"waffle" poems
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
The monotony of adolescence is a laughable oxymoron.
My mom keeps saying to me,
"Caitlin, you're in a state of flux. Just wait."
Little does she know
I'm waiting for anything
to ebb.
Flow.
Twinge.
Any lurch of impulse of life
in this constant static lullaby.
Maybe I'm just itching to slough off my skin of content
and breathe in a fresh new disposition.
Become intoxicated in the maybes,
and the possibly's.
Embracing the oh-wells
and the never-enough-times.
Eschewing the feeling of everything I've missed
by having it near.
Having him here.
Getting trapped in the crinkles of his smile
and the freckles on his shoulders
that navigate me to the spots I feel most comfy.
Losing regard for the world as I become transfixed
in us
and our patterns on his couch.
Tumble into elation.
Quirks transpire the me's and you's
into the us's and we's.
To think... I was so scared to hold his hand.
Not knowing at the time
how great his waffles would taste
after a night of holding him.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
So sleep doesn't come to me
But perhaps it has found you fine,
And that's fine.
I hope that you're fine
But my thoughts now unwind in confusion intertwined with illusion can I find what intrusion made you draw the line to place a sign and say to my face,
"This is over. Good luck in college, good luck in life, *** I will not be there tomorrow or tonight, corazon."
And you loved me yesterday,
And today is just yesterday with a different name
Does that mean your love was labelled
And now the label has been changed?
*** yesterday we spoke of what our futures held in store
For the both of us together, holding hands amidst the roar
And the dark of the unknown glazed with ice across the floor;
It was that; "Goodnight, kittycat;" what strange coincidence as my heart sang the night before
And now it's sore.
What a difference 24 hours makes;
Was it my mistakes? Or just the lake of tears and sorrow and how often your heart breaks?
*** I knew I really loved you when my first concern became,
"I hope that she's ******* alright!"
That thought drove me insane.
And there was no response,
The receiver remained on the hook.
Her cell-phone thumbed with call display,
But 'decline' is all it took.
She broke my heart with 1, 2, 3
and now questions seep my bones.
Making sleep impossible,
She could have picked up the phone
And said, "I'm sorry. I really am, you understand this is just as hard
For me as well, I really do love you,
I'm simply more than marred."
But silence was the answer that I got
With my shocked glance.
In my mind stirs feelings that perhaps there is a chance
In fact, a truth that there's no way I could have lost you yet.
Not like this,
Not this abyss
With such finality.
This was so much more than that
In my reality.
I hope you turn around and regain your sanity
Because I miss you and although I've made mistakes, I've realized
Real eyes realize real lies
And what we had was honest truth.
So before you give up on me and you
On both of us;
Please consider what you're giving up,
Because I trust
You'll figure all this out in time
And if space is what you want;
I understand,
But please don't forget of what we were,
I can wait, I just wish it weren't all such a blur.
I love you, and I'm still your waffle
I hope that you know that
And I can be your patient
Silent
Waiting kittycat.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,
and an egg cracking over it.
The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,
while reality dissipates.
The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,
today is good; today will be different.
The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,
a sudden shift in atmosphere.
The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done
they tell you that you’re pathetic.
The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you
distance between you and hope still stands.
The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time
sounds of an empty home stir.
The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you
your average day.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:37 PM UTC
Gemini sheriff of happy town
kills all the frequent cow-catching waffle machines.
He rounds up all his cowboys
and retires all the shepherds in a cloud most curious.
Somewhere soon there will be a better thing to do
than reach for the cookie jar all life long.
Unfortunately there will come so many who also wear the star.
All them good folks are stuck in a stampeding herd of confusion.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
This isn't easy, putting pen to paper figuring out my thoughts, but alas, here we go again.
I don't want to say it's a crush, that's childish.
It's more of a lust, a desire, a fire burning in my heart wanting to pull you closer every time we hug.
My mind screaming, "say something! Make a move already, ******
You flirt with me like crazy, making my emotions run wild.
You're in my head constantly reigning over my thoughts, haunting my dreams.
It's pretty crazy how this all works.
Everything you do is adorable and everything you are is cute.
I want to be a part of your life, just like you've made yourself a part of mine.
I want you to hold me in your arms.
I want to feel the warmth of your embrace.
I just want to feel loved, but more importantly, I want to feel loved by you.
Everyone says I'm crazy, they say I don't have a chance, but the way you act around me can't just be nothing.
It's quite cute actually.
You play with your hands, you waffle back and forth on your feet, just like I do when I'm nervous for an audition, you come to a loss for words, you play with your hair, and that smile.
You have a smile that makes my heart melt, my knees tremble.
I thought I was over it until that one summer day.
I guess you're just not that easy to get over, ay?
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
The ache,
The zing through the pelvis
Trapped in an evergreen
Transcending into the pillow
Light is Black
Black is light
The brain has slithered from the skull
Out the ear, leaving a wet trail
The bliss
The suspended body transfixed on the ceiling
Eyes small like buttholes
Writhing in angst
Rolling in filth
Buzzing in a field
The ********
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
We meet for afternoon coffee
For this I reckon
I would fancy a waffle with it.
How are you?,
The first sentence of the last conversation about me and you.
While dipping a piece of my waffle
In the whipped cream
I did not order,
I have a thought.
We have never been
More than a side dish;
Like a waffle I would
Every so often ask for.
To sweeten this life
I require more.
I still prefer to take
My coffee black, as plain as my heart.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
These streets they
light into us like
waffle cone whipped suns
reeking permanent
reprehensible dawn of
afternoon trade -
carnivore carton carts
brimming blue rolling red
their way down the
coarse grain streets.
Their wheels brown wood
sandpaper rubbed
brown smoke
elbows smooth prattling
bells bellowing for
ice cream dark cookies
ice cream and cream
ice cream quite rocky,
we are
a road rising mellow and marsh
dreaming mallow yellow lazy
Sunday evenings.
Street lamps dinning bright white
cloth white ringing
church bells gold
smooth bells pure
sugar,
not cloying nor uneven
pouring down
levelled pavement catching
its taste but forgetting its
waffle cone
crumbling -
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
flipping the pages of the last book you made me read makes me feel like i've been suffering dyslexia for some time now
so hauntingly familiar
not in any way foreign to me
a photo falls so delicately onto my stained rug
the photo i used as a bookmark
the photo of us i've kept hidden
and forgotten
the photo of you handing a couple dollars
to somebody not in the camera's view
the photo with me beside you
gratefully smiling
as i munch on a waffle
the waffle i spit out right after
the photo that reminds me of the horrid taste of that waffle
it's taste almost as bad as what i feel for you
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
Thin and sober, like
evening air,
Le Freak brings its
benign curiosity
To her lips, some
Belgian monk
At a waffle press;
a meteor explodes
In the sky. A sent-
ient gas hovers
Cautiously, then ex-
plores the dim
Recess of my lungs.
Or it glows green,
Then vanishes. It’s
an aggressive brew.
And God bless Amer-
ica for its hop.
That’s something I
haven’t heard in a
While. It latches on
and holds its breath
Like it holds its
head. White and
Swollen, like you’d
expect.
It trippels on its
laces, and then I
Said: “My twos are
unshied” and I
Meant it. I grabbed
the bottle instead
Of the glass. Looks
like it only takes
Me two to get un-
shied these days.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Bless all the barmaids that have ever lived
who carried featherlite, n knobbly ribbed,
who listened to waffle n crap I spoke
who granted liddle me, a slap n poke,
who parted ***** whilst in drunken stooper
n gave the bird, to the party pooper,
the big ones, the small ones, the fat n thin
god bless slappers, that invited me in,
bejeezus begorra, mag da horra,
bless all barmaids, I'll **** on the morra,
big **** big *** n the ones that pass gas,
god bless the ones that I’ve yet to harass,
for whisky, for beer, god bless ya m’dear,
even big sally; fer the gonorrhea.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
There Is A Reason ihop Is Open 24 Hours A Day.
It's Like A MmMmMm. Pancakes!
Like A Mouth Watering & The Sound Of Fork Scraping Plate, Kind Of Morning, Isn't It?
Sunny Saturday Morning In April, With NPR Playing Over The Radio, And The Sound Of Bacon Sizzling, Kind Of Morning.
Take It From Me.
Watched A Heavy Hearted Seventeen Year Old Sister, Ask For Breakfast Ar Midnight, And The Hours Spent Talking Away Her Heart Ache With Mom Was Just A Side Effect Of The Full Stomach.
Stumble Into This.
With Bloodshot Eyes, And Ripped Up Jeans, 5am And Hung Over.
The Waitress Will Always Take Care Of You.
It's Like Her Duty, Along Side Taking Orders And Refilling Empty Coke Glasses, She'll Serve You
Blackberry,
Blueberry,
Chocolate Chip,
Strawberry Strung,
Bananas,
And Whip Cream Shaped Like A Smiley Face,
Without Any Questions Asked.
Pancakes Are The Breakfast Of Champions. So You Remember This. Your Fork And Knife Battle Weapon, Ready To Turn This 15 Minute Meal Into A Valiant Reawakening.
And Remember You Are King Today.
Staff And Stone, And No One Can Destroy You.
Eat Up, And Be Strong.
Smile.
I Dare You.
Lick Your Fingers, And Ask For Seconds.
This Is Life, And Asking For Another Helping Has Never Been A Bad Thing.
Bite Your Tongue, Drink Back This Moment. I'd Ask You To Taste It, If Your Mouths Weren't Already Full.
I Know, There Will Be Tequila &Wine; Bottles You'll Try To Drown Yourself In.
But I've Learned Something Sticky Sweet Seems To Heal The Broken Edges Just A Little Better.
Daddy Always Said There Was A Reason The Light On The 'Waffle House' Sign Never Went Out. A Warm Plate & A Smile Is Sometimes All You Need To Make A Place Home.
The Next Time You Get Offered Pancakes, Consider It A Token Of Appreciation.
Always Say Yes.
Even If You're Not Hungry.
Take A Bite. You Won't Regret It.
I Promise.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Love moves in strong tides:
Blowing beach bubbles
Waving waffles on blue seas.
Love stares in burning flames:
Taking the beams and burn
Waving waffles on skyscrapers.
Love stands by on stormy nights:
Making cold curtan calls
Waving waffles from the clouds.
Love stays by in a molten hug
With a steep gracious glance
Waving waffles with a smile.
Love walks blind in paper poetry;
Broken within lovely lines
Waving waffles at the heart.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
Bloodshot eyes and a case of laughter,
a Waffle House fix is what we are after.
Find a booth and all pile in,
waitress comes up and the mayhem begins.
Oh but she is a pro,
done this a time or two,
pretty soon here comes our food.
Scraping of the forks and clatter of the plates,
we look like it's been weeks since we ate.
We got scattered, chunked, covered and diced,
heartburn on a plate and don't even think twice.
Well no more thumping head and eyes cleared up a bit,
all we needed was a Waffle House fix!
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
dont call me a pancake,
i am not a flap jack.
i have pockets for syrup and butter,
and i am obviously hacked.
i can be made into flavors and be savory,
or remain sweet and sugary unbearable.
But--
no matter what you want to call me,
i am a waffle, a baked piece of yum,
so give them one or two...
and dont be the fool.
because its the tool that makes it go...
straight to your lips and eventually to someones hips.
so bake me, shake up the flavor...
stack me into a cake and slice me up,
but when the steam stops...
i am full of love.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
You ***** me.
And all your friends thought it was a joke.
You ***** me.
And I blamed myself for weeks.
You ***** me.
And I still do.
You ***** me.
And my parents called your parents to talk about it.
You ***** me.
And I’ve never felt so embarrassed in all my life.
You ***** me.
And a year later I saw you at Waffle House.
You ***** me.
And all I want to do is drink.
You ***** me.
And it did not leave physical bruises.
You ***** me.
And it left bruises on my soul.
You ***** me.
And I am still not broken.
You ***** me.
But you have not won.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 11:32 PM UTC
it's in the appreciation of a fantastic tater tot
and a shared laugh after a missed rebound in trash can basketball.
it's in risk and fear and a crazy heart
in late night car rides and "I'm not letting go"
it's at Waffle House at 6AM on a Sunday
in the sheepish grins and sweetly sticky countertop.
it's in the raise of an eyebrow, a wink, a nod
in attention to detail. listening. feeling.
it's in perfect confessions (if shared)
and in a drive thru drink (but only if it tastes right)
it's in the smallest of gestures that mean "I'm sorry"
and the nod that says "you are forgiven"
it's in a car (blue, not black) with a broken console
and in the joyous laughter over squeaky leather seats.
it's in feeling different and wild and passionate
but in soft affection and the summer breeze.
it's in August, in between my toes like sand
natural, messy, persistent
but wonderful all the same.
he holds it for me.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
meaning of wishtastes
desires drive delusion
devils delve deepening
seeds to root loathsome leaves
smelt cinders graying goals
craving strangled contentment
under backalley blackness
beats heart sneeze two
cavalcade blue
cacophony in fast dreams
reseized by letting go of circus surlplus
reassurance of real love is real gone
gone is the relooped sad troupe armies of needinesses
truth proofed **** the magician disappeared
withdrew tears,fears, smears, and leers
now amongst new artful peers
The lions tail was a cobra coming with teeth under the door
awoke then broke my dreams end and don't hafta go back again
ego sinning by ego being a sin says ego
leggo my ego waffle a proper prophet
the jewels three sweet gleams eaten
gifts even the ego cant teacher the reached rifts
sewn up all dischordian accordian polka poked out eyes
belief swam away to the island of surprises
can I ? I can will it . Will then be faithful to real action.
kung fooled schools chop trees sticks
paper stones throw away
I can walk 6 feet on airs invisilbe stairs
ears heard alistening stream just the branch that froots
Shotgun riding to the holy holy holy
Dee vine
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
It’s not an art museum,
it’s a Waffle House,
and you’re looking sleepy
as you sip your tea.
It’s three a.m. and
I know we still have a few more miles until my house,
but I’m home and you know it.
I’m ripping up a napkin with my
hands as we talk about the concert.
I know I enjoyed it more than you,
and I know I cried on the way home
because I thought you didn’t love me,
but you still came to the concert
even though you didn’t really like the artist,
and now we’re at a Waffle House at three a.m.,
and the garish yellow decor reflects on your skin,
and we’re sweaty and tired,
and I love you in the rare, inexpressible way
that feels most potent
after concerts at Waffle Houses at three a.m.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 1:47 AM UTC
I am your favorite flavor of ice cream;
Melting.
Sliding down your fingers,
Dripping down your palm;
I am your favorite flavor of ice cream,
In a chocolate dipped waffle cone.
Dripping,
Falling,
Melting,
Slipping.
Kissing every inch of your skin I can reach;
Please do not wipe me away before I dance on your wrists,
Because no one ever showed you that scars can be beautiful.
I long to kiss your wrists because I know that no one ever has.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
That's where he's been hanging around lately.
I hear their coffee is decent.
Half and half, a spoonful of sugar, and a dash of shameful regret.
He orders his eggs over easy with a side of fresh apologies.
The scratchy booth seat squeaks merciless obscenities at him
as he shifts uncomfortably
because of his aching back and aching conscience.
If I were to pass by him at a diner, I doubt I would even recognize him.
Guilt tends to deform the appearance, and derange the soul.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
The wind and the sweetness
in the mix of this somewhat chilly day
I ordered an ice cream waffle; waiting
on my order while waiting on a gaining thought
I’ve gained peace, that which I thought impossible
Watching the passerbys, with a full mouth of ice cream
And behind it’s stain, was a genuine smile
In amongst the chaos of the random wind,
the jumping cheers of children on a jumping castle
The happy scary clown with white on his face
The flies trying to share in on my dessert,
and the eyes of those who had seen me alone
_—I wasn’t alone;_
Quite frankly I was far from feeling alone,
and feeling any kind of low
As with the tingling chills down my spine
of this really filling meal
It was to me, a moment so real;
I wouldn’t dare pinch myself to see if I was dreaming
And even if it were a dream,
twas a sweet one indeed
As all I needed was:
spoiling myself with something sweet indeed
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 11:09 AM UTC