"stewed" poems
What would you miss the most
if you had to leave this life
the book asked.
I’d miss you
your big brown eyes
your comforting smile
your big heart
your laugh
the tone of your voice
and the way you say, “You know?”
when you’re on an enthusiastic roll
your lively spirit
your yummy omelets with bits of stewed tomatoes
your relationship with the divine
the deepness
of connection we have
our conversations
telling you about my ****** afternoon
and watching you really listen to me
the way you cackle when we watch our favorite comedy
watching you quilt
your touch
your luscious lips
talking to you when we’ve just awakened
and the way your voice is soft and innocent
speaking our gratitude about our lives together
sharing our pain
being able to weep with you
when I am discouraged
or get inspired by something
how your eyes sparkle when I do so
the way you love our cats
caring for you
you caring for me..
Just to list a few
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
Feet stewed in their own sweat
lubricated grit under nails
paid to meditate and eat TV
Oh what froth there is
in a pyramid!
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Not eating chocolate covered cherries and strawberries and lychees and onions and chillies and grapes and marshmallows and turtle meat and cake and shark bones and oysters and camel and beef and beef with dog food and rabbit fur and smarties and skittles and twine and rope and yak and buses and buffalo and authors and novels and chipping containers and bicylces and emus and penguins and polar bear slippers and darned socks and stewed lobster and Darwin Deez and get well cards and ibuprofen tablets is fine with me.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Love, unruliest hope, when fierce Diana went wild
With savage discourse, the arrow-stroke of her tongue—
While rage-hounds bay in wooded Gargaphie—aimed at Actaeon.
Or old Baucis her god-giving bone fat of mind,
Stewed the broth of covenant for Zeus to repay in kind.
Then Parthenope, siren-stung in her whirlpool of sea vines,
Her maiden-voice is a breath of sand for Naples to muse upon.
The body of Helen still lies in ages-old smoke over our cities,
We live in the timberframe of her bones of burned ships.
Why can’t her death be an end to all skies?
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 8:22 PM UTC
Your mother rolled out pastry
with the rolling pin
her hands pushing the implement
across the board
and you watched
her floured skin work their skill
backward and forward
under the palms of her hands
the thinning pastry
spreading out to an inch of width
until her hands stopped
and she flipped it over
and spread more flour
upon the board
with a flick and smoothing touch
of her hand
once that task was done
she lifted it to the dish
and eased it around inside
and around the edges
with her fingers and thumbs
working their way
in a circular motion
around the dish
then cut with a knife
the over hanging
unneeded pastry
and put it aside
like an umbilical cord
once the baby’s born
as her hands placed in
the stewed apple filling
you said
can I have the left over bits?
pointing to the wasted pastry
left aside
sure you can
she said
moving on with her skill
as you picked up the pastry
and walked away
noticing the sadness
in her watery eyes
and strained voice and words
following you across the room
as you ate the pastry
between your fingers
like a bird of prey.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
Parts of thoughts, chopped into slivers
Run, **** and, scream
Be a disappointment
My judgment
Steaming hot bath
A week completed
Still considered a journey
When nothingness is fulfilling
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
and bowls full
of wilting basil, stewed
until the house was angry
and steamy and sweating
and i was a *****
all alone. i burnt a batch,
and cursed the garden
for its absurd bounty.
what is this? this late-august
harvest of excess. too much
for me to enjoy. but nature,
she has been good this year.
later, i watched a woman push
her cart down the middle
of the road. i could smell
the funk from her moldy jacket
and unwashed hair and the fungus
between her toes. she stared
with her hardened eyes,
like the bitter sun that burned
the tomatoes into exploding clusters
of juice and seeds. her calloused hands
squeezed rotting blankets in her cart,
writhed in some quiet strangulation
of some stranded moment.
i passed by and caught her eye.
we were equals, in blood and in bone,
trapped in some jarring expectation
of destination, in uncertainty
and in hope. she will go back
to her corner to watch the world
drive by, i will go back to my stove
and simmer, waiting for the summer harvest.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Some weeks after they shot
my father in the face
and my mother in her stomach,
I could feel the joints
of my bones, the ***** popping
in the loose sockets,
all pain, like the ****** of nails,
their rusting in friction.
The same anorexia could be
seen on the scrawny
gait of our dog that had already
forgotten the taste
of fish heads my father grilled
on coconut charcoal,
my mother stewed in vinegar
or I deep-fried to crisp.
Gray, his foreign name, barked
before dashing out
towards the avocado tree not yet
in season, a collision
between a hardwood and a skull,
his body on the ground,
the dimming gaze a quiet begging,
his nod letting me live.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:16 AM UTC
You're properly pro
and exclusively first
I'm sloppy and slow
and obtrusively worse
you're steadily shrewd
and notably neat
I'm sweaty and stewed
and bloated and beat
you're refreshingly free
and benignedly blessed
I'm distressingly me
and resignedly messed
you're gold-plated and awed
and hairless and pink
I'm outdated and flawed
and careless and stink
you're so reveled revered
you're the death of my will
I'm disheveled and weird
but with my last breath I'll still
love you
©2012 Lyn
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia
two limp slices
and said
get that inside you
can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think
you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea
but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread
but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother
into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed
her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse
a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked
up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter
had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around
in her head
to see how they fitted in best
can I?
her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible
but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no
her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where
she was
in her request
your gran always said
that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility
said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly
no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked
because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?
her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me
Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said
she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs
in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile
and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?
she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said
adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if
it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone
like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread
in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said
don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed
the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles
Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's
thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?
Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy
like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand
across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed
the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it
lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen
she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm
or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want
no pain
she'd not ask
again.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Innocent animals born to die
Brutally killed for human food
Cows and pigs suffering death
For a perfect banquet stewed
Many natural food that grow
Delicious right out of the dirt
Yet they still eat with gluttony
Oh this world makes me hurt
Chicks and goats all perished
To prepare for the finest dish
Imagine if you were an animal
You surely never want to wish
My outlook is a world of peace
Not lovely creatures to decay
Animals should not live tragic
A vegetarian I will always stay
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Meze
*Meze or mezze /ˈmɛzeɪ/ is a selection of small dishes served in the Middle East and the Balkans as breakfast, lunch or even dinner.
-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's a meze day,
Many small poems arrayed,
A tasting menu,
Hummus and babaganoush,
Small observations,
Pita dipping,
Long writs tabled,
Unless dragged out from the wine cellar,
For another meal,
Another mood.
They'll keep,
or not.
The bay and beach have been traded in,
For Western Mass. mountains,
The highland region,
The Berkshires, the Green and the Taconic Mountains,
Formed over half a billion years ago
When Africa collided
with North America.
(Just for a weekend, a traitor, I'm not.)
*Different insects checking me out,
Crash landing in my chest hair jungle
To get a taste of a Long Island salt air,
Fresh blood and poetry from a foreign tongue.
Mount Greylock asks me what I got to say.
I said I got grey locks older than you, friend.
I am a billion years old, son of the copulation
Tween the Sun and and a passing comet,
The Atlantic,
My amniotic fluid birthstone unevaporated..
Greylock sniffs, mumbles,
just another New Yorker.
*The clouds different, thick slabs, bank-heads keeping
My sun-father from showing his true colors,
My skin seeks his restorative powers,
Burn the strain, the stress, the black circles from
Within and without, but this is a partly cloudy day.
Sooner than me, the leaves will be red and gold,
The season of long sunnier days forgotten,
The trees that
Fill the panorama,
Point their soon-to-be
Denuded branch fingers at me
Accusingly,
L'etranger,
You brought winter's chill,
A lie but perhaps not,
For they are sensing the
Inhabiting cold in me.
A strange day, every asking, passing thought
Thrown back in my face,
And stewed, stir fried up
All in vain attempts to keep warmer
Just a little bit
Longer.*
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
A seed
A son
He grows
He flowers
He blossoms
He bears his fruit
"See ya mum, dad! I'm off out for a drive!"
"No drinking flower!"
"Nah, just fruit juice!"
The fruit has fallen
It has ripened
It has over ripened
It has brewed and stewed as it matured
His fruit is strong
It's confidence intoxicating
"Last one mate!"
"Sneaky 3 and drive"
"Get em in then!"
More fruit
The tree, beautiful, flowers everywhere
Bountiful fruit
But the fruit is un ripened not ready to fall
Don't shake the tree
Crash
The tree shakes
The fruit falls
The petals fall from the flower
No more fruit now, it is rotting
Just flowers on a lamp post dying in the sun
Bearing a note saying
"We will always love you flower,
Sleep well,
Mum and Dad"
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
I say I'm a Muslim, but I can't tell anymore.
I can't tell from what goes in my mouth,
what comes out and hits you on the cheek
worse than a slap, harder than a mere insult.
I'm outraged, but what reason do I have?
On the outside I could be anyone,
and I usually am.
Sometimes I am Puerto Rican, Lebanese, or Black--
a child asked me once, and I just smiled back.
How sweet would it be to take every crayon from the box,
even now that the numbers have multiplied and
what was once simple 8, 12, 24, 36,
has exploded into a million colors with a million names,
to crush them into bitty pieces and swirl the mixture with water;
make it all into One.
so that if we hate another
(what other?)
we just hate ourselves.
I say I'm a Muslim, and I know I am
because when I give up all my frustrations and
my toddler tantrums, and I even give up yoga,
or rather it gives me up, thankfully so,
when I injure my back: I'm grateful for that.
What a knowing presence God is to take away that which harms
and restore that which fulfills.
But even to those who are still hurting
(and I often am)
there are these small remembrances that come
between this onset of tears and the next.
Whether the sun peers through the dusty blinds,
the ones you need to clean again--so soon,
and you see the light stream through, faintly at first,
until you are forced to open your eyes,
to remove yourself from the hate you've stewed in:
how simple is that?
I say I'm a Muslim, and it's a choice
I make every day or avoid until the next day,
even though that day may not be easily given.
And I forget that.
But when I see life slip away from young lives, old lives,
lives not yet born
then I have to remember
that I do not have the answers,
and every time I try to be dictator of my destiny
I fail miserably, miserably, miserably.
And now that I wrote this poem
and I felt myself think, no, truly feel for the first time in a week,
that my robotic expression has melted into a frown that stands
a chance at becoming a smile.
Now that I am human I am a Muslim.
Not perfectly so, but decidedly so.
(In memory Deah Shaddy Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha)
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
let us be junkies
bleed together
tremble as our blood is cleansed
from this, our senseless craving.
there is heaviness upon our chests
our breath staggering
from the jagged sharpness of memories
peeling the fresh edge of our wounds
freely flowing now,
leave us just the hint of death
upon our pale, spent skin.
alone.
i feel alone.
i am muted as i recede
from the fury of my addiction,
hearing alone my agonizing cry
my flesh shredded
my bones crushed
my tears crusted
its meaning has long left me
curled and cold in a corner
with the wan smile of surviving...
there is no pity left in the melting.
somehow, i forgot
how hell would figure in this,
my make-believe heaven.
where with each gaze,
you bare my soul
with each breath,
you burst me raw and dripping
with your fingertips
you strip me into my elements
and have me dance buck-wild
soaked in the perfect concoction
of madness and affection
stewed in boiling buckets of ***
as thick as love slathered
upon our irreverent whispering lips...
but hell has arrived
silent, thoughtful, real...
i feel it creeping in this empty room
where the fulminant joy of your laughter
fades into a hollow echo
and your eyes are somewhere else
where the light of the sun
is not blue but grey.
you are oozing from my open vein
and i am numb
hell has arrived
at the break of a dark winter.
i succumb to my fate
an unrepentant, miserable ******
wallowing in shaking fits,
my vulnerable shell in a million shattered shards by my feet,
looking at the permanence of your tracks
as you walk away...
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Suddenly aged and prickling inside drab suit
(that fits in every way besides the one that matters),
sip stewed tea, UHT milk, and
be gracious about it.
Faces requisitioned from Head Office
ask questions like the answers you give
could possibly mean anything.
Try not to act bored or high, even though
you're both. Pretend like
you could belong here.
Don't let on you think thoughts that are in breach of the House Style.
Don't, under any circumstances, let them
find out you write
poetry.
Don't give yourself away.
Afterwards, brittle and weary outside,
notice how it feels like
your feet inside your good pair of shoes
are nailed to the asphalt reality
of this bleakly nowhere estate; you're
crucified against the
indifference of the afternoon,
bled out by another day of attempting to
sell yourself cheap and still
not closing.
You learned to walk upright for this.
Even the sun looks old and done with trying.
If a stranger offered you a cigarette right now,
would you break your two-year streak?
The phlegmy rattle of builders' vans;
soft pale smell of saw dust on damp air;
that sense of inevitable mutual rejection.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Incantation
Strange was the night the harvest moon would serve as the pumpkin dark foreboding grips his heart as he walked what evil brewed
There were those recurring stories they were filled with mist had a groggy affect you slipped between the calm to the terrifying
Was it true did it really happen he was set to find out he always fancied himself as an investigator one who could probe the stewed
First he must find his way into the incandescing glow there he would separate fact from fiction at the very door of Haitian voodoo
He was set to meet Papa Legba he was in the form of an old man the gate keeper to the spirits and their world nonsense or truth
An old grass shack was where he had been instructed to go he entered saw a few ceremonial items setting on a crude altar
One thing for sure this god was not rich but devilment requires not earthen wealth but the souls of it followers behold the sooth
This babbler this one who transfixes minds on moon lit nights weaves the web no one will ever escape from and why would they
Come to this foreign chasm an opening that invites ever yawning behold its misteh mysteries dare not be afraid you will be wise
Here the weak are made strong the dead assist the living feel the cold clammy hand that desires to engulf you just surrender
The candles they will bring bondje or bon diea French for good god see him coming from the water under the sea oh great one rise
Tell us your humble servant what to do to own the night never to be frightened again by any circumstance you are foresworn as victor
Get on with it face your enemies send forth the vestiges of confusion the essence of delusion they will unknowingly do your bidding
It comes like a tidal wave the power oh what sway it holds you in its dark embrace moods enliven oh how it pervades stunning
There are no bounds no end this was what you were created for rifle the world all contents of moral chains forgotten are you kidding
One small thing our agreement has a catch put forth your hand the ceremonial knife must sacrifice tonight I’m the only one here nooo
Voodoo has mystery one to die for look well into your own soul on this evil Halloween night
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Chunks of meat
ground heated
on medium
until browned
strained then set aside.
tomatoes stewed
basil and oregano
onion first
then garlic sauteed
Water brought to boil
salt added then noodles
8 minutes to al dente.
combine all three
bring to simmer
Serve with bread and salad
dinner
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
My morals are a patchwork
Stitched together from various other minds
A well worn quilt I wrap myself in for security
For blameless justification of a deformed belief system
Twisted and gnarled with an arthritis of the spirit
A hollow vessel made into a crock ***
Full of someone else's ********
Stirred by resentment
Stewed in fear and
Served with anger
To mask my ignorance and indifference
I have a reputation for trivialities
Snippets of soundbites
Subliminally soldered
Onto my sub-conscious
Where they acquire the character
Of authoritative wisdom
More pious than a prophet!
Holier than an ancient sage!
I am a 21st century shaman
A guru grifter
Embryonic episodes
Aborted for mass consumption
Over cocktails and hor dourves
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC