"quiche" poems
I went to the Cordon Bleu
And my name is Pierre
I work in the kitchen
I’m a French chef extraordinaire
With fine French food
My name is synonymous
But I am an addict
I attend McDonalds Anonymous
When I make a quiche
I just want to hug it
But I keep getting cravings
For a Chicken McNugget
Fast food or French food
I am conflicted
Fast food or French food
Yes I am addicted
The 12-step program
Keeps me on track
I have to fight my desire
To binge on Big Mac
I pretend I’m a food snob
My life’s full of lies
When I buy burgers
I must wear a disguise
I should come out of the closet
Admit my transgressions
Then they would accept me
For my fast food obsessions
Maybe the other chefs
Would heap me with praise
If I smothered my Big Macs
With Sauce Hollandaise
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
"That quiche was delicious and - Harry Potter!"
Oh no, not him again, what a bother.
"What time should I pick you up to take you to - Harry Potter!"
Seriously? I suppose we'll pretend like he already got her.
"Did you finish chemistry and start your - Harry Potter!"
Oh, i wish we could just stop talking about that rotter.
"Do you mind getting the laundry for - Harry Potter!"
Umm, you know the clothes smell, we really otter.
This boy is worse than Peter Pan
He lives in my house and rides in my van!
My girls all adore him and his glasses
And the more he talks, the more he attracts the masses.
Whoever is this Dumbledore?
I really don't want to hear anymore.
Snape just looks like he's evil
All I know is he's causing upheaval.
Ron, that poor redhead
And Hermione that bossy big head.
Edward somehow got mixed in
And i hear he died in the end.
But I couldn't care less, please go away!
I will get rid of them all one day.
I know what must happen when I hear Potter,
I must become a pest control plotter!
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
And what do I serve with tea?
Of a cake layered with words - a slice
A croissant with stirring smilies
A quiche with quaint archaic spice -
Fresh from a poet's repository.
In the clink and chime of quills and pots
And spoons that stir the brewing tea
Dark or creamed, winter or spring
Here's to a cup of poetry.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
Hey you,
Just got back to the flat, not the same without you sat at the top of the stairs typing away.
Reminders all over, showing me of your recent presence.
First sight at pile of dishes that you washed,
Empty grissini breadstick's box,
Still some tzatziki and houmous left though.
Need a **** can't deal with this already.
Ahh, that's better. A tooth-brush is missing,
Spa Covent Garden Sanctuary, Irish Meadow?
Will upstairs be any better?
Must pause, plug in interent hub. ****
Back to old self so soon.
Duvet squashed up to the back wall,
Can almost make out your imprint.
I'm reluctant to throw out the remaining *** butts,
Seems as if you're still here.
Half drunken mugs of tea, finished quiche,
Can't believe I was so sick on the last night.
Bad dreams yesterday, two in fact.
Both being hung over ridiculous heights.
No good with that, big fear.
A sign of pressure bearing down?
Held council to rights, no joy.
Start the whole drawn out claim again,
Lot's of boxes to tick and fill.
Toss pots, must bite tongue and get on.
Doctor’s waiting room has mags for women only,
Nothing to chill my nervous mind.
'But are you going to faint on me?'
I made it through allright, lost some blood.
ECG scan on Thursday, for what though?
Chest or heart? Probably heart.
Mid-life wake-up call come early.
Do I really want to know? I suppose.
Where's my lovely? I need her so.
A cuddle, a smile, all better.
Action time- phoned all bills, extra time.
C'mere money, pretty please?
What thong then? Suspicious...
I was right (kinda)! ***
So excited, so touched, wow!
We will work it out Dee.
Thoughts of wild horses scare me not,
Something feeling very right, not at all wrong.
Hardest thing ever has already been done-
Finding that special little someone.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:52 AM UTC
She swept the house;
Sorted through a chicken
To make a *** of soup;
Chopped vegetables,
Boiled another *** of
Vegetable soup;
Broke eggs
And made a quiche;
Drove to work
And balanced all the tills;
Returned home,
Washed the sheets
And pillow cases...
And then she bathed
And went to bed,
Certain that
Her house was clean,
And that
Her family would be fed.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
so you've got a heartache in your belly.
& as you casually told me
" it's about the size of a thumbnail
right now "
i looked down & realized
i needed to clip mine.
your eyes dimmed like theatre lights
when i closed the curtain
on your monologue
about motherhood
to tell you we couldn't keep it.
& i probably never loved you more
than those days where we would sit
in silence,
thinking about how empty we were about to become --
you literally,
& me….desperately.
& we went to that sterile building
with the bulletproof glass windows
& the chubby old woman,
using a blue blouse as a veil to cover the layers of
stress & years underneath.
she spoke to us through an echoing intercom
in a grave attempt to keep her distance
from our fingernail problem.
we got buzzed in & we waited &
we sat close but god you were so far away
& i reached out & grabbed your hand to pull you back in
& you looked over at me --
overpassed me --
& the ghost of a smile haunted your lips for a second….
they called your name, well
not your name…not the name i call you,
but the one your dad gave you,
& they told me i couldn't go back there with you
& i said i understood but i never will.
the waiting room filled with somber souls,
& we all pretended like it was just a normal doctor's office
but it was obvious who the better actors were
as some randomly burst into tears
like confetti poppers at a birthday party.
we all knew we were at a funeral but
they turned up the volume on the TV
like the quiche that Rachel Ray was baking
would make us forget the mistakes we were burying
& i remembered the picture you showed me
that looked like an x-ray of a jelly bean & said
" that's it.
that's what it looks like. "
& you stared at my face like you were trying to
memorize my expression in that exact moment
so you could dig it up whenever you needed to hate me again,
but then you came out of that door holding your belly
& i knew you wouldn't need to dig that up
because you would have no problem hating me
anymore.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
it is a funny thing, what infatuation can do
when I see you and I breathe I can feel every cell
and see past the next moment
I can feel the way you move
anything can be a catalyst for you
a note in a song
my hair against my lip
I want to turn your head and make you see me the way I do
because with you comes this feeling
and with this feeling
oh I'm writing and singing
and dancing and moving
and even the cold air is welcome
but a year ago this poem had a different subject
why can I not infatuate myself
and keep constant the excitement of possibility
must I rely on a nameless stranger
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
the fresh tomato of
a dry quiche
the warm rain
from summer's only cloud
the lipstick stain
on my favorite shirt
that made that shirt
my favorite
the peach that
put georgia out of business
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
I found myself a seat at the table
among greens and violated vegetable
and I’m wondering if I am able
to stay calm and sit there stable
while staring into a Buddha bowl
searching for some peas in my soul
I’m looking down so hungry
the side dish appearing so angry
like that smashed green avocado
near the pile of mashed potato
and the cut and diced main dish
beside the chopped chives
and sliced spinach Quiche
These vegetarians are not so nice
beating the egg and whipping the rice
and this fruit punch I’m drinking
by dessert, has me thinking
they’re as aggressive, and more
violent and cruel, as a carnivore
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 7:04 AM UTC
You do it a
little at a time.
You start a holocaust at
5:30 am, over your
sausage and instant
coffee.
You do it with
your small hatred
and your snide
comments--your prideful
looks at the ***** man
with no shoes.
You do it in
one moment, by not
calling your dying
brother
over childhood
trivialities.
You do it by gassing
the goldfish, flushing love
down the toilet;
clogging the sewers with
your hatred and
malevolence.
You watch the green
grass die and the ants
drown, while you
smile over your
newspaper, and plot
your next hostile
takeover.
You did it when
you punched the
dog, and pinched
the child.
You do it when
you smile.
You're a mean
one Mr. Finch,
Mrs. Jones,
Mr. Smith.
But guess what?
You are dying alone.
Every day, every second,
and the moon and the
sun and the stars
celebrate your demise
and so do I.
You've never lost
any thing.
To loose, you must be
found.
You have to have a
bit of gamble in you.
You don't.
You're as useless
as an eel in
a quiche.
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
My eyes are starting to adjust.
Slowly opening, as the light of unfamiliarity evolves into a familiar dark.
And my ears,
they jump to the sound of new conversation.
Quiche talking elders with lost words, soon to find a new home.
You could say we're getting on with our lives,
as we're getting older and our hair is getting shorter.
Moving on as I stay behind.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider
something was always
just a little bit
wrong
a constant drip
in the fridge
a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case
missing corners
of floor tiles
pictures hanging
slightly crooked
one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble
the rattle
of the heater
smiles from those
i couldn’t trust
a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes
every year was
the year that would
make it or break it
so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs
last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas
i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard
the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans
and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart
i might have been
the first slice to go
but at least i got
out of there
before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan
a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly
over
just
like
that
and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved
big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all
every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past
it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it
there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed
but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability
maybe
they were
maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded
an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos
or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 9:20 PM UTC
I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--
what is it?
about running away?
I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.
I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--
I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.
I'm home, but there's nobody here.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
.
Q
u u i u
i c h i
c e c
h Q h
e u e
Q i c Q
u h e u
i Q u i
c i c
h c h
e h e
e
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
The woman of the roe, she hath wished to hath but something,
Stumbled and fell low, for some life’s more, is stumbling.
But as she gathered quick and made for her future love, quiche-pie,
Came attracted-too, her morning dew, a man who made her sigh!
He owned but just a farm, some animals or such,
Not much else but kind his touch and here a fellow once yoked too much,
Of beauty’s graceful arm…not the beauty of his farm,
He sold it all upon heart’s fall and bought her one fair ring!
And she a dove, did fall in love; her child years still bearing.
Once ready to wed she doth had said;
“My early years spent erring,”
“But came at last to change my past and seen me for my caring.”
“I love this man, this farmer-fellow, the one at which I’m staring!”
The priest he asked, “What are thine names?”
And both of them stuck glaring…
For neither knew, though love was true, they replied;
“I think tis time for fair rings!”
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
I've walked across a bridge with locks
ate quiche in a bistro on the Left Bank
I've seen the Eiffel Tower
lit up like a sparkler at night
and maybe it was somewhere
on the Champs Elysees
I realized how far I've pushed you away
I'm ready to come home to you
and don't worry about the broken vase
nothing we can't fix
or replace
Whit Howland © 2017
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
ah the sea, the sand, it comes in bottles now, dearer than the cheaper stuff.
i had not met her before, went in on the off chance. waited a while till she
was free.
she did it different, said nice things about my skin. in a small way she gave
me confidence.
i bought the quiche, sat in the cathedral grounds.
used the salt spray, and did not die.
of it
sbm.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC