"dumplings" poems
I used to cook for her all the time.
I wonder if she remembers. Can she?
Ramen noodles and toast
at 3:30 in the morning, churros at 8:15.
Sometimes in the middle of the night
she’d cat call my name and I’d always
run to her wondering- Is she hurt? and then
She better not have hurt herself.
I knew better though after the first few times,
yet I always went willingly enough through her
open bedroom door because she wanted me to.
But mostly chicken noodle soup on Sundays
and rice and jambalaya on Wednesday.
mmmmmmmmm.... Carminolas with a kick.
Pop pop pop and her buttons would fly across the room
and other times she’d be under the sheets, already
ready to press my hands against her caramelized skin.
And if we add a pinch of saffron, a dash a sumac,
and a teaspoon full of ajwain she will taste like
heaven and for those cherry lovers add a bit of mahlebi.
But I remember. She tasted like homemade chocolate and
marshmallows. Go make Mama something tasty.
She’d say afterwards and send me from the warmth of
her bed, a Saturday Night Live rerun echoing after me.
I’d bring her dumplings and udon and watch her while she ate,
wondering- Can she taste the arsenic?
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
*listen you pretty girls
and tormented boys
heed this warning tale
and avoid bloated tummies
and crushed *****
song of Bad Boy Nimko
here below this bridge
each night
I met pretty Akako
And each night I whispered
sweet nothings
and poured myself
into her
But ah, now this same bridge
of pleasure is a bridge of pain
she says she’s pregnant
and makes her claims
And so I must run away
turn my back on the village
and never return
for here is no gain
song of Bad Girl Akako
here below this bridge
each night I met Nimko
and I told him one night
he’s made me pregnant
and he said
he didn’t know about that
And never wanted
to see me again
and he called me a ****
And so I squeezed him tight
and he left with ***** crushed
flat as dumplings
under a carriage wheel
*And so
listen you pretty girls
and tormented boys
heed this warning tale
and avoid bloated tummies
and crushed *****
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 6:41 AM UTC
Fig Newton Vanilla Wafers
Like sand through an hourglass
The smell of Doublemint Wrigley’s
Gum that lingers in the air like
Your poltergeist hanging on a string
Chicken and dumplings
Christmas at your place
There were so many pictures and
Do you remember me anymore?
Quicksand neurons coughing up
Phlegm and congestive heart failure
Diabetic membranes hooked up to pacemakers
You’re kidneys were caustic waste bins
And you ****** yourself
Cancer Cancer
Don’t shut your eyes
***** and hypertension
Hyperventilation
My mother is crying
I’m crying
Don’t die
Please don't die
"She’s not responding"
"Somebody say something"
Amazing Grace
Amazing Grace
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Fuji-san
I'm bored and life's hard:
let me run away
The master makes me work all day
while his sons go to school
and learn writing and numbers;
and his daughters put on pretty dresses
and they play with dolls and flowers -
while all day I wash their clothes
and sweep the courtyard
and collect herbs for the Lady of the House
O Fuji-san -
you have great power
and you watch over all
so let me run away
And I shall run to Edo
And I'll work there
at the tea-houses
and I'll see fine gentlemen
and I'll see pretty ladies
and I'll work and earn and save
And one day I'll be a gentleman myself
So, O Fuji-san
let me run away
Clear my way
Fuji-san
and make it safe
and I shall go to Edo
and I'll be rich one day
and I'll come back here to you Fuji-san
and I'll bring you offerings of dumplings and flowers
So help me, O mighty Fuji-san
Let me run away
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
gold
ring
finger
nail
wood
tree
house
door
window
open
field
flower
bright
sun
light
switch
wall
picture
painting
face
nose
smell
trash
can
soda
sugar
candy
chocolate
mousse
goose
geese
duck
stew
dumplings
chicken
eggs
hash
potatos
peas
carrots
celery
peanut butter
crackers
cheese
swiss
mountains
mist
rainforest
snakes
frogs
toads
flies
fruit
smoothie
straw
hat
construction
bridge
cars
drivers
stearing wheel
brakes
that seems like a fitting place to stop lol
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
Lie back think of England
Tuck into toad in the hole
Cider with Rosie, peaches and cream
Juggle dumplings scoring a goal
Oats in the nose-bag, flip-flop away
Doggie do in the park
Scream shout, dip in and out
On the side after dark
Wellies squidgy in the mud
Carpet burns tickling trout
Marigolds in the soap suds
Eyes askew, up the spout
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
Dusk’s last breath puff up the curtains
in a flash of the post traumatic kind.
A crocheted-cliché, peach-purple duvet
drape the mountains in war paint;
redwood generals’ shadows on attention,
disorderly pine infantrymen struggle
against the wind,
some broken,
most wounded,
shattered limbs on display.
The war hero sighs into the bowels
of an instant noodles cup; dumplings shiver
((uncooked liver)) when he whistle-whispers
untold stories of courage,
guts served on blood-soaked battlegrounds;
no-one listens,
save spiders
with hairy legs
that hang on his every word.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
I'm from Sister Shubert's rolls and homemade chicken and dumplings
From bowling late on Thanksgiving night to trying to be the first one to find the pickle in the Christmas tree
I'm from the smell of my mom's famous pies (pecan, chocolate peanut butter and Kentucky derby fresh from the oven)
From "Sweet Caroline" and "Oh Happy Day"
I'm from the macaroni and cheese I never realized was good
From "Dance with the cow in a patch of clover" and puzzles on Nana's steps
I'm from Rook parallel to the bathtub
From my three favorite windows in the whole house and crazy surprises in my lunchbox
I'm from reading dad's sermons over his shoulder early on Sunday mornings
From lightning bugs and fried okra to the quote board and pickle pancakes
I'm from biscuits with honey for breakfast every Saturday
From McDonald's delicious chocolate birthday cakes
I'm from ***** feet and a pitch black washcloth
And that's the only way I'd want it
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
At work Tinsel on the PC and lights scattered on the tree
Time off to spend with the family
Decorations throughout the house
Christmas Tree too big, needles dropping on the floor
Frantic last minute shopping for stocking gifts from the late night store
Wrapping presents, writing cards ready to send
Mince Pies and Mulled Wine drunk with friends
Laughter from the GrandChildren excited for the day
Elvis Christmas songs on in the car, set on loop to play
Presents opened in pjyjamas sitting on the floor
Lazy breakfast with the Kids, Grandchildren and more
Late meal on the day
Turkey, Pigs in Blanket, Roast Potatoes and veg, all the trimmings
Christmas Pud and Brandy Sauce
Turkey Stew and dumplings on Boxing Day
Meals shared with the family, everyone helping with the food, sharing the load and spreading the love as everyone should
Walks with the neighbours next door and anyone who wants to join in
Popping into the Pub for a welcome beer
Christmas Carols ringing out cheer
Board games out and playing begins, rules changing, shouting, laughing out loud, a bit of playful cheating can be heard
Wrapping up warmly with scarves, hats and gloves
snuggling up to the one that you love.
I love this time of the year - don't you?
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
I was out walking.. through the jungle one day
When i got to a secluded spot i heard a voice did say ...
"Tooki tookie tonga... white man you... grab him by da bonga's... put him in da stew "!
I stood there feeling scared by this little man's yell, so i turned about then Pooped myself and... ran like hell
Blinded by the sunshine that was caught up in my eyes
I was Tripped up by a creeper... oooh ! nasty sore surprise !
My face got stung by nettles... ouching in my fall
In the distance ... getting closer... i could hear the bonga's call
"Tooki tookie tonga... dinner on the way... yummy in my tummy... you is here to stay
Losing sight of consciousness i woke up... in their *** !
The bonga's danced around me... my bottom getting hot
"Tooki tookie tonga ... dumplings in da stew... dragged here by da bonga's... now we gonna eat you !
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
I
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
II
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
"O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
"O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry ****
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, "If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,?
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
1.8k
I don’t like school, Sir
most venerable teacher;
and though you are kind, Sir
and all my classmates too
and you all help me study and learn
like you make me know
the first five characters in the alphabet
but the moment I am out of school
all I can remember
are the rice-cakes and sweets and the dumplings my mother makes
...and true, Sir
most venerable teacher
you teach me the numbers
and I can count from 1 to 5
when I am in class
but when I’m out
I love the toys my father brings
and I play with the wooden toy soldiers
and I love the ducks and the clay horses;
and I really can’t remember the first five letters
or the first five characters
when I lie in bed
...and when I am back in class, Sir
dragged in by Old Madam Toothless ****
who always knows where I am wherever I try to run
I can’t remember anything anyone taught me, Sir
O most venerable teacher...
I know, Sir
all of you have spoken to me
and my dad and my mom
and Old Madam Toothless ****
and all my friends in class
I must study so I can go to the city and find work
but school only makes me cry -
and all I want to do, Sir
most venerable teacher
is to play and eat and sleep when it is time
...and one day, Sir
most venerable teacher
(I know you worry about me)
when I’m grown and big
I’ll make toys and I’ll sell them
and make money for me and my family;
and I’ll make all those sweets and dumplings
and feed my family...
so please, Sir
most venerable teacher
because I don’t like school
and I can’t remember anything
do not worry about me and let me go to the fields now
and I shall grow to be tall as the trees
and as rich as the rice fields...
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
I poeticize, proselytize
Punctuate and pontificate.
I write couplets and rhymes
And I really do it all the time.
I exacerbate and exaggerate
With no desire to intimidate.
I make similes and metaphors
Indoors and even out of doors.
There’s cussing and discussion
And sharp literary impressions
Through diversions, conversions
Allusions as well as conclusions.
And with luck, no delusions.
Just syllabically deft fusions
Of some deferential references
With a deft touch of reverence.
I rhyme thyme with fresh lime
And cardamom with cinnamon.
Sweetbreads and shortbreads.
Chicken bones and licking scones.
Rhyming pumpkins with dumplings
And matching up filets with filberts
Just as cocoa goes well with Kona.
Marmalade can be a good marinade.
I rhyme chrome wheels and automobiles,
Freeway off-ramps and Tiffany lamps.
Cellophane and vintage airplanes.
Flapper vamps and streetwalking tramps.
Also Cinderella coaches and cockroaches,
Nothing is unfair game to a busy poet.
As well as RCA Victors and boa constrictors.
Since I’m a poet, everyone should know it.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
some might call them
mongolian dumplings;
i just call them home;
chewy chow mein, bean spraut
nervous system geography;
oh but aren't you a home away
from home? so welcome,
to be adequately attired..
jolly gee... i better put on my
cowboy hat & shoes as to
just prove the chance of doing a rodeo!
well, you know how the english
just love to talk about travelling to las vegas
and... kentucky... for that juggled fried chicken...
mm yum! i better have me a spare
clown with those wagon tires!
no... wait... israel's coming! dicta dicta,
a non-existent Judah!
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
Would you eat
something called
a chicken dumping?
Well I use to,
three older brothers and a sister
I ate mostly dumplings!
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
the Wise Man is followed
by many, from near and from afar;
and see, the Wise Man stops now
at the dumplings store
and buys some dumplings
and waits for his change;
but the vendor simply resumes
at making more money
*“So where’s my change,
my good man?”* says the Wise Man
who is followed
by many, from near and from afar
And the vendor he replies:
*“Change, O Wise Leader of Many Followers,
as you have often said,
comes from within”*
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
.
Looking on
this expanse that encircles me,
closing in during open hours,
unlocking doors I can’t seem to walk through
Stairways of rotted, termite eaten steps
each with my name painted on them,
creaking underfoot,
losing to the weight of
long lines at self serve counters
wrapping around as if
nothing is free but here
for some reason it is
And I stand right in the middle
alone in this ocean of faces,
polo shirts and penny loafers
staring at cell phone screens,
calling someone,
talking with their hands,
hands free?
