"muffins" poems
You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;
With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;
with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;
with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.
I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
Like a meme of activism
This women's coalition
Mothers
Sister
Friends
Pioneers and heroines
There's courage in their convictions
A guild of collectivism
They hold luncheons in their kitchens
Talk of abolition
Mysticism
Feminism
Of heroes and magnetism
Seduction
Love
Eroticism
They scream like banshees at a crucifixion
About injustice
Dereliction
Terrorism
A tradition underwritten
With symbolism
Drums
Violins
Musicians
They may be sitting
They may be knitting
Baking muffins
Folding linen
Running errands
Stuffing chickens
A juxtaposition to their ambition
Of inspiring the unwilling
Turning derision to optimism
Their fire and brimstone
Will have history rewritten
Freedom of reproduction
Liberalism
Animism
They have wisdom
Intuition
Rhythm
They are fearsome
This women's coalition
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
This is how to eat a muffin
Flip it upside down, unwrap the wrappings
Nobody starts at the top in this town
Sip a skinny vanilla latte
Text your ex, start wondering
He'll try you later, of course he's busy.
What were you thinking?
In what world could this have worked?
Your existence is physical, is there any purpose you serve?
An actress, a dentist, a model, a florist, a teacher, a songstress
I hate to list projects unfinished
This is how to eat a muffin
You take one bite
and leave the rest as a metaphor
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
we had been mopping
the kitchen floor all day
and the dirt never
stopped coming back
and earlier we had sprayed
the entire front porch
down with the garden hose
and now it was still wet
which made it feel as if
it had recently rained when in fact
the grass was a crunchy
brown carpet of regrets.
the night before we had
drunk orange smoothies
laced with lime and something
aged sleek and dark
(i think it must have been
the reason we couldn't
sleep that night
lay awake in my parents bed
and i told you why i
wouldn't go swimming
until the sun rose
the dog barked
the birds screamed
their morning songs
and my body stopped its
nightly spasms of fear.)
and the next evening
we put on a miranda lambert song
(the one we drank to
in your mother's van last winter)
sat on the wet
porch swing
and cracked open
our first beers
they were
really bad
i gagged
because it tasted
like carbonated
banana bread with
too much stale
baking soda
and we poured half of them
into the flower beds
the next morning
was sunday
and we had milk and muffins
in the kitchen with
simon and garfunkel
then went back out to the porch
drank iced coffee in the
eleven o'clock sunlight
and you said
"if this were a normal sunday
i would have been up at six
at church by eight
and done teaching my first
sunday school class by ten."
(is beer as much
of an acquired taste
as coffee is?
because i can't ever
remember not liking it
i used to think it was
bitter but i always
liked it anyway.)
i didn't say anything
because i didn't want to
say what was on the tip
of my tongue
that this kind of sunday
had become my normalcy
and our variety of saturday night
no longer felt like underage
drinking and more like
the way i was meant to be.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
I can't support the smell of fried chicken
or the taste of fries
I can't stand the fizzy drinks
or the muffins or the pies
all this junk food they push down my throat makes me sick
it slowly kills my good taste
it crushes my creativity
it turns me into a big fat pig
I barely remember your smell
only when the night is quiet
and the moon shines in silence
I can recall the taste of Euphoria in your neck
that perfume that used to light this brume
and recharge my lungs
that perfume that I barely remember
but I miss it so much
in the end
all I got left is this disgusting smell of mine
over that sweet fresh fragrance
by Calvin Klein
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces
and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat
walking up and down the isles
I see trail mix
and sunchips
and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies
that i adore
chocolates
especially
dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown
it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream
It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas
It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning
spice smells
of pad tai noodles
sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)
how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky
*cherries
all those cherries.*
we ate nutella
on bread,
washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of
and tofu
tofu tofu
always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)
chocolate, melting slowly
"you missed some."
-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle
peanut m&m;'s
turn my tongue colors.
Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)
ruby red
made you wince
I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile
remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent
every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips
the sweat on your lips.
we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially
we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores
i smile with every memory
i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle
i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge
sherbet
i chuckle to myself
memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,
sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues
love
in our hearts
you remember.
the taste of that summer
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Muffins in the oven
Music in my headset
Smells wafting through the house
Egg and hash-brown casserole waiting to be made
Silent people sleeping mere feet away.
Today is a good day.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
'Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!'
4.5k
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Seeking a gentleman who gets lost in thoughts
Feels everything and holds onto nothing.
Bachelor must tolerate banjos, books, and bare-feet.
A writer is preferred, but not exclusively.
I'm seeking a companion who loves tea and coffee in the afternoons
Must be willing to gamble with the suggested shows on netflix
And suggested artists on pandora.
Bonus points if music moves him in directions he didn't know existed.
Seeking a gentleman whose heart is made entirely of love and passion
With a reasonable head
And an unapologetic twinkle in his eyes.
I warn you that I love sunburns and tank-tops
Rain makes me sad, and I own a blue Snuggie named Ralf.
I laugh too loud at lame jokes about muffins and bars
Cry desperately in movies
And am driven to push boundaries.
***** makes me loose
I'm terrified of fourteen-year-old girls and spiders.
And I consider 90 degrees to be jacket weather.
I'm seeking a gentleman with an empty hand and a full heart
That I can love with all that I have
Laugh with, cry with, dream with.
You can find me in the words on this page.
I'll be waiting.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
The Creator of
Edible love
Sent from above
Its the candy I love to make
Muffins, truffles, and cake
For the art is why I bake
Don't even try to lie
The sweets you can't defy
Espresso Brownies, pumpkin pie
With all certainty
I am so glad to be
A maker of pastry
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
It's snowing outside.
Lots of snow.
Theres also a potato in a bowl.
I keep thinking that potato is a muffin.
I keep wishing it was a muffin,
but it's just a potato.
The thing is that
potatoes are good, but muffins are better.
There's nothing much better than a good muffin
It's like trying to enjoy a slide
after you've been on a roller coaster.
I hate when things get dull
like pencils.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices
and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
I am not ashamed to love you
As i sit here and cry
I am not ashamed to have love-d you.
No I am not ashamed to cry for you.
I am not ashamed to love you.
With every fibre of my being.
With every sin, with every moral
with every, ****** hair on my head.
I am not afraid to love you.
I am more afraid of not loving you, than loving you.
I am afraid of you loving me.
I am more afraid of you loving me more than i have even been afraid in my life.
Because than that makes love real.
I lost my love a long time way back when.
It's not important.
There's details in the details.
But my faith in loving you will not wane, falter, stop or die.
I am not ashamed to cry waterfalls of salty tears into my hands for you.
I am not ashamed of messaging you 3am in the morning to see how you are.
and getting no reply.
I am not ashamed to know that my attempts to love you are futile.
Yes, you.
You who would want to punch me in the face, the throat, the clavicles of my heart
to stop me, from loving, you.
I am not ashamed to love you like you were my only love.
I will sing for you in the car my love, i will hold your hand, i will bake you muffins,
My love.
And you would want to **** my very smile with your eyes.
I am not ashamed to lie on my bathroom floor with arms in my chest, with pain in my stomach, and my eyes blind,
from loving, you.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not ashamed to be the laughing stock of my friends, family and lovers past;
for loving losers like you,
for loving someone like you,
for loving someone who didn't deserve me,
treated me like ****
beat me,
use me, washed me up and dried me out, hung me out.
No i am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i lost you.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i am not in your arms.
For my heart beats strong.
For all these years,
through all these lovers,
through all these partners,
through all these ****** ******* tears.
For i love you more, each day.
For in this world where there is more hatred, pain, sorrow, suffering and loss
I would rather be ashamed for loving you,
than hating you for loving you once.
'We can only truly hate something we once also loved'
Logic eh? What else makes sense in this world?
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
(fictional tale of real beverages)
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin
*
they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
Does it matter?-losing your legs?
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?-losing you sight?
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter-those dreams in the pit?
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you’re mad;
For they know that you've fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.
2.6k
"There's nothing you can do that I haven't already done to myself."
I can dance naked to MSI if I really want to.
I really do want to.
That song awakens my inner stripper.
I'm making a tattoo appointment for this week.
Going to get a semicolon on my suicide scar so I never forget,
That I was once a dumb teenager
Who had more courage than I do right this second.
It makes me panic to think that they don't call english muffins
English muffins in England.
Two types of muffins?
Who would've thought?
It gives me anxiety.
My computer keeps translating all my pages into Polish.
Nie wiem nic.
Strange thing, but I don't mind.
I need more coffee,
Possibly *****
But most likely coffee.
Jacob is going through a new phase,
And I will wonder if it'll last a few more months,
Till he turns four.
"You can't do that"
"Aaaaactually..... I can."
Aaaaaactually you can't munchkin.
But you keep reminding me you're not a munchkin,
You're a boy.
Silly boy.
Silly me.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
If I didn't know better
I'd say you love me
For my baking
That you love me
Because I don't care
That you sorta wish
You could be a girl and that I
In fact
Enjoy the idea of you wearing girl's clothes
The idea that you are a nerd
A debate geek
Antisocial
And yet you find yourself
Always
Wanting
To see me.
You tell me
That being around me
Makes the need to open up your sweetpale
Skin go away
If only
For a few days
If I didn't know better
I'd say you love me
For the sparkle of my eyes
The dance of my laugh
The sleekness of my body pressed to yours
That you loved the way I hold you when
Anxieties tendrils try to pull you under
I'd think you love
My Mind
My Heart
My Soul
My Everything
But it's just the muffins...
Right?
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
Do you know the muffin man?,
Its not a nursery rhyme,
He haunts kids dreams with horrid scenes,
The scream from time to time.
His apron smelled of cinnamon,
His finger nails were clean,
He brought the nicest cookies home,
Mommys face would gleam.
He came to school two days a wek,
And gave out yummy pasties,
He chose kids very carefully,
Rejection made him nasty.
She found it out the hard way,
When she pulled away from him,
He told them she was telling lies,
He tore her from within.
Her mommy looked so horrified,"How could you?",
She would say,
"Poor daddy brings such good things home,
You will be sent away".
Society believed this man,
And Cherry went away,
Asylum life was home for her,
For 10 years and 4 days.
So many children broke their silence,
And accusations heightened,
They spoke of muffins molestations,
Mommy became frightened.
They came in droves to talk to Cherry,
From shrinks to talk show hosts,
They helped her open up,
And talk about those childhood ghosts.
Now, muffin man has ***** hands,
And spends his life in prison,
But left behind are countless kids,
Cause mommy wouldn't listen ...
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 7:33 AM UTC
I saw the best behinds of my generation destroyed by muffins,
strudel hydrolyzed aphids dragging themselves through Chicano streets at dawn for tickets to fix,
bagel headed tipsters yearning for flagrant connection to the sorry dim sum macarena nights ...
*apologies to Allen Ginsberg
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
Bun o'clock
I'm hungry but I don't say anything
Because I can hold on longer
Chew pm
Someone says I look thin
Have I lost weight??
Three pounds
Potentially three pounds
But I don't know because I always think I look bloated
Four ice cubes to tie me over
I don't need to eat
I'm okay
Five fat shaming *******
Stroll past me in their skinny jeans
Reminding me who deserves to be a size 0
Tricks o' the mind
Start to play
As I tell myself I don't need to eat because I did yesterday
Age seven is when
Mama first told me to stretch my shirts
Hide my figure
Watch what I eat
Stop taking second helpings
No dessert
Eight
Looks like a couple of donuts.
Muffins. Pizzas.
Any round food.
My round stomach.
Nibble pm.
It's okay to eat a little? Maybe?
Ten pm?
Or ten candy bars?
Eleven hours later
Nothing in my belly
But four ice cubes
Twelve: time to taunt my taste buds
Trick myself
Tell myself that I'll eat tomorrow
Tomorrow will be the day
The day I really splurge
Everyone knows that's a lie
But my tummy doesn't
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC