"gingerbread" poems
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.
I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.
I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.
I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.
I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.
I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.
I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.
I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.
Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.
I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 6:27 AM UTC
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs
stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise
bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said
whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong
cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;
and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive
just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in
(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey
coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed
with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day
cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
19.7k
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale
cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred
brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?
gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets
cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
You are my
December because you seem to
emanate a golden glow,
quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
brought by the northeast wind of
clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
wrap your arms around me
tightly, it
reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
my dear grandma knitted for me.
You are my
December in how you
light up my eyes like
the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
fireworks that set fire to
the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
you are a great gift
like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
you are a sweet treat
like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
freshly baked and toasty
you refresh me
like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
You are my
December because
you leave me melting
like the mini mallows sprinkled
on my hot choco steaming
You are my
December because
I love December
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
'Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!'
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Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
While hearing a jingle
from somebody's Marmy
I bake on a warm parchment sheet
Cut out to be single
but one in an army
of gingerbread men I will meet.
Don't know if I care
that this life is so scary
or just that I fear saying so
and not that I know
but I hear that it's hairy
out there so I'm just laying low
For better, for worse, I can promise far better for me
if we all had no clue
a blessing or curse
I'm gingerbread, Ma'am
and a hell of a good soldier too.
We're golden brown guys
with a raisins for eyes
at first glance, not by chance, like the others
but The Gingerbread Men of Company Ten
have a mission: to stand with our brothers.
I'll fight to the end,
for I am what I am
and that's reason enough to defend
just give me my gun
don my uniform, hon
my baker, my maker, my friend.
You've had all your fun
when the mixing was done
with rolling and stamping my fate.
I live now to serve
and not to be served
a desert on a decorative plate.
I was mixed up before
but I've figured the score
from the moment I came from the oven
that you had a plan
for this gingerbread man,
not my fight but my plight you'd be lovin'.
So just give me a hand
kindly help me to stand
and salute all the men who have gone
into battle for this
a man's right to exist
and be more than a treat to chew on.
and in fact, if you will
I'd much rather still
to be the manning the front lines, I'm itchin'
to run 'cross your floor and head straight for the door
to release all my men from your kitchen!
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Tuesday night, just like every other night, a perfect night to vape.
Realizing, going against the grain is how society progresses.
All these changes leading way to these successes.
Making the past complain, questioning the new.
This **** is providing a new view, brain is set on brew, one you cant subdue.
These gingerbread cookies are ******* fantastic.
Did I just rap?
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Your skin is softer than silk
Your hair shines like the midday sun
And gazing into your periwinkle eyes
I know that you are the one
One night you finally invite me
Into the place you call home
I shiver with anticipation
As I brush and scrub and comb
But there are bones shoved under the doormat
And blood dripping down from the stair
What horrors I find that night
As I venture into your lair
There are legs hung in your kitchen
Fingers on the dining table
Forever watching eyes on the fireplace
Like some grisly fable
But that is not the worst
Of the torment I endure tonight
As I turn to run from you
You take away my light
There's a knife in my side
As you drag me, so strong
You rip and tear and consume my hide
Until my life is ended like a crash of a gong
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
with skin of ivory
that blushes at the sight of sun
even when the clouds are out,
i turn into a silly shade of pink
with a heart that drops
falls down, down, down
into a rabbit hole
at the sight of anything
remotely shattering,
gasping at little cracks on the sidewalk
carefully tiptoeing around bumblebees
with lungs that fill with cotton
in fear of a hansel and gretel gingerbread house;
lead me to the witch
where i will cry and wonder,
“how did i get here?”
