"entrees" poems
It's elementary, my dear
This bittersweet affection that I feel
From one boy to the next I grew
Ladder rungs of broken hearts
First grade
Blonde hair and disarming smile
Recess games and hallway passes
A note in a diary and minutes spent giggling
Never talking, always watching
Fourth grade
Glasses frame of brown hair and thin shoulders
Curious enigma to come and go
A bit more literate diary entrees
One year of crossed legs and shy smiles
Fifth grade
A growing tree of lean muscle and blue eyes
Short brown hair and a charming grin
Side by side on a rubber track
Gray skies and sweet goodbyes
A bright dance floor and a shattered heart
Miserable nights and heartbreak songs
Seventh grade
Long dark hair and chocolate eyes
This spring has brought a strange surprise
Wiry muscle and soft cheeks
Once admired, then adored
An ongoing thrum of sweet affection
Sidelong glances and gym class stares
New discoveries and quiet realization
Girl can love girl
Tenth grade
A firecracker packed with mysterious boys
And an enigmatic girl
A bomb in the summer sky
Spelling new names, new faces, new hearts
A whisper of 'I love you' at long last returned
Names carved on my ribs and pulling my lips
A tightened chest never felt so good
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
The Things I Wish I Could Be
I wish I could be
one of all instruments;
the singer whose voice
transforms his audience into a choir;
the writer who drops his reader's guard
making a beautiful decimation of every self-made fantasy;
the actor ripe with nominations
whose prestigious Oscar breaks him open before the world;
the photographer who captures moments worth infinite words
while instilling that perfect piercing silence;
the painter of elegant simplicity
or ponderous complexity in every brush and stroke;
the icon strangers seek for reason
looking upon for inspiration;
the husband who gives and comforts
appreciating the angel he's been bestowed;
the father wise and guiding
with enough laughs and smiles to last their whole lives;
the chef and the baker serving only the best
scrumptious entrees and desserts;
the encyclopedia of experience
answering questions obscured from the web;
yet beyond all things
I wish to greet death with a smile
knowing my life, however lived
was worth those years.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
2.3k
We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite, alive.
Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.
A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee stung lips.
Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.
There, of course, are impediments
I won't try to hide.
The ring on my finger,
my bride at my side.
Plus there's the issue
of fifty years gone.
My Romeo days
have packed up and moved on.
Now our friends have arrived
and, chaste kisses exchanged,
We feast on our entrees
as wine glasses are drained.
As dessert time approaches
I sadly observe
she’'s not on the menu
Pumpkin Cheese cake will serve.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 9:28 PM UTC
1.
Exposed train platform
And the type of wind that goes right through you
A small cup of coffee clutched tight in naked hands
The only source of heat
2.
Quiet café on Saturday morning
Two friends long estranged
Brought together by bad news
3.
Half-punched coffee cards
A daily routine
Five cups and the next one’s free
4.
Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee
Because I might still be half-asleep
And if I see you I’ll think I’m dreaming
5.
She takes a nap
I take a coffee break
6.
Greeting the sunrise with the day’s first cup of coffee
After walking to the bus through the snow
And riding the bus through unfriendly streets
The snow melting through the window and the wait for class to start
7.
Greeting the sunrise with the day’s fifteenth cup of coffee
Or fifth hit of amphetamines
At the moment two days become one
8.
“Let’s get coffee sometime”
“I don’t like coffee”
“Tea, then?”
But I guess you don’t drink either
9.
My first week in a new city
Walking along the arterial at night to meet you
At a coffee shop
It’s small, just me and the man playing guitar
And two other customers
No, wait
One of them is getting behind the counter
So one other customer
You aren’t there yet
I don’t know if you’ll show
So I sit and fiddle with the chess pieces on the table
While I drink
10.
When entrees have come and gone
And dessert is just a memory
We’ll still be in this restaurant
With just ourselves
Our coffee &
Our conversation
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
I’m in a relationship
with the man
working behind the counter
at the post office
though I have yet
to determine
the nature of our pairing
he asks me how I am
as if fumbling for words
on a first date
i reply quickly fine fine and you?
he nods disappointed by
my urgency
and half-hearted smile
moments pass in silence
as we chew on our respective entrees
he looks at me questioningly
i stare down at my phone
a slip of paper is issued
I sign it he counts out the money
I stare at his chest hair
instead of placing it on the
counter he carefully slips
the notes and coins
into my outstretched hand
for that singular tactile experience
before our time is up
his soft blue eyes
always expectant
impatiently drink of me
without my acquiescence until
I leave there
awkwardly drained
knowing that
he’s watching me go
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
elegant escapades
everglade excursion
elevating emotions
enchanted evenings
egrets and ermine –
elated elephants encircle
eucalyptus
entering estrus –
evangelical elders
each embedded
even the entrenched
earn ecstatic event entrees
eat and expand
enjoy
experience –
explorers explode
expanding energy
engraving
extra’s
expertly
eloquently –
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
You came in black.
Drenched in black,
encompassing the night into your every move.
Sun or moon for each eye,
stars twinkling your feet
so that you can slip quietly in,
black holes removing all evidence of breaking in.
You crept slowly, surely
grabbing everything you found,
every little
secret, scar, soul shine
into that bag you clung to,
clutching it so that it hung from your back.
You passed my fire place.
Empty, with nothing left but coal and dust.
The fire once there?
Now long extinguished.
You shivered,
and continued looking.
You glanced at the kitchen counter.
Strewn across it were spices
and ripped up shreds of pictures
of all those loved.
Mixed into remnants of
entrees, appetizers, desserts,
too good to be true,
gobbled up too fast,
gone.
You shudder,
continue.
Finally, you find what you're looking for.
In the basement, kept in a safe right by where I slept,
you found it.
You reached towards me,
slowly, silkily took the key I had around my neck
as I sighed at your touch and unconsciously let you take it.
You twisted the key,
opened the safe
and grabbed the
ornately scarred,
worn down wooden
box that was held inside.
You opened the box.
Inside lay a red thing.
It resembled a minuscule
mauled, mangled, mutilated
crimson heart.
You sighed with relief and tossed the box and it's hideous contents into the bag.
You grabbed everything else you found and put it inside your bag.
Some were lead heavy, others too light...
Memories kept too long,
some fading,
some still fresh,
others just too strong of a memory.
You crept quietly away,
but not before you heard me whisper your name.
You looked away
like the coward you are
and left the house.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but ******* cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
an au revoir here penned,
man on a cliff doing a spring, fall over cleaning
a few rusty drafts still needy for completely
but you know times up when tide rushing out
and on your leg is a big red rash that wasn’t there
when you waded in a few minutes earlier
tastes changes, like seasonal entrees on a restaurant menu,
seasons come and go, reappearing, but last years dish,
out of style, except for the occasional recalling
the body and the work must together concert,
poetry like a lifetime of lovers, you leave them behind
for loving them too well, using up the verses left inside,
then comes the time when love dries up and the words concomitant
the nighttime scraps will still be kept in that sewing box,
that storage space rented on a 99 year lease
but now for my eyes lonely only, this nub is stubbed,
this last one, at last, succinct
au revoir mes amis
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 1:02 PM UTC
Sorghum syrup , sold just off the National-
highway
Boiled peanuts , pecan divinity
Period pickups , gas fired grills and turkey cookers
Busy , rugged maple rockers , curious roadside onlookers
Store clerk dragging a Salem , orange vested
hunters with a fresh deer ****
Restaurant trailers with hot dog , cheeseburger-
entrees , malt shakes and fried dill pickles
Big rigs on break in cracked asphalt , brown grass-
jungles
Dusk , closing down a rural exit ramp
A tiny town barely on the map ...
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Sometimes, I really don't feel connected to this reality. Every moment of this life, I feel disconnected and distant from everything and everyone. How do I stop feeling this way? How can I return to normal? I just want to be normal, loved, noticed.
I don't think that anyone notices me. I feel ignored and overlooked. I guess a lot of other people feel the same way. I can't say that only I feel this way. It's a universal feeling. Everyone feels or has felt this way at some point in their lives.
It's comforting to know that others feel abnormal sometimes. That you're not as much of a freak than you originally thought you were. Something about knowing that other people have the same feelings and emotions and passions as you do, or did, is sort of a relief. I wonder what your thoughts on this matter is. Since I can not see you or hear you, I could only assume that you would in some way agree with me. In the case that you do not agree, then I would love to find out what your opinions and thoughts are.
You people facinate me terribly. From you random episodes of nervousness to your moments of passion and love, everthing you, and I, do is an amazing specticle. Just think about it. We are amazing specticles just floating in a sea of zero-gravity and clouds of star stuff. If that's not amazing then I don't know what is. The fact that we are here is amazing. The fact that we feel things is amazing. The fact that we are born for a purpose is extremely amazing.
Life is a gift and a curse, though. It gives life and takes it away.
Life comes in different forms: there's "Life", the day-to-day event that is personified, and then there is "life", the precious gift that is given to us by Life. This probably doesn't make any sense. I really and honestly have no clue what I'm going on about. If this makes any sense, then you are extremely logical and extremely special.
Anywho, This is the first of many stupid entrees...
m.k.j
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
I seem to grow in ever direction,
With new branches sprouting from every pore
They do not need the sun
To be true,
They grow faster in its absence.
My photosynthesis feeds so greedily,
It consumes light.
Yet the feast never stops, continues
With invisible source.
Light is the appetizer,
Smiles the side
With darkness bringing
Endless entrees.
Crunch!
Crack!
Snap!
Snacking smacks fill the empty air.
My skin crawls as my mold,
Spreads and consumes.
My own movement sickens me.
I am disease.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC
the meals you never met
tasted like love.
i guess,
none were ever good enough.
as clock stretched six,
entrees were placed
adjacent to one empty seat.
ahead, my eyes bore into
a suppertime reminder
of the gifted void
you’ve left us to harbor.
but, who were you truly clocking in for?
because we sure weren’t
punching your time cards.
we saw,
every night,
at dinner time.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 4:14 AM UTC
“Please remove everything from your pockets
And place them in this little tray (NOW, please)
Which we will then pass around to strange people
Without you being able to see who they are.”
“Will all merlot-class diners please line up
At the door while we verify your existence?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but your meal will be delayed
For about two hours. Would you like some water?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your meal will be delayed
While our maintenance team works on the grill.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but your meal will be delayed
While our maintenance team repairs the oven vents.”
“Yes, the breakfast special is $7.95
But there is a $10 surcharge for the plate.”
“We are sorry, miss, but it appears that
Your silverware has been re-routed to Denny’s.”
“We find that seating twenty customers
At a four-foot table is more efficient.”
“We are having a little turbulence
In the kitchen; please fasten your seat belts.”
“For safety purposes, secure all ‘phones
And stow them until after the salad.”
“We ran out of entrees fourteen tables back.
There is no more coffee. Want a doughnut?”
“However, we have lots of *****
For the belligerent drunk behind you.”
“Thank you for dining with us this evening
(Yeah, yeah, like we even care about you).”
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
they dine there Saturdays;
once the dire discussion of
which entrees to order is over, there
is mostly silence between them
and a candle that burns
on every table--wax trails
on the wine bottles which
cradle them; creating a grand grotto
of paraffin they take turns fondling
gone are those nights
when their hands locked
across the gingham, their eyes
seeing through the fire, blind to
any shadow it cast on the other
the light remains,
though now they see
only beneath it, a biography of
burnt offerings on the wine's empty
flask, a meal soon to be forgotten
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
The time is mine
to do with as I please
a time to relax
a time to dream
to drink in life
taking off the top
a heavy cream
smooth as silk
whipped and sweet
enhancing the flavor
of each moment
crowning my dessert
there are many more courses
appetizers and entrees
I find sustenance in the bowl
and the beverage
I will continue to drink from the cup
while I still have breath
for the meal is not yet over
the time is mine
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
---
I pray you didn’t catch me looking
at your hands as they worked in the kitchen.
---
you were there, too,
but it was your hands that captured my attention.
strong, calloused hands.
never did I ever think that peeling potatoes
could be so interesting,
or so attractive.
---
your chest was there, also
barely clad in a thin white t-shirt;
a small key around your neck
bounced on it,
tumbling around as though
on a glistening trampoline.
---
hope,
the key said,
both engraved in its metal
& in its words to me.
---
moments passed at dinner that evening,
& as I found myself again & again
praying that your arm would graze my shoulder,
I couldn’t help but wonder
how much hope I could bear to
keep holding on to.
---
dinner came and went,
but my gaze on you never wavered.
I found myself both not hungry
& ravenous
as the entrees were served.
---
could your smile be any brighter?
or your eyes more soft?
eyes of velvet shine
& I am mesmerized.
---
as dinner passed & it grew time to clear the table,
you stood to clean up.
I closed my eyes & prayed for your touch.
behold, at the smallest graze
of your wrist on the back of my neck,
my heart fluttered,
& you dropped my dishes.
---
I sit here, the day after
still contemplating these small moments,
both cursing
& understanding
that you are not doing the same.
yet,
my heart still beats,
h —
o —
p —
e —
when will you serve dessert?
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
Random foods in a basket
to create something, I am tasked
Appetizers and entrees and even desserts
in a very short time, is all kinds of work
But I chop and mince and bake and braise
and serve it all up and hope for some praise
sometimes a winner and others a flop
hope for the best and not get chopped.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
butterfly shells
clipped wings
the ocean curls and crashes
beyond the reef
I umbrella-shade my eyes
cast shadows over overhead sunlight
the glimmer blinds
so prettily
and I swallow all contention
like sand-crusted fried food
It's a kind day at the beach
the clouds grace us with their presence
and I spit out my insurrection, my envy
of such shrouded calm
wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss
so sweetly
like a wind-cuffed boat
choked by destiny
we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean
submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue
don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm
rumbling, grumbling,
toiling and boiling
I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls
little more than petulant lightning
I've never trusted thunder
all bark and no bite
but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour
the sky is a wanting canvas
my eyes are needy spectators
the soggy chips are artesian entrees
and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon
So
the recipe is baked; a perfect storm
a pointed knife, carved cataclysm
a catchechism of the repentant earth
we only see the sun sleep
when it knows it's been bad.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC