"grilling" poems
Butterflies fluttering around
Canoes moving slowly across the subtle waves
Kids laughing and gawking
Bugs flying
Ducks fighting
Families grilling
Couples holding hands
This is relaxation
This is nature
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Birds of a feather,
Not unlike me,
Love fine weather
(When it’s pouring tea).
Manners, wine and dining, too.
Mantis, llama, kangaroo.
Overmade, they do make over.
Things so brittle like the rover
Sent to Mars, the Milky Way,
Bounty, sneaky in its way.
Inbetwixt the words they utter,
They choose bread over the butter.
Frying French and grilling Jerry,
Jamming jars of juicy berry.
Duty-bound, they bound off duty.
Flock together! Fly, my beauties!
Plumes all owned. And not one borrowed.
Standing still amidst the horror…
Jokes aside, and folly ousted,
Peace preferred to putrid bloodshed,
They, like me, are hard to find…
Seems, at last, I’ve lost my mind!
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Chemistry:
It is in your kitchen, the way you cook your food
Either it was boiling water for the soup
grilling your favorite steak for tonight's dinner
frying french fries for the kids, for this afternoon's snack or
simply freezing leftover foods for tomorrow's breakfast
and on rare occasions, burning your food to coal
turning your fire alarms on!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
**the banner photograph that the poem references is off now, but...
The poem is about a photo I took, outside looking in, where the window and an interior mirror, both reflected me, outside, outwards, but caught the interior of the house within, and the interior of our lives, which was my intent, but the poem came later....
a self portrait,
a reflection
in a window, in a mirror.
a man stick figure
within and without.
me hidden, armed,
iPad spyglass
one upon the other,
unaware of observation,
introspection / extrospection.
man, external,
grilling striped bass,
woman, internal,
kitchen caught slicing heirlooms,
a dressing awaits,
peach salsa,
the seagulls inform me.
Outdoors, indoors.
bay,
in the background.
living room, kitchen,
in the foreground
couching, crouching, cooking,
a closeup and landscape,
of two lives.
so the photo treatment,
introspection / extrospection,
upon reflection,
a poem ouside-insight.
a moment to reflect upon a reflection of a moment.
this how I see things,
and why not you too?
Double vision.
outside, looking in, inside, looking outward.
then,
at the point of intersection,
a memory recorded,
always recording,
paths, moments,
worthy of note.
such a note, here,
record of a photograph.
preserving my preservation.
tho photo blurry,
what you see,
is what I see.
lives of symmetry
summer symmetry is my life.
life is my summer symmetry.
exactly.
August 2012
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
I buried my father:
In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears
My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing
I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on
When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please
I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets
He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P: what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)
Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories
I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,
I will always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
when the sweethearts left,
we took off our token smiles
and overly-kind eyes.
my roommate grabbed a beer,
quickly ****** it off,
i put on "beat connection" by lcd,
and the derailment of the night
began with some synth and burps.
i made a *** of coffee,
went outside,
the neighbors were having a party,
making a stew,
grilling chicken,
drinking,
drinking,
drinking,
and exhaling enough smoke to signal the natives.
"are you drinkin' coffee muthafucka?"
"hi, i'm josh, and yes."
"the name's chase."
"nice to meet you." *******
before i knew it chase, our neighbors,
and about three people i didn't know
were in my apartment.
chase looked at a picture of lennon in
our living room.
asked me my favorite beatles album.
"probably sgt.peppers."
"you like that gay ****
"if that's gay **** yes i like gay ****
he grunted with rednecker royalty.
"the white album is probably my second favorite,"
i offered.
"man, the white album is the ****
there is nothing else."
someone said they had some fire, if anyone was interested.
everyone was.
there was a dark-skinned boy, with snow white teeth and a fake afro, rapping as i clumsily played an acoustic.
there was a 26-year-old ***** and his 43-year-old wife
smoking a bowl in my bedroom,
there was my roommate vomiting on the carpet,
there was everyone
and
there was
me.
there was everyone
and
there was
me.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
I am dysfunctional
A jumbled up bag of puzzle pieces that never fit together
An astronaut spiraling endlessly forever
Major Tom watching on
His suited flailing clown
My mental health is an elevator that only seems to go further down
A rabbit hole neverending heading to my dysfunctional peers
Mad hatter grilling his eyeballs to a perfect sear
Nothing but manical laughs to hear
Nothing to doubt and nothing to fear
Nothing but insanity and gloomy clouds, no day is clear
I am dysfunctional
Yet none of these puzzle pieces seem to fit anywhere but here
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
Flames
So bright
so high
giving birth
to heat
warmth giving
breath stealing
wonder and awe
Flames
Man's pain
destroyer of hope
life stealing
pain dealing
crushing, burning
families broken
memories gone
colors mocking
it crackling song
Flames
Bringing together
bon-fires
get togethers
thrilling, grilling
meats turning
corn popping
chocolate delights
lovers ignites
cuddles, snuggles
without struggles
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
Hotdogs grilling
Filling the air
assualting my nose
sizzle
sizzle
Cherry blossom trees
Releasing their thickly sweet perfume
carried on the breeze
wet aphault
after a summer shower
tickling the back of my throat
Freshly mowed grass
Their light scented aroma
Clinging to my clothes
Chlorine filled pools
Making my cough
splashing all about
:-D
I'm
so
Glad
That
Summer
Is
Here
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
Coming home from the mass,
body stretches became endless
no hurried showers were done
some returned to bed, everything
was on a slow pace....but then,
kitchen aromas roused sluggish senses,
revealed garlic and onion sauteing,
beef stewing, stuffed fish grilling,
even the smell of parched soil, being
sprinkled with water...became fragrant...
all rushed to the table...for lunch...
..............................................
dessert, was a choice...nothing...or,
slices of pie..fresh strawberries dipped
in condensed milk...peanuts, sour
chips, or salty tortillas, with salsa,
all these, over loud talks...whispers,
wholesome family conversations,
where endings are ever unpredictable
...............................................
each Sunday carries a different mood
...with cups of tea, or coffee, when
discussions are serious, long, hushed...
most times, they're a tall glass of sundae,
with shaved ice, sago, sweetened yam,
or, beans, milk, and sugar........
decisions made, and agreed upon
are the multi colored toppings,
pretty much like syrup.....or ice cream...
...................................................
seven days.....with different names...
each family member brings in a new shade
we do our best, to start, and end each day
................with pleasant airs
.................especially on Sundays,
......when families gather together...
..................................................
Sally
Copyright March 26, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".
8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)
You get the idea.
But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
Society today
As a whole
Is becoming numb.
We play games
Where we shoot others for fun
**** them
...
Why is it fun?
I can't say
That I haven't tried.
It may be skill
Exploration
Achievement
But that can all be found
Outside.
The sky is still blue.
The trees green.
The grass itchy.
The people laughing.
The party-goers grilling.
Some guns even.
But if you come outside
Don't treat it like a game.
Because it's not.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
oh snap.
guess who's back?
I'm one step closer to a heart attack.
these flashbacks drawn from a cutback, turned me into an insomniac,
twas only a matter of time until I had a cardiac
arrest me now, officer. I've done you all wrong.
'cause my heart lying in my breast no longer plays a loving song.
I'd love to play the rest, see who else would try and sing along,
but I best not cause more distress, I know where I belong.
this girl KC.
man, she's killing me.
thoughts grilling me, yeah they drilling me!
this thrilling feeling's chilling me to the core, like it's refilling a sea
that just won't quit. My anchor's heavy as ****
my head's split a bit, teeth grit cause I'm full of these images of misfits, and culprits
whose crimes I didn't know they could commit-
they're all me- I'll admit I don't have a permit to
park my *** in this waste of mass class.
just mind the sass, my ego's thick as thick glass, and I don't have the strength to be harassed (rn).
hold up
>>Boi
I don't got time for this.
I need help, man, tell me what to do, I'm ******
this story's this; I miss the abyss in which I could hiss at KC's every bish she brought home,
reminisce that shish in whish I could blissfully talk about french kissing her.
but now I got me a man.
but now she back I've got no game plan.
tell me can you show me again how life is more than her?
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
river of blood
flowing onto your buccae
pain that makes you impotent
grilling yourself
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
this is americana.
this is the sound of family get-togethers,
or the lack thereof.
the sound of awkward pleasantries
because we see each other
twice a year on the major
holidays. there are birthday cards
sent back and forth, necessary
games of monotonous tag and we
bleed our thoughts in between the
general conversations, we look
into each other's eyes and share thoughts
telepathically. we are not close,
but we are joined.
this is americana,
small town edition.
they call you family as
they look through your cupboards
for ***** dishes. they smile
and laugh with you as they dish
out gossip and revenge. they
stab a knife into your butcher-block
counter top. they sever your spinal
cord and make you a puppet, a
voicebox spitting out the message. they
make you their ***** and they call it
friendship.
this is americana.
grilling burgers and hot dogs
on the fourth of july, fireworks
across the town, city, nation.
you drive on interstates for miles
and miles and miles and every tree looks
the same even with mountains behind it,
until there's nothing but a great red
stretch of desert and you wonder if
the cactus really holds water, but the
honda civic or the minivan or the f-150
is going too fast to stop and find out.
you end up in a thousand starbucks,
a million mcdonalds, a billion little places
filled with a trillion little life forms
and you think about the way home smells,
how your mom made the home baked goods
when you were little but stopped as you
grew because not everything stays
golden.
this is americana.
united we stand, divided we
fall. we repeat a pledge from birth,
more often than we call for our parents
and before you learn what you're
promising. they say our nation is a
melting *** free of religion, discrimination
and hate. we see a different truth;
we still say "god" as we pledge to a bleeding
country; races of every color suffer, every
gender is beaten down by society, and
we are not allowed to define, to own
ourselves unless we're white, rich, "powerful".
americana is a genre, a taste, a sugar-coated
glimpse into promise and unbeatable dreams.
the truth is we're all in debt, we're being
drowned out by the wealthy, we're all falling
prey to the powers that be.
we are americana, and we are broken.
whatever you believe, let us pray
that there is a chance left to
heal.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
This is a confessional poem
but what crimes have I committed?
I have not pled
guilty or
innocent.
Maybe innocent by reason of insanity.
I am not under a lamp
in a windowless room.
No officers are grilling me.
I have nothing to hide
yet nothing to tell.
This is a confessional poem
but what are my sins?
I don't tell those to
just anyone who
asks.
I am not on my knees
in a reverential box.
There is no screen
with a priest on the other side.
I am not being
forgiven.
This is a confessional poem.
But why?
Because I use the
word
I?
All this is
is my pen, my paper,
me,
and you.
And I ain't tellin' you nothin'.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
*Breakup for the makeup, the *** is is poetry within itself. Loving you is bad for me...it's bad for my self esteem, and it's bad for my health. I feel bad when I see how I make you so weak...to see a grown man tear up, and do crazy **** without stopping to think. You love the curve off my hips, the scent of my hair and my soft full lips. The birthmark on my wrist, and the one on my ribs which you never miss to kiss. The tone of my voice when I'm grilling you, the sparkle in my eye....when you recognize just how much I'm feeling you. It hurts me every time when you doubt how much I love you, because you're not the only one strokin'.....but you're the only one I make love to.
And the passionate kisses tell it all. I got up from your lap and slid off your pants, then ripped down your draws. I worked my way down and started slowly, deep throated your love as I played with your.....You ripped me up by my hair so I can tell you're still mad, then you bent me over and slapped my *** as hard as you could, and then you put him in me and I gripped every inch of your manhood. And you know I can't take it. Your nails dug into my sides, and thrusted so hard thinking I'd run...but you know I can take it. We switched then I started to ride, the anger in your eyes became harder for you to hide. Repeating your insults to you "I'm a ***** I'm a *** and I'm so ******* selfish." And I gripped on your neck, just as I felt your legs clam like shellfish. Fast and slow, I like watching your face, so I switch up the pace...and ride fast then slow. "I love you." Now I got you, not a second too early, not a second too late. You flipped me on my stomach and I felt all your weight. You started to pant extra hard and I told you to wait. I wasn't done, you pushed my face into the pillow as I felt you *** Couldn't bring yourself to pull out.....fin.
But we know how your men swim. And I'm not on birth control so let's pray that I don't get pregnant again.*
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
You Use To
drop the turkey
twice on special holidays
glaze the ham
with stubborn certainty
that lime chutney was
just the ticket
Sterno steaks
brought your short lived
grilling career to a
screeching halt
not to be outdone
by the half- cooked goose
with New Year’s champagne
what I wouldn't give
to see you
greasing
the kitchen floor
with poultry again.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
At this hour Children sleep
Among the darkness people creep
Beyond the shadows there is light
Couldn't stand this endless fight
Defined lines in her drawings
Every picture echoed a memory
Forgotten people rested in her mind
Grilling burning thoughts of past times
Her loneliness made her grimace
Intentions were all but to finish
Jokes and riddles crossed her mind
Killing past interruptions
Losing everyone made her go cross.
Movements she made were very small
Never making sound at all
Perfectly graceful she seemed
On her face the light beamed
Quite a beauty light shimmered
Reflection in the water glimmered.
Surrendering her fears
Trickling tears
Under perfect melody
Variation symphony
Welcome to an unknown world
Xanadu for a helpless girl
You can help her if you please
Zoning out she rests in peace.
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
Sky
entertainment for the people
interactive entertainment to displace frustration in Hades
the subhumans awaiting grilling get restless and linger in pain
give us Sky, give us distraction and lend us artificial
power
Let us play our loaded dice
and give enforced disappointment and scripted drama
to pull strings and holler that we can control
In our hell, we can find relief in giving hell to another
Sky
entertainment for the people
we want to salivate over manipulating emotions
we want to to throw our loaded dices, cheat and deny
mess around with sky and give vent to our helplessness
savagery of the blood thirst to us of the down syndrome
mental abuse and mental cruelty is the new black
ours is Clockwork orange from the Ghetto minded
Sky
get up and do as we want
the majority want you to be put through the mill
emotional vandalism and we're tripping for we are more
nobody dares disobey us for now your choices is nil
we the ringmaster has the dancing bear with the electrified ****
that is power in our feeble hands and we because we are wounded
because we are sadist and cheap bullies and its a numbers game
because we are in pain and the gas chamber is now obsolete
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:30 PM UTC
Prisoner without a cage
Soul forever trapped
Confined to a lifeless shell
Devoid of emotion
Slowly I waste away
Endless nights dreaming of escape
For this is not the life I chose
I don't believe in that higher power
For who would trap me here
Like a caged bird
Doing tricks for crackers
I'd rather be exploring Astral Plains
And wander lusting for knowledge
Than stay here another moment
Around people sippin the Devils potion
For this brew is awfully potent
One sip fills you with wrath and rage
As you begin to rattle my cage
All their minds filled with green
As they do anything to fulfill their greed
And begin to gorge themselves
Like glutinous giants grilling in Grenada
Never getting their fill
Lusting after thick thighs
And supple ******* doing
Anything for that 2 piece meal
Envious eyes eying everything in sight
Boasting that selfish pride, as your
Inner voice says that can't be me
He's talking about
You yes YOU
As you sit smug with your
Body shaped like a circle
Due to years of sloth like behavior
Don't worry about me I know
I'm different, I don't belong here
I know that
We are nothing more
Than temporary beings
Gone in an instant
Seeking the meaning of
Our existence
What is my purpose?
I guess I'll never
Know why I'm on this craft.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
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Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC