"garnish" poems
Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.
Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.
Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.
1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.
I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter
You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother
So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
You're trouble, you're toil.
Yes, trouble and toil.
With you I think I'll bring to the boil.
A pinch of salt and a teaspoon of oil
but not too much, your taste it'll spoil.
I'll take off your beard.
To eat that would be weird.
But gristle that makes your knees
into crackling . . .
. . . oh yes please.
With mint sauce on each cheek,
two kebabs that are seekh.
Not keen on the chin
so I hope you don't mind,
that goes straight in the bin.
Chop, chew, swallow and digest.
Can you guess which part
of you I like best?
It's your nose that I grate
all around the edge of my plate
and because I've asked "Please"
that you try not to sneeze.
It makes a much better garnish
than parmesan cheese.
Savoury poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Blondes illuminate
The dizzy world of men,
Confident and forthright
And simply, oozing acumen.
So sensually brazen
In a silly sort of way
Yet intuitively capable
Of leading all of them astray.
Blondes are irresistible
When they catch the errant eyes,
When their pearly, sky blue peepers
Irradiate and mesmerize.
When they catch him glancing
At a nicely rounded ***
When rosebud lip's apouting
Leave him breathless, limp and numb.
Blondes move in a manner
Which defies all things right,
It's a sweet undulation
Which turns day, straight into night.
It's suggestion incarnate
And quite breathlessly so.
Causing pulses to race
And his expectations to grow.
Blondes think in straight lines
Periferals are lost,
And woe betide myopics
Who underestimate at their cost.
Golden locks breed pushiness
The will to have her way,
And the man who calls a challenge
Won't survive another day.
Blondes are soft and fluffy
Dimpled cheeks and curve of thigh,
And are specialists in the art
Of come hither to the guy.
But just beneath the garnish
Is a mind that calculates
And a passion for success
And a taste for wealth that rates.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
19 January 2010
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 10:30 PM UTC
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.
But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.
I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.
I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.
I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
clanking clank slurp, ka-boom
the slop runs down a throat
merrily merrily terribly chilled
the gunk rolls down a throat.
the
forks spoons knives
plates salts salads
and wines
ding and echo like
soft butterfly tea parties
all gone rabid.
throughout the walls of pictures of food
and the butterfly echos echo
and dinging cups splash
and forks click and clock
(and and,..and!)
hold my breath.
clanking cubes of ice
bing against one another
Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with
a spoonful of spicy French soup
Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of
his piggy chops.
he stares at my forehead
they see my odd selection
she's laughing insanely at a joke
I'm holding my eyes inside my head
while
all on my plate sit the legs
of baby spiders
all on my dish are darting
sow eyeballs
pitcher plant garnish
and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant)
I gag outloud
the Fat Pigman scoffs at this
my heart pops inside its cage
and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
Water the Greenhouse
Water the plants on the deck.
Walk Autumn Moon.
Salutation to the Sun
Yoga on the deck
Prayers
Angel of Air
Reading & Study with Ken
Sipping herbals & he, his coffee.
Pick up.
Moving the living room furniture
Rearranging. Sweeping. Mopping.
Clean the kennel.
Fresh bedding for Autumn.
A break for Sevenfold Peace in the sunshine.
Listening to the Holy Stream of Sound.
Playing with Autumn.
Laughing with Ken.
Continuing with rearranging & cleaning
Done!
Another break
With Ken, Autumn & Habibie
By the firepit in front of the shop.
Auti chasing water up and down and around.
Walk to Alli's, talk and pick up the key.
Cut broccoli, cabbage, carrots, & kale
Add a few pods of peas
Drizzle poppy seed dressing.
Two bowls with 1/2 cup of rolled oats each
Add cinnamon.
Taking a teaspoon
Half full with honey.
Dipping it into the center of the oats
Pouring boiling water over the honey.
Into the oats.
Stirring and stirring
Watching the cinnamon spirals
Mix into the sweet porridge.
Small cacao chips, sunflower seeds
A few raisins
Sprinkled as garnish.
Eating together
Smallville, playing with Autumn
Habibie resting near by.
She maybe carrying kittens.
Too early to tell.
Tired. Good night. Sleep.
2:30 am.
Ken up watching a movie on is phone.
My, my, how times have changed.
Return to bed.
Writing, writing, writing….now it is done.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 1:07 PM UTC
We're out at a bar splitting a good night of cheers
Drinks and laughter flowing among peers
Double shots dance around the table
Tonight's the moment, tomorrow's a fable
We garnish the laughter with Halloween
What's your costume, how do you swing
A chorus of "I'll dress up as a cowboy"
Is met by a few rolling eyes, "I'll address their convoy"
Not to be excluded is the gay guy in back that chimes in
And competes with the rolling eyes, cowboys are mine
Laughter of reveries spills faster than the drinks
A 80's song, When Doves Cry, continues to play over the links
A women crashes the party and exhorts the group
Come on guys put your wings on, fly the coup
Halloween's around the corner, make a splash, make waves
Find your muse with a costume that stands up, and raves
Look out to the horizon, the rarefied air, and trick for treats
Find my tunnel of love with a costume that beats
After a pause, a coy smile surface on rolling eye's lip
Oh Melville come with me, come with me, and take a dip
Double shots dance around the table
Logan Robertson
10/19/17
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
The forgotten gem among the precious
Your love is too dark for a child
Also precious
Yet pure like a diamond
Diamonds are so common
Garnet, you are rich
Richer than most in quality
Perhaps a banker or lawyer would remember you
But no, sapphires are rich
Richer than dull gold, not rich enough I say
You reach new depths, Garry
Like an ocean trench filled with the remains of the unknown's lunch
Not as deep as the amethyst, apparently
That is spiritually charged and better for the soul
Your violence is a stain, but I say it is a warning
Garnish, you lack value
Topaz is the quality they seek
The eye of the sun, so bright
Too bright
The eye of Jupiter is too much, I say enough
Oh Garnet
Forget Ruby, your sister
Forget Emerald, your opposite
Forget Opal, all in one, the God of the gems
You are Alfred the Great, so great, yet forgotten
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC
I read a story today.
Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.
Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.
Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.
Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.
Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.
Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.
Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.
And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.
So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC
i.
Certes, where wouldst I be, without the visitant who visited me, hallow and calefacient is mine sweet. Her camaca flaxen brown far east bisayan covering, like the wind upon her bones; Cling's on to wing's crystalline, hovering.
ii.
Many callisteias doth she hath, even in her most burdened of day's, light echoes the wall's of her laugh. Her nacre eyne, as a naos doth garnish the sign; spelling "ángelos mou".
iii.
I phlebotomized pond's of despair's tether's, I implored God for the mate of mine soul; even pictured this vasílissa in mine pounding blood's fetters. Thus one moment, in death's valley, undeservingly the Trinity whom always was and is; gifted me mine other-half, the woman from Asia's tribal secrets, the one with a aureole surrounding her chest.
iv.
Now, after generation's of awaiting, just to touch her luminescence I won't tire, nor debate the timing; for all
Cometh in good time, I just thanketh mine Yahweh.
For its his daughter he didst send, thus me didst he
Openeth mine eyen. O' blest divine, O' blest divine.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) Dedication
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
welcome to the hollow cake
buttered by cream frosting
its no fun being the rat in wax
is it?
was the garnish good, at least?
we're here only moments
and they're being wasted every minute
just like all the opportunities
that have gone on by
there's still plenty game to be had
a plentiful lot in play
pennies for each of their fads
hair changes, and ripped stockings
handmade
but when the dye fades
your mascara runs
was it fun?
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 6:21 PM UTC
Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad
Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son
Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people
Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish
Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
harvesting parts from my garden of carnage
farming the darkness of my own catharsis
revealing the marks regarding the tarnish
hitting the target, the heart of the artist
how many times have i died?
to show the "i" that i am inside
nothing to hide, i'm cut open wide
these lines of rhymes are my suicide
embarking on journeys to harness the farthest
charting the course that startles the smartest
imparting a sparkle with scars as a garnish
hitting the target, the heart of the artist
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
She readies the tomatoes & radishes
fresh lettuce leaves & green onion
then finishes with salad cream as a garnish
& puts the evening’s fish pie in the oven
The salad sings sweetly to her
of the bygone days of childhood summers
fast cars on winding country lanes,
the way her grandfather would say
something to his sheepdog
& watch it rush away again
in the sunlight’s warm
grasp, before the rain
wandering fields & farms
or out by Thor’s cave
always with a pair of binoculars
for counting birds & bats
& how he’d sleep in his armchair
in a red brick stack of a house
& how the dazed garden air
always smelt of tea roses
many years have gone past
& she keeps all the old photographs
under lock & key in Europe
& old birthday cards in their envelopes
Every Christmas the phone rings
out above a coal-filled fireplace
& the call goes to the answer machine
all that love gone to waste
* Thor's Cave is a cave in Manifold Valley in the county of Staffordshire in the UK
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
My family What's app group
Is homemade soup.
It keeps me calm,
Soothes me like a balm,
Reduces tension of the day,
Appeases my appetite for what is happening in some way.
Family relationship is savoury broth,
Holds a strong bond and growth.
Photos and videos,
Not to forget audios,
Are seasonings which enhance the taste,
Just some, only the best.
Gossips,jokes and sayings need time to simmer,
To reach full flavour.
Family moans and groans,
Are birthdays, death,sickness and new borns,
Raining with condolences and wishes,
Tangy, no preservatives.
Family members are garnish,
Quite a relish,
With active members as crusty croutons,
That promote sociability and traditions.
Passive members are fresh herbs,
Rarely a comment,only few words,
But,are there to bring out the lovely aroma.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
Bitter snow blankets the ground
Cotton ***** fall like stars from the sky
Its heavy weight drags me down
The cold flakes don’t make a sound
As they garnish bone bare limbs and the
Bitter snow blankets the ground
It clings to trees, mound upon mound
Loaded like the truths never spoken
Its heavy weight drags me down
Beneath the surface life is drowned
Trees slouch like tired shoulders
Bitter snow blankets the ground
But a blizzard pales when you’re around
Stiff and frigid as any storm
Your heavy weight drags me down
Stony icicles crack in your frown
Will this winter ice ever melt?
Bitter snow blankets the ground
Its heavy weight drags me down
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Old men in dresses wave hands across baskets
casting magic spells on sausage and oranges
then hocus pocus over horseradish root as
thick as a forearm, potato-peeled later
we'll garnish meats with mystical power.
They expect us to kiss the ****** feet of
a God immortalized in plaster while granite
saints stand watching a procession of misty-eyed
martyrs shuffling down the aisle like sheep,
and all the while the bells are ringing.
Always the ringing of bells.
Bells rung by boys standing still
ring like angels.
The old men hold crackers up to the light,
then more bells and drinking of blood
and finally its done. They waddle down
the nave casting incense in a metronome spray.
The boys follow behind the hypnotic smoke,
their bells have been put away,
pall bearers of the crucified Christ
they lead us not into temptation,
rather deliver us out the doors
and into the street,
redeemed and safe behind
the hedge of numbing ritual.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
jesus i hate
christmas readings --
low intonings,
bursts of song,
prayers -- so many
******* prayers ...
all in name of th'
"wonder & mystery"
of christmas,
the birth of
quote-on-quote
holy babe.
nativity story spoken
as
true granite fact
,
heads all nodding..
Caesar Augustus, yes,
the census -- oh good!
... some lady doing a
Mary monologue ...
my own father playing Joseph!
father!
(lumbering Boris Karloff father of Christ)
-- grandmother!!
quit jabbing my shoulder
as i
put pen
to page!
these hands
are not
the hands
of a devotion blinded
christian!
(blasphemous thoughts do i write!) (poems on *******
here is
a woman in white!
(angel?)
very performance art
with that lighting
but
i'm not convinced ...
.
/
advent candles on
the altar ......
when the last is lit will a
heavn'ly chorus
ring out?,
blue flame batonning round
the sanctuary? orderly little halos.
-- grandmother get your
uplifted hands out of my face!
am i doing my part by
holding this candle
& singing hymns? ...
(my arm is being twisted) (i call this penance/comes once a year)
where is my eggnog & ***
a friend / hiding behind some poinsettias ****** good idea)
supplies a fitting finish. garnish for my thoughts:
*"man ...
i want
some
christmas h
anky-
panky. "*
(then:)
**** that
doesn'
t
fit under a
tree..."*
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 8:59 PM UTC
Apprehend a chilled glass of your favorite Eggnog
and spill into it a healthy dose of your favorite Bourbon
(or dark *** but bourbon is where it's at)
and garnish with fresh shaved Nutmeg and fresh ground Cinnamon
Stir. Sip or shoot; enjoy however you prefer.
Happy Winter.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.
I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.
Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
Have you noticed they are at it again?
Idiocy, insults, back biting and ********
Infancy in a petulant mood shouting
'cant cook, won't cook, shan't cook'.
And the recipe :-
Take one ex-minister (slightly embittered).
Fold through with a poison pen (neither retractable nor redactable).
Add a pinch or two of smouldering resentment.
Allow to stew and ferment for about 12 weeks.
Then warm through with an almond glaze of scorn
and liberally spread over several pages of resignation.
Finally wrap in a filou of vellum, and seal.
An ideal meal if you feel that your line manager
really needs a punch filled packed lunch.
And don't forget to garnish and serve with leaks
to the press and media.
Enjoy your meal Prime Minister!
Warning: This recipe contains home truths, scathing criticism,
ambition, nuts, betrayal, regret and crocodile tears.
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 9:33 AM UTC
after the body has decomposed and decayed and is done being with being a body, the insects feast on the flesh, desperate for nourishment.
1. after: the close of
decompose: to separate into parts
decay: to decompose; to separate into parts; to rot
done: to be finished
feast: any abundant meal
flesh: the sweet, outer coating of a body
desperate: having an urgent need for nourishment: something that is necessary for life
First came the blowflies, then the maggots. They attacked you while you were breathing. They thought you were done: to be finished. They crawled in and out of your nostrils, through your gaping mouth, down your throat. Your body took the phrase "being eaten alive" too far.
2. maggots: legless larvae of flies
attack: to set upon in a hostile or violent way
nostrils: holes in a face that helps a body: the physical structure of a material substance breathe
down: on or to the ground
throat: the part where insects run through and burrow and live in the not living
You're imprinted into the ground now, your ribs a perch for vultures to peck upon your carcass. Your skull is laced with sand and other sedimentary rock as a nice garnish. Bodies are strewn here, peppered with dynasties of dust, ancestry of asphalt.
3. ribs: curved bones shaped like armor to protect the heart and other vital organs
carcass: a human devoid of being
skull: the bony framework of a head
laced: the lightly draping of a thing
garnish: the supply with; to decorate; to lace: lightly drape a thing
ancestry: generations and generations of sediment forming into people forming into lives forming into experience forming into decay: to separate into parts
~~a.s.f.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
1 Oz. Passionate Obsession
1/2 Oz. Dread
1 Oz. Insatiable Hunger
2 Cubes of Sugared Words
Garnish with Broken Hearts and Candied Intestines
Serve Cold, it’s what she would’ve wanted
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC
Banal though you seem to be
I charge you to envisage free
A scarlet thought, a venal throb
To garnish with a stifled sob,
A crystal tear to reinforce
The reticence I suspect, of course,
The reticence which binds you to
A crass and **** dogma's view.
Why, you say, why take this tack?
Well??? Someone needs to bring you back.....
Back to face your beauty's soul
To extricate this black Popes' goal
Of binding you to penitence
Obliterating freedom's sense!
Marshalg
8 July 2013
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC