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Martin Lethe Apr 2016
Villanelle On a Summer Potluck
For ShirleyB*


Feel your heartbeat quicken
For these pasta-salad days:
I am bringing chicken.

Bulging bellies thicken
Laden with crab hollandaise.
Feel your heartbeat quicken.

Sweet Siobhan seems stricken
By the puddings and soufflés.
(I am bringing chicken.)

Insert thy toothpick in
Anastasia’s canapés:
Feel your heartbeat quicken.

Beatrice (she’s Wiccan)
Brought a heap of warm beignets;
I am bringing chicken.

Jealousy shall sicken
Those who brought their best entrées--
Feel your heartbeat quicken:
I am bringing chicken!
Continue reading...
wordvango Oct 2016
Potluck to boast of your superior wit
I bring hotdogs and turnips to it
gladly sit in the unpopular rows
with people who know their **** stinks,
not those who feel a need to condescend
degrade and comment on others here
I would gladly bring 'tato chips
and nachos and pass on the high brow
caviar some think they are
for you smell
when you judge others
like you are the beginning end and class of the show
when you are just
pretty versions of *******
in better clothes
with store bought words and
stupid wits.
blocking  me means I won , Anthropos. You can . Your right to.
It is not your right to  post a poem that belittles anyone's poetry like you  are superior, which you did. Mydriasis, you are not worth mentioning, you follower servant to her.
Continue reading...
Sam Stone Grenier Apr 2016
Words and phrases that rhyme with ****
aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk
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michelle reicks Nov 2011
taste of summer
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
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Poppy Perry Jun 2015
Untitled
The *** of rot
I've been simmering
Was embroiled to the boil
You tried to remove the heat
And appallingly scalded
Your chest and face
As my
Water supplies are
Surprisingly small
I have little to go on
but potluck
and recall
#burns #kitchen #*******
Continue reading...
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
The Obsidian Theater IV: The Symphony of Sensational Voyuerism
It’s good to see you again.

We’ve been expecting you
Please
Sit.

Now…

Lights!
Orchestra!
Curtains!


Bringing forth nighttime lore, the charming chamberlain of Libertine plays
Summoning forth demonic myths, the illustrious weaver of unspoken entities
Dancing on memories, the enchanting fairy of skeletal trees
Sizzling behind magenta curtains, the voluptuous seductress of throbbing blood
Laughing at the potluck, the swollen headmaster of flab
Killing in the alleys, the inscrutable Ripper of Jack
Fornicating in the wild in the dragon’s keep, the ***** of Babylon

Swell the strings!
Blast the horns!
The cast is assembled

The symphony of sensational voyeurism
Yes, you in delight
Don’t deny your
Sacred rite
That’s right



Join my dear

Don’t be shy

Ascend the stairs

And come on stage



Good



Take my hand and venture now through the broken mirror of Assyria
The dunes of sands
Mounded and layered beneath the crisp blue sky

Not a single cloud
Not a single soul

Except for us

My dear
Feel the sand

It’s cool to the touch

The wind encircles your lush hair

The air feels and smells like the breeze of the sea

Where Athenian, white houses line the shores of this desert-sea world


Look up into the blue sky

Witness the open dome in the center

Above our head


Past the blues sky dome is the space between spaces.

Orange silk stars and red trimmed planets
Violet smeared nebulae and green morphing galaxy clusters

Float up to the top of the open space dome in the center of the sky

Reach out and extend your hand

As you touch, the area between this world and the next, ripples spread out from the imagery of the universe.

You touch water in the form of visual, ethereal paradise

The ripples of time expand like the vibrations of sound across the sky

Painting a new canvas of dripping oils and melting clocks



Close your eyes.

Your body hovers in the air

Far from the ground

And far from the person everybody knows


No matter how much a person perceives to know about another, there will be a part us that no one will ever comprehend.



Because to completely absorb the entirety of another life

memories

personality

thought process

dreams

Soul



Is incomprehensible

Inconceivable

Futile



A new world attrition
Through masturbatory perdition

A raging, unquenchable and suffering desire that plagues

The bold

The young

The old

The naive

The smart

The swift

The innocent

The ******

The addicts

The self-proclaimed purists

The self-proclaimed “good people”

“innocent people”

“trusted people”



We are all what we live for: a lie

A lie that consumes the norm

With invisible abnormalities

We are the blind

The deaf

The mute

The chained

The ignored

The punished

The poor

The dumb

The frightened

The dead



The end





Thank you for being here once again.  None of this couldn’t be possible without: Clive Barker, Iron Maiden, headphones, batman, duplexes, Salvador Dali, The hour of the Wolf, folding chairs, wool blankets, Silicone *******, chocolate icing, Bruce Campbell, 28 Days Later, true love, true grit, The seventh seal, black widow spiders, Vishnu and anyone else I forgot to mention.



Please come again.
Yes, yes I know you are probably asking, "How many of these entries are there?" . I couldn't say really, but hey stick around and found out. Let's see what my mind has to offer.  Probably not much, but is it quality or quantity that should out weigh each other? Boing! Hey look, Pizza.

No need to fret, protesters outside my window, this is now a declaration of war to your lives (or is it?), just a free verse/form writing exercise.  Till we meet again my Peeps, minions and droogs.
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john p green Mar 2017
Potluck
There are those whose words find them at inopportune moments.
And become lost when needed.
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annh Mar 2022
this is just to say: a response
dear bill,

so sweet of you
to leave behind
a paper jot
for me to find

for ev’ry breakfast
lunch and tea
gone missing since
you married me;

- however -

such wilfulness
I do condemn
each crust and crumb,
each stone and stem,

each potluck plum
purloined at night
to satisfy
your appetite;

this doctor’s wife
has had her fill
of poetry
and bitter pills,

and crumpled drafts
in juicy scrawl
appended to
the icebox door;

your words do not
a meal make
how many more
must I forsake

- meals, that is -

before your page
is fit for press
and I can sup
on more…not less

love, floss

ps dinner’s in the oven, probably
A creative writing course exercise in found poetry. Williams married Florence “Flossie” Herman in 1912 and became the town doctor in Rutherford, New Jersey. Despite the time commitment, Williams continued as a full-time doctor while writing his poetry, benefiting from the financial stability it offered.

‘I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold’
- William Carlos Williams, “This Is Just To Say”
#appetite #breakfast #cold #delicious #icebox #plums #poetry #press #probably #sweett
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C S Cizek Nov 2014
Sweet Daffodil
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your ******'d *****.
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****

could have been more.
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Kasey Oct 2012
Beginnings and Endings
We’re all born with our eyes closed to what we learn to be the world.
Our sounds begin with crying, our fingers bunched and curled.
We’re taught our eyes should open and our hands should follow suit.
Our lips we’re told to quiet, our lungs we’re taught to mute.
We’re taught rules are to be followed, enforced calmly with intent.
Our freedoms and our thoughts are forced and every feeling bent.
We grow into what we are made of and what we’re meant to be
These people born with their eyes closed now teaching us to see.
A potluck set of people and we’re told to pick just one
Forever and for always our individuality is undone
Over time it comes back around and soon we have to teach
Our own little entrées that bunched up hands can’t reach
Closed eyes are not able to watch and loud mouths don’t ever listen
We bend and break and force our little dishes until they glisten.
We age and rot and give up on what our hearts once dreamed
And dying we may realize that it’s not what it had seemed.
Saint Peter looks inside his book and asks us how we are
And crying with our eyes closed we ask our lucky stars
Why never in our lives we questioned what we were
Here we are at God’s front door and we finally concur
Hands bunched up and fingers curled, eyes shut and kept closed tightly
The world we lived on and left for here was horrid and unsightly.
Yet every morning we woke up and our eyes opened to the sun
We've been quietly observing a world that’s vastly overdone.
Continue reading...
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Nueva Beba
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.


Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.


A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.


Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.


Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.


She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.


She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?


Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.


But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -


And she's suddenly upright


And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.


Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,


It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.


And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.
#love #poetry #loss #funny #fun #friendship #romance #iloveyou #and #her #joy #muse #she #dear #powerful #laughter #women #journal #history #diary #entry #womanhood #everyone #martinnarrod #musedandamused #shortpoems #suspense #mused #themuse #amused #amuses #britniwest #britnisarahwest #couplesromance #merrinment #losingsomeone #fallingdown #gettingbackup #martinericnarrod #shortprose #flashfiction #nonfiction #onlyone
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Demetri Kirkland Nov 2010
.com
Sometimes I forfeit peace
to log on and feel a release
slave to its master
freedom on a leash.
Thoughts laid prostrate
forced open is the fate
my life a potluck
privacy open to mutilate.
Username and password
alias to a dream deferred
pressure to fulfill
purpose completely blurred.
My brain belongs to me
i give it away freely
my business senses love it
the common ones disagree.
Copyright and Composed by Metr!
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Amanda Mary Rose Mar 2010
This is What I Want
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…
one of my favorites
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Del Maximo Sep 2010
To The Future
been feelin' lousy lately
lethargic
lacking in energy and appetite
nauseated
something is wrong
it is a virus?
or a backlash from all that's been going on?

the interment was hard
my oldest brother presided
he's a former priest
my youngest brother sang and played guitar
he almost didn't make it through
but as he sang
the sun broke through the overcast
they put his ashes in a small white sarcophagus
afterwards, mom wanted to bid her farewell
by resting her hand on the "coffin"
my oldest brother led her there
they seemed to linger so I joined them
with one arm around mom
and one hand on the coffin
it had been a full month since he died
I thought I was all cried out

afterwards, we had a backyard potluck at my sister's
just family
four generations in attendance
and two gracious cousins
we were quite a crowd
it was good talking with my nieces and nephew
they're growing up
I don't see them nearly enough
like when they were kids

now there's only the future
yesterday was my birthday
at my age I used to dread it
and try to ignore it
but my younger brother's death fomented an urgency
to live and enjoy life
so happy birthday to me
at times he was my best friend and my worst enemy
my partner in night time bike riding
my parent's squealing pig prince
that got away with everything
good bye Terence
for the good times and bad times
I thank you
© September 2, 2010
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Diane Nov 2013
After I finally convinced you, he came back
As the bus approached the stop
next to the library
I knew.
The sight of you
standing there
was not a surprise.
Pleasantly, you entered,
toting your instruments like a back pack.
Your weight made the seat
creak, when you sat down
--right in front of us.
For a brief second,
your heart was spared
and then,
out of the corner of your eye
an orange hoodie
dark shaggy hair
and me.
This must be what doctors see
when they tell families their
loved ones have passed;
a pain catching the eyes
making them blink while open.
I selfishly expected
you to understand
as your mouth cried quietly
“he had his chance!”
I wanted to run after you
when you gathered
your
             …things
and got off the bus.
Instead, I watched you walk away
downward face
wasting your last few dollars,
leaving your young heart back
inside our potluck pumpkin pie.
How cruel unmet needs use people.
Your face
that day
hurts me still.
Later that weekend,
he
said to me,
"It’s funny, how I can look at you now
and not get turned on."
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brandon nagley Jun 2015
οίκημα παλάτι (tenement palace) in greek dialect
Potluck of paramour
Rivulets of auric
Lozenge Paragon's of tarot
As in this all
A freedom from mine own tenement!!!
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betterdays Jul 2014
of the cat's cradle
Moirai
sits
with
the
cat's
cradle
of your
life
in
her
supple
hands
and
never
still
fingers

she
thread­s
kismet
karma
fortune
and
potluck
into
wonderous
configurations
­
and in
order
to
keep
the
threads
pliable
yielding
and
graceful
she
dips
them
in
puddles
a­nd
oceans
of...

lust
laughter
love
joy
hope
and
sorrow
fear
ange­r
and
everyday
madness

all
of
life's
fibres
and
oils
scents
and
­tastes
mingled
together

deftly
worked
and
reworked
as she
deems
fit

and
in
this
thread
a
knot
that
joins
birth
and
death

Moirai
sits
forever
patient
and
twiddling
until
knot
is
l­et
unravel
and
you
are
left
to
hang
dangling
at the
end
of
fate's
frayed
and
ever
fraying
thread.
from a three word prompt
death,love,fate
thank you. n.h.
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Gabriel Jan 2022
a jesus that will never biodegrade
sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.

chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.

as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.

(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)

who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.

sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."
something something catholic guilt and childhood dreams of fame
#religion #catholic #god #church #prayer #guilt #sad
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Anna Zagerson Aug 2017
Like It or Not
Like it or not, each place holds a memory
I may not have played on these streets
But cemented beneath the building lamplights is my first real kiss--
Israeli-flavored, textured like tabouleh--
These shuttered storefront windows are not my version of Brooklyn at nighttime
But I know what it is to turn this dark corner coming home--
Tired from dancing, completely alone--
This rooftop terrace is not mine, not where I crafted a hip adolescence
But it is where I built bases for potluck communities--
Here my love of human connection was crafted, then bourne.
My current apartment is still not really mine--
Belonging, as it does, to the landlords creaking the floorboards above me, their parrot, and their cat--
But it is where boys first slept over, where first I was marked by someone
Leaving their toothbrush, their territorial imprint behind.
I guess I'm saying--
We don't choose which memories get locked in where,
Nor have we any say when they happen or why
We can choose to rage against the imperfection of their sense of timing or location-
As I so often do-
Or we step onto a street of acceptance that these are our Lives, and our experiences
Will happen at their will, where they will, when they will,
And despite their imperfections, we are along for the ride.
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Christian Sammartino Mar 2017
Portrait of Kodiak Grizzly with Cubs
The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.

My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.

You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.

Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,

call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.

She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,

American made bullets.

But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.

My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.
#nature #animals #hunting #bears
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brandon nagley Jun 2015
Lay down thy chips
Mine halcyon forelimb's stroke the reaper hamlet, I stand upon doom-departed bluff,  waving a white apparel insignia... At twilight black insomnia rages the run-a-bout, wherein the fear connects to doubt, just wanting one to simply cuddle me! In tucked in gardenia's underneath the sycamore tree. Yet to much blancheness wherein color should be fiery elegant wherein from whence it cameth..... The potluck flamekiss to light underneath mine eyes to roll them back as dice in a skillfully played out bet!!!!
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Andrew Rueter Aug 2022
God's Hands
It makes me sad how angry I am
it's so bad I'm god ******
the slaughter of God's lamb
by the knife in God's hand
hatred's supply and demand
is all I understand
when sexuality creates insanity
in this putrid life handed to me
with God not answering
my prayers for Him to take my eyes
instead He just took my hands
so now I can't stop staring at guys
who don't think I'm a man
and I can't fight back with no arms
so I must stand there and take harm
from people in God's garb
and wire that is barbed.

If being without love makes one numb
how come I feel every time I'm stung?
Especially now that swords are guns
and this life's rewards are none
just a scoreless run
to a finish line before a cliff
I pray there is something to lift
me away from my earthen crypt
but I've found only rage
and in that my sorrow
banging in my cage
but wanting to see tomorrow
looking for anything to follow
I can't take pills hard to swallow
so I float like the thirteenth Apollo.

Wallowing in an empty room
pouring alcohol in the wound
feeling doomed like I'll die soon
in my lonely loft
developing a covid cough
from those who scorn and scoff
and won't *******
telling me to look to God
when that's how my arms were sawed
into illegal shotguns
living this life is not fun
so everyone around me got shot some
which is just part of God's **** poor potluck
my hands must be in there somewhere
so I just keep crawling upstairs
even though it's unfair
my hands must be stolen back
from a god dressed in black
who took my palms but let me see
without knowing how to be
I just bite the hands that bleed
until I'm too full to breathe
and watch God laughing casually.
#gods #hands #godshands
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TigerEyes Nov 2014
A Girl Named, Magic by, Krisselle S. Cosgrove
Magic lived in a small town down in Tennessee where everybody knew everybody's business by noon.  She never knew why her mother had named her Magic. She just knew she was the target of some wicked gossip, and it all usually started by one person.  Jane Goodwill.

They both attended the one room school house up on the hill. They shared the same birthday. And they were both 13, and had eyes that sparkled like when the sun lights up the Ocean on a bright day. Magic never knew why Jane Goodwill hated her so much. She just knew to cross the street when she saw her coming toward her.

It was the kind of town where practically every family owned at least one hound dog, five chickens, two horses, a tractor, and one of those cheap above ground pools in their backyard.

And it was expected that you were to be in church on Sunday, or, you could be sure as Monday be seeing, Mrs. Twitchet, in front of your face waving her index finger telling you how you were going straight to hell.  
That is -- if she ran into you at the local hardware store where they also sold grocery's along with chicken feed, and hay.

Mrs. Twitchet was made a widow that year. She had a figure shaped like a large plump oversized pear, and she always brought her deep fried chicken, and fresh apple pies to the church potluck on Sunday's. She liked to sing the "Special Music" while she played the *****. Magic always thought it was funny watching her flirt, making eyes with Mr. Platt, who had also been made a widow that same year.

Magic's father had disappeared the day she was born. And for some reason Mrs. Goodwill always acted strange whenever Magic passed her on the street.

To be continued.,
© 2014 Krisselle S. Cosgrove
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preservationman Jul 2015
SANTA IS COMING TO DINNER
My wife told me she invited Santa to dinner
But it is not Christmas and this is summer, but should I let him enter?
What shall we serve?
Should it be potluck at the last minute and is this what Santa deserves?
However, Santa will bring his reindeer troop
They are big enough to be their own group
The meal must be done right
The stars are giving the wink in get cracking tonight
Otherwise when Christmas finally comes, my house could become a drive over by
Then my Children will start to cry
Every effort on my part being a try
Santa’s ** ** ** will be an affirmative NO
Then I will respond with SO
I need someone to feel me on this
Because my Wife may not give me a kiss
I can only image Santa passing my house for the first time
All of the coal that would be mine
Now I guess I could serve some nice champagne
But if Santa gets drunk, guess who will be the blame?
I can just see the Headline, ”Santa gets a ticket for being drunk”
All the children around the world would a lot of bunk
Well Santa has the invite
Now as the Host, I must be polite
Otherwise, it will be a guest of probably might
But for now I extend my Good Night.
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Jeremy Betts Nov 2023
~•§•~ Wait, What? ~•§•~
Walk around palms up like "what the fuuck?"
Low-quality literature John Travolta, dumbstruck
Lingering havoc of being awestruck by dumb luck
Stuck in the rut felt in the pit of a stomach
Nut up or shut up mukbang, self demise potluck
Lame-duck after lame-duck left to run amuck
Anyone else know what the fuuck?

©2023
#what #dumbstruck #havoc #awestruck #dumbluck #stuck #demise #amuck #lameduck
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matthew scott harris Nov 2020
Holiday magic courtesy potluck dinners exuded delicious aroma at 324 Level Road
Mother would patschke
early that day in the kitchen,
and recruit any guest, who
blindly ambled thru front door
suddenly trapped unwittingly
squarely (triangulated) into kitchen
forcibly impressed to help

set up buffet tables
and/or given carte blanche to prepare
some mysterious dish,
(a hodgepodge of ingredients),
that suffered no shortages of compliments
unfortunately could never be duplicated.

Guests harkened far and wide
word of mouth boastful rantings and ravings
superseded culinary Michelin Guides
to dole out seven stars,
which wordsworth meant "exceptional cuisine
promised hungry visitor
a special satisfactory journey."

"Time to eat" (usually bellowed courtesy father)
generated an orderly stampede to jostle in line
and commence maximizing capacity
testing sturdiness disposable plates could hold
scouting, shoe horning, staking...
place to become comfortably numb with satiation.

Amidst various and sundry masticating jaws
(with each respective mouthful
of food glorious food -
cue said Oliver Twist song title)
followed by draught of spirits
ejaculations of delight issued,
and punctuated the sound of silence

when not additionally interrupted
courtesy sibilant crackling
popping, and snapping
wood burning stove,
which aforementioned heat source
lulled well fed tummies
whereby heavy eyelids drooped
while heads sank into chest.

No matter hunger pangs quieted
evidenced by casserole, glass, pyrex...
scraped clean rumors heralding dessert
quickly awoke wine weary souls
analogous to sluggish animals

awakening out their hibernation,
when self anointed maître d'
showcased good n plenti desserts
(pies, ice cream, cookies and cakes galore)
she made house special
comprising secret ingredients.

Upon being stuffed to the hilt
(dear kith and kin mother
all counted as family
think taxidermist specimen
readied for mounting)
all pledged a unanimous
New year's resolution
vouchsafed to start on diet
come January first.
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Third Eye Candy Jan 2021
The Schematics of A First Impression
nothing drags a frame of reference out of bed
like a fresh start on a pike.
you strap your business-end to a playful lark
and stave off the broken moons
as you Tetris the Possible
like an unknown god.

I hoist my genre by rote;
my tropes charmed and dangerous…
for the pen is mightier than the fjord
of our most opulent shadows.

My Etch-a-Sketch memories diverge
like Christmas geese
flocking to a pagan potluck
as cellular as a private moment with
a Neilson rating of zero.
I tune in when a gadfly lands on the nose of a spite,
and make a poet’s face.
I sleep like a baby on
the Titanic-
but my average epiphany
bobs for apples
in a bucket
of Northern Stars
too keen on wisdom
for a dullard’s
petard.

at first glance, every blank stare
like a horde of eyes
with pitchforks
and torch songs
made of
why?
Continue reading...
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Multicultural Indigestion
         The Hostess
Crowned in Afro-tribal headdress,
On her chest a Slavic tunic;
Appearing as a prophetess
Or a schizophrenic ******…

On her wrists ring Irish bangles—
Wrapped round her waist a bright sarong;
On her breast a pendant dangles
Like some Oriental gong.

Multi-kulti represented
As a woman, weirdly dressed.
Every ethnic group is feted
On arrival to the West.


          The Dinner
Everybody bring your dish!
The ethnic potluck has begun.
Afterwards  your guts will wish
Your culture had remained as one.

Foods collide and almost mingle
In the cultural melting ***;
Yet it’s hard to find a single
Way to describe this mixed-up lot.

Curry mingles with Kielbasa
Chinese dumplings, Jello, slaw
Deviled eggs, the odd samosa
Beans and rice, cheap sushi raw.

Soul food, Kimchi, Spanish rice,
Pad-Thai, grits, potato salad;
Gastronomic paradise?
Or a nauseating ballad . . .

Out of many, not quite one—
You bravely burp. It’s quite diverse . . .
But as your stomach comes undone
Digestion goes from sad to worse.

E pluribus to Alka-Seltze®
Groaning in your bed at three:
Let it fizz and hope it helps, sir
Lest you doubt diversity…

I’m Diversity. I am strength!
Sings the undigested food.
Perhaps we all shall know, at length
If global change was for the good.
PROMPT: 29
Write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal.
In the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person.
Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
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Jonathan Moya Sep 23
Baptism on a Sunday race day in Daytona
It wasn’t a river  
just a pool,
more of a hotub,
set off from the sanctuary—
and when I was eased
into  the water
I didn’t see God
in the streams above.

And I didn’t see her
lost in the thunder
of the racetrack
just beyond the church.

She was beyond
my line of sight,
soaking up congratulations
from the congregation.

The pastor gave me
a gentle pat on my back,
shook my hand, three times,
handed me a towel
and welcomed me to the flock.

I was just another sinner saved
and left to go his own way,
certain in the faith
that God will provide.

She said she would meet
me back at her place
after the potluck.

I wrang the towel
of every last drop
and  handed it
back to her.

I walked back to
my old white Civic,
turned it over
and felt the
cool Jesus breeze
of the A/C hit my face.

The voice inside
told me to do the
first thing I heard
on the radio.

I heard Ray Charles
in his blindness
croon to me:

“Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more, no more, no more, no more.

Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more.”
#baptism #disillusionment #isolation #belief #disbelief #scared #mundane
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— The End —