The journey of memory mealtime lane.
First stop, let’s get it over.
The painful place of supper time tension.
Watching the clock, start the race
To produce the evening prize.
Another plate – protein, vege,
A third of carbs is wise.

Table laid, stage is set,
But there’s a stomach-churning silence,
I’m staring at the wooden spoon.
His sallow face swallows and the
Fork shuffles, napkin placed on the pile.
His footsteps leave, we try to ignore
The deserted plate - talk and smile

Come on now, memory mealtime store
Fill me a tasty smell –
Grandmas’s larder – whole room devoted!
Crinkled brown paper nesting
Squares of brownies, gingerbread.
Eyes behold, like moons of light
Boubon biscuits, french sponge fingers.
Other worldliness, such a sight!


Now take me back to nice school dinners,
Waiting down the hall, up the playground steps.
Will treacle cake all have gone,
Just leaving rice and prunes?
Dreadful cold white mash potato scoops
Neatly spread apart.
My favourite - dark chocolate sponge
And jam pink marshmallow ****.

Join me to sitting round
My family kitchen table,
‘Best bit is the skin,’ Dad and me agree.
He approves as I eat
My little sister’s potato jacket.
I’m good and there’s plenty
And we’re all feeling full.
Every plate eaten clean, completely empty.

I remember secretly sneaking
Opening tins and picking out pieces
Of chocolate from choc chip cookies.  
By the window, our Kenwood soda stream,
It’s bottles like shop bought fizzy pop!
And Dad’s homemade wholemeal loaf
Unlike any bread from the shop.
My Sixth form packed lunch –
Two Ryvita sandwiches with a kipling cake,
A calorie counting diet
Eaten by morning break

Whilst writing the stove is forgotten
And now the smell of overcooked stew -
Burnt pan supper – a frequent memory.
I think I can save it, definitely cooked through.
Arriving at the end of mealtime lane,
A message to hang in the kitchen high above
Something I’ve learnt to remember,
That the food in our lives must be all about love.

I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.

Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day

Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great

So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'

So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast

First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired

Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good

In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother

But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish

Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend

But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'

This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake

So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'

The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'

When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat

So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make

So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess

So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'

But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way

'Look at Me', so self absorbed in outward looks and latest fashion.
With disregard for inner peace, selfless thought, and kind compassion.
Piercing ears, with holes so big they look like they're starting to melt.
Trousers about the knees; showing off pants, clearly in need of a belt.

Cheap plastic toys bought without thought, of which so quickly we tire,
Relationship failing to last without love and once all consuming desire.
Throw away gadgets and electronic connections, with all  life's worth we trust.
But when they are broken, will never be fixed; just casually tossed to the dust.

Mealtime no longer a social or family affair, at a table with fork and knife,
Check-in's a must so 'friends' will know that you're having a really great life.
No album prints of family snaps and childhood memories that last,
It's all about selfies, and sharing on line with 'friends' that human connections bypass.

Travels the tree line
eats what it finds
Cousin the Dog
chows down Kibbles n Bits
or some other such ****.

The lone wolf howls
not before mealtime
This beast roams,
has numerous homes.

Howling Wolf
A lucky day, a pack
A fight, a ****
The spoils of crafty laid plans.

The moon glow catches
his front row,
At peace with his place
But not the human race.

Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,

An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,

By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,

And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.

Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,

Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,

Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.

Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.

Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.

A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.

The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.

Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.

Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?

Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?

Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.

God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.

Mealtime 1.45, whereby scores
of wind material run the shop
of slowly suffering, dense cold,
like a bulge in the history of sores-
all I thought was a tinny spore,
a fraction of love to tear down the robe.
Azithral in small doses, calmed down
with tap-food. Hour of the gods.

Arachne’s Shadow

Silver spindles manifest, each one
unique; artistry
at the tip of eight long
fingers--crafted carefully to
catch curious creatures;
trapped by the allure of Circe’s
web of lies. Glistening
and bright from distances, yet
dead upon impact; sticky, dull.

A corner, so decorated with
cobwebs and dust; Arachne
spins her loom in the dark, a room,
that is used seldom, with the exception
of the dinner show;  always
on time, 8 o’clock sharp. Witness
the cunning I lack, benevolence
she disregards; a fly—simple in intelligence,
but chaotic when trapped
in a small room; nuisances
that need dealing with.

Once caught, the struggling ignorant
victim chokes on
mistakes of days past, cheating on
a test, beating the ******* boy; observed
errors of judgment, punishable by death.
Every victim is different, but each is caught
screaming, praying, gasping
for life, only to be
muffled, hushed, stifled;  No remorse
during mealtime.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

you saw me grow, I'm not lucky
please set me free
hating mealtime
wipe second slime

I want a stomach that works, please.
easy to tease
supposed to be
helping me, she

cries out, eating experience
I'm serious
not in my head
mealtime I dread

I was captured by her grasp.
A cruel disease
As my stomach howled and shrunk to the emptiness
She laughed as my body got sick and less strong.
I tried to force her away.
The "disease of the mirror"
This goddess was too evil to be drawn out.
As I shrunk in size and grew weak to her calling.....
I screamed in pain, silently.
As I never thought people would understand why I was falling.
I was caught as I dropped to the floor...A broken male ragdoll.
As skinny as a puppet and unable to admit his defeat....
Those who cared for me most had picked up my remains..
Brought them in for repair.
Now this "evil temptress tries and tries" to "Over take the new me."
As I still must remain in the supportive eye of those who know how to tame her....
They make sure I never disappear into "thin" air.
As this broken Male still looks onward for a more permanent solution to his "Mealtime" dilemma....
He thanks those who cared for him, came forward, and pushed him into "Class."
Now, to honor all for their belief in me, I press onward to find the right school to add to their" class alumni...."
I thank those friends well known and strangers to "society."
As I shall stay strong with hope. As "Mrs. Anorexia" shall never get the best of this supported and stronger soul...
I shall never fall back into her grasp and shall never give in..
To be her victory as she watches me slowly die.

"Even today, I have a lot of trouble figuring out if I’m hungry or not. I often can’t tell until I’m starving. I don’t trust those little inklings of hunger I have before the starving stage, since anything outside of mealtime is supposed to be quelled by a ******* piece of fruit.

Over time, [I was taught] that I should decide what to eat with my brain, not my stomach. So eventually, my stomach just gave up."

Oblivious of the prowling chameleon
Buzzing bees gather nectar
Living in the moment

I tremble not when waters clear
And I see sandy bottoms of your mind.
As long as at the helm I steer
Charted courses of your kind
It is smooth sailing, I have no fear.

But when the sun no longer shines
In the depths things disappear.
Lurking in the salted brine
Are monsters, toothed from ear to ear. 

And I, their prey, am swimming blind
Enticed by your charming allure
That muddles up a reasonable mind
Till midday mealtime is secured. 
To you I’m naught more than a snack
With deadly smiles to be lured
Beneath the water’s velvet black.

And though I suffer, rest assured
That I’ll come, sadly, swimming back.

.
Rolling on the carpets,
In coyest plead for a belly
Rub and groom, little Fae,
Each day a Saturday morning,
Shining as hot coffee, wafting
In cool sun, with blue, mist deep
Eyes, lazily ensconced in a glaze
To the out of doors— I set her free
As a casement window sprung, let,
To roam the grass canopies and hunt
All the lovelorn hours of the cying day.
Sparrows flutter and milky doves gurgle
From on high and leaves rustling pound
As she prowls in motions slow, so much
To pounce upon, when all too sudden,
Fish or fowl are flung in a golden bowl
Mealtime turns in rings from a can to her,
Wilding, famished ear.
In long mood afternoons she returns,
Furriously plays with flicks of shadows
And twine, then a knap on a tick
Of whiskers and cream,
In the garden jungles
Of the drowsy fawn
And mince of mice
Scurries of heed
In the silence—
Of lollIng breeze,
Gentle days, sways
Of terror and yawn,
Tufted cubby roaring,
Wee tiger of the lawn.

The sound of bubbles
greets us at mealtime.
I lift the lid &
the family meets me
near the surface
of clear-waters.
I pour in some flakes
& watch them feast.

Hungry
golden-hued,
finned-buggers,
so radiant,
inhaling sustenance.
I love to watch
them feed & float,
their vibrant colors
remind me of the sun.
Watching them breathe
keeps me grounded.
They are indeed
my greatest companions,
swimming
in their
glass palace,
inside
my humble home.

Dining In
Dining Out
To be dined.

Dinner for me
Dinner for you.
Dinner for one,
Dinner for two

Dinner for a family
Dinner with your friends.

7 evenings of dinner
Makes 1 week of meals
52 weeks of each year

To prep
To cook
To clean
To eat
To enjoy

To experience
To explore
To try
To be open
To learn
To appreciate

Pre-made
Pre-cooked
Ready to go
Processed
Home made

Sauces
Dressings
Toppings
Flavours

Toasted
Warmed
Hea­ted
Grilled
Zapped

-Dinner
© By HF-Whisper
26/1/2021 22:42PM

The games
The small-fry
Ketchup she squirt's

Talking heads
sugar on my
miniature flirt
tongue

Burger bands

Gimme_ Gimme
((Mini Macaroons))
Don't big change me
My eyes like
((Rocky Racoons))

Movie Mania
Beatles miniature
I want to hold
your hand
Lucy in the sky
No chip diamonds
Cool Hand Luke

American girl doll
Exchange for
my red bike
Twilight zone
dimension I_
Cannot read
the numbers!!!

I-phone oranges
compared to
small apples
That's me
Mini Cooper
Car drinking Snapple

The shooting
star
Just gas up
  V-Wagon
mini car

(Mini Bow)
ladybug
kissed her
Coffee mug
The red and
black dots
treat her
like a lady
Small bits of aroma

The smaller sticky
yellow
notes what votes
Mini-me camera
Mini hot_  Hollywood
dog dachshund
*    *    *    
It's mini
mealtime__

Adorable
Presentable
The Dollhouse
lodge Mini
Disneyland_*
No copying to
resemble

Mini Fruit
salad merger
Red Robin's Burger
were overly generous
Mr. Big
imaginable
so small
Superman's
flight of rage
So-Huge_ and long_
turned him if I only
had a brain
((The Tinman))
mentally touched him
Sprayed his oil can
in mini heart size

Hello Dollie
collector
magnifying glass
Handcrafted
Pleasurable kind
and small
Broomstick
Witchcraft

Miniature leader
Knock on
heavens door

The Doorman
The Penthouse
Mini Bavarian
creme
Me doughnut

The cool breeze
off her fan
Big thumb
((Thumbelina))
The mini frog
Hit too many
London fogs

Mini White castle
burger  chips off the
miniature block party
Meat tenderizer like trolls

Las Vegas
money slot machines
Those miniature dolls

((Minerals Top Ranks))

Gemology
produce
more blues
******
Adolf ******
generals
Cereal boxes
Sly Foxes Attention
How her
features met
his smaller
side_
Royal hot blues singer
Mini He pops dishes
All Banana nut's
When it
comes to
Monkeying
around

With_?
miniature swingers
cereal_

Commanded to speak when spoken to
wearing the Victorian straight jacket
kept our small mouths at bay
Each mealtime became a terror
and the sharing of a family meal
the battleground of broken wills.

I see a horse, elegant and proud,
I remember riding one into the cloud,
Her head held high, braver than me,
She was shot, that horse, despite her plea.

A firework explodes in the sky,
I remember him, his hopeless cry,
The night the shell came over my head,
And the next morning we found him dead.

A choir sings, it's Christmastime,
I remember the peace that cold daytime,
Boxing day we start killing again,
But that Christmas we were friendly gunmen.

I sit in a café eating beans,
I remember it, those dreadful scenes,
We were so hungry at mealtime,
But stealing rations was a crime.

My son runs around with a toy gun,
I remember how he did nit run,
Only looked pleadingly into my eyes,
I had no mercy- he soon dies.

I am not proud to be alive,
I am not happy to have survived,
I will remember you with all my heart,
In my head we will never part.

Wherever I go, whatever I do,
The war is with me.
It comes too.

If ever one meats with any metaphorical meaning in my mind, one will notice its medium-rarity.

Maybe even ponder inside its pans (or puns) playing poultry to its poetry.

Better yet, one would willingly fish for feelings and try to fry (or fly) playing poultry to its potency.

Mealtime; one will move on from the meeting thereafter, with the sort of sensation in one's stomach that's abnormally associated with winged insects.

By then, it would have been a ravishing rendezvous, remebered without rue; tummies would have been filled too.

A moment made mainly with a mixture of magic as well as a dab of madness - an exhibition of eloquent intent, like eating expensively at an elegant event.

Does one get it?
Coz if one doesn't; I DEE GEE A Sugar Honey Ice Tea.

With tender care the pumpkin’s grown
The farmer’s hands the seeds have sown
The hands then pick the ripened fare
And sold for pennies, fair and square
The hungry shopper buys the food
And totes it home with other goods
It sits and waits with style and form
Its coat the bench top to adorn
The mottled greys and greens disguise
The vibrant orange flesh inside
Until its time has come at last
the mealtime now approaches fast
The skin is stripped with sharpened blade
Revealing straight and angled glade
Of sweating flesh of amber hue
The making of the pumpkin stew
Each cut is marked with strength and thought
Each piece is tossed and stirred with fork
The steam exudes a scented plume
Anticipation fills the room
From sunshine, water, tender care
And recipe for kitchen fare
With steamy smells of sure delight
That honour family appetite
‘Til horrid blast of Thermo-mix
Destroys the ambient sense of peace
The longed for meal of quiet enjoy
Is taken by the kitchen toy
The shattered still of stirring spoon
Casts away the easy mood
Banishing the vital soul
Leaving less in soup-filled bowls