and forget about
all the gumdrops in my stomach
with poise that only lasts seconds
in the face of spiders,
they crawl into my mouth
kept there until given the chance to spit
them back into your face
i will hold my breath
and picture fields of lavender
where a tanned girl spins carelessly
until my tissue-paper limbs
learn how to hold me up
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
It was a pan and bake
No it wasn’t going to be a cake
Something new in holiday cheer
Encourage travel and not draw fear
The idea came to create a Gingerbread Hound Bus
Even the Greyhound racing dog wouldn’t even fuss
Craftsmanship of the mold and ingredients in producing the Gingerbread Hound Bus
Gingerbread Hound Bus in being steady
A welcomed holiday treat
The highlight being the lights
Fresh from the oven being sheer delight
All aboard in the kitchen
The Gingerbread Hound Bus has reserved your seat
No need to push as there is plenty to eat
Yet the Gingerbread Hound Bus looks too good to put in one’s mouth
It should be mounted and on display
To my fellow bus nuts this is a relay
Giving thanks should be every day
The Gingerbread Hound Bus is spreading the word
It’s the Gingerbread in wanting to be heard
“A Gingerbread Hound Bus filled with sugar and spice, and it is also bringing the holiday spirit with the feeling of nice. Yet the Hound Bus in giving advice. The Gingerbread Hound Bus welcomes you to dig in, but remember it is the Gingerbread Hound Bus that says when”.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Sugar rush rush rush oh yeah rush
I have a sugar rush
I deserve a coke and a nice cream bun oh yeah let's party on
You see sugar hangs around at parties
I wish it fucken wouldn't
But it does you see it can pump up the young
And provide muscle which
Could later be celiate
I love to have a sugar rush
Like a nice finger bun with honey oh so tasty as
I need to have a sugar rush
Like a nice vanilla milkshake
And a mud cake yeah it tastes so great
What about bubble gum or
Chewing gum the best items for your sugar rush
You see ***** cranberry has
Sugar as well as alcohol
So you get your sugar rush and alcohol fix
How cools that
The reason why kids are hypo active because they have a sugar rush that happens every day
Sugar rush rush rush oh yeah
Come in to the witch's gingerbread house to taste more sugar to fatten you up
But you must say to the witch
You can't get me dude
Sugar rush sugar rush
Rush rush rush
Enjoy sugar every day dudes
Sent from my iPhone
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
Senseless
Palm trees wrapped with barbed wire.
I like gingerbread cookies of pillsbury dough, of that you already know.
Frappuccinos without whipped.
Like a dream
Y.M.C.A.
Rollerblading the past is fading.
Summer camps horseback riding, rock climbing, arts & crafts.
Friends confiding, connections binding, lots of laughs.
Swimming, smores, canouing, & row boats.
Gemini Loved Scorpio
Solar system of a higher altitude.
Astrology to set the mood.
A date which is charming & not rude. Greek or mexican? My favorite food.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
I am a gingerbread
sweet tangy ******* head
addicted to making
marmalade sunsets
playing funeral organs
cooking grass
on my BBQ
I stir with
olde english
marinade with you
on a bed of roses
on our hill
growing wild sassy
cooking stews
of parsnips wild onions
marmalade you and
the morning dew.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
A personable person propogated passion
Beneath my heavy heart
Alas, cried the caterpillar
You are not dead!
Though I have spent hours molesting your windowsill
Rapeseed!
Huckleberry!
Gingerbread Pie!
All these things and more have I maliciously misunderstood
But the lies of the soothsayer are frequently true
They are passionate pomegranates from me to you
The obelisks of oppression overpower your heartstrings
And there's nothing you can do
My villain!
My thief!
The princess of my misery!
The fiery orb and the blasphemous pirates!
Staring at your shoulders I see only my reflection
Turning on your heel my eyelids sparkle and linger at your doorstep
It's Goliath's head
Salmon and bread
Those deathly ideas which you purposely said
Tic tac guru
Just what is he to you?
And which of my words have you read?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 6:24 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
Cried the navy-blue ghost
Of Mr. Belaker
The allegro ***** cocktail-shaker,
"Why did the **** crow,
Why am I lost,
Down the endless road to Infinity toss'd?
The tropical leaves are whispering white
As water; I race the wind in my flight.
The white lace houses are carried away
By the tide; far out they float and sway.
White is the nursemaid on the parade.
Is she real, as she flirts with me unafraid?
I raced through the leaves as white as water...
Ghostly, flowed over the nursemaid, caught her,
Left her...edging the far-off sand
Is the foam of the sirens' Metropole and Grand;
And along the parade I am blown and lost,
Down the endless road to Infinity toss'd.
The guinea-fowl-plumaged houses sleep...
On one, I saw the lone grass weep,
Where only the whimpering greyhound wind
Chased me, raced me, for what it could find."
And there in the black and furry boughs
How slowly, coldly, old Time grows,
Where the pigeons smelling of gingerbread,
And the spectacled owls so deeply read,
And the sweet ring-doves of curded milk
Watch the Infanta's gown of silk
In the ghost-room tall where the governante
Gesticulates lente and walks andante.
'Madam, Princesses must be obedient;
For a medicine now becomes expedient--
Of five ingredients--a diapente,
Said the governante, fading lente...
In at the window then looked he,
The navy-blue ghost of Mr. Belaker,
The allegro ***** cocktail-shaker--
And his flattened face like the moon saw she--
Rhinoceros-black (a flowing sea!).
2.2k
Mistletoe hanging on the door hinge
A mess of tacky holiday sweaters
Caroling in the streets of snowy wonderlands
and houses flashing red blue and orange.
Wishlists to Santa sent in the mail
Gingerbread houses are built
Families tobogganing down the hills
Leaving behind a sleek icy trail.
Holiday shopping is nearing its craze
Christmas trees cluttered with presents
Little girls and boys staying up late
waiting for Santa 'til they fall asleep in a daze.
The scent of ham is filling the halls
Loved ones gather 'round
While children open their presents
and compare their rockets and dolls.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
The candles are new and burn brightly,
Set on the windowsill high above my head.
Gingerbread is fresh, and the taste
Lingers in the warm, toasty air.
Cousin Kyle lifts me so I can hang my annual ornament,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are a little shorter but still burn with fervor,
My fingertips just reach the windowsill.
The gingerbread is just as good as last year,
And the smell permeates my pink sweater.
Cousin Kyle lifts me to the top of the tree,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are burning determinedly and pushing their last
And I playfully plaster their wax over my gradually growing fingers.
I help make the gingerbread,
And am covered in flour the rest of the evening.
Cousin Kyle and his girlfriend help me hang my ornaments,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are almost nonexistent now,
And I light them for my mother.
I accidentally burn the gingerbread,
And the smoke infiltrates the whole house.
Cousin Kyle doesn’t want to help hang my ornaments,
And Great-Grandma sighs from her chair.
The electric candles blink in the window,
And I replace their bulbs with care.
The gingerbread doesn’t taste as good as it did when I was little,
But it brings back a heavy wave of warm nostalgia.
Cousin Kyle is off in Afghanistan,
And Great-Grandma sleeps in her chair.
The magic of Christmas never fades.
Sometimes it’s just buried deep in a box of ornaments
Or sitting in a quilted armchair
Waiting for that little girl
To remember.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
What's my Problem, Doc? It's that simple-glaze sugary madness
That gingerbread, paired with lysol and lipstick: paired with street and box
Those perfect, angular crumbs that file my highbrow into conformity
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
My home died 8 years ago and I
Never understood why—
No flames that licked our gingerbread house to the ground;
No earth-shattering wave that swept us off our feet;
No ghosts to keep us company—
Just a deep, lingering silence growing
Louder, and louder, more defined
As the hollow floors whined
In rebellion of the years glazed by.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
I envy him a lot
Just look at his eyes
Burning with so much passion
Then look at mine
Just some black beady eyes
Just look at his smile
Filled with determination
Then look at mine
Just a crooked half assed smile
Just look at how he moves
It flows with so much eagerness
Then look at mine
Just a lazy *** that tries hard
I envy him a lot
How can he be like that?
Why can't I be like that?
Just look at him as a person
And you'll feel a different sensation
Then look at me and you'll see
Just a half baked gingerbread man.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
There was a time we lived in those museums
mother, do you remember?
seeing everything from Art Nouveau
to German Expressionism or Cubism
There was a time
we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees
There was a time our winters
were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine
& our Spring
spent wandering the Schlosspark
There was a time we spent our summers
watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes
& our autumns in spacious cafes
& international bookshops
we talked the other day again
about the Russian one
how ever since we left home
we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place
it seems the vision of home never leaves you
just waits dormant in your heart
for something to remind you of it
just as now that Lesser Ury print
reminded me of our Berlin
& days of Love Parades & blissful freedom
I will not regret the journey
you made us take
because it meant
we got to live in heaven
there was a time we lived there
there was a time we lived there
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC