"reheat" poems
What does quality time together mean
When everybody's glued to their smartphones
Mom and dad buy new gadgets
and forget each other... again.
Meals are left cold on the dining table
Nobody pays attention
to homecooked meals anymore
Food is rather thrown in the bin
or reheat again and again...
What is the value of mom's kitchen
when Domino's Pizza can be ordered via online?
The magicof smartphones...
Homes aren't cozy place for us anymore
Everybody enjoys secrecy... privacy...
Living far apart
but breathing under the same roof....
Dear daughter comes home in tears
Dinner date a sheer disaster, she said...
He checks his Whatsapp notifications
every now and then...and smiling
reading his messages..,
A total shame...
Technology is meant for convinience sake
Same time rapidly ruins our everyday life
What has happenened to real conversations?
Hiding behind the sophisticated gadgets
What good is that?
Get rid of of your latest Samsung
and show your true face...
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
eye sometimes go to bed wearing an old hoody. It has a metal zipper to close the front and the zipper is always cold, unpleasantly so, on my bare skin. After awhile though, my body temperature warms the metal just enough, that it is no longer a cause of discomfort though the metal still remains inherently cool to the touch
While science can easily explain this I guess, I felt this to be a major miracle. That flesh pliable and heart-heated to 98 degrees could conquer the molecules of metal that were made in China struck me as extra ordinary (always two words, please!) and nothing short of a personal intervention by a personal deity
When I put the hoodie on at first I would think
******* (that's cold)
When I awoke, cosy and warm, I would think
******* (that's so cool)
having studied philosophy in Cleveland,
I knew that the logic of the situation,
what I had experienced was not an
interregnum, but the invisible intervening handiwork of god, who, also knocked my glasses from the nightable to the floor,
just cause she/ he was in a bad mood, on account of having to come such a long way, just,
to reheat me
one more time.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.
Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.
Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.
Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
In the corner next to the underpaid electricity
where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers
admitting each bite taste better than the original,
hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware
but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match
during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses
the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake
as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed
napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter
truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about
a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't
stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got
unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple
to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry
to taste the sweetness of the moment
later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a
glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping,
shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating
the impossibility of believing any of it
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
8am-light is bursting through
My shades as I take my shower.
Once I dress myself, I reheat
The coffee my wife left me.
I step outside to be met by
The crisp air of waning summer.
Like every day, I notice the
Vibrant boa scarf of purple wildflowers
That adorn the shoulders of
Wheeler and Monitor.
The sky is not falling, and
It is true what has been said,
'The fear of something happening
Is worse than it actually happening.'
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
from the bed shared
I offer ask,
"would you like me to reheat yours?"
and she answers no hesitation
"no sweetheart, I'm good,"
not realizing she just
simple and easy,
through her sweet goodness,
reheated my love
for her
1- 2 - 3
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
I want you to consume me as I do you
put me in your mouth
chew me up
swallow me to be absorbed in your system
because you have been drained of me
the smell of cooked meat is
too strong in my nostrils to ignore
the sizzle of oil in the pan is
your fingers running across my stomach
the steam from that *** is
the way my heart flurries when you look at me
I can’t consume anything
because I want to consume you
and you can control the temperature of the pan
and you can check the doneness of the meat
and you can whisk the homemade gravy until it thickens
but can you find me hidden in your meal?
we marry together
like pork and apples
like steak and potatoes
like crepes and dulce de leche
but my shell is cracking
and my form is melting
and my alcohol is evaporating
I am being sautéed, julienned and sous-vided by you
I am losing my flavour
do you promise your pigs you won’t hurt them
before you carve the meat off their bones?
I don’t wish to be hung in a cellar with all the other carcasses you’ve left
hanging by a hook and swinging,
the blood draining from their bodies
I can’t cook
but I would cook you:
reheat your stock,
and rehydrate your fruit,
and flash fry your heart
so your colour returned
and you were mine,
on my plate,
at my table,
holding my hand,
and I could consume the only thing I want:
you
yes, chef
you.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Louder, louder!
Breathe me a storm, blow into
My eyes; force tears from a frozen
Stone.
Touch me with lightning, run your
Palms against my scars until
Your fingerprints wear down and
All evidence of our sin washes
Away like blood from a September
Crime scene flooded with rains.
Louder. Louder!
Shut my thoughts out with slaps and
Painted nails clawing and digging at
My chest in search of a heartbeat.
Once a man has gone cold, he's
Impossible to reheat.
Throw all your love on the fire, I'll
Only slip through your fingers like snow
Brought to a boil, kissing blister farewells
On your hands, rendering our
Love an open cut you weep into.
Louder, Louder!
Cry my name into my absence,
Cry the pain of love passing away in your
Arms like a wounded child soldier's blood
Onto battleground soil.
Arise to avenge your hopes.
Take this frozen stone and name it Heart.
Cain to your Abel. Apple to Eve.
When love is reduced to a shadow, it's
Barely called ******
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
In the bain marie of life
The boiling,
evaporated
water underneath,
Scolds untrained fingers and hands.
Unscathed are the extremities of workers who serve:
Little Hitlers and Maos,
awaiting to have their egos inflated, and their endowments stroked.
All so they can perpetrate atrocities in a world craving for more, entertainment.
All so they can penetrate their
animosity
towards girls craving for more
containment.
Prepare ingredients in metal tray, made from
Futuristic technology. Erected steel, carved and shaved,
moulded to perfection.
Finesse in
Postmodern civilisation,
Allowing hungry
Delinquent to stuff
cake holes with garbage.
Gruel, bangers, tripe and trotters, spotted **** black pudding, haggis, bulls testicles.
Plastic.
Gum, and wrapper.
Thrown,
in bin.
Mess and stink.
Perforating orifices and permeating nasal passageways.
Kitchen sink,
The end of day arrives
Sanitation process occurs.
The end of shift awaits.
She takes off sweat filled hair cap,
Takes off juice stained chef pants.
Kicks off steel capped boots.
Pulls out
Smelly,
Sock.
Rest in bed,
to awake for new day.
Gravity raises the sun.
Rinse and repeat
bain marie
reheat.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Watching those two
Happiness and Envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack
The smiles and cuddles
The trust and passion,
I wish I could console them all within my heart and life
But I cannot get grip
I cannot hold on to the sparks of my former self’s heart
And I am left as cold as the unlit fireplace
But something stirs
The spark within myself is starting to reheat my body
To reheat the passion and trust I once had
Then it hits me
The fact that I cannot truly love
That I cannot truly have passion
I cannot truly be in love
Because I cannot be loved
This hideous monster
The thing many hearts have wisely shut out
The thing that loves like a hunchback Quasimodo
And needs its Esmerelda to set it free from its isolation and pain
But she is long in the future
And all I can do is wait
Wait through the pain of happiness
And the pain of envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Insanely insane
No program in brain
No chain to attain
No page to stain
No need to repeat
Issues to reheat
The past doesn't last
Anyway
Speculation is ******
And the son of disorder
Like a drama recorder
Playing again and again
The anxiety's claws
From the head to the toes
In a circle it goes
Reoccurring pain
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
I love you in the morning light when the sun is in your hair
and I love you in the evening when the night is somewhere way out there,beyond the scope and did I not hope to find this?
in the melting furnace of your kiss,the shiver of your touch and I love you oh so very,
such is the muchness of my day that I can watch the light play on your skin,
If being in a heaven sent is where I went and where I want to be
then this life that you have given
is the only life for me.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
I am charcoal cooking out for the summer
loading boxes into a freight truck
like coals into the furnace
powering America's materialist engine
the boxes rising like greed
until I've filled that truck's needs
exiting the trailer smoldering
like a coal in the furnace
powering corporate production
steam is all that rises as I melt into the ground
trucks leave like emissions into the air
obstructing my vision as I gaze down the street
through the haze of summer streaks
another truck approaches for repeat
a microwave set to reheat.
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 4:47 PM UTC
the cup bought on a whim
one of those mornings
willing to spend more than five
for what should cost a buck
but the leaves drew me in
the circle broken by lame marketing
often the case in life
how easily we break our own circles
this morning alone i've reheated its contents three times
what used to be a daily purchase i now prepare at home
the cup its carry
i'm probably killing myself with the reheating
the construction recyclable but that means nothing
anymore
reheat inside of that and you'll get cancer
someone says
makes no sense though because the coffee is ******* hot
and the ******* cup holds it every day before it's reheated
i want to be that cup, i think
ready and willing to carry around the contents put upon it
no fuss or bustling
just a vessel
inanimate
thought little of, pushed to the corner of the closet
brought out for utility
how to be a cup?
how to trade the drive and flourish
the passion that keeps pounding away
the flashes of intensity that find their way into tiny timbered moments
silly though, because of course i can't be the cup
no more than i can be the actual coffee
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
My eyes itch,
My throat burns
The coffee in the pots burnt
And my mugs cold
The TV's on in the backroom,
Someone's been skinned-
Stripped of all fleash-
Screaming,
Screaming,
Silence.
My computer screen stares back at me
And my eyes water at the light.
They try to close
My heart beats
***Ba boom
Ba Boom
BA BOOM***
Each thump hurts more and more
Typing, typing, typing
I love you
My mouth turns upright
And I feel my heart settle a bit
**I love you too
Night
Night**
Nicotine and coffee
I wiggle and scream
Much like the TV did
Only to wake to lonely silence
Shower and reheat the dark muddy drink
One quick cigarette
And
**Good morning my love,
I've missed you.**
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC
Your eyes are the colour of my tea
when I've forgotten about it for hours.
When I find it, I end up not even wanting to drink it, but I do, because it's there and I'm here.
I don't think this makes any sense at all but I guess that why I'll always try to reheat you; us. Because you're there, and I'm here.
But don't think we'll ever be the same.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
There's a fly in my oatmeal, and now I won't eat it.
There's a fly in my oatmeal, get it out please! I pleaded.
It's just a raisin, my father said.
Well now it's all cold, and you'll have to reheat it.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
I know I can work him.....for what I may need...
but is that bad and for my own greed?
I do care for him but not like the others....
I don't want to be with someone "small" after the "bigger" brothers..
I know that seems shallow and kinda selfish..
but why try to reheat something that isn't a tasty dish....
I don't want to lead him on and I don't want to be with him anymore...
Been there done that....don't need to do what didn't work before.
I know that he isn't my love or my mate for life....
He isn't the one I forever and to become his little wife...
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
These strange fellows
Still record on videotape
Abroad an outdated
Insufficient spacecraft
The shape of
An interstellar bowling alley
By night they hunt for
New age wine
Radio waves
And a slew of hitchhikers
Some they greet
Some they cheat
Some they mistreat
Some they eat
Convenient store gangbusters
Crop circling has seen its better day
Soundtrack enthusiasts
They've a score to settle
With John Williams
They came from a fruitless world
In search of pomegranate skies
And the Big Apple
Even from the far flung
Reaches of space
Everyone's an actor
Some they unseat
Some they beat
Some they reheat
Some they eat
We're odd to them
Because they're gods to us
In a technologically challenged
Unidentified flying object
It's not war they want
Nor invasion
Just dinner theatre
And a reliable map
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC
~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~
this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River
(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river) (1)
but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals
many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me
so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?
and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness
So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
*by a poem
truly worthy
of this*
miraculous
conception
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 8:31 AM UTC
**** coffee won't stay hot,
**** poetry writing
interrupts and the coffee cools
even in my porcelain cup
of Van Gogh's sunflowers,
too **** fast
thinking wouldn't it be better
if the coffee stayed hot and
you could reheat the drafts
as needed
on the tenth trip to the microwave,
it occurs wth a laughter burst
no changing required
it is poetry that keeps him heated
all night long,
and coffee only fills in the ****
daytime spaces
till the poetry comes
to warm his dreams
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
I'd prefer to stuff my love for you
in a concise, zip-locked easy to reheat bit,
rather than let it sprawl across fields of space.
I'd rather have a zealous moment than
a dull eternity.
I'd rather love you fervently for a second
than spread thin over an hour.
Just let me give you what I have, and ask for nothing more.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC