"omelette" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
The best way to get the broken pieces of an egg out of your omelette
Is using half the shell to pick it up while it's still raw
Maybe you're the best qualified to pick up your own broken pieces
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
...sitting here
across from me again
(in my mind's wishful eye),
sipping coffee together,
light talk, some danish,
and an omelette, too
(i made it the way you like it,
just for you),
happy to be here
as the flaming
sunstreak rise lights up
the tender tips of the flowers
outside the window,
i fingertip-kiss your lips,
as the morning bird
breaks into song,
waking up the world,
whilst you and i
carry on
and your eyes
reflect the new day's skies,
it's nice, it's nice
to see you...
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 2:37 AM UTC
I swallowed my lunch down the wrong way
and now there’s something in my lungs,
eggs, I think, cracked into little pieces
with the shells all picked out.
I really should have known when I couldn’t breathe
that I was doing this backwards,
but I swallowed anyway, and now when I hyperventilate
it’s like my body is trying to make an omelette.
It sounds so funny. It sounds like everybody
but me is laughing. I mean, it’s a ridiculous idea,
having eggs in your lungs,
but the more I think it’s true, the more I feel them.
I suppose this is divine punishment
for the impossible crime of eating lunch,
for taking those eggs and cracking them straight
into my mouth. There are probably some unborn
chicks thinking, in as much as chicks can think
like we do, that this is divine punishment.
Who gets the last laugh? The abortion does.
And now I’m on the table — medical, not,
you know, the dinner one,
and the doctors are saying that they’re going to cut
something out of me to keep me alive.
If it weren’t for the fact that my mouth
has been sewed up to prevent my own idiocy,
I’d tell them that that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
small, chirpy bird,
flitting under the dome of air port,
comes down, nonchalantly partakes,
omelette from my plate.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Eggs.
Eggs have an equality about them, I know worked on a farm
collected them put them on a tray, each one had thirty eggs
they all had the same size, but some eggs had shells slightly
darker than others boiled they tasted the same.
There is a possibility that someone once said brown eggs
where somehow inferior, one had a better chance find two
yolks in a white shelled egg, we ended up with two prices
for eggs, the white ones for breakfast, the brown ones for
omelette. When I was an officer in the merchant navy I bought
brown eggs mostly because they were cheaper.
This has come to an end eggs are now mixed there is no choice,
but in the end they all taste the same.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Edited by Maple, because mine was a rant nobody but she was supposed to indulge. Hahaha. See. I wasn't intending on trending.
I knew a wretched person once. And then. She died.
Now. Condoning death is the fastest method for becoming THE social pariah - for future reference.
But my god. I hated her. I really did. Not simply me; most of our peers felt similar. At least, they did till it was no longer appropriate.
See. Morgan was a ruthless psychopath.
And then she was dead.
Now. As a stranger, if you were to lurk her Facadebook, you'd think she'd been some ethereal messiah. Her web page is now trampled with laments. Kinda like the stampede that killed Mufasa. Her present facadebook now marks a day the devil became synonymous with our homegirl, Momma Teresa.
In what world, right?
The details of the fatality remain insane. Ranging from Ketamine to ****** But I won't illustrate them. Go see it yourself - on Doctor ******* Phil.
And they call me crazy.
Anyways.
I'm sorry, but she was a maniacal parasite with love like shrapnel. She destroyed her lovers, her family, her arsenal of friends by habit. And she did this for fun. So, again, I'm sorry. Sorry I am hardly sorry she died.
That's a lie, though. I'm not sorry at all.
Karma is candy. I'm happy she's gone. Never again to crumple and crush her loved ones to mush as mere eggs to her morning omelette.
And our world is a happier place.
Sue me.
for whatever reason this will not publish or save this particular recount
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Patron: "...And can you add the diced Hamlet to that omelette?"
Waiter: "Jolly good sir, and do you know if you'll be having dessert?"
Patron: "Oh yes, I'll have a strawberry Shakespeare."
Waiter: "Brilliant, your omelette will be out before you can say 'Ides of marshmallow'."
Patron: "That was dreadful and you know it."
Waiter: "Deary me, sir."
END SCENE
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
it will just end up
being a tale of a drunk looking into a metre
as if it was a kaleidoscope mile
in an l.s.d. fuelled centimetre seance,
conjuring the dead, esp. sergei with his kijé,
and thinking about turning the zoo inside out,
with the birds as fish in the great aerorium
of the missing stars to cook up a fluster with broken beaks
nudging achilles to kneel using his heels.
i mean i’d cage those parrots to seal their colour
into stamps and dutiful ink of borrowed bureaucracy,
but i’d stink of oysters doing so and very little else.
so why did they decide upon petting fish in an aquarium
and said that birds were simply caged chickens easing out
an omelette? if i was keeping goldfish in aquariums
i’d be keeping budgies in aeroriums.
don’t tell me, the glass eases the process for disney's
talking blue fish? no wonder, a caged animal
is reminiscent of a caged man, but put man behind glass
and there's little chance of a narcissist conjured;
hence the necessity of slicing iron of the ribcage innuendo
within the framework of a niqab to peer through
on that whitewashed backdrop some call a canvased sigh of beginning.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Seven seas away, waiting on a glimpse of a face
Trying to keep busy with mundane things that do not intrigue or interest
Closing my eyes and watching you as you sleep with your lips slightly parted
I kiss them, you move, you know, you pull me towards yourself
Your embrace keeps me warmer than the heat from a thousand suns
Your pixelated smile on my laptop makes me happier than i possibly think anything can
Wishing that the days would simply fly past without bothering me
Or wishing that you would simply fly right into my arms
As i wait here, thinking of times past
Has it really been that long i ask myself?
It feels like yesterday that i sat on you chair eating that omelette you cooked with loving care
Talking my heart out, knowing not that someday i would walk into that room by myself, close my eyes tight and wish that you magically appeared when i open them
But alas, my childlike mind still believes in miracles
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
It was winter of 16'
I met a boy in the land of Mary,
We went on our first date in the diner,
With my boy, boy from Detroit.
We shared an omelette, he put on extra ketchup
A scene I'll keep reminiscing.
We talked and laughed, as if no one's there
Suddenly I felt something so familiar
On the way to his car, I asked if he's cold
He said, No I'm fine, I am from Detroit.
In his car to the movie, in downtown Washington, D.C.
The movie is called Manchester by the sea
I looked at him while he talked about how his parents met in Annapolis.
My first blue eyed boy, oh Michael from Detroit.
He said that he would leave, in the month of February
To China, to pursuit his dreams.
I said ,it's fine, it's not like I am looking for a relationship.
Little did I know, I will fall for this boy from Detroit.
It was winter of 16', we always liked to have some ice cream
Wandering in the city of the district
Sometimes we didn't, sometimes we did
Know where the street is taking us to
We may stand in the cold, try to figure out which way to go
But with him I'd never get lost.
My boy from Detroit, it was never a fling
but why are there so many" what we could have been"?
Before you left, you asked my when do I know,
When do I know that I have feelings for you?
Well I guess it was the moment I unexpectedly agreed
to go to a movie with you after dinner
In your black Ford on a late Friday night
It was winter of 16'
We are both at the crossroad,not knowing where life
Would take us to
But we will be fine, after some time
We will meet again without tears in my eyes.
This is for you, Mike
Oh my boy from Detroit
When the day come,I would gladly
Change my last name to Olevnik.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
A Mother-in-law named
White
With her daughter-in-law named
Yellow
Kept in a hard shell called
Egg
Being in the same shell
Never did they make a team
An announcement made them join hands
With two more members
Pepper and Salt
Winning a medal for the contest -
THE OMELETTE!
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Humans are silly
Little blobs of ***** and eggs mix together to turn into little flabby flesh things that churn out a bunch of farts and yell about stuff
Those blobs of flesh things get told how to do stuff by the older flesh egg ***** things who are starting to go bad, so they compensate by laying down rules about how to be a flesh egg ***** thing
They make up different reasons for why they're all here swimming around bumping into each other and making noises that only their own groups of ***** egg meat people can understand, because that's what the older eggs taught them
They try to add some **** they call beauty to all of this by scribbling on stuff, or making noises they think sound good, or building stuff, and they think they're clever.
They'll tell you if it's not proper art it's not good art, but they'll also tell you art is subjective
They won't stop themselves and realize this whole omelette they're a part of is just being made up as they go
Sometimes, people are just Omelettes.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
I’d thought that they were extinct until
I found one in the coop,
A genuine Jersey Giant, strutting
Up on the henhouse roof,
Twice the size of the other hens
As I said to my sister, Faye,
‘Where did it come from?’ She replied,
‘Not there yesterday!’
‘I go to collect the eggs each day,
Do you think that could be missed?
That bird is a giant,’ she declared,
‘So don’t blame me, desist!’
I calmed her down, for she used to flare
At the slightest hint of crit.,
‘Whatever it is, it’s here to stay,
Perhaps we can breed from it?’
There wasn’t a cockerel near the size
Of this random Jersey Black,
‘It must have come visiting overnight,
I joked, ‘from a neighbour’s shack.’
She wandered into the henhouse and
From behind an empty keg,
She said, ‘You’d better come look at this,’
And showed me a giant egg.
An egg so big that you wouldn’t think
That a chicken could let it pass,
Tall and brown with a pointed crown
And a shell as thick as glass,
‘Are we going to let it hatch it out,’
Said Faye, ‘or crack it yet?
I wonder how many that would feed
As a giant omelette?’
‘We’ll leave her be, and we’ll wait and see
If a monster’s there inside,
We might as well, if a cockerel
It can be the henhouse pride.’
So we let her sit on the giant egg
For a week, or maybe more,
Then Faye came running inside one day,
‘You’ve not seen this before!’
The egg emitted a humming noise
And rocked a bit on its base,
While through the shell there were coloured lights
That would fade then grow apace,
And as we stood it began to crack
Then pieces would fall away,
It almost gave me a heart attack
For what I saw that day.
For spinning inside the egg we saw
A tiny universe,
With a sun-like star at the centre and
Our planets, in reverse,
And as we watched it began to grow
To float out the henhouse door,
Swelling constantly as it rose
To the skies, with a mighty roar.
I don’t know what it has done to us,
The sky doesn’t look the same,
There are three moons now in the evening sky
Since the Jersey rooster came,
I lopped the chicken that laid the egg
And I wait for the slightest sight,
With an axe for the Jersey cockerel
That Faye prays to at night.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Would you find me a girl with the bravery and boldness of a Coraline Jones's heart?
Not someone who demands my attentive love or the backing of a musical score.
But someone real.
Someone who knows every deep and dark and shallow fear.
Someone particular and peculiar.
Who perhaps I can make a cheese omelette for.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
HUMPTY
DUMPTY
Sat on a wall
HUMPTY
DUMPTY
Nearly did fall, all the
King horses he rolled over
And made them in to a
Fake meat pie
And then sell them off at the
Supermarket
He rolled over the
Soldiers to make
Sure all but one did die
Screaming.
He got on his wall
The man did
Blubber
Scream
&
Cry
For he knew his fate
Was to later die,
HUMPTY
DUMPTY
Sat on a wall
HUMPTY
DUMPTY
Did get pulled off the wall,
"He let one live"
"His biggest regret"
As he fell the guard did smile,
As he crashed to the floor
In to a frying pan,
Eggs
Ham
Herbs
And more,
And the kingdom
Was fed on omelette,
The Guard ate happily, people and all...
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
yellow, fellow
some colors make me happy
bananas are yellow,
rich in potassium
yellow, fellow
maybe my second favorite, currently
#ffed67
#ffe345
#ffef39
#fff200
graceful like a duck
a taxi in a rainy urban area
the morning omelette
the sponge of my childhood, soaking up my happiness
the sun that grants me some radiance
cheese
cheese
cheese
the corn of the country side, butter n' all
like highlighter on PSSA preps, third grade
"it all must be important"
daffodil, nostalgia
mac n' cheese
mac n' cheese
mac n' cheese
banana peppers
yellow buttons
the school bus that takes me away
yellow duckie
daisies
french fry
juicy fruit
phone book
raincoat
yellow, my fellow
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
It all started out with a simple kiss on the cheek
She extended me a paddle to swim up her creek
She asked questions like "what exactly do I seek?"
You couldn't imagine this girl ever being a freak
Then fast forward to right around the third week
Wreaking bedroom havoc till we both can't speak
Woke up in the morning to some very gloomy weather
She had questions for me about starting a life together
I said I concur we shared many times of jovial laughter
But you must understand, it's called the morning after
She said I just know this is fated, as I patiently waited
She went on unabated that she was so absolutely elated
And as I awaited her words to finally become translated
I debated in my head the actual time that we had dated
The next words that she stated left me utterly deflated
"I'm positively impregnated, what a life we have created!"
I immediately froze still, All Just for one cheap thrill
All my dreams to fulfill, shattered by a condom's ****
She was so normal up until, she must be mentally ill
Ok, breathe, just chill, think of an idea you can instill
Act like an ******* and really use some theatrical skill
"Now do you really think you're fit to raise a baby Jill?
Imagine our lives constantly fighting, climbing uphill
Always scraping and struggling just to pay every bill
Dressed in clothes that are straight from the goodwill
Plan A, the stairs over there, perhaps you have A spill
Plan B, is Breakfast and a morning after omelette pill
Plan C, is a Coat hangar specialist I know from Brazil
So what do you think? which is your favorite plan Jill?
**** you Jack, I'm leaving and never ever coming back
Plan D, none of the above, The story of Jack IN Jill's love
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC