"griddle" poems
The tavern roof was smokey
with a pall of blueish ash.
The juke box was a- booming
as it played "The Monster Mash".
A giant puffed a burning witch
whilst smoke rings he exhaled....
While victims of our neighbor,
Vlad...on stakes were all impaled.
The Faceless Man was grinning...
from ear to missing ear.
The hanged man turned his twisted neck
to sip a mug of beer.
The Headless Horseman shouted
for an aspirin or three.
He popped them down his gullet
where his head was meant to be.
The zombies waited tables
and the werewolf tended bar.
Mothra was the carhop
and took orders car to car.
Godzilla worked the griddle
and served burgers ala carte.
Dracula complained about the steak
caught in his heart.
Ghosts and ghouls were dancing
with abandon on the stage
While cyborgs did "the robot"
'cause they thought it was the rage.
The mummy came unraveled
as we took him for a "spin"
As Frankenstein played tuba
to contribute to the din.
Igor brought "the monster"
and then Freddie brought his claw.
Jason brought his butcher knife
and his buddy from "The Saw".
The guillotine was working
and the raven refereed
So nevermore would pardons
be
allowed to intercede.
The pendulum was swinging
to the beating of my heart.
I hoped that I would wake up soon...
then did so...with a START!
Halloween is coming. So, I guess
I should prepare.
Watch out for bars with men from Mars...
'cause BEASTIES party there!
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
2. The Seed Cutters
They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel,
You'll know them if I can get them true.
They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle
Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through.
They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill
Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates
Buried under that straw. With time to ****
They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes
Lazily halving each root that falls apart
In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam,
And, at the centre, a dark watermark.
Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom
Yellowing over them, compose the frieze
With all of us there, our anonymities.
4.9k
On a lazy winter day that doesn't feel like winter at all
(70 degrees outside, yet the los angelinos are still feeling chilly)
She scrapes the burned cheese off of the griddle
(burns her fingers, but that doesn't matter, not really)
Because that's the best part about making grilled cheese
As she's waiting for the cheese to melt, she picks up her tea mug
(takes a sip, and looks out the kitchen window)
And she's wishing that she could go home
(technically LA is home, but it isn't really, not to her)
Because she's looked for her heart in this city, but she can't find it.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC
Oatcakes make great bikinis they're all the rage back home.
You can rap up your eggs and bacon; fill them with sausage and beans.
They're baked on a griddle or backstone; made from oats, flour and yeast.
You can wear them like potters bikinis or munch on a toasty cheese feast!
•
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
The yuppies are by the
Cotto Café, asking those
not to call them hipsters.
An auburn feminist drinks
Mexican blend, black, while
reading Margaret Atwood.
I gave up smoking, I say,
about a month ago.
No one really listens, which
I sometimes find comforting.
After I walk my isolation off,
I stumble into a Taco Bell;
one of those hybrids: this time
KFC. The cashier is curly in the
way that broken legs are curly.
Her eyes are green but I dare
not objectify her, I hope I don't
say out loud, because I fear
nothing more than being
patronizing.
Construction loudly stutters
and cars squeak and shush.
On this griddle of a sidewalk,
I feel alone. Vehicles vroom
while I stand silent, a monument
to my generation.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
Tea fer Two.
Pickle me a Dolphin; sprinkle liberally with rye,
whip us up a Butter cup on Snake n Pygmy pie.
griddle ten rare rats **** soaked in sauce o' barbeque;
serve it all in the banquet hall; for liddle me n you.
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
You're pancake batter
I'm a breakfast griddle
Pour yourself onto me
Form yourself onto warm
Bubble over
Simmer, set, and stick
To me
With me
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
making pancakes tonight.
i know it’s not morning
but it kind of feels right.
i’m making pancakes tonight
do you want some
i know you want some
maybe if i smile i could
get some
you win some
and you lose some
as he always used to say
but the smell of pancakes
eyes melting like butter
you win some
and you lose some
but you can’t help but want some
i’m making pancakes tonight.
come over, it’s like old times
dry eyes
and syrups no way to start a fight.
i’ll cook
you clean
let’s enjoy some pancakes
no kitchen brights just butter
moonlight
cause they’re fluffy
they’re sweet
make you weak in the knees
they hit the spot just right
so come on.
my treat
like i said
i’ll cook
you clean
the griddle, the ladle,
like your eyes shine and gleam
just put it in the sink
time flies by
stomachs filled and riding a high
let it soak
cause we’re eating pancakes tonight
feast your eyes
cause it’s not so attractive to have eyes bigger than your stomach
the memory of breakfast
wanton, happy , an image redacted
you win some
and you lose some
and you can’t help but get some
pancakes? pancakes ?
i know you want some
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
Here they come to seek a symbol
of seaside sun - a cruise ship
castaway, beached,rain stained,
landlubbers hamock and griddle.
But first they collapse me and curse me.
Doing it properly should be
part of their curriculum vitae,
a test of nationality.
Then I'm candy flossed, ice creamed, Blackpool
rocked, salted and crisped, generally stuffed,
while they lie back, roast and relax.
Good job it's not a nudist beach.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
Falling in love
with you is like
waking up to bright yellow,
peeking through sky blue curtains,
warmth caressing
streaming hair on a soft pillow.
It is subconscious smiles from
lulling visions & the murmur
of loved ones in the living room on Sunday.
Loving you is the wafting scent
of your favorite blueberry pancakes
& the crackle of meat on a griddle,
the peace of an afternoon
surrounded by loved ones—
half-awake & still dreaming.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
a roadkill feast, this doe that met truck bumper the black night before
now in the Texas sun, talons and beaks make easy work of eyeballs and entrails
the asphalt a convenient griddle, slow cooking dead deer, while the ravenous birds dine
somewhere in the brush, a childless mother, with no incantation to bring her baby back
this creature without words only senses a void--nipples no longer gnawed and ******
what mourning for this loss, now attended to by buzzards fast filling their guts
until I come upon them, my own bumper approaching at warp speed
my metal beast to avenge this desecration
with a twist of my wrist, a turn of tires
fast from the red road a flapping of blue-black wings--all but one escapes my wrath
he took too long to take flight, unaware my grill could **** with such impunity
a simple twist of the wrist, a bump, a thump, and one less vulture feeds on the dead
above him, his brethren wait, riding cool currents -- my execution but a brief deterrent to their wake
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Griddle sermons
Would you like
some philosophy
with those fried eggs ?
Free advice
cascades like rivers
of fresh juice
greasy story tongs
lift crackling sausages
upon serving plates
dressed with buttered toast
jam-packed with
social commentary
a side order
of cautionary tales
dished out hot
regales
patiently gleaming forks
awaiting their reason
for being
What’s that burning smell?
Someone asks
breakfast sizzles onward
undeterred
arrival time –
indefinite.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
You toss superlatives at me
like a short order cook
flings eggs at a griddle
I love you more than any man has loved a woman.
A ring, a daughter's name, a retirement plan.
I love you the max.
You are
the water bottle I take to work
the jars of canned fish hiding in the cupboard
the baking supplies unused on the kitchen table
the night that falls
the patch of green that joins the sidewalk to the street
the bedspread I crawl under
alone and waiting when I can't sleep.
You are for me.
You are. You can't not be.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
The white couple coiled like a bundle
The black couple day to day in swindle
The orange couple in a painful trundle
The red couple in a forceful swaddle
Coupled colours in wheedle
Coupled colours in griddle
Coupled colours in dwindle
Coupled colours in twiddle
The vows vented rekindled
The vows verified straddled
The vows verily canoodled
The vows vanquished! Befuddled
Coupled colours in caboodle
Coupled colours in en-kindle
Coupled colours in en-girdle
Coupled colours in unsaddle
Red, green, yellow, white, blue and black
All couples are coloured by a colour mark
It’s either you pray or park
It’s either you are lit or dark
All marriages are represented by colour
You either chose an orange one, so healthy, or a yellow one so pallor
You can go for the dark one, were all is head by the jailer
Or the red one were all is patched and knitted by the tailor
It’s your choice
To flip flop the dice
It’s your choice
To nut the dice
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
That fuckin' got-damn screen door fell off the hinges. Sit there and smoke your cigarettes while I fix it.
Outside Texas was hotter than a hot greased griddle
You could feel the tinge of hot on everything
Until the sweat drips from every inch of your body
Privacy
Crushing a blue
On the back of a toilet
Numb Thumb Dumb
Metling and thawing of liquid gold
Rubbing
Slap Slap
Tying up the dinasour
Pulling so tight with my teeth
They want to come-out of my head
My second time
I have the shivers
Throb-Throb-Throb
Says the purple vein
Poking up to drink the elixer
Ecstacy dripping from the tip of a hypodermic catalyst
So god **** beautiful
Pierce me
Plunge me
**** my brain so hard
That I won't come back from the black
I floated up above myself
Watching the magic happen
Takin' it all in
**** oh ****
Oh ****
Take-sex
Multiply by
one million
to the tenth power
**** you
One perfect little hole
Poked inside out
I love to lick my blood clean
It's a tradition now
Beautiful metallic redness
Hugging my throat
**** you
Just **** you
I have nothing else to say
I wrote my suicide note in blue marker on a McDonalds napkin
I am going to start keeping it in my wallet
"Goodbye world, you dumb ******* ****
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
Orb of amber sizzling-
like fried egg,
on griddle blue sky.
Peanut butter puffs
fill the air-
spotted dog reclines,
dreaming of steak.
Beaded lamp shines-
across desk, dresses
dark corners in light.
Purple velvet sky -
sprinkled rhinestone stars,
fuchsia horizon beckons.
Empty Koi pond, dark
murky water hosting only –
green algae.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
i
A holy silence
This cup of Morning Glory
Propane ignition
ii
An antique griddle
Procreating crisp flapjacks
Log cabin special
iii
Krusteaz Mix Supreme
Paired with Jemima's nectar
Whole with just a pat
iv
A full stomach, ugh
The indigestion building
I just, well.... pooted
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
I dished a crescent moon
onto a page
of poetry
But the point
ran away from me-
it just would not stay put
Perhaps it is looking for the spoon.
Is that a little dog I can hear laughing.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
My mind is like a griddle
on which inspiration sizzles;
I let it gently fry and
turn it over
so neither side
will get burnt.
I’ve gotta cook it slow and steady –
and better wait until it’s ready
cause there’s a lesson I’ve learnt
from times before;
from when it looked all cooked and tasty
but its insides were still raw
so the inspiration was wasted
leaving my imagination insatiated,
somewhat unsatisfied and sore.
So this time I let it fry,
on the griddle of my mind
Until it’s done right to the middle
So I know that when I whittle down
into its many drooling layers
the plentiful things waiting there
will be the rich juices of words, rhythm and rhyme.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.
May 21, 2025
May 21, 2025 at 7:28 PM UTC
Better than yesterday but worse than tomorrow
Live in a present Way, there's no time to borrow
My restless soul is a pyro, lighting internal fires
Scattered mind won't let go,slashing all his tires
Stuck in muck,I need a tow,safe from the mires
I Give no fuck,money to blow, chase all desires
What does it mean, to stay right in between
That happy median,defined by a Wikipedian
That mythological goal to balance in the middle
Nicholas' locked Cage, pursue the fateful riddle
Mind's almost full,fresh ideas hot off the griddle
Time to turn the page, but thumbs will twiddle
I felt like I couldn't breathe, nor could I hear
My heart prone to seethe,headlights to a deer
Finally My eyes are open and my head is clear
No more doubt or moping, there's no more fear
So proceed with caution a wiseman forewarns
Beware of the female fury, hell hath and scorns
But let love rule you, like a squirrel loves acorns
Embrace the wild ride and grab the bull's horns
See you are free to choose,write your own story
All we have is a life to lose,in all it's fragile glory
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC
I’m writing because it’s midnight, and that’s what happens. My fingers start itching and words start running around in my neural pathways. I’m writing because I’m not really sure I have anything to say.
That’s not true though. I’m writing because there’s always something to say. There’s always something worth hearing, something worth breathing in after it rains. There are metaphors I’ve already overused, so why not use them one more time. There are metaphors unexplored at the bottom of these literary chasms I chase my mind down into and somebody’s got to find them.
I’m writing because I have nothing else to do. Because it’s midnight and the world always starts falling asleep right when my sense of security starts waking up.
I wish you could see me like this in the daytime: unafraid, that is. Unafraid of what sort of patterns my fingers will stroke out on this invalidated copy of Microsoft Word that keeps asking me to validate it. We all want to be validated. You’ll have to get in line.
I’m writing because there are words like efflorescence that roll off my tongue like new pennies dropping into wishing wells.
I guess I’m writing because I’m sad.
We’re all a little sad though, some of us just see it when we look in the mirror. We see it under our eyes and in the empty space around us. We can see it where others can’t. In the empty space inside us.
I’m writing because there’s an ephemeral “her” to be written about, and she’s not even me. She’s this sad girl who curls up in bed at night and wonders what it feels like to be loved by another human being and wonders if it will ever happen to her. She’s one of these girls you pass up and walk past without noticing. I’m writing because my whole existence notices her.
I guess I’m just writing because well… it’s what I do. It’s what I do when I’m empty, it’s what I do when I’m full, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I do when there’s nowhere to run to and no one to run from. There’s nothing chasing me; it’s just me in this dark room.
I’m writing because the sound of keys is nice. It’s really nice. It’s the sound of pancakes on the griddle on Sunday mornings when I was young and of heavy breathes against the curve of my neck when I wasn’t so young anymore.
I’m writing because one day I’ll be older and my sadness will be out of touch. It will be a thing of my youth when I was self-indulgent and my universe was still small enough to only spin around me. Because one day you wake up and realize all the pettiness is still there but you don’t matter to yourself anymore.
I’m writing because I do matter. I do matter.
I’m writing because I can.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC