"floured" poems
Your mother rolled out pastry
with the rolling pin
her hands pushing the implement
across the board
and you watched
her floured skin work their skill
backward and forward
under the palms of her hands
the thinning pastry
spreading out to an inch of width
until her hands stopped
and she flipped it over
and spread more flour
upon the board
with a flick and smoothing touch
of her hand
once that task was done
she lifted it to the dish
and eased it around inside
and around the edges
with her fingers and thumbs
working their way
in a circular motion
around the dish
then cut with a knife
the over hanging
unneeded pastry
and put it aside
like an umbilical cord
once the baby’s born
as her hands placed in
the stewed apple filling
you said
can I have the left over bits?
pointing to the wasted pastry
left aside
sure you can
she said
moving on with her skill
as you picked up the pastry
and walked away
noticing the sadness
in her watery eyes
and strained voice and words
following you across the room
as you ate the pastry
between your fingers
like a bird of prey.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Memory of your mother
rolling pastry
and you watching
her hands
and the rolling pin
and the way the pastry
was pushed down
and out
and then she took
the pastry
and put it over a dish
and spooned in
the cooked beef
and onions
and then placed another
rolled out piece
of pastry on top
and forked down
the edges of the pastry
and she said
do you want
the end clippings?
and you said
sure why not
and she gave you
the clipped off pasty
raw in your hands
and you began to eat
noticing how red
and raw and worn
her fingers
and hands were
and how tired
her eyes looked
and wiping hair
from her eyes
with the back
of her floured hand
she pushed out a sigh
and you saw there
how a thousand dreams
of young girls die.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC
My regulars
..
A cup of hotly brewed tea
with a menthol roll
sitting on an ash tray
beside my widely opened book
of a guilty pleasure promise
Day dreaming of a cold weather
with pine trees covered in white softness
and a
waft of cinnamon
mixed with baked floured ginger
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
To write with tongue in pen,
Saliva dripping ink.
The heady-remembered sensation
Of flavors long forgotten.
Sifted with fingers floured,
Arms limp from kneading
To have them
Penned to perfect succulency.
Until they are coined to smooth and creamy texture.
The rich-written smell of impatient waiting
For oven-crisped words, over-penned with
Timer-gone-slow.
The salt and pepper of a final read-through
Always spelling disaster to our over-spiced and cooled,
Now cookie-cut words.
The souffle sinking deep in the pan of it's paper-page dish.
Till loving eyes scoop up that first tender-tasting bite,
Till the sound of a thought drifts over two lips
With a satisfied sigh.
Our long-awaited, frustrated, penful recital:
Experimental, new-dished-out, tempting
A-rivals.
Bellies full, read-through finished, enough of the sauce.
We clear the dishes with the simple act
Of turning over the cloth,
To the next blank page.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
Though my soft, floured heart were of beating bread
For each raven to peck crumbs in morning
Bleeding from wheaten wounds, I do, instead
Loose each door, pull back curtain adorning
First light, through open window, in you fly
A yellow songbird with speckled, pale breast
Though sweet your voice and innocent your eye
An empty plate now lies within my chest
For you thieve bread from hunger, like the rest
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
With glee he sinks his teeth in floured delight,
The roasted beef so tender, and melting cheese so dour,
His eyes alive, and happiness flourishing,
The child so young, knows not a world forlorn.
The rip of meat from shredding teeth,
Pulls away the lunchtime meal, stretching cheese like a broken seal,
His eyes alert, and weathered years showing,
The man now strong, forgets a world forlorn.
Onwards now with finale in sight,
The drink nearly gone, and watch ticking on,
His eyes are weary, his arms reserved,
With age he is slower, but wise from a world forlorn.
Before the finish though, his eyes look up,
So brown they were, but blue they felt,
From Images of life, of love, of glee,
Both golden and grey, he remembers his first bite.
Now with a boyish glow the old man grins,
He takes his last bite and sips his last sip,
He takes a paper and pen, his hat and coat,
And leaves, happy to have lived in a world forlorn.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
“May I have the knife?” I said,
as we were cooking with garlic and dough
in the heavily scented kitchen
where your mother grew up;
deep salty waters and high altitude slopes of
Halkidiki.
You set down the knife – just from good manners,
and slide it towards my floured hands.
“Why didn’t you just hand it to me?”
I sounded unsteady and young.
“Why, we wouldn’t want a knife fight, would we?”
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
My citrus hands
Brush against floured jeans
It’s one am
I’m a little delirious
A lot drunk
And find myself
Making lemon bars
Your favorite dessert
Hoping familiar taste
Will bridge the distance
Lemon custard filling the gap in my heart.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Falling into his“Love Batter we learn to think
what really matters its a science
Not a test this is far from the reader's digest
Traveling East or West what motivates you the best
How every ingredient makes you feel cozy
Rose sprinkle no time to be
(Rip Van Winkle) no sleepy time Chai tea time
How do we ever find the time
Telling someone to be mine be more entertaining
then tell her you really love her what's inside her
How to flatter her and give her your better heart of time
Send her an equally love letter with your love ingredients
Be obedient with poise light up her baking flowers pansies
A musical instrument with a subtle sound of noise
Something is giving you the crunchies
Her baking lips how they cream into the stem rose pink,
I fell for her red-hot, ones love batter I wanted to drink
Radiant as can be the next sugar high shot
Any suggestions
On so many missions
Love liaisons add some golden raisins
Love was coupled hands mixed eyes double
Falling for him and lifting her up sings.
Her gravity spooned angelic wings.
sugared and floured hearts angel dust.
We bond together to trust.
For the right reasons Valentine all seasons.
I suggest we get started I cannot resist
The moon shuffles wedding list
A-Couple A-+stumble
Kisses of an hmm-yum gamble
He’s hot and I am cold
Weather together eyes coupled
We stay strong where we belong
You Betcha or I will bake ya…
When we come together we listen.
The birds heat lucky red words.
Get’s easier the same person glistens.
We have and baking fingers hold.
The same kisser reaction
extraordinary to marry.
Love triply floppy disk.
Hands wedding finger
mixing perfect whisk.
How he bakes me a cake.
His easy task heavenly
love falling ingredients divinely.
All the right condiments.
Sugar dissolved love pursued.
I never in my life felt like this.
Love so crazy glued…
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
He's gone traveling today,
Off to adventure far away.
I labor time as I pine
As he passes pine and vine
That I've never, no not once
Chanced a glance, a look askance.
This evening I will justify
My own choice to poetify
On his absence from his seat
And the emptiness he leaves complete.
For it is near the holiday
And I would rather he choose to stay.
When he returns, I'll make a meal!
With bread and pudding, the whole deal
He will laugh at the floured mess
Of me, my smile, and my best dress.
But, he'll be glad to know to I care
And would always rather have him here.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
biting down
on a gum lined jaw
a lash powdered scent;
a white floured gore
a bitter sugar
to mask the sour
of a never
ending hour
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
not as old
as the mountains
or the trees
in the redwood forest
He’s moving slower
not as slow
as the Galapagos tortoise
he moves with purpose
His body’s softer
not as soft
as goose down
but soft enough
to wrap my arms around
and feel protected
He's lighter colored
not as light
as an albino
or a ball of floured
pizza dough
the darker hairs
have turned gray
the blush of crimson
on his face
has melted into butter
but I could love no other
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 11:08 AM UTC
'That looks just like a fox being sick'
I stare at the torn-off chunk of bread,
at the hunk of gluten that floured your imagination.
Your delighted smile dangles as you dance off again,
dragging your future behind you.
Cos i've already seen that imagination of yours begin its adult transition.
Imagined slights and planned flights. Life-or-death disco nights.
Life planned and felt and feared and adored as it only can be
by the mind of a twelve year old.
You have so many futures left in that brain of yours.
Careers and fears and loves of your life.
When you reach my age you'll have lived our years multiplied
in fantasy and what-ifs.
We talk of becoming 'more together',
but what if its really just about
being the persons we are?
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
The dough spins above,
Launched from floured hands, they wait.
Curse that ceiling fan.
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
Stick my head in kaleidoscope bucket
With zealous glee I lick and **** it
For she employs the morning glory
The grass now wet with dawning glow refracts
To capture that sensory attraction to the floral slit
Wafting in the tree
Why
Else
Would
My
Essence
Bee
Spitting out a sea of porous rosin
Into bough of nature’s pocket
Scurry homeward bound to soar
As Icarus the muppet
Drunk and flapping to the morning hue
A fugue of nectral revenue
Through hexagonal shaped avenue
With that binding grip it has on you and me
It shows if yellow fur is torn and marred
How the honey jar lies
For the fit working parts that make
This mechanical engine for sucrine sake
Externally flakey
At core a jubilant succulent disection
Built for an ursular day-dream
Decadent demise
Floured hands produce
Thy pollinous prize
Whilst Adorning sting
Hostile pride promoting the imminent explosion
Pulsating preceeding the numbness that rushes
The red twards' hystemic vulcanic duct
Made of flesh
Oozing fresh yellow lava amidst a puddle of sweat
What a temporary pullava it seems
Meanwhile tiny size chackras become warped and starve
As the scent left on dependant wind
Promotes marvelous death to my comrades
Holding post-mortem to determine what underwent
Before abdomen tore in sacrificial repentance
To protect the important through the act of entropy
In the name of she
Regina
My matron
Re-dream her intonation
Has blessed the concept of sky
Through one thousand eyes the stripes I inherit
Manifest miraculous logic
To bring about merit in laborious action
A yellow and black faction
Working for commune to take shape
And bring about wake in our beautiful landscape
Resonant ripe with a balanced instruction
For the sake of achieving the feminine kind
Who gave light to us all
My brothers both lovers and warriors are told
We are a swarm of coerced souls
Devouring pockets of pure potential
Serving our karmic debt
The scene is set for hard work
As it hums with satisfaction
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC