"stews" poems
No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).
Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm dreaming of a roast).
Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).
No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run
to
***** of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).
Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.
21.8k
I lay in the bathtub soaking
wet with water running
around my silhouette. Shaking
as the washcloth smeared regrets
over my skin. The bubbles
give my sins a scent.
As I vent I leave the shower
running so my sobs
are the only thing drowning.
The constant tapping on my face
keeps me awake as I sink into
the various stews my mind creates.
Weights are lifted with pruning. Peeling
of dead skin keeps me from
reeling into depression. There is a harmonic
progression between the faucet and my face,
the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam and
my own embrace.
I need this state. The decompression
from being bottled up, like a coke, with a smile
is worthwhile. It teaches me
that the expression of weakness
is key in the building of a better Timothy.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:48 AM 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
Call me the greatest adventure of Indiana Jones.
Call me the Graeters of tasty ice cream cones.
Call me the Ed Rosenthal of relaxing stones.
Call me the Natasha Trethewey of meaningful poems.
Call me the Pauly Shore of Bio-Domes.
Call me the Jack Hannah of Columbus Zoos.
Call me the Martha Stewart of delicious stews.
Call me the Bob Ross of independent creations.
Call me the Dr. Phil of mending relations.
Call me the Albert Einstein of mathematical equations.
Call me the Captain Kirk of Space exploration.
Call me the William Shatner of monotone greatness.
Call me the Jim Morrison of open doors.
Call me the Mr. Clean of shiny floors.
Call me the Hugh Hefner of stupid ******
Call me the Bob Dylan of traveling trains.
Call me the Samuel L. Jackson of snakes and planes.
Call me the Arm & Hammer of tough stains.
Call me the Blade of a vampire.
Call me the Froto Baggins of the Shire.
Call me the Firestone of a pumped tire.
Call me a Christ of ignited passion.
Call me a Lucifer of trendy fashion.
Call me a Shiva of shattered illusions.
Call me a Buddha of peaceful institutions.
Call me the Ron Jeremy of KY Jelly.
Call me the Emeril Legassi of food for the belly.
Call me the Tupac Shakur of spitting ****
Call me the Eminem of full sentences.
Call me the Smoky the Bear of a campfire.
Call me the Jim Carry of Liar Liar.
Call me the That Guy of desire.
You can even call me an *******
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:20 AM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Winter is quiet, but always restless.
Irrevocably cold, and deceitfully burning.
Harsh at times, throwing storms of ice when tempered.
Apologetic, as it stews in silent shame.
Unforgiven, and tolerated.
A season which destroys beauty in order to create a kind of it's own.
Decorated, as if the beauty it created for itself hadn't been enough.
I never liked Winter very much,
but I've come to realize we've got a lot in common.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Earth in scorching heat,
Man is boiling as she stews,
Frogs cooking in pond.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
artful creations
colors, charcoals
paints
stone and clay
wood and paper
bringing life
from
lifeless
form
from
formless
can the artist choose?
~~~
garden creations
shades of green
jade
artichoke
asparagus
fern, forest
and
jungle
mint, moss
and
pine
shamrock
tea, olive
mixed
with
a multitude
of blooming
hues
can the gardener decide on one?
~~~
kitchen creations
sweets and treats
savories and piquants
cakes and pies
meats, stews
casseroles
butter, garlic
lemon
rosemary
and
thyme
parsley
and
saffron
onions caramelized
to sweet
peppercorns
and
cardamon
tamarind, turmeric
nutmeg
combined in
precision
joy and
love
can the chef say which is best?
~~~
and thus
I challenge any poet
can you choose your favorite "child"?
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
shuffled into the hallway
the laughing ignorance
stews in its bathrobe and cigar
at the edge of its own manicured lawn
with a pale eye it it calculates
with a thin cold lip it ponders
he makes his lazy way to his bed among the spilled leaves
makes his way to the comforts of eyes closed visions
the laughing ignorance proverbial
fool in ragged cloth dancing a jig
on a spring moon's grave
flowers in hand and wreaths of holly adorning
his head like a crown of soft thorns
his skilful laugh echoes across the barren field
littered with the passing of days
strewn with the formulations of nights bitter embrace
no mere words can delay or
mislead the way that darkness creeps into the mind
when alone with its own devices
done with his jig
he sits on the springs moons grave
and sips at the christmas wine
savoring its crisp life on his tongue
the laughing ignorance still wearing
the dancing fools leather shoe
is a hobbled prisoner of his laughing jest
no other time or place has room for his kind
for his pantomime of long lost victory's
on beachheads of distant sandy shore
his rancid eye calculates me
in all my rumoured mistakes
and he speaks to that dream not to me
so i will leave him here
standing in manicured existence
of his own sour pain
the fall will find him sleeping sweetly
on the spring moon's grave
and it will renew him
leaves swirling down as the world steals the crown
of the tree above
he will be a young man once again
renewed by the promise of maidens dancing
and the dance of winterlight on snowbound fields
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
I am a gingerbread
sweet tangy ******* head
addicted to making
marmalade sunsets
playing funeral organs
cooking grass
on my BBQ
I stir with
olde english
marinade with you
on a bed of roses
on our hill
growing wild sassy
cooking stews
of parsnips wild onions
marmalade you and
the morning dew.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Bubbling, sugars ignite and spit sweet white batter
then callous and cover
the thick cream that stews beneath.
Clouds pour snow and trees bequeath
blue spherical bliss
onto the wrinkled surface.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Peaches and pears your delight
Divine roses a gift from your wife
Your favorite soups and stews
Lamb and veal cooked to and fro
In silence in your hammock
Hoping the sun melts the cancer away
If I were there
I would rub your brow and wet your lips
If I were there
I’d warm your sheets and fluff your pillows
If I were there
I would bring you home under the old oak tree
If I were there
I would fill your house with sunflowers
If I were there
I would sing sweet poetry melody
If I were there
I would lay next to you and comfort you
If I were there
I would read you prayers
If I were there
I would have said goodbye
My knight and shining armor
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.
We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.
Heel the spud *****
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.
We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.
***Medium-rare, please.
And make mine a baked.
Oh, and don't forget the butter,
Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”***
It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.
Pharmaceutically,
It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.
Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.
When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.
So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
***Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.***
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
i am the ******* puddle
sired by a spilled drink-
a brackish mix of
anxiety and ineptitude.
last night looms in the morning eclipse,
regret stews a visceral broth;
vengeful, my gut reminds me
nausea is the world's truest thing.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
There is
steeped madness
atop mantle piece cliffs
as if
poised,
in reluctant certainty at our hot fate.
Somewhere,
in the steamy depths
of man’s mind, our mind
my mind
stews and perpetuates
fuming intent
eroding at the edges,
of life for what
it is and isn’t
or wont be for
future tenses and a
conceptualizing
intensity in a
place which hasn’t
ever been realized
or
even moved along a
narrow line
of directed discourse,
dictated dialysis:
deviation
from the center-ed
path
of righteous, heavenly
glory
of the gods,
in the clouds,
on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night.
For Retribution!
For Respiration!
For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights.
and on and on
were that they were
forever forward still.
But were still revisiting things
which were never seen
in re-wrought thought
I thought
I saw but not
because seeing isn't believing.
And believing isn’t anything really
but lengthy
listless lists
and heavy
habitual hope.
© 2011
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
We are a generation,
Indeed, a nation,
Raised upon foreign warring.
Scapegoat aggravation.
Bushes and *****
Clamoring for horror and hoarding.
Conspiring against a population,
I watch through youthful aging.
With my childlike eyes, I see
The target they're blaming:
Afghan families having more
in common with me,
Working class American,
Than those transparent heirs
With the world's wealth and arrogance,
Ordering for the villagers' obliteration
Through boys from our nation.
We are a generation raised
On media sensation
Of militarized devastation;
Animal exploitation;
Technological manifestations
Providing privacy infiltration.
Material attainments;
Mental frustrations;
Fiat debt enslavement;
A nation entranced by
Senseless parading.
Tempting decadence and
Announcements with no evidence.
The September bounty of edifice
That fell with no hesitance
Still echo its unfounded,
Preemptive pretenses.
This murderous reign;
this senseless parade;
Advertisement cyclical
in their game of charades;
Dog on a chain;
Famine causing no pain.
Permissible opinions
To be solely maintained.
The damage, the waste,
The heinous race and class chase.
Oppression remains thoughtlessly dangerous,
As moral responsibility brings no attainments.
Chowing down on maimed millions
Bellowing from enslavement.
Fortunately, elder,
Rothschild, Rockefeller, or
Those above them whom
Remain blackened, faceless:
Resistance shall come
From all places, all ages.
Such as this generation of mine
Inheriting increasing complications,
With the type of America
You wish to keep in rotation.
I'll carry the flag containing
Your mistakes as a symbol,
To remind those behind me
What not to rekindle.
To the Boomer who stews
In your white collar suit,
Still refusing to shake
Your destructive pursuit,
Still asking me to lick
Off authority's boot:
Growing up in this nation,
With childhood innocence,
I grew increasingly aware
Of the land of such ignorance.
I had such thoughts since
Early adolescence,
I was not blind to larger lessons.
Only since supported by
Actual, factual supported confessions.
To the Boomer tied to his convictions,
Now will you see-
That isn't going to work
For us or for me.
I'll bring to this world
Whatever I please.
Which so happens to be
Truth, justice, and peace.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
The Songs of old birds in cold worlds warm hearts of women where men have left.
Past wars still brewing in the brain making stews of despair he shares only with himself suffocating without breath his heart
infested with death as
The blood of foes
Is still staining
his hands
She holds him
as though an infant
trembling in fear of his
own ghost she assures him
with a kiss of hope that life is
still worth living and all else is
forgiven and all else is forgiven
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
I’m full,
there is no room inside of me
every bone has been dipped in a thick coat
of something
sweet or sick
and every crevice has been poured all over,
now bowls of mixed icky stews –
I am full
there is no room for another hand
or fingerprint
or lemon poundcake
I am full, but I feel bare;
and I still don’t want you there
my body is heavy
with gooey webs of ghoul guilt and there is pressure
on my chest to pick myself up,
and get on with it
even as evil weighs me down,
tires me down,
pries me down,
and laughs at me struggling
I feel so full
there is no room to be smiled at
or even looked at;
there is no more room to store your stories
or secrets
or tears
or trust; it’ll all come falling down
like the London bridge
and I’d collapse underneath, into poisonous gasps and groans
of relief
that finally,
I
get
to
die.
I am full but I feel so empty
and I don’t want to die,
but I want to die;
but I mostly don’t want to die;
I just feel so empty
and I don’t want to be around you
because it doesn’t make it any easier
for me
to love me
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
Chest stews jealous behind the sun-risen eyes of confusion.
Beaten and drugged to midnight without touching overt illusion.
Humility is shaken false when the sun set tallies.
I’m still subject to the vacillation of peaks too valleys.
My peak is but a broom in an infant’s hands.
Troubled by the dust of a valley’s demands.
That claims to sweep what I could never pain…
Paint me the wandered sheep that wore lion’s mane.
I feel the viper of ignorance in the bump of a stranger.
Venom through my pride peeks invisible danger.
Whose reflection is my shadow radiating a contusion.
Vanity is not fair till it's understood delusion.
For I knew not when I didn’t in prides hindsight sip
My Master will always humble silence to thy lip
Brings meaning to the scars of my landscape
Plowed, reaped and sowed for a son’s sake.
………….
I Love Jesus
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
I’m just a postmodern bush poet
Roaming and roving rusty roads
Writing, wordsmithing, amid yellow grass
Fondling the various ******* of Mother Nature
The hills and mountains, all her nooks and crannies
Looking at peeled potato sheeps
Dreaming about what great stews they would make
Listening to a bit of AC/DC
With no wuckin’ furries
Getting eyed by work dogs
With no sense of self-preservation
Telling me I’m going to die all the same
As those rotting roos lying in the dirt
Sodomised by cars just like mine
Their pink, esoteric entrails getting pecked out
By the crows I call my friends
Oct 12, 2019
Oct 12, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC
“i set my deadfall hands on fire —
swallow the ashes,” i wrote and laughed
as these words turned black with rot
in two months,
i am no longer inside the skin
burning away vividly at the feet of the sun god.
i am not a body at the crematorium
with matchstick-fingers and gasoline;
my bones are whole, pure, pearly, quiet white.
i have been holding my breath, waiting
for the smoke to clear without choking.
i no longer want to write about the flames and the embers and live-coal hearts;
i put my poems down, my cigarettes and pitchfork
and step into a gentler flare,
and stick my tongue out to lick the sunbeams —
they’re warm against my taste buds,
like honeyed milk and hibiscus stews.
i am four years old once more,
sleeping soundly on my mother’s lap.
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 2:58 AM UTC
I am a gingerbread
sweet tangy ******* head
addicted to making
marmalade sunsets
playing funeral organs
cooking grass
on my BBQ
I stir with
olde english
marinade with you
on a bed of roses
on our hill
growing wild sassy
cooking stews
of parsnips wild onions
marmalade you and
the morning dew.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
I think guilt might be killing me.
Now you may ask yourselves: "What did I do to feel so?"
- **** someone?
No. Nothing so radical.
In fact, nothing that might actually warrant this level of guilt.
Misplaced guilt is like my personal ******* -
an addiction that my brain can't get rid of, constantly calling to be fed.
I latches on every small mistake
Sinks its claws deep into the marrow of my bones
and stews for a very long time -
whilst my brain vainly strives towards perfection.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 4:11 AM 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