Paying it forward,
coffee for the next guy in line,
but not me
For I am just here, anywhere,
somewhere like this,
a thing plopped down,
fallen from the sky,
splattering on the earth,
consumed by the soil,
muddied footprints and all
trudging through the wilderness,
carving a path of existence
breaking branches and
scattering bread crumbs
Still I am me,
standing tall among the taller,
enjoying the shade,
sipping lemonade and eating apple dumplings,
pushing, not pulling forward,
dreaming, (of course)
regardless of tire tracks and scars
or pointed fingers,
Pounding the pavement,
laying a foundation,
driven beyond
Parking lot base,
asphalt themed destinations,
a checkerboard of last rites and dead batteries,
yellow lines on the horizon,
handicapped up front
Looking out over the valley,
watching the world go by,
admiring the beauty,
loving life,
rejoicing in the fact
that it is all so immensely
vast . . .
as am I
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;
Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;
Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;
No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;
No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.
Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
The workman told you to bury a curled dark lock
Of your dead baby’s hair in the earth,
A quiet offering to a quieter god
You spent several months weeping to the sky
Your small hands curled into your white frock
Work was left unattended in your colorful house
No food on the stove,
No boiling salt fish, or softened dumplings in murky white water
The pungent smell of cured fish filling the quieter home
The home, austere and shrinking into the long street
Your helper comes to do all this
Your children understand in their small ways
You covered the lock of dark hair with fresh dark soil
Palm fronds wave in the wind
Salty sea air kisses your wet skin
Tears make tracks on your cheeks like a map pointing to
Nothingness, like a page of a book with words of moroseness
Once you had my mother, birthed her into a world of noise
The sure and strong hands of the matriarchal mother,
Your mother, who’d delivered more babies than she’d had her numerous children
Then you cooked, you toiled, swept the veranda with your broom
Left the buried lock of hair in the locked cabinet of your mind
Now, when I make the saltfish, I do it with stilted preparation
My hands form lumpy misshapen cornmeal dumplings
I fry the little ***** of dough for too long, they come out dry
I pop one into my mouth and chew
There, the fragrant smell of your perfume,
Sweet lull of your voice, your birdlike hands.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:27 PM UTC
Gather belongings
Coffee, leftover Chinese food
Reaching for the door
Door opens...
Dumplings fall
Container breaking
Dumpling sauce spills all over
There goes lunch
It’s going to be that kind of day...
Don’t cry over spilled dumplings
The end
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
What happened last Monday morning?
I woke up in my body and it wasn’t that body anymore:
Throughout my body I felt sharp pain
Followed by an added plus of lightheadedness
So I kept asking myself some questions,
What can the matter be?
The devil can be a liar sometimes,
I took a long look at my lifeline in the palm of my hands
It reads a long life ahead of me,
but somehow the most crucial pain
Was trying to outbid me:
As I lay there on the gurney
I thought about some cow’s heel soup with pumpkin,
Dumplings with the carrots simmering on top
The thought of food when you are feeling sick is unreal
But only a poet would have:
he thinks, he creates an illusion for a solution
That was last week today
I am having a bowl of delicious cow’s heel soup
Loaded with carrots and corn dumplings
To ease uneasiness:
I shall follow up with the doses of ranitidine
To complete this poignant write
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
Lady bugs dancing in the breeze .. Red , yellow leaves shuffle beneath tall trees ..
Gray squirrel singing high above , wary crows bathing in the pond..
Wild turkey's running for cover , mourning dove's dine on cornfield leftovers ..
Orpington hen announcing her newest delivery , busy beavers chipping on Sweetgum and Hickory ...
Farm boys in the hayfield , sipping on hard cider , Grandpa on the tractor , chewing Red Man tobacco ..
Granny's making dumplings , a stewing hen in the kettle , cows are coming home from the riverside meadows ..
Four leaf clover and dewberries , brown cane at the end of the dale .. A ladle full of cool water from Uncle John's well ...
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
He’s got a bagel on his head (February 28 2017).
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;
Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;
Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;
No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;
No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.
Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
*Da da sum
Bam bam lum*
Sing and dance
jump and laugh
all the way -
it’s end of day
All light hours
we’ve worked
in the fields
bent double
*Da da sum
Bam bam lum*
Small breaks
in the shade we had
all the dumplings we ate
all the soup we drank –
and now, hey, hey, hey
a little each
of the rice wine drink
as we hop and jump
and sing and dance
Jump and laugh
all the way
Home, home, home
*Da da sum
Bam bam lum*
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 6:34 AM UTC