"wok" poems
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
I used to hang out with a bunch of food radicals
this was back in ’78 or so
popcorn with brewers yeast, loads of pepos
dried apricots that looked like vaginas
blocks of cheese, raw nuts, 80 grit corn meal
I belonged to food coop and read diet for a small planet
it was a constant indoctrination
as soon as you thought you had this nutrition thing
settled
bam
some new roughage was required
it must have worked
I thought
as I added tofu to a wok filled with seven count ‘em seven
steaming vegetables
this very night
overall I do eat healthy and I always have
now get off my back and make me a double bacon cheeseburger
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
A mountain.
Its growing by the minute.
Bigger and bigger still.
Increasing in magnitude.
Plates and cups and cutlery.
Saucepans and a lonely wok.
An avalanche brewing in a secluded space.
River flows over the kitchen sink.
Daughter needs to wash up,
at least that's what I think.
Sink is overflowing.
One almighty crash.
Lots of broken china.
Surrounds the base of never rest.
Another excuse to avoid it.
Hey presto.
The daughter is gone in a flash.
(C) Livvi
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
Here we go again
Insistent chirping
All night long
Does weariness
Not chase you?
If not I will.
Brandishing a
Wok!
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
Abstract love's &
( "Lover's" )
like abstract art-
You see what you want to see
Believe what your gonna believe
I've shared my linguistic
knowledge & observations
too many time to count.
Trying to help & wok this out
Begrudgingly l held onto
this imprisonment called
"loving".
Let it stain & detain me,
Overpower myself & my thinking....
Even allowing this
Abstraction to consume my very soul
The every essence of what I once "was"
My dysfunctional state's
isn't no longer in question...
After the mistreatment(s)
I know there's nothing left.
Suicides a gift- my anchor
It's my only way out of this-
Abstract "Love"!
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 12:54 AM UTC
white roses and Jacob's Coat
purple bearded irises and ferns
dark red wax begonias
scents of night jasmine
French lavender
antique tea roses
loquat, plum, guava and lemon trees
all swaying with an ocean breeze
casting shadows in the setting sun
memories of childhood
bamboo and nipa houses
coconut groves and fragrant banana
witches, faeries and wok-woks
a favorite white haired grandfather
living off land and sea
harvesting root crops and fruit
fishing for viand
barefoot and ******* sarongs
in a private paradise miles from town
bonfire festivities
tuba wine and drunken salamats
an open adoption
a house tiled with affluence
and visits back home
a war's interruption
people lost or found
married off to life in America
lumpia, pancit, beefsteak and beeco
spaghetti, burgers, *** roast and pizza
dinner's table set for eleven
the house on Wagner street
the loss of husband and son
advancing age and declining health
ER's and ICU's
a final farewell
a garden of children
grand children and great grand children
branches in Lala's family tree
her progeny sprouting roots
looking to the future
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
summer always feels the best
and it shares all humans
with no explanation.
summer holds innumerable quests
and they hold within them
lessons and learning.
summer can’t quite compare to winter
with devoid gales holding ransom
to the inside of an insulated wok.
summer isn’t an escape
from rough workloads and energy
spent from winning all that bread.
summer is a connection with self
that permeates all fibers
of the self and rejuvenates the soul.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC
Bulbous eyes and gaping mouth see splayed flesh
Served on rice with wasabi, bodies naked and fresh
Bash my glass brimming with koi fish swimming
"Am I WINNING?!" he screamed so drunk on saki, a wok he'd
Swept off the counter, I floundered
And so spying asked "Why are you crying?"
Because the waitress with plaited hair quit last week?
Because you're short on rent and you're all out of drink?
Well so am I PUT ME BACK IN THE WATER!
The fodder that expects me to
Always look pretty.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Wash your hands.
Pick a couple of situations.
Peel away old memories.
Cut in half; what, no seeds?
Then cut first this way
And then that.
Don’t cry, my love, its just
Some bad chemistry!
Take some hot, acrid thoughts.
Core them; throw the seeds away.
Chop chop and chop.
Take a few sprigs of happiness
Finely slice them, diagonally.
In the hot wok of life,
Toss in a smile, couple of fights,
Some heartburn, some sweat,
Stir fry.
Come, my love, let’s eat!
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
“Rolling Rock” it reads, fatefully so, so I’d hope he’s no Sisyphus. Bringing corner markets drought with pocket money, he’s perhaps overlooked by the commoner a proletariat. dating me in simply ways, peeing from the next room, my alone time, and indexing my forefinger: canine and biscupid, telling me to feel the ****** up’d-ness inside his skull. I claim otherwise but I suppose within fingers lies fallacy!
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Fungal thought, catch it
But don't hold it in,
It's meant to be felt,
Rather than cotton,
Cushioned against real.
See alien fruit,
Jabber on the wok,
Sizzle the life blood
Come take yourself home,
The place before birth.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 10:58 AM UTC
I saw myself, just yesterday
sitting on a roadside rock
contemplating this and that
What was once skinny
now seems fat.
What once was mouse
now is rat.
Doors once open,
swinging,
now have locks
Looks like dog packs
sounds like *****
inside outside underware
Hawking mudpies at
the County Fair.
Thoughts so thick, I yank my hair.
Suddenly frozen. I sit and stare
days, weeks pass. "was that a knock?"
I find my wrist.
A strapped on clock?
I see the lie-ing hand spin round
moon rises, sun rises, make a loud sound
what was lost, remains un-unfound
what was valley, now is a mound
Big toe rooting,
ventilated sox
both shoes missing, cardboard box.
Suddenly, It's today
at last!
Debris surrounds me. Shattered masks?
Stomach empty? Methusