"ovens" poems
Dare to live.
Stop insisting on chasing after death.
Stop trying to die.
Quit the grand illusion.
You shall never die.
Grow your wings and fly to the mountaintop
of your world. Breathe stars.
Bravely go alone. Only you can do this.
Regularly in your day--exercise conviction.
Visualize Stars, the Sun.
Golden, fibrous threads
of starlight, of sunlight --
take them in, through the nostrils.
This is nothing less than
soul's power-fuel.
Inhale slowly and experience
the gentle music of love's fire,
as flames would pull up
a chimney stack, up pipes of ovens.
Faith builds with such breath practice.
Greed cooked transformed.
Anger put to rest.
Ignorance surrendering
to ways of knowing.
Prepare that your purpose
shall speak to you.
Breathe starlight.
Are you surprised
that you feel no heat?
Your unique timelessness
awaits your recognition.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
Thinking about pizza as I'm here
it's warm with the ovens going
the order has been placed
i sit and wait
and wait
and wait
no time erased, only 1 minute elapsed
I feel like I'm swimming laps
in a tomato sauce pool
with black olives for floaties
the sauce is well past my knees
so hungry
and desperate
just to get a slice
of this great American pizza pie
it makes my heart swell
my eyes not dry
i'm gonna get eat pizza until i die
and if there comes a day
when they say no more pizza no way
your stomach can't handle it
your intestines will flare
i'll say i don't care
pull the trigger in my underwear
crime scene investigates
saw it on the news
a man covered in pizza
and bottles of *****
they couldn't get in the door was unlocked
a wall full of pizza boxes had the entry fully blocked
but deeper inside was a man no one knew
cheese oozing under the doorway cracks like glue
i'm still here waiting for pizza
no more imaginary trap
i look at my watch
the tenth minute elapsed
the lifeguard gets out
he's done with his swim
his whistle blows
everybody back in
the pizza is ready
time to dive in
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .
A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will **** and eat.
8k
Food for thought
Savor in flavor within structural tone
A former Competitive Bodybuilder who could hold his own
He exercised to gain and ate to maintain
It was dignity and honor in appreciation of aim
Being a Competitive Bodybuilder requires all intensity
But it was about winning on the stage spotlight being a reality
Yet beyond Bodybuilding, there was something about food and preparing a very exotic cuisine
You will see down the line in what I mean
The former Competitive Bodybuilder felt that being a Chef was always his dream
Now it will be a reality like a running stream
But to be a good Chef you need the right education and Mentor
Yes a Chef for sure
Bake until rise
Savor the taste with the right ingredients being the surprise
Being a competitive Bodybuilder, one accepts the challenges in being the best
But when it comes to a Cuisine Chef, it will be the food critics who will contest
Patrons that will eat a Chef’s dish will be the true confess
So ovens over the world
There is a Chef to make your taste buds swirl
What will he prepare?
That is something I won’t share
You will have to experience for yourself
Taste I am sure you will enjoy
This is a true story of a Chef
He has cooking to do with not much time left.
Ship Ahoy!
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******** antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without *********** headlong in my armpits.
Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******** bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles
Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells
We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast
Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong
The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools
In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's
Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed
I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a blow job to a kiss
We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse
Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet
I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Penelope Cruz
Used to muse
On the use
Of oversized microwave ovens
In the covens
Of Barcelona.
Give them their due
They know how to imbue
Broomsticks with fresh belladonna!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Aging is confusing
How old would you be
if you didn't know how old you are
Microwave ovens
Kitchen range timers
Updates too
Timers all around ticking down
ticking down our time
You might think of this
as you make your rounds
Sunrises
Sunsets
Good morning
Goodnight
5 minutes to go
Forty seconds
I know
Ding goes the timer
Another day is done
I guess in the end
it's
five four three two one.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Out in the children’s playground
On the wasteland, near the flat,
There once was a shiny roundabout
They called ‘The Witches Hat’,
It hung from a greasy centre pole
And would spin, just like a top,
For once that we set it spinning
It would take an hour to stop.
They painted the Hat in black shellac
So it gleamed beneath the sun,
But stood like an evil entity, in the dark
When the day was done,
We never ventured abroad by night
For the land, we thought, was cursed,
With the Witches Hat a reminder of
Just what had stood there first.
Once it had been a Magic Wood
With Elves, and Grimms and Ghosts,
Witches covens and Goblins ovens
We heard about the most,
The land was cleared for a new estate
And they called the land a park,
But nights you heard the muffled shuffle
Of dancing, in the dark.
It was then that they set the Witches Hat
Up on a pole to spin,
One of us ran around with it
While others sat on the brim,
We always ran with it clockwise
Then stood back to count the spins,
For Mother Malloy had warned us
Never to turn it widdershins.
She said it would stop the earth, and that
The sun would go back down,
The Prince of Darkness lay in wait
For the Witches Hat, his crown,
We thought that she must be bonkers
And we laughed each time she frowned,
But never would spin the Witches Hat
Not once, the other way round.
But then on an Autumn afternoon
When the nights were coming in,
Mother said, ‘Take your brother out,
Go take him out for a spin.’
She wanted to clean the house, she said,
‘And you’re always in the way!’
So I took young Robin out with me,
He’d just turned four that day.
I put him up on the Witches Hat
And I spun, and spun him round,
But Robin was a querulous child
And he cried, to put him down.
So then in a bloody-minded mood
And after a dozen spins,
I stopped the Hat and I turned it round,
And ran with it, widdershins.
It must have been almost dusk by then
For the sun dropped into the ground,
The Moon came up with a silver beam
And it lit the whole surround,
I ran as fast as I’d ever run
And the Hat spun like a top,
Robin sat on the opposite side
So I’d see him, once I’d stop.
I ran until I was out of breath
Then I stopped to watch it spin,
But no-one was on the Witches Hat
And I felt the fear begin,
I searched and scoured the land around
And I crawled beneath the Hat,
The little fellow had disappeared
So I ran back home to the flat.
I’ll always remember that awful day,
The day when the fates were cast,
I’d spun him into the future, or
I’d left him there in the past,
I shouldn’t have turned it widdershins
But now can’t bring him back,
At night it gleams in a pale moonbeam
That terrible Witches Hat!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
dissuaded seamstresses seamlessly string
together thoughts throwing out convention
and convection ovens hold the bones of history
hot air blows through them and out
the mouths of bloated politicians red faced
with misplaced values and encouraging
a broken caste systems’ continuation
as classism hides beneath value menus
radically altering the fabric of not only society
but also the genetic code in which we all stem
wilted flower petals stick to flattened tires
wired children snorting Ritalin pick locks
placed by scared parents
frightened by Fox news and Vioxx side effects
stashed cash smashed in mattresses
waits for the next prescription election
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Move rack to lowest position,
Set to three seventy-five.
Pour in one and a third cups water,
Sprinkle egg whites (package A),
Blend on LOW till moist.
Beat on high (but remain patient)
Stiff peaks will form when gently
Dunking a spatula into your batter
(Be sure beater is AT REST before checking).
Sprinkle in cake flour (package B)
A little at a time on LOWEST setting
(Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges).
Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan,
Cut through batter gently with a butter knife
In a circular motion
To eliminate air bubbles.
Bake for at least thirty minutes
Or until top crust is golden brown
(Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times).
Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle,
Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife.
Gently remove your cake.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
The bonobo baked
more banana bread
in four stone ovens.
Made monkeys
unhungry but her brick
bungalow became
so smokey.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances
beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers
beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers
beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane
beep beep
beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Morning rituals make you rush
But someone gets up earlier than you
You never get the chance to be first
Ah, there's a wet towel on the sofa...again!
The tiny water puddles on the floor leading to the bedroom...
The kettle is whistling now
You bump onto each other in your haste
And you both stop.....to look at each other
Eyes brighten up....slowly give out beamish smiles.
There's toast and jam on the table
Steaming instant coffee is ready, but first,
You make a cup of fresh brew, hand it to him
His eyes squint, while he sips his hot tea,
You sit, eat, without much talk...just looking,
Like, looking at each other, and what would follow,
Would suffice to complete the hours of the day...
But, you're both dressed up... all set for work...so
You start your day....he starts his...you always leave ahead...
In the office, you remembered:
"What's the matter with me?"
You forgot to charge your cellphone and ipad last night
So you look for the charger
Only to find out, both are fully charged...
Your eyes sparkle...with much longing
Ahh, you wish for time to fly
So you could head for home, fast!
He's usually very hungry when he arrives
You hurry...chicken afritada, it will be...
Wait...the frozen chicken has been thawed...gone!
Hey!
You see a *** of chicken adobo...you salivate!
You surmise, he must've done this after you left this morning,
You look up...thank God for this angel He has given you,
And for microwave ovens, too!...you tell yourself,
"Okay, okay....I'll do the dishes tonight! ...and the coming nights!"
Life is perfect with its mix of the sweet and the bitter
Blockbuster moments and flops...together...apart
Uncontrollable smiles, frowns... tickles, tears
Even the coming....and passing of life
Days don't always end up on a high note...yet, now,
You sit, and recall all that had happened this morning
And the past mornings, evenings, weekends...
All that he did....does for you each day
All that you did...do for him everyday
All the chats you share before bedtime...until he snores,
All these combined efforts are much better ways, better proofs...
He rarely says those three words most often said by lovers,
But, you soar to Heaven, when before falling asleep,
He puts your head on his chest, and whispers to you:
"You mean the world to me."
Sally
Copyright March 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
I’m thinking of a place
With a monkey and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
Just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
Upon the stamp it wears
And a basement sitting at the top
Of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
Where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
Will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
In a bowl of cocoa beans
Where a question is an answer
Or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
That the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
Below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
Wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
As every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
A trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
As it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
Welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
As the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
A necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
They always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
Now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
You’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
It lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
When we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
That forever will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
1143
The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done—
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.
2.1k
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead
Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex
Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
dusty books, pages thin and frail
like my mothers bones
decaying and oxidizing - the words fade
when the ink deteriorates
but that doesn't mean they weren't there
you tied a string around my teeth
and ran south for the winter and with each
step you took, a tooth would pop out
a constant reminder that you are no longer
here, but i wonder when i will run out of teeth
or when you will run out of earth
i sat on a friday night indulging myself
in stories and delicately counting the paper cuts on my fingers
but the dainty cuts will never compare to that time we ate cake
until our stomachs became flour, milk, and eggs
and you told me you loved me
then left to **** yourself
drowning in exhaust must be a silent way to go
and that cake won't taste very good in hell
i would know
recall your earliest memory and
divide it by all the unrequited stares
and thats how much i wish you would
untie my teeth, or stop running
and count the number of goosebumps painted on the
back of my neck and that is the
equivalent to the number of ovens you
accidentally left on
but I'm begging you to understand how immense
the ocean is because thats a very long way
to suffocate and salty water
will burn your wounds
Mariana's trench is a dark place
and the letters you wrote me reproduce on the bottom
not even the ugliest scar can revive my flesh that was chained
to those messages
but the meteor craters lick my surface like chloric acid
and all i wanted to do was repeatedly brush my teeth with the ocean sand
and clean my eyes out with mermaid tears
because you left a sickly residue that
hibernates under my fingernails
so next time you open your trunk
and find a mountain of broken glass
just remember that i loved you
i lost my fingers for you
i sold my soul for yours
but it wasn't even close to enough
what else do you want?
should i drain my blood until i am a desert of a human
shall i cut off all my hair?
and even then ill have an eternal debt to you
but you just turn the other cheek
so the plywood under my elbows
applies pressure to my spine
condensed newspapers stuck in the follicles
of the rain drops
but you don't even care
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
How do poets survive?
Others drink way too much alcohol
to drown their demons
while others write naked
others try to hide behind their words and metaphors
others just try not to put their heads inside their ovens
while some simply endure the pain
of writing the things they wish they could just tell
Me? I just drink a lot of coffee
and trying not to wake up at 4 AM
blocking the bitter realization
that all I ever did was write letters to you
and you will never write me back
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
the worm burps crasanthyums
like hypnic ****
matter becomes metaphor
thats how the beast works with in us
we are a book of masks
and i'm up to my neck in
mirrors of the marvelous
midnight music beguiles like a blizzard of whispers
flaming candles heat like ovens
burning finger by finger
i melt flabbergasted in dark linoleum clouds
blood gluttonous
tender bites
lips like red rain and trussed thighs
she grins
a face of needles and mice
i think she wants me
this old man, soggy eyed mop
linen wrapped
before aortic aneurysms
i'm a living tarot card
the falling tower and the lovers
break downs and break throughs
my groin a slobbering clot
dreaming ******* drenched
straight jacketed on her knees
***** willow shadows
drooling exacerbations
a caffeinated candy
licked thickly
twitching blinks; rem ejaculations
her face; a tattooed ****
**** mouth smiles
brown one eyed gnome
**** the stinking cyclops
*** talk lubricates
a raspberry crumble
looking for god
omniscient
even in *****
the white swans utterance
incoherence's
dressed in a ****** negligee
her belly a thousand ******* mouths
and i press into her thunder
shattering dawns gravity
a pinhole of empty cups
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
*Hail to Caesar now, Zeig Heil
Noble Eagle Standard flies,
Schutzstaffel in midnight legion
Disciplined long stabbing knives.
Heil to goose stepped march precision
Noble Eagle Standard soars,
Centurian’s in closed division
Screaming stukas strafe azores.
Fist to leather armour snapping
Stiff arms high in thronged salute,
Hail to Caesar sing the Legions
Zeig Heil Waffen SS brute.
Discipline of Shield defences
Stabbing lances follow swords
Clouds of arrows fill the heaven
Dachau’s ovens roast the hoards.
Winged Aquila flies the column
Wielded high as Roman’s would,
Black and white with red blood running
Swastikas where Jews once stood.
Europe caste in corpses rotting
Women screaming in the land,
Deutsch and Roman locked forever
Destroyers both, in history’s hand.*
Marshalg
In response to Anselm’s “Two Translations”
25 March 2013
On a cool and dry Autumn afternoon.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC