Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!
A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!
I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!
She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!
Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!
HE was the one to glue her back together when she had broken apart. She was left by Another.
And HE came along, a homemade superhero, to bandage her cuts and ice her sores and nurse her back to health.
At her every word, HE bent a listening ear. If she had talked for years, HE wouldn't have flinched.
Another came back.
She grabbed her things and dashed off, into Another's arms again, the same arms capable of crushing.
Lucky for her, HE packed her some glue just in case
I just want you to understand
that although you are
trying to forget me,
we share a year's worth of
memories, habits, secrets.
We adjusted our singular pattern
to coincide with each other.
I cannot remember what it
feels like to sleep on the
left side of my bed. Or the
I do not know how to stop making
one cup of
homemade Black Cherry Acai Berry Oolong tea and one mug of
stark black coffee. I do not know how to remember last year without remembering
I do not know how to stop
Artistically determined to create
cut with precision
like your lips
saturated with color-
of all things bright
wishing on stars
with each letter I write,
painting soft lines
like my fingertips
meeting your collar bones
If only I wasn't alone
We could kiss
A homemade valentine of our own.
New Year's Eve party.
With the popular kids.
That you don't know well.
But your boyfriend's going,
and you need to go too.
(for a New Year's kiss,
Your favorite pair of jeans
because they are easy to dance in.
Your best floral tank top
because it's brand new
(and it's cold out, so you can
have an excuse to wear his jacket.)
because it looks good with
because it makes your eyes pop.
And french manicure,
(your very first one!)
Done by your older sister,
aided with scotch tape
for the tips.
(It makes your hands look pretty,
like your best friends mom.)
thought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second
lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands
ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes
whose words are these?
this second breeds disappointment breeds apathy breeds hopelessness breeds fatigue breeds long sleep
rivulets make short indents, slipping clockwork makes little difference
words by heart fall from cracked lip skin
whose laments are these?
and wish I didn't.
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
and whos to blame for this insane game
the rest of man kind would think its fine,
i love the world but does it love me back?
infested in my life i been hacked
whos to know where we'll be in 15 years
how many of us will shed those tears.
when every moment arises,will you be tall,
condemned we'll be each time we fall,
to remember all of those nights and days,
the times where it was so blessed,
but now its all just so gray,
so muthafuckin stressed
moments in between night and day,
not talkin bout dusk til dawn,
but the day that we are all gone.
hate to love it and love to hate it.
just listen and let your brain take it
what will be, we mae never see.
cherish the moments in your life,
once its all done, was it all just pure strife?
so fill my scars and watch it bleed
once i thought that's all i would need
so much more is left in the world
but how many times do we see just one world
get that natural high and then come fly
open your eyes and breath in the phresh air
soon enough you'll find the ones who'll care
When I think of feeling despair for unknown reasons
I know it is time for me to create something
As I think of this, words of a friend come to my mind
As to how she finds comfort in cooking
So I go to the refrigerator and search out ingredients
To make a warm healthy dish for my family
it makes me feel good after washing, cutting
chopping, grinding and sauteing
All the while I take in the aroma of each ingredient
And finally as a whole dish
spooning them for taste testing
and when my nose and tongue
lets me know that is A OK
I feel that I am feeling better
Enough to wash the dishes n
wipe down the counter top
I’m sending all the letters that I wrote to you.
Each on paper; plain, lined or scrap,
in pencil or pen with misspelled letters
and scratched out words.
A text would have been faster
a tweet would have been easier
but I can’t tell you I love you
in any less than 3 pages.
So I’ll take them to the post office
and send them out today
they’ll make it to you first
but I’ll be on my way.
Hunched over the stove top,
meticulously folding melted chocolate
over and over itself
in infinite tides of glossy excellence.
Incorporating yolks into sugar
whips a wholesome protein
into sweet thick ribbons
that tumble from their metal beaters.
Milk and cocoa powder whisked
until ominous brown clouds
explode into the sky.
The slow incorporation of pieces
climaxes into a smooth custard,
so sexy and luscious
you'll lick it off your own fingers.
Any attention that can be
drawn to your mouth is
particularly that of homemade ice cream.
At the open bar
I sang La Vie en Rose
For an ambrosial nectar
Of hemlock leaves
And white hot whiskey
We drank it together
When we stood outside
In the lull of night
You kissed my forehead
I was unafraid
The blood in my face
We moved so slow
Through the powder snow
Scarcely leaving signs
The ronrocco tune
The bleeding moon
And the thought of you
They wet my eyes