"tongs" poems
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
I
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away.--And they never came back!
4.4k
I
The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs,
They all took a drive in the Park,
And they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong,
Before they went back in the dark.
Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach,
Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash,
Miss Shovel was all dressed in black (with a brooch),
Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash).
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
And they all sang a song!
II
'O Shovel so lovely!' the Poker he sang,
'You have perfectly conquered my heart!
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song,
'I will feed you with cold apple ****
'When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound,
'You encapture my life with delight!
'Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round!
'And your shape is so slender and bright!
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'Ain't you pleased with my song?'
III
'Alas! Mrs. Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song,
'O is it because I'm so thin,
'And my legs are so long--Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'That you don't care about me a pin?
'Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room,
'Ah! why don't you heed my complaint!
'Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom,
'Because you are covered with paint?
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'You are certainly wrong!'
IV
Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang,
'What nonsense you're singing to-day!'
Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!'
Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!'
So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could,
Perceiving their anger with pain;
But they put on the kettle and little by little,
They all became happy again.
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
There's an end of my song!
4.2k
we dance with spoons and spatulas
forks and whisks and tongs
we use then for their real purpose,
because we know what they're really for...
unnecessarily profane songs
that's why they're in our kitchen
that's why they're in our hands
right where they belong
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your ***
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC
Count-entious . . .
Five-Seven-Five, or
Is it Seven-Five-Seven?
Dyslexic Haiku!
High Coo-Coo . . .
Words like scrambled eggs
Malapropos slip off the tongs
Lysdexics UNTIE!
In Swummary . . .
I never flip turned
I zagged; everyone else zigged
Oh, how I was schooled
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
I used to be a
mortar forker
when I was a kid
working construction,
packing tongs of brick
and slinging cinder blocks
up three levels of scaffold
only to have the block layers
complain about how the mud
was as dry as a camels ****
but the pay was good
and it was drank up every weekend
while the chicks admired my
tanned and buff skinny frame
but shunned my drunken advances.
© 2013
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias
And slid my fingers among topics and titles
Looking for you.
And the answer comes slow.
There seems to be no answer.
I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it.
Or-the iceman with his iron tongs gripping a clear cube in summer sunlight-maybe he will know.
2.2k
There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp,
pink and plump and juicy.
Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back...
specks of lime zest and tarragon...
slide slowly down the sides,
a hint of tequila,
of honey
curls their way from pan...
to proboscis
and I smile.
Then...
gently with tongs...
turn them over....
...
...
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.
Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.
John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.
I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!
So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
When burning spices mingle with the prayer
of heavenly voices, holy scents arise,
and toward the East are turned my open eyes
to look on Christ's ascension painted there.
The censer’s smoke swirls up as embers flare
an offering of Earth’s treasures toward the skies,
while, sweetly sung, a hymn that glorifies
the Holy Spirit fills the fragrant air.
This adoration rises to the ceiling,
and lingers there in humankind’s defense.
My lips, and now this church, are cleansed by coal
that burns in tongs and censer’s bowl revealing
that sweet as odor spilled by lit incense
is grace poured out upon my errant soul.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
She tells me
Lumpia is her taste of home.
Traditions she had with her aunt when she was small
Hands *****
Dark hair messy,
But she smiled as she hovered over the hot oil.
Halika dito, Come here.
Gutom ka ba? Are you hungry?
She tells me
Her mother
Would have her scrub her nails,
Before sending her to set the first few servings
In the oil to fry.
She tells me
That warm phillipian-lumpia memories
Have their own special place
In her heart,
In her mind.
On her tongue.
Warm times standing speckled with youth.
She speaks soft sweet days to me
As she hands me the tongs to place the first servings in the pan.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
How is it
That with a few simple words,
You tore my heart out of my chest,
Ripped it open as it was still beating,
Used tongs and tweezers to dismember it,
Then threw it back in my face,
Useless, a mess, and broken?
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
PINEAPPLE LIP GLOSS
By: RENE
Not long ago
I fell in love
With her beautiful lips
I will never forget how sweet
That lingering after taste
Stayed in mouth well after she walked away
And
When
She was almost out of my eye sight
It became real cerebral melancholy of a love affair
I had misplaced
It took from me something objective
Watching her leave of absence
And
From a distance
At that very precise moment
It became a sharp piercing pain in the center of my heart
But I remember
Oh how I remember
I remember
Her
(PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS)
The way we French kissed for long periods
When I held on tightly
Tightly til midnight
The memory of her legs in white embroidery stockings
How my fingers danced with excitement
Triggering investments traveling up down her highway
I was dizzy
While tickling the measurements of her
Inner thighs
I remember this
When I was
Creating
A representation
That was supposed to last forever
The further she walked the smaller she grew in my vision
My eyes became a small rain storm drenching screaming
Pulling me away from dreaming
Away from my world as I had become too know it
I
Didn’t know what to say now
Like words on a black board being erased
I was at a loss for words
So I held on to the memory
Of
Her
(PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS)
The way we French kissed for long periods
No air escaping
Imprisoning our tongs
My own
Perfect example I visualize an imagine
I create in my mind the ability to conceive my own embodiment
A pine apple salad with the juices flowing over
When we touched each other’s lips
Among other things!
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I think that a Bar-B-Q is an extension of a guys manliness.
Or manhood.
Now before all of you start disagreeing with me,
listen to this blondes logic.
When a man goes to purchase a grill
There are many factors a man has to take into consideration.
And they are, in this order, as follow:
1. Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid
2. The size of the grill
3. Rotisserie?
4. Accessories
5. Bar-B-Q covers
Let us take each consideration in turn.
Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid.
Propane men:
Some men want instant gratification. Twist a **** or two, push a button here and instant heat. Give it a few minutes to build to the right temperature and BAM! In with the meat. Once done, turn a **** or two and walk away. No muss. No fuss.
Charcoal men:
Other men are more inclined to take their time. savor the experience. They enjoy watching the flames build and turn into a glowing bed of meat searing heat. When everything is just right, they gently place the meat. They stand gaurd over it. Tending to it. Every once in a while poking it to test if it's ready. These same men will sometimes sit snuggled around the glowing embers afterwards. Watching the heat fade and cool. Then they will ask their woman they had served "How'd you like your steak babe?"
Charcoal Fluid And Men:
Some men should never be allowed near a Bar-B-Q that requires something to stimulate the flames. It always ends in disaster and or injury.
Size Of The Bar-B-Q:
O.K. Now this is a touchy subject for most men. It has been known to cause envy, jealousy and has broken up a marriage or two. Men think bigger is better.
When buying a Bar-B-Q , a man thinks about; cooking area, the possible need for side burners, portability, and the all important factor of presentation. That's right. How will it look to the neighbors and guests? Will they be properly impressed with it? Also, can it handle the extra meat when company comes over? Heaven forbid it should let him down and make him look foolish.
Rotisserie:
This is an important decision. Does having your meat spin make it better? I think that this is more of an individual decision.
Accessories:
Now we have reached a critical point. How to accessorize. Of course, every man needs the right equipment to ensure success. And all of the tools need to have a long reach and be durable.
Tongs, fork, knife, spatula, basting brush.
Some men even splurge and go for a flavor injector. Now that's a man who cares about his meat.
Bar-B-Q Cover:
Finally we reach the last consideration a man has to make. To cover or not to cover?
Men! Always, with out fail, should cover. It is for their own protection. And it shows you care.
Thank you.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
My mom had me when she was nineteen years old, but I wasn't an accident.
My mom had surgery the day before yesterday and I wasn't there to kiss her before she went in. She called me before and she left me a voicemail when she got out. She said she loved me and she missed me. I miss her too.
My mom hates washing more dishes than she has to, but she refuses to use the dish washer. We eat on paper plates and we have three sets of salad tongs that we got for free from Dion's Pizza. My mom goes to Sam's Club to buy Charmin and generic paper towels, she likes the hot dogs at Target, and she gets her iced non-fat mochas at McDonalds.
My mom is tiny. She weighs a hundred and ten pounds and is 5 feet 3 inches. She has fake ***** and long black hair down to her waist. She makes me feel safe.
My mom works two jobs, on top of taking care of three kids plus me. She makes Mama Mia mac and cheese, and Mama Mia meatloaf and Mama Mia fajitas, basically she makes food and calls it Mama Mia because she made it.
My mom is beautiful.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Our faces were aligned
we look into each others eyes
I paused for a moment
I moved in and touched
your lips with mine
I moved back
to look into your eyes
you looked at me and smiled
I moved in for a repeat
you moved your head slightly sideways
and closed your eyes
I moved in and and your arms
brought me in with even more confirmation
our mouths now lock and open
we explore with our tongs
eyes closed as if we are floating
we both realize we forgot to breath
we somehow find a rhythm
we both never want it to end
but we know this pleasure means
something more is to come
We come to a fade
now our eyes wide open
we look at each other an pause
and smile with enjoyment
I don't know what to say
and you can't think
we touch just hands now
you move to the door so slowly
and say goodnight
I just stand there and watch as you fade
from my sight.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
Push false math theorems between slices of white bread.
Shove it down my throat.
When I choke,
refuse to perform the Heimlich.
Open up my insides.
Force the twisted logic through my intestines
like a broken machine.
Sew my mouth shut so I can't throw it up.
Carve the periodic table into my arms
with your sharpened Swiss army knife.
Smile while my skin is replaced
with ****** atomic numbers.
Saw my fingers off
so I can't use them to cover the halogens.
Glue my eyelashes to my eyebrows so my eyes can't close.
Color my irises black with permanent marker:
just like yours.
Force me to see the way you do.
Tear from my mind every original thought.
Shout at my dreams until they run away in fear.
Vacuum my favorite memories out through my ears.
Fit the remaining contents of my brain into your incorrect physics equation.
Extract my heart from my rib cage with kitchen tongs.
Watch my skin go pale.
Watch my eyes go still.
Tell my empty body it's for the best.
Tell this shadow of my soul that you love it.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Griddle sermons
Would you like
some philosophy
with those fried eggs ?
Free advice
cascades like rivers
of fresh juice
greasy story tongs
lift crackling sausages
upon serving plates
dressed with buttered toast
jam-packed with
social commentary
a side order
of cautionary tales
dished out hot
regales
patiently gleaming forks
awaiting their reason
for being
What’s that burning smell?
Someone asks
breakfast sizzles onward
undeterred
arrival time –
indefinite.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Hearts, pound
Hands touch
Lips approach
To make a sound
Our tongs and our lips
Produce a warm melody
That make our cheeks
Dance to our heartbeats
A playfull, tasty kiss
Is Adored by some
But it is its sound
That I truely miss
A perfect scene
Pictured in my mind
Of two lovable beings
Wanting to be just one
Neighter of us is in it
Is merely a fantasy
A mischevious dream
I wish i could end it
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
“…you’ll love this riveting memoir.”
One longs to see a memoir riveting,
Setting in place with tongs the hot red steel,
Bucking the tail, and quickly pivoting
For another – a worker’s life is real
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
for G
of course to take you in my mouth, deeper still but more than that to
peel you from you, spine from wing, sated rind from hoof, dazzle eventuous from the rhurbarb
pie still on the sill and still cooling. I want to do with you what
ice cream does with a warm pie, a little butter unzip
to be a sugar cube and hurl
myself off the silver tongs and into your steaming, baby, to answer the question with my first tongue.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 6:51 AM UTC
Your over sized eyes offer no kind of fear
Mostly just a jovial inquiry
Into the most trivial causes of our existence
You eager little child
The tuffs of you hair sprout sideways
A random treble of camouflage comfort
As if to explore
Not obstructed by some code of calamity
Not a paw or a hand
The tiny tongs of your fingers spread
grasping some house wives fruit salad
Your nails colored like a stained cigarette
Once pried away from the comforts of your cage
You grasp tightly to the mixed fabrication of my dress
Ever so snugly you claw at my hips
With your coarse outer being longing for more
If I loosened my grip you would tighten yours
Not out of fear
But of pure connection
Even in this writhing heat who could not welcome this kind of embrace
Once placed in a tree
Your head swivels as if on a pike
The look on your face indicates you are on the best acid trip of your life
Perfectly content just to be staring at my face
Examining the purple shadows
And the hidden valleys of my eyebrows
Sunbeams radiate from your egg shaped contemplation
You are dewily mellow old friend
When you look at me
I want to burst into ironic symphonies of bliss
The love of a sloth
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC