if
he tasted blue gunmetal like I did,
and who cleaned his brains
off the wall?
nobody had to clean a red dollop
of mine, for the firing pin was askew
and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame,
and impotence more flaccid than
the one which put the barrel
in my mouth
hell, how hard is it
to **** yourself--I guess harder
than I thought, since I never bought
another rifle
so Dylan is dead
Em and Hem too, but you
are reading these lines without
contemplating your own demise
I suspect
after all, it's early spring
and a time of new things
clawing their way into the light
thinking nothing of the terminal
night -- but it's just a sun dip away:
ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK
but I wouldn't bother the Belle
of Amherst
she would make parting
sweeter than sorrow, and she
never tasted the cold lead, or spoke
with fear or dread of the dumb
and the dead
she never murdered
men in black pajamas
in a forest primeval...
I didn't see their spirits
ascending, in ribbons of light,
only rivers of their red blood
soaking the green ground,
yet today ravenous
for more it seems
why would she rage
against the good night, when
her carriage waited patiently for her,
and immortality, her vessel bound
for a light Dylan and I
will never see
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
The Zebra smiles at the Lion
Who is wondering when he gets fed
The Rhino looks across at the Zebra
and this is what he said.....
"Why are you grinning my friend
especially at the old Lion over there"
The Zebra replied that he was in a good mood
and to be judged just is not being fair.
"I was not judging just a little bemused
and wondering why the good mood todtay
he saw no reason for it - he wanted some mud
a nice dollop of sticky mud to have a **** good play.
But he knew life was not a bowl of cherries
not that cherries are his overall delight
No rains meant no mud and certainly n o smiles
not unless he put up one hell of a **** fight
The Zebra hated mud could not see the attraction
cherries gave him wind too and at both ends
What a mess I'd be in he thought he started to think
Looking over at the Lion - what a strange signal he sends
The Lion was drooling over Zebra kebabs and Rhino stew
a little carrot and parsley he thought would be nice
drenched in gravy - his eyeballs spun round - they noticed
and ran off fast they dd not need telling twice.
Blast thought the Lion wheres my dinner gone
has the place gone mad and have I gone wild
This time the Rhino understood the Zebra
and this time they both stood and smiled
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
Bread from waxed paper packet
a childhood memory of mum making tea
snow white, thick sliced
fringed with a brown crust
comfortingly heavy, ****** smelling
the butter pleases me
covered under the tub lid
with a coated paper peeled back
to reveal a thick golden slab of
churned cream easily spread, cold
straight from the fridge onto waiting
fibrous surface, allowing it to sink in
cheese in a yellow block, related to
the butter in so many ways, dairy
a long lost brother, sliced thick with
a proper knife with the pointed curved
tip, designed to ***** and pick up
each slice, placing carefully on the bed
prepared for it to rest, ready for the final
ochre coloured element, mustard, from
a glass jar using a teaspoon, to dollop
before resting a second buttered slice
on top to make a creation, a taste sensation
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
I get home.
tired and hungry and so sick of school
shoulders slouch with comfort, crossing the threshold
between the public and my home.
It's snack time.
open the fridge and what do I find?
what marvelous things, upon which to dine?
a leg of chicken and a big *** of beans,
say what you will, moms can be queens
I chop up an onion splash! in the pan
a dollop of oil [extra ****** man]
add half a pepper, minus its seeds
yum! I think I know what this needs
A large pinch of cumin, a whole chicken leg
and so many beans, if beer twould be keg
then add some turmeric for fusion and flair
splash of red wine, kids: we're almost there!
I check in the freezer and Yes! I was right!
almost a dozen tortillas in sight.
I take out two, cuz they're pretty big
I yodel with pleasure, as if at a shindig
warm up the flatbreadz, and pile it on
all of that chicken and beans and herbs from the lawn
get in my tummy, get in there so fast
that I dont realize I'm eating until I'm holding the last.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
this is how it works-
what i focus on
e x p a n d s
fills my life with its presence
the positive or the negative-i make the choice.
victimhood or victorious-i choose how the world remembers me
the one i reject shrinks
ignored, it is dissolved, bygone
positive or negative it disappears if it isn’t minded
call myself a failure - the world will agree
call myself a success – still they’ll cheer
you see, its always me who decides, what i want to be!
of course, it must come with a big dollop of humility
i can only start with me-change begins with me
can influence only that which lies within-inner peace
focus on my strengths, help them be
inflate them in my reality
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
15.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC
Look!
I'm super ******* clean!
I stepped into the falling water
and inched my way toward total
submersion. It was steaming hot
and my skin had yet to acclimate.
Upon said acclimation I lathered
up a palmful of smell-good gel
and got to work on my armpits
and my torso. I washed my way
down to my belly button and then
I retrieved another handful of body
wash. As I worked it into my hair
then my beard, and I used the excess
suds to scrub my **** and my nuts.
From there I covered my thighs and
worked down my legs. I turned away
from the showerhead and scrubbed
my ******* clean with one more dollop
of Old Spice. I stepped into the burning
streams of water and rid myself of the
day's sweat and grime in one big,
dark puddle swirling down the drain.
I took one more dab of soap and
worked it into a foam.
But I hesitated before I washed my face,
because I realized that I had just
*scrubbed my *******
with the same hands I use to
*wash my ******* face** with.*
But I then sighed and did it anyway.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Letter to Cinderella (and her Texas Fairytales)
~for EJ Love~
now lookee here, girl,
slow down pardner,
blanket love-spells need to be addressed,
especially if a return requested back to
the great state of big ole Texas
as I am loved in Texas, I’m well aware
how hard it is to find love in wide open spaces,
more trucks and cows than people,
which is NYC in reverse,
both hard places in different ways
to make angelic fairies appear,
released intact from busted soap bubbles
so here’s my idée fixe,
to the reading, less,
to the writing, more,
command thyself to march towards
the seventeenths poem, and many more
to arrive at the promised
hallelujah
take the formless visions, potions,
drifting in you, figure them into words,
shaped with passion and cunning, twitching in
a creme of teasing, a dollop of wanting,
a whimsy, sense of humor, stir with another’s pinky finger,
bigger than the ineffable lone star of lonely,
an eye tear for flavor, a salty secreted ingredient,
that needs, requires another’s hand to wipe away
and a flashing neon sign:
Texas Red Amber, Chops, and
real good loving desired!
only good loving people,
steady on their feet,
need apply, poets favored,
but a certain kind of cowboy,
ok as well
what be my expertises in matters these,
why I am your chastened, mean no more,
sweet sister who see your spells flying by,
who writes to you with newly learned humility
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
dolly lyrics
doldrums drum's roll
dollop lopsided
doll llama amazon on
dolphin hinterland
dole dolts
dollar large, largess
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.
The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear
Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience
But we won't prescribe your recipe
for journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
Into the blender-
Pineapple juice, half a carton
Ice, a handful
Coconut cream, a well shaken tin
Bacardi, a goodly dollop
Justine says
I should add half an eggwhite
For the froth
But how the hell do you halve an egg white
So I leave it out.
A few seconds unholy racket
And it’s ready to pour
Into my favourite thick heavy glass
Put the pitcher in the fridge
And take on impulse.
****** good
Brings back a tiled balcony in Puerto Vallarta
A small boy wearing an iguana
Tricia Lambert
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Simply...soothing.
The catalyst in the morning is a carefully created cup of...
Coffee.
With a dollop of delicate dreams,
Atop arduous aspirations.
Locked,
Within lovely lips;
Upon the porcelain,
Peaking with purity.
As clean as...
Apples, being allocated in the dishwasher.
The morning dew outside,
Is like the boy inside
Who'd cried.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
"Do you want to be with me"
sorry I don't know what to say--
as I hold their hand, it ripples
it is the rush of anxiety
but feels like water combing through my hands
as I get shampoo out of my hair; in the shower.
There is a tremble in their breath
reminding me of catching droplets of water
in the canal of my ear
and having to tilt my head
for them to drop back into obscurity.
Their smell is fresh an aroma so soothing
feeling the clean scent of oranges and apples
a flourishing sample I briefly enjoy
when I pour a quarter sized dollop of shower gel.
Their eyes are watery
while they struggle to hide the parchness of their smile
is a somber reflection of hot water running out
and not having any heat left to turn towards
so the only option
is to get out of the shower.
Their words are mumbled, but I can understand "why"
trying to hide the shakiness in their hands and breath
I can't help but imagine the endorphin's frantically
trying to take control; to fight or flight--
A similar feeling I have when rushing
to get warm after a cold shower.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
Head to the body
Swallow hot toddy
A dash of narcissism
To make the throat burn
Make my insides churn
A dollop of ego
And I'm getting drunk
On your self-absorbed funk
All mixed in hot
I do it recreationally
Unconnected emotionally
We pretend we care for one another
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC