"oregano" poems
You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.
Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay.
Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.
This is how you become everything that lives.
And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest--
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.
27.2k
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise,
The cabbage
Dedicated itself
To trying on skirts,
The oregano
To perfuming the world,
And the sweet
Artichoke
There in the garden,
Dressed like a warrior,
Burnished
Like a proud
Pomegrante.
And one day
Side by side
In big wicker baskets
Walking through the market
To realize their dream
The artichoke army
In formation.
Never was it so military
Like on parade.
The men
In their white shirts
Among the vegetables
Were
The Marshals
Of the artichokes
Lines in close order
Command voices,
And the bang
Of a falling box.
But
Then
Maria
Comes
With her basket
She chooses
An artichoke,
She's not afraid of it.
She examines it, she observes it
Up against the light like it was an egg,
She buys it,
She mixes it up
In her handbag
With a pair of shoes
With a cabbage head and a
Bottle
Of vinegar
Until
She enters the kitchen
And submerges it in a ***
Thus ends
In peace
This career
Of the armed vegetable
Which is called an artichoke,
Then
Scale by scale,
We strip off
The delicacy
And eat
The peaceful mush
Of its green heart.
7.2k
Angel Hair Pasta
****** Oil encased
Oregano, Basil & Thyme
Fragrance ascend
Blonde strands flyway
Garlic Shards dancing
Swim in the wind
Pulsing Beef Stake
Red River Flowing
Seeds flooding
Tightly-wadded
Expertly wound
Atop her head
Wasp-hive
Angel Hair pasta
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
In culinary art, honey is my medium and my muse,
And two orange slices compose two butterfly wings.
Every piece I make is eaten
With equal joy as a painting brings.
My canvas is rose red with strands of white
And when I paint, I use the spices:
Turmeric, oregano, chili, and old bay.
I use them on a salmon caught by a friend yesterday.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
How can I thank you, little green leaf?
You give me something
tasty and nutritious
to eat.
You grow in the ground, by the light of the sun.
You fill my belly
and give me strength
to run.
You are planted and harvested by my own timid hand.
You teach me of dedication
and give me patience to love
this land.
I often acquaint you with a nice onion and tomato.
Then, dress you all up with some vinegar and oregano.
If not that, then I set you atop,
a spicy black bean burger and engulf you while still hot.
And, if I have no bean, or onion, or tomato to pair you with for lunch,
then I simply peel off your layers, and munch, munch, munch.
Yes indeed, you did guess it.
This is just a silly poem about
Lettuce.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 1:45 AM 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
Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts,
Tapping and mapping
a
kind of music through the vocabulary of arts,
in
conducting the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra
a crowd of fiddlesticks rima …
up… and only ups…
never downs.
Audio
Audio…
I will go…true or false.
That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no.
Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you?
Neither yes, nor no…
Thirsty and aridity,
Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks
You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust).
On the apex
Trapper of heights
you
Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures
In down.
I’am member among.
Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes.
Don’t look at me.
Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares
of mine.
O' liberty…
Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds.
Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers….
Claps and shouts.
Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize.
No more I am among.
Master builder of raw materials
in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).”
Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.”
Time of demise.
Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise.
Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs…
Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
I made some soup.
But it’s not for you.
It’s for me.
I don’t want you to change it.
It’s my soup.
Some people want to add some basil or maybe a little oregano.
But it’s my soup.
Some people think it’s too salty.
One person thought it’s too sweet.
But I told ‘em
f--k you.
I won’t change a thing.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to stir the ***
I grabbed the ladle
and bopped him on the head
I told him it was my soup.
Someone told me to turn up the heat
For what reason?
It’s a perfect temperature.
Someone else told me to turn down the heat.
I told him that would make it too cold.
It’s my soup.
Someone even told me I had to take some ingredients out.
But I love it the way it is.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to take a sip
The nerve!
It’s my soup.
Make your own.
Someone said I overcooked it.
I told her to leave me alone.
I like the smokey flavor.
To my horror, someone even tried to throw it out.
I grabbed the *** and put it back on the stove
Where it belongs.
This is my soup.
This soup…
is my life.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
With good Music on the Speakers,
sipping Black Cherry Cider, eating 4 scrambled Eggs fried with butter
with Basil, Marjoram, Garlic, Onion, organic Milk, Oregano, Cholula hot sauce, Salt and Pepper
and reading from a list of fresh poems on this site from some of my favorite writers of all time;
Breakfast of Champions.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-boned
journey
manifesto of life
I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me
In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava
Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
freedom's call?
I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
fall
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
This is what I want
A little house with an a frame top
And giant colored strands of lights in every window
With a huge tree , too big most definitely for the room
And a ridiculous mixture of old and new just covering the walls
I want wallpaper
Peeling from the walls
As though it almost hurts it to remain stuck on so hard
And I want it so be intricately ugly and old an’ discolored
In a cozy way
I want to live on a street of little houses
With potluck suppers
Small gardens that are improperly tended
Maybe with some oregano spread throughout
I want a little cozy life
With a tall cozy boy
We can pick our oregano and our turnips
Cook us a stew
Peel the onions
Like the wallpaper from our little walls
I want a Polaroid camera
So I can take instant pictures that I cannot regret
That I can keep in a tin beneath my bed
Forever they will stay etched
I want to ride trains everywhere
Sitting in my seat
Glaring out at the window at the little houses
With A-frame tops
Yellowing lights
Covered in that glinting snow
Today the snowflakes looked like real flakes
Like the ones you cut out of paper
And hang on the wall of your dorm
To cover up the stains and cracks
In the yellowing paint
As is peels from the wall
Like my dream wallpaper
The wind in Buffalo makes me cry
From my right eye
My wrong one just sits and wonders
“What makes the right one so weak?
It is just a little storm,
Why can’t the right ones just hang in there?
Without drowning us in their sorrows…
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
Help yourselves dear poets
if you have fever use filtered martinelly apple juice or any brand you got dilude it with water a glass every hour
it has boron it heals cutting fevers fast I used in my children tylenol can harm liver.
~~~~~~
for the stronger health users go
organic carrot and (beat juice-
-optional) if you only want water distiled is best one gallon add 20 drops of oregano leaf oil
and only drink this is antiviral.
fir one day or two
~~~~~~
If you tolerate take on raw garlic two or more Clove's blend them in filtered, or boiled or distilled water or even Gatorade electrolyte or smart water
add cayenne pepper or any hot peppers you have like cayenne it's good for heart
( no halapeños they irritate intestinal lining ) add sea salt to taste cilantro if you have add two yellow lemon juices freshly squeezed one hole mandarine or small organic orange
add ginger root fresh a finger size slice
add turmeric fresh root
you have apple cider vinegar with the mother in
add some one tablespoon
optional
add multivitamin mineral
and vitamin C ascorvic acid
8f no lemon available.
if you feel anxiety check thyroid it controls brain chemicals add a thyroid supplement vitamin to shake open capsule and blend all these and drink five onces
every 3 hours.
it's anti virulent immune system booster
200 mg of vitamin B complex nightly in powder form will stop your restless leg syndroms help nerves and good sleep add but D3
If you dear find milk thistle it heals detox liver tastes great open one or two capsules in glass of water I drink this daily.
~~~~~
Stay blessed all poets visitors friends you are much loved.
by Karijinbba
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 4:32 PM UTC
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
I don’t know what it would be like but a man can dream,
I want to go grocery shopping with Jeandar, you know like a team.
She could drive and I would ride,
Backseat buckled bags by my side.
Where do you want to go?
Natural Pantry? Fred Meyer? Costco?
Ok well we’re gonna go get some healthy food,
Now taste this codliver oil come on don’t be rude.
Here take this bottle of oregano,
It’ll make your skin glow, dontcha know?
Can you go get the milk,
and I mean soy and it better be silk.
I’ll be in the vegetable section,
checking some asparagus for defection.
We’re not gonna get bread here,
We’re going to great harvest for real stuff dear.
Before we go grab a thing of cashews,
oh yeah and some vitamin-D too.
Have you been taking your vitamins?
Hey call Ivory and ask if she wants some treats,
We can find her some healthy snacks to eats.
Have you eaten dinner yet?
a place at the table we can still set
Make sure you wash your hands now,
That’s something I won’t disallow.
Goodnight, drive safe, call me when you get there,
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
Maybe Apples and Peaches this year,
Strawberries for sure.
So patiently the tender buds
await to grow.
And Volunteers are peeking through,
awakened from their quiescency,
where they performed their subtle dance
neath the Winter snow.
Chives and Thyme and Lavender,
Rosemary, Parsley, and Sage.
All happy and warm and full of love.
Oh no! Where did the Oregano go?
Garlic tops and Lemon Balm,
more fragrant edible things
bring Peace to these troubled times.
For Peace, we all must sow.
anyone know this style of poetry? I am having a hard time finding it.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Cherry blossoms and roses,
Once they were just flowers,
Now even the sight of these blossoms,
Remind me of you.
Star anise and cardamom,
Oregano and thyme,
Even garlic and onions,
Remind me of how we cooked together.
Sitting in the car alone,
Or looking at cyclers riding past,
It all reminds me,
Of how we traveled together, side by side.
Looking at paintings,
Seeing street art,
The very thought of visiting a gallery or museum,
Reminds me of you.
Seeing a lake, watching the sunset,
Looking up at stars, remembering Orion,
Watching the sea, looking at pictures of islands,
Remind me of you.
Once Germany was just another country,
In far away Europe.
Now it’s a place of dreams and reality,
A place that reminds me of you.
Going places where we’ve been before,
Walking on the same street,
Or sitting in the same restaurant,
Makes me yearn for you.
As I do my work,
Go about life,
I wish you were with me,
Every second of everyday.
I love you, sweetheart.
Dear Alex,
I love you, my angel,
Beyond description.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
All of life,
everything we shall ever know
is found within the gardens
Pulling weeds and the cover crop
*** them under or pulling them up
I never remember
The soil crumbling between my fingers
Perfect for planting
All is hope and promises
The gardens are a cycle
You've have to add excrement to begin again
The seeds are sewn, the starts transplanted
Water slightly pooled, dripping down into
the rich dark soil
A red worm winds its way down
Life begins again
Vulnerable
The light of the sun, so warming
Cosmic love radiated our way
Life is an urge, it finds its way
The lettuce, the tomatoes, the zucchini, the artichoke, the cauliflower, the raspberries,
a blue berry or two
Medicinal herbs, oregano, cilantro, too
Fruitful youth
A flower is a plant with a hardon
The juices running right down my face
Taste
Nourishment
It feels like total summer forever
But football and school come every September
The days get shorter
The plants turn yellow and brown
Outgrow themselves
Wither and die
Purgatory lives,
along come the cover crops and weeds
In winter all just try to survive
The garden know its limits
It knows what being is all about
All of life, everything we shall ever know
Is found within the gardens.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
I click out of garish pop-up, eyes burnt from the white, and lick my lips.
Cheese. Grease. Onions. Oregano.
as I don't do the dishes and the beer bottles mount an army around my room,
holding their necks in an offended reaction to my distasteful behavior.
I sit here and try my darndest not to spend money because it seems
possession are the only thing that can fill my holes fully while I lie here empty
wishing I had something living in this room
and thinking about how I should take a poll
of how many boys I've been with that wear
old spice.
I am successful, on paper. But.
If attachment is suffering, then why does being desensitized feel so brittle and empty (?) .
Don't answer that question. I don't know how much of it is a lie.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Chunks of meat
ground heated
on medium
until browned
strained then set aside.
tomatoes stewed
basil and oregano
onion first
then garlic sauteed
Water brought to boil
salt added then noodles
8 minutes to al dente.
combine all three
bring to simmer
Serve with bread and salad
dinner
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
three euro pizza
baking in the oven with tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni, oregano
the timer is ticking
it rings like someone at the door
who's company you've been expectantly waiting
you ****** open the way
and it hits you, caresses your face
the wafting hot scent of pizza
like the embrace of an old friend
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Tendrils snake upwards hugging my bones, creating a throne inside me.
I call this Spring.
Budding and blossoming, I reach for the watering can within my soul, and I feel warm.
I lean forward and breathe in deep.
I think I see the sun, I think I taste oregano on the tip of my tongue.
I think I will sit, stay a while, grow.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
Let’s drink
in our apathy,
thick and sweet like
how honey left too long
up on the shelf, behind
unopened oregano
and the mix
from when it was a bad time for cake,
forms a crystalline structure:
creamy, glassy bubbles,
so beautiful, but
it takes some heat
to make it clear again.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC