"sauces" poems
I pull open the door
And hunt for food in the dim orange light.
"There's nothing inside"
Well, actually,
There is something:
Months old cream cheeses precariously stacked atop each other,
Several mysterious bottles of brown sauces,
Dried out leafy vegetables,
But nothing
This lazy *** can eat without preparing.
I push close the door,
Leaving my stomach rumbling and empty,
But filling my mind with
Dreams
Three-fourths of the dull gray door is covered
With colorful ceramic magnets
From my dad’s corporate adventures
To Batangas, Bohol, Bacolod, Davao,
Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Macau,
Nepal, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, China,
Dubai, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia
Sudan, Egypt, Ethiopia,
Canada, Greece, and Australia.
I examine each magnet’s contour and shine,
Letting its foreign dust seep into my fingers.
I dream that soon
I will return all those dusts to their lands
And bring home more magnets of my own.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
3 X 5 index card poems
3 smallish poems in five minutes
~
reheating
honey can I make you something to eat?
***no babe, you know I hate to see you cooking, frying
standing over pots and stirring sauces
trying to brush
wisps of bangs from your eyes
while wearing kitchen mitts***
What I would prefer is something leftover,
reheated served with a smiling grin from my ear
to wayover down under there,
next to you
<•>
old words are better than than new ones
hey, hi! how you doing, old friend?
“yo, out of the hospital feeling so much better;
had some kind of ‘itis’ which they cured with an ‘yisis’!”
***glad to hear; impressed by all those new big scientific words;
frankly preferred your old ones, that were rediscovered and
reoriented in new ways in your poems verses;
me?
never better cause to hear from a man
whose optimism has yet to meet a
match
that he can’t best,***
heals all our wounds
<|>
if you told me
***that I could spend three successive rainy days in almost all silence, perfectly contented by myself,
i’d said you crazy,***
isn’t that true babe?
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
When stretch'd on one's bed
With a fierce-throbbing head,
Which preculdes alike thought or repose,
How little one cares
For the grandest affairs
That may busy the world as it goes!
How little one feels
For the waltzes and reels
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball!
How slight one's concern
To conjecture or learn
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds
If a company dines
On the best that the Season affords!
How short is one's muse
O'er the Sauces and Stews,
Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells,
Ring they Peels, toll they Knells,
Can attract our attention or Ears!
The Bride may be married,
The Corse may be carried
And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.
Our own ****** pains
Ev'ry faculty chains;
We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease
We the power must seize
For our friends and our souls to provide.
3.6k
Don’t you like a chocolate?
A foggy morning jog; over the windward side of the snowing hill,
Accompanied by the silence of my lovely girl.
Suddenly a drop; falling from a sky high teak,
Soaking her rose-bud cheek.
Eyes on her cupid’s bow; Were thirsty ‘coz her lipstick frost,
Needing for a lip to moist.
That was the time; I lived up from the day I saw,
This angel, with a dropping jaw.
Came close we two; almost locking a tight lip kiss,
But what made that a chance to miss?!
Confused, my girl; Perplexed by my bizarre act;
Peeping places, I was looking at.
Why did I stop? A Choco Donut shop at left,
The reason for my eyes to shift.
Piercing the bread, I licked the sauces off the knife
What else do I want in life? :P
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
We were cleaning each other tears with our hands and kisses, and today we clean the rests of jam and sauces from our familiar faces in the comfort of our last moments.
The minutes to the departure which seemed to break us, never managed to take our sense nor patience,
as when things are so important that you hardly believe in their logic of attracting with a power that no one has given a chance.
I doubt I deserved this amount of joy.
But they doubted in the ability to take the suffer of what is unknown.
So perhaps we are all mistaken creating uncertainties and leaving too early.
And if there is more happiness on the other side of the gate... Then I only wish we could cross it together.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
What do I have at my disposal?
A knack for always wanting to write
My intuitive messages down.
But it’s got no substance,
It’s got no meat.
I’m all bread and cheese and
Condiment without any meat.
It’s fitting for a vegan, I suppose,
But not for a poet.
The poet has to lead breadcrumbs
For the reader in order to get to the meat
Of the poem, the substance, the protein.
Where is it?
I’m lacking substance where I have all these
Nice little toppings and sauces and vegetables,
I have a dipping sauce for this sandwich,
But no meat!
I have to go to the store,
I have to keep honing my skill.
I have to develop a hunger for meat.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
Under harsh street lights
And a rusted skeletal overpass
We walked in the syrupy
Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday
Night
A man asked me in accented
English
"Want that burrito spicy?"
"Yes"
His eyebrows go up
"Spicy?"
"Yes, ******* spicy!"
He smiles to himself
Reaches back into the food truck
And pours sauces and
Liquids of varying color
And viscosity into the
Tortilla
Wraps it up for me
Gives me my change
And waves me off with a smile
When we get back to the apartment
She is mad
Because I choose to make love to the
Burrito instead of her
I can't help it
Drunk eating is one of the
Forbidden joys of life
She slams the door and
Shuffles around yelling
By the time I'm done the burrito
She is telling me to sleep on the couch
Which is fine because I can't
Feel my mouth anyway
The burrito is so **** spicy
I tell her this and that her
Kisses would be wasted
If she wants to waste her time
With me, I want to feel it
We sleep together for
The night
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
Sausages and chips,
sauces and dips
thoughts of them
has me licking my lips
then I remember the hips
So I’m going to back away
as I remember what my granny used to say
makes me smile as I remember her sniggers
“little pickers,bigger knickers”
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
She scooted along the checkerboard floor
collecting ***** plates
& refilling sweet teas.
I placed a double-order of fish tacos
& sat right next to the buffet of hot sauces
just to watch her toss her brown hair about
from under her pink pussycat hat
& lithe body covered
in delicious ink
& piercings.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
*Seven New Poems For Seven Days # 5: Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes
Oh yes!
The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.
Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.
*Yo! Dude! This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!
My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.
She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body
I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.
What's under our cover?
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
Cockroach, Cockroach , what are you doing in my soup,
In the kitchen I was playing hoop la hoop,
And I fell in you soup mister,
It's hot and I am getting blisters,
Scoop me with your spoon,
Before I swoon.
Please don't shout or scream,
I will be thrown out of the kitchen of my dream,
Filthy and messy,
With rotten fish, slimy and smelly,
Red meat in blood,
And fungi on sauces and salads with mould,
Never scrubbed,the kitchen,
For thousands of us it's heaven.
Be a pal,
Go away with your gal,
At least I did you a favour,
Not eating in this yucky place forever.
25/6/2019
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 5:43 AM UTC
outstretched hands
overlapping timelines and lives
circling back to the same origins
and stretching far enough out to forget them
promises twirled around fork prongs
paths meeting and crossing and departing
held together by cohesive experiences and sauces
the chaos of our own existence
shouldn't prevent us from taking a bite
Mar 5, 2023
Mar 5, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
the ubiquitous screen
that we all have seen
for myriad hours
has magical powers
it brings us tales of suffering and woe
but allows us to vicariously go
to lands without menacing misery
with a simple tap on the remote
but when we think we've gotten our couch potato *****
far from the palpable pain of the muddied masses
we see the ads for... feline cuisine
tasty, tempting morsels
in delectable sauces
what little kitty could resist
yes, what little kitty could resist
while billions struggle to simply exist
like monkey'd maggots on rotting meat
they don't care if their meal is a treat
only that their aching guts are at least half full
while cat lovers are caught in the insouciant pull
of ads for the "cat chef's" royal feasts
for their most noble of beasts
who purr and play with ***** of yarn for our delight
and allow us to forget the interminable plight
of the muddied masses who have no magic screen
and couldn't give a **** about cat cuisine
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Tus ojos me recuerdan
las noches de verano
negras noches sin luna,
orilla al mar salado,
y el chispear de estrellas
del cielo ***** y bajo.
Tus ojos me recuerdan
las noches de verano.
Y tu morena carne,
los trigos requemados,
y el suspirar de fuego
de los maduros campos.Tu hermana es clara y débil
como los juncos lánguidos,
como los sauces tristes,
como los linos glaucos.
Tu hermana es un lucero
en el azul lejano...
Y es alba y aura fría
sobre los pobres álamos
que en las orillas tiemblan
del río humilde y manso.
Tu hermana es un lucero
en el azul lejano.De tu morena gracia,
de tu soñar gitano,
de tu mirar de sombra
quiero llenar mi vaso.
Me embriagaré una noche
de cielo ***** y bajo,
para cantar contigo,
orilla al mar salado,
una canción que deje
cenizas en los labios...
De tu mirar de sombra
quiero llenar mi vaso.Para tu linda hermana
arrancaré los ramos
de florecillas nuevas
a los almendros blancos,
en un tranquilo y triste
alborear de marzo.
Los regaré con agua
de los arroyos claros,
los ataré con verdes
junquillos del remanso...
Para tu linda hermana
yo haré un ramito blanco.
1.4k
What do I mean by that? Why is it a favorite mantra? How does wasabi differ from other hot sauces? First, this is a metaphor for feelings and how we deal with them; or we do not deal with them out of fear.
Most hot sauces or hot food has a tendency to keep being hot on your mouth for a very long time, even after you are done eating. The mouth is a place not only for food but expression. Some people can stand and like heat in their mouths, some can't. For some it is thrilling and exciting, for some it is a dreaded thing, something to be avoided at most any cost. That dread stands in front of any willingness to try something new. Fear of a heat you cannot get rid of.....sigh...
Ever feel like your feelings are going to consume you if you let them breath? Ever had hurt so deep you were afraid to let it out for fear it would take over? Ever think you cannot handle another second of pain? Had your very breath be of nothing but hurt? Do you know of what I speak of? Fear of letting yourself feel for fear it will be too much.
Hot food is like that. But the more I spend time in healing, working with my shaman, and working on myself I am finding everything to be of 'wasabi'.
Wasabi is a hot food item unlike most other hot foods. Its heat and intensity is 5 times that of other hot flavors,IMHO. You think it will consume you and your head is going to literally explode with this sensation that is unlike any other. You really think its going to sting you forever and you get scared...and after a deep breath or two it is gone. The heat, the explosion that was so all consuming to me the minute before, nay..seconds before..is gone! How can this be?
How can what I feared so much be so easy to transcend? Oye! I feared the old fasioned hot. I feared the old way of feeling things. The old agony, the old hurts, the pain I thought I could never outlive-. <---that is my old hot sauce.
Now life is all wasabi. I know it is going to be extreme to jump into. It is going to test my threshold of what I can tolerate. But I know when I take a bite, no matter how big..it has a short life span. It is not going to consume me, take over, or last forever. Diving into myself has never been so hot;) but I like the heat of challenging my old thought patterns, beliefs, and self limiting concepts.
Wasabi rules ;)
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
I don't eat no beef
No **** no lamb no swine
Only on the verdurous etch
Doest I within my thine I dine
I don't eat Jellie and sauces slick with ill
Confounded with animal ****
Nor powders and honeys dripping and grime
Spent with the wretch of genocide's time
I don't hunt for game or trophy ****
I don't glorify **** or bile or swill
I don't bow to the customs and conventions of now
Now matter what serve of the demonic a sow
I don't **** my brother or sister for food
It's not blood on my hands that's reddened and hued
So why take the life of an innocent babe?
An animal born here of terrestrial habe?
What for the taste of delicious a flesh?
To accompany sauce Cantonese wan szech?
Or is it to sate gastronomy?
That bloodies the hands of you and me?
That forces the carnivore?
To act the ****** *****
And ***** an animal innocent and bright
Is this self deified act requite?
What do you proclaim to be?
To ****** an animal's right to be?
A god with insight and power so great?
To forsake your right to heaven with hate?
Or a devil or demon anon?
To justify your sleepy murderous throng?
Or merely a human who follows the lead?
Of our common culture's bane banal creed?
So what is it that drives you to the deed exact?
To cut the throat of creatures in act?
Are you saying that murders ok?
And you'd enact this upon your own whether or may?
If you could knock or whack a human for merely the taste of its flesh?
And not because their discord did not mesh?
With your idea of what justifies life?
And end a being forever of strife?
Is it ok for aliens to prey?
Upon our earthen developments stay?
And enslave our species to sate their gut?
To fawn and feed and slupper and glut?
Because they have a higher IQ?
Or more dextrous fingers with which to hew?
Are you sure you want to be an unthinking one?
Of the masses maraud and to the deed done?
As somnambulist reaching with a laden gun
And end life forthwith no winner or won
Unless you count dinner to the taste of your tongue
Trained since a child to sing the song sung
Of the glory of meat as to salivate and savour
As if bowing to the idea of what will crave ya
Haven't you ever heard of an acquired taste?
Well couldn't we now apply this with grace?
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 11:48 PM UTC
Like as to make our appetite more keen
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge.
Even so being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love t’ anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.
But thence I learn and find the lesson true:
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
1.2k
Today I wore
Ketchup and Mustard
Because I wanted to
Not everyone can do this
And get away with it
But I did it
Because I wanted to
Tomorrow is a new day
Maybe mayo or tartar
Just anything but barbecue
But it's not about my sauces
Or my meat for that matter
It's about my feelings
Bite me because im what you love
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
In a moment of defeat and despair,
we begged, “What will you eat?!”
"Noodles!" She declared.
"Noodles," we agreed, "noodles are fine."
And so noodles upon noodles upon
noodles we’ve tried: noodles boiled,
steamed and fried; strings, tubes and
swirls; noodles shaped like bunnies,
unicorns and dinosaurs; in sauces
and soups, in cheesious goops;
noodles with veggies (until veggies
were banned); noodles with
mushrooms (only from a can);
noodles made of wheat, lentils, rice or
corn - noodles made of everything
noodles could suborn.
Noodles for lunch and for dinner -
noodles again and again and again
- and what then? How many times
can one noodle? How many noodles
until brains begin to spill onto plates
in a braineous-noodle-ous state?
Noodles for breakfast - can’t do it.
Noodles for lunch - can’t get thru it.
Noodles are banned! Noodles are
not welcome near here - never again!
At least not today anyway.
Ok, fine...
NCL August 2019
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
De verdes sauces entre doble hilera,
de la agria roca al coronar la altura,
a lo lejos, cortando la llanura,
se ve la polvorosa carretera.
Donde se parte en dos la cordillera
se divisa una casa, y su blancura
resalta del trigal en la verdura,
cual si velamen de una barca fuera.
Del saucedal bajo el ramaje amigo
clavo la vista en el hogar risueño.
de dos almas tal vez dichoso abrigo;
Y bajo el peso de tristeza ignota
finjo visiones de un borrado sueño,
y hondo suspiro de mi pecho brota.
1.2k
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...
A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
*"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."*
She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...
I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...
Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's
and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,
my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors
we felt so much...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
¡Que no quiero verla!
Dile a la luna que venga,
que no quiero ver la sangre
de Ignacio sobre la arena.
¡Que no quiero verla!
La luna de par en par.
Caballo de nubes quietas,
y la plaza gris del sueño
con sauces en las barreras.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que mi recuerdo se quema.
¡Avisad a los jazmines
con su blancura pequeña!
¡Que no quiero verla!
La vaca del viejo mundo
pasaba su triste lengua
sobre un hocico de sangres
derramadas en la arena,
y los toros de Guisando,
casi muerte y casi piedra,
mugieron como dos siglos
hartos de pisar la tierra.
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Por las gradas sube Ignacio
con toda su muerte a cuestas.
Buscaba el amanecer,
y el amanecer no era.
Busca su perfil seguro,
y el sueño lo desorienta.
Buscaba su hermoso cuerpo
y encontró su sangre abierta.
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No quiero sentir el chorro
cada vez con menos fuerza;
ese chorro que ilumina
los tendidos y se vuelca
sobre la pana y el cuero
de muchedumbre sedienta.
¡Quién me grita que me asome!
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No se cerraron sus ojos
cuando vio los cuernos cerca,
pero las madres terribles
levantaron la cabeza.
Y a través de las ganaderías,
hubo un aire de voces secretas
que gritaban a toros celestes
mayorales de pálida niebla.
No hubo príncipe en Sevilla
que comparársele pueda,
ni espada como su espada
ni corazón tan de veras.
Como un río de leones
su maravillosa fuerza,
y como un torso de mármol
su dibujada prudencia.
Aire de Roma andaluza
le doraba la cabeza
donde su risa era un nardo
de sal y de inteligencia.
¡Qué gran torero en la plaza!
¡Qué buen serrano en la sierra!
¡Qué blando con las espigas!
¡Qué duro con las espuelas!
¡Qué tierno con el rocío!
¡Qué deslumbrante en la feria!
¡Qué tremendo con las últimas
banderillas de tiniebla!
Pero ya duerme sin fin.
Ya los musgos y la hierba
abren con dedos seguros
la flor de su calavera.
Y su sangre ya viene cantando:
cantando por marismas y praderas,
resbalando por cuernos ateridos,
vacilando sin alma por la niebla,
tropezando con miles de pezuñas
como una larga, oscura, triste lengua,
para formar un charco de agonía
junto al Guadalquivir de las estrellas.
¡Oh blanco muro de España!
¡Oh ***** toro de pena!
¡Oh sangre dura de Ignacio!
¡Oh ruiseñor de sus venas!
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que no hay cáliz que la contenga,
que no hay golondrinas que se la beban,
no hay escarcha de luz que la enfríe,
no hay canto ni diluvio de azucenas,
no hay cristal que la cubra de plata.
No.
¡¡Yo no quiero verla!!
1.3k
the Hoodie Crows fight and squabble
all over my spaghetti
wait till they taste my sauces
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
with apologies to WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)
Once more to the table, dear friends, once more;
Or close up our hungry mouths with supermarket staples.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of hunger blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Cut fine the sinews, simmer up the blood,
Disguise cheaper meats with hard-favour'd sage;
Then lend the stirring spoon a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the foccacia bread
Like the brass cannon; let the garlic o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled onion
O'erhang and jutty his confounded tomato base,
Swill'd with a wild and wasteful Cabernet Savignon.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose ragu is fet from Nonna's fail proof recipe!
Nonna's that, like so many Stephanie Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even, baked
And brewed their sauces and stews, for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest...
That those whom you call'd mothers did feed you well
Be copy now to men of larger appetites
And teach them how to eat.
And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your belt; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so hungry,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
I am the sunny green basil
You grew in the terra cotta tureen by the north-facing window.
I started off light, sweet, tangy, refreshing.
You left me alone for too long.
And now I am bitter,
Biting,
Useless.
If you had tended me with care,
I would be always at your service,
Adding flavor to your sauces and meats.
But you neglected me,
And you've put me in your compost bin
With potato skins and banana peels
And I am good for nothing, no one.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 2:13 PM UTC