"lasagna" poems
I want two bottle nutella
I want three pack of skittles
I want two Pepsi
I want fried chicken with cajun seasoning
I want lasagna
Mostly i want foods
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
kumikinang ang mamahaling parol na nakadambana sa bintana ng mansion na nasa loob ng isang malaking subdivision. nagniningning ang patay sindi nitong kulay na umaaliw sa balana. salamat sa malaking pakinabang na kanyang kinita nang walang anomang pakundangan sa dugo at pawis ng mga abang manggagawa.
nasa kanyang sala naman ang mataas na Christmas Tree habang sa paanan nito nakahandusay ang kahon-kahon na magagarbong mga regalo. malayong-malayo ito sa barung-barung ng mga nagtitiis sa siphayo ng dusa at karalitaan.
ang mahabang lamesa na nasa kanyang komedor ay talagang pinagpala sapagkat nakapatong dito ang hiniwang hamon, keso de bola, spaghetti, carbonara, lasagna, ubas at ang lahat ng masasarap na pangarap ng isang batang kalye na kumakalam ang sikmura habang tinitiis ang ginaw ng Disyembre.
matapos ang kanyang masaganang Noche Buena ay mauupo sya sa kanyang malambot na sofa na di halos mabilang ang libong halaga. dun n'ya iinumin nang buong pagmamalaki ang mamahaling brandy o di kaya naman ay whiskey.
katabi ang kanyang pamilya sabay-sabay silang manonood ng misa habang nakatuon sa higanteng flat screen na telebisyon. ang homily ng ingleserong pari ay patungkol sa pag-ibig sa kapwa at pagbibigayan.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
You strip and scream in the pillow of your king size bed.
Something about life being too hard
or your girlfriend's unfaithfulness.
Somoene's outside your door
or maybe under the tree.
They know what their future is
and their prospects are bleak.
'I don't want to eat because I am so depressed. '
Well, how about handing over that food to someone who has been going hungry to bed.
You are never thankful for what you have.
Let's solve this without any animosity
We all have days which are bad.
I have seen the citylights
I have seen the people cringe with the pain
You and I know that this system is to be blamed.
It's time that the government has shown their true face.
Those schemes are probably gonna fail.
Unclean water, improper waste disposal
it's time we return back to our own morals.
I don't mean to be abrasive
but it's time we face it.
The rich are getting richer
watching poor men die
You get the picture
Divided by an imaginary line.
Some charities are a scam
'*Please help us fund the education of the kids affected by the floods.
We have no proof where the money goes.
Our logic is ****** '
Traffic lights changing colours
Wait? Did someone break that one again?
That's a ******
No one knows where they are going
as long as the cash is flowing
So many around the world starve to death
'What the hell did you put in this lasagna? A rotten egg?'
Your emotional security us important
and so is your money.
You can enjoy as many luxuries
but remember to think of the less fortunate.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC
Eggs
Tons of eggs
Millions of eggs falling from the skies,
Magical eggs filled with butterflies and flowers and everything you like!
Eggs!
Tons and millions,
No, billions of eggs falling from the skies
Feeding butterflies in stomachs
To churn and churn and churn...
Eg_gs
Trillions of eg.s to tell where to be mistaken and why.
Eggs!
Feeding the bodies and lakes of wonder,
And boy do we wonder...
Eggs
Tons of baby eggs dinosaurs,
Oh, no, trillions of dinosaur baby eggs...
Eggs to grow legs and walk
For the love of God!
Celebration of life.
Spaghetti eggs,
Lasagna and pizza eggs,
Eggs of rolls and Rolling down the tube
Apple sauce with chicken wings, fried,
Potato fries and all the life you wished for.
Celebration of life,
For the love of God!
I WANT ALL MY SPIRITUAL BACK!
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 11:59 AM UTC
Welcome to Misadventure, you're drawn to it in some berserk way, maybe due to it's atomic habits or technological urges,
sometimes there are cool, but irrational gun-totting robots who speak in foam, their presence detected by iron filings or teeth fillings or both or neither,
I just know there are tire tracks on your wife's new dress, the smell of gasoline coming from the guest bedroom, and a half-eaten Stouffers lasagna rotating on the record turntable,
and here a replicated version of your wife dances to the Italian Song, her ******* like lodestones, upturned and pressed together,
drawing you to them in some berserk way,
and they give such life and merriment to your brain's parcel of needles, that they prance and sway as if the devil were in them.
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 10:33 AM UTC
I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers
I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad
I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination
I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes
I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors
I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants
I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading
I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
As I listened to the
WORDS
spewing from your ugly
drama filled tongue(you're addicted to saying the word **** and attaching people to it)
I tried to stay happy
for as long as possible
I knew that **** would sink in
and take away my
contentment. (i was just sitting there, eating my cold lasagna
when i heard you begin
your disgusting rant)
Your words
would make statements,
make music full of hate.
not music at all, really.
more like sounds. noisy WORD
sounds
angrily
the way a crow sounds
the way a baby cries
the sound of that pathetic boy
getting picked on
near the swingset
by two older kids because of his snowflake winter boots
but
YOU don’t feel
bad for him
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
1pck. pre- cooked lasagna noodles
2 jars spaghetti sauce w/ onion&garlic;
17 oz. Ricotta cheese
1 t. sweet basil
1 t. oregano
1 egg
1 lb.ground, browned Italian sausage
3 cups mozzarella
1 cup grated parmesian
Preheat oven(with some innocent play)
Mix:
Ricotta(to add some excitement)
Basil and oregano(to spice it up)
Mix in beaten egg(to add stability)
Use ungreased 8x10 pan(to hold the comfort of it all)
Layer:
1 cup sauce(to swap a sweetened kiss)
Even out1/4 sausage(to add some spontaneity)
Place pasta in row(to layer with anticipation)
Spread ricotta(mixed with the above)
Sprinkle 1/4 mozzarella( to stretch the imagination)
Repeat steps 1-5(until pan is full of emotion)
Parmesian on top( to please)
Bake 1 hour at 350•( to heat up the love)
Cool 45 minutes( to lay in each others arms)
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
I personally
Love food comas;
And cookie periods,
And gumbo
Exclamation marks!
The're the best!
And semicolon pies,
Oh man...
And peach cobbler
Parenthesis,
They're perfect
With scoops
Of delicious vanilla
Question marks
With a drizzle
Of caramel
Quotation marks,
Oh no!
I'm going
Into an
Anaphylactic shock
From the forward slash
And back slash
Layered lasagna,
I'm going comatose!
Quick! make me some alphabet soup!
© okpoet
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
His humour is sarcastic,
his belly is never full.
His life is filled with jokes,
his days are never dull.
He hates all the spiders
that are living in his house.
He doesn’t mind his friend,
a squeaky little mouse.
He always makes fun of the dog,
who doesn’t seem to have a brain,
and he despises “the world’s cutest kitten”
because he thinks it’s a real pain.
His owner is at his wit’s end,
he doesn’t know how to get
this big, fat, orange creature to
finally act like a real cat.
-
Because what cat eats lasagna
at every chance he has?
What cat has a teddy bear,
instead of on his arm a lass?
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved.
Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning.
She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do.
Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna.
I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her.
Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game.
Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops.
Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
Opening
And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
Of yesteryear
Unclear
She speaks between steaming inspirations
Hoo-huh
Exhale the fire
It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin
And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Pin
Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Thrusted stone
Busted metal
Stabbing up into the sky
Competition
Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel
Well,
It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
Realized
That heaven is hell.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
Dear future self,
On a scale of one to doormat,
How prune are you to accept?
And have you been proven wrong,
Or is it still the worst you expect?
Have you learnt walking the line
Between pessimism and optimism,
Or have you lost your wits?
Have you made yourself lasagna,
Kept track of your ***** laundry?
Eating enough green,
Or still lazy to get up when you're hungry..
Is time as life altering as it sounds,
Or plain old yesterdays that represent nothing?
Have you bribed your lucky stars,
And found that perfect timing all of a sudden?
Are you even still writing,
Or left the platform for greater poets?
Still doing things half-heartedly,
Or finally filled the gap where the lines are dotted.
Have you witnessed a miracle?
Washed yourself of your ever present dissatisfaction?
Acquainted the many selves that you are,
And finally released your thoughts from their abstraction?
I know there's no finish line,
Or at least we won't be here to behold it.
But I hope you're far ahead,
So you can slow down a bit.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
there’s always been a certain feeling
quite difficult to name—
discomfort, most likely,
or a vague,
blurry,
unhurried sense of fear.
a worry
that perhaps you can tell
that the floor was swept
and the carpet vacuumed
only minutes before your arrival ,
anxiety
making suppositions
about your x-ray vision
and delicate opinions.
perhaps you can see
the layers of sweat and blood
behind every painted wall,
perhaps you can hear the sound
of arguments and sweet nothings
seeping up from the floorboards.
i’m sure you mean well,
that you’ve brought some sort of lasagna
and cheesecake for dessert,
yet i cannot shake the feeling
that you are invaders
from a foreign land,
here to take
and take
and take
and take
everything your eyes land on.
this shakiness is formidable,
this unraveling so easy to do,
but i am not one to succumb
to anxiety’s follies—
so i open the door anyway
dissect the chambers of my heart,
throw open the shutters,
offering every bit of my soul,
my voice echoing
off every beam and wall and ventricle,
the word soaring into your ears:
“welcome!”
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
not always an overcoming bliss...
love is...
conversing with a friend over a sad event that happened in there day,
stopping for a minute in the playground with your brother to play
showing steps in a math problem for your little sister
spreading the cheese over the lasagna for your mom and her mister
carrying grocery bags to an elderly person's car
picking up a **** in a yard
letting someone know some insight you have on a particular action
looking into someone's eyes and absorbing how they feel (for a minute, forget attraction)
doesn't have to be relatable.
doesn't have to be fun.
but this is the kind of love,
that when you give it,
you can't help but feel
some warmth coming from somewhere out there
and unwillingly, unknowingly
makes it's way inside your heart.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
By morning we've got cold amphibious tongues
coated in blubs
waiting bubble eyed.
Still slimy throats
up-gurgle newts and muck.
Moss sprouts from our mouths
and brown coated gums.
Flies quivering between teeth.
Lips dry as salted meat.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
There once was a woman who lived in a barn. Her walls were painted picture blue. When she crawled upon the floor, she thought my goodness I've never done this before. She ran out to the farm to see what was the matter and yelled what am I going to do with all this cattle. No one to help her. She felt all alone. she thought to herself, I better adjust my tone and she began to whistle and hum a note or two. Them off in the distant land, she saw the shadow of tan. The shadow yelled have no fear I am your Italian man! She ran back in the barn and tied the hinges tight and scurried around in fright. She spoke to the picture on the wall. She said Grandma, I did ask for this at all. She began to cook and make the worst lasanga bake. Even the ricotta cheese was fake. She said surely this will send him away. When her pan of fraud was piping hot, she invited him to smell the *** He grinned a big grim that even his mustache looked as though it would win. mmm mmm mmm he exclaimed as he touched the tin. She rolled her eyes and thought this man hadn't known what I bought. She politely said sit down and enjoy, for a good meal is needed for a big boy. She stepped in the kitchen and snickered as he took a bite and thought if this doesn't **** him I might. She heard a scream and ran back to the table. The man was gasping as he read the ricotta label. She said what is it? what is it? Is there something wrong with my gable? He laughed so hard he could hardly breathe. He said this is the ricotta my mother ate when I was conceived!
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
Spearmint altoids and espresso
doubleshot headphones
hardly used Palm(seems not 1 for organization)
Empty jewel cases strewn over
the pine expanse3 monitors burn, an insistent
cyclopean glare w/the accompanying mice
notebooks' aged paper curled
'round circuit board controller cards
and holographic stickers open
hard drive aluminum platter white
cordless phone 2.4 GHz
floppy discs USB
milk glass opalescent bag
industrial lasagna fork canted sideways
tomes beckon
Cybershock
Snowcrash palpitations
PANIC! k_trap trap type 0x000000E flickers
attempting to dump 32 years
physical memory
Failed!
User I/O = NULL
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
enamored eyes, bulging with trust, lay me
down to sleep and keep me protected in
ten thousand layers of love
flaky biscuits and delicious, country-sausage
gravy, or the world's very best lasagna
smile warmly as I come home from work
soul-mate -- not just a quaint concept
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
I always thought making lasagna,
is like a religious experience for me.
And it is I mean,
it's always different depending,
on what I have,
for meat or no meat,
and vegetables,
and cheeses,
You can use cream cheese,
gruyere and cheddar believe it or not,
definitely need mozzarella though,
haha,
All those epic lasagnas I've made,
geez,
amazing what I've learned,
NO failures, ever,
and so many lessons in leftovers,
appreciating the depth of flavors
the gifts of the day,
and those yummy memories,
emmmm, boy.
When you can pause,
a -second-
to appreciate the
finer things in life,
like this here leftover lasagna.
It might be what makes you a good chef,
I don't know,
But it sure is better next day.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
My cat’s interest is peaked by anything resembling the
slick plastic crinkle
of the treat bag.
It’s the only time she will approach me.
Besides when I actually have the treat bag.
Then she is a tiger
prowling around the corners of the kitchen.
The depths of her eyes are eerie green pearls
with shiny granite centers
slowly meet mine
that blue ball tinkling around her neck
as she turns her gaze towards me.
She can tell that I’m high.
At the computer
my mother is checking her mail
slowly
clicking
scrolling
click
click
she is hunting
and
pecking.
Mrs. Palese, my third grade teacher
would have been displeased
because we always kept
all our fingers on the keys
asdfjkl;
I think I’m one off
Now she’d be staring at me sternly.
A stern look.
Her eyes are just pools that my memory
can not fill
but I remember her hair
and I remember the time her husband died
and we each made a casserole everyday
as if lasagna would hold her at night
and tell her she looked beautiful in the morning
before she brushed her hair
or washed her face.
I remember she gave me my first communion.
I would get another stern look for my
Lack Of Capitalization.
But I would care just as much
as I did when that wafer
hit my lips.
I’ll give you a guess.
My mother is still checking her e-mail.
It almost seems impossible that she
is concocting real words
with that slow ebb and flow of fingers.
But finally,
the sun is almost up,
she is done
See you tomorrow, sweetie
she whispers,
like she could wake anyone up
because it’s already tomorrow
and she’s getting confused.
The quick rattle of pill bottles
and she’s gone.
And maybe I
the time
stretched
a
little
because
there are still five hours
until dawn.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Incredibly delicate several pieces of bread
Incredible idea of immeasurable proportions
Incredible finished cups of lasagna
and coffee,
and the choice of spaghetti and
poet John Ashbury who contemplates severe depression like though in the most pea-cocked just yet romantic way, I am not depressed and he is not better. We are all equal and that was not improvement or wellness. We are all equal and should treat each other nicely or nicely.
I’m t's terrible sometimes especially when I am lonely and alone with instead the of the other I want to be with you often so I will try and say or spell it out to you I’ll write when I'm with you.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
My grandmother always said
“The way into a person’s heart is through their stomach”
I keep replaying that lesson over in my mind
Tracing the flowers on the edge of this plate
I ask myself what tempting poison must have been fed to you
To make the three hours I spent on this lasagna not enough
I once thought of taking my life but the thought of all the people I needed to help kept me here
An act of complete selflessness
An act of complete selfishness
I cannot live my life for other people; it is not fair to them
Nor is it fair to me
If you keep drinking from a well
It will run dry
If you keep whittling a tree
It will be only a stump
I am not a bottomless wealth of help
I too have begun to run dry
But I refuse to choose the path of martyrdom
I will not teach a lesson learned by my absence
A person lost is missed most when left unresolved
I don’t want to be a case of what could have been said
…What should have been said
I give 100 percent of me and get back none
As an act of self-preservation I must brick over the mouth of this well
For I have grown weary of one way streets
I would give it all to you
And you can’t even spare a thing for me
I don’t ask for your pity or your hand outs
I may stand on the street and sing
But not to fill my cup with coins
But to sing
Today I must look at this street corner differently
For if I sang for change and received no coins
I would move to another corner
I know you will remember me
I know you ‘re changed by me
But I only wish I was ever presently important
For a friend who is seen as important in hindsight
Is a friend who is already gone
So I give you one last chance
I am here
I am now
Do not waste me
For I will go to another corner soon
And this time to sing for change
Because my throat has grown weary
I can no longer sing to you just simply to sing to you
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
PANEL 1:
Jon and Garfield sit at the same living room table in complete silence. Jon struggles to keep the weak smile plastered to his face.
PANEL 2:
Jon begins sobbing uncontrollably. Garfield stares. He says nothing.
PANEL 3:
Jon continues sobbing. Garfield eats a lasagna.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
I haven't yet
figured out
how to put into words
what it feels like
to be trapped in my own head.
I fear that's a fate worse than death.
My whole life
everything--
every single emotional pang--
has flowed from me;
through my pen,
on to paper.
Just like that:
A balloon of troubles
released into air.
Well I've been silent
too long now.
My emotional drain,
clogged,
without a single bottle
of Drain-O left on any
of the Superstore shelves.
I'm in the unforgiving chokehold
of Depression.
With a capital D.
"Write your feelings down,"
my counselor says to me.
"writing can be therapeutic."
I know, Doc.
Which is why I'm here
on this double stuffed couch,
instead of in the safety
of my apartment
with my ink filled sword
and leather bound shield.
No thesaurus can aid me.
Merriam Webster is at a loss for words.
What is a poet without poetry?
I'm as useless
as the g
in lasagna.
Scars line my wrist;
Feeble attempts
of liberating the feelings
by placing them saddleback
on droplets of blood.
Keeping an open mind
is hardest when
your mind is the vault
sealed away
in your Fort Knox skull.
The pill popping lethargy.
This rainy day sadness.
Somewhere inside me
a little poet waits out the storm.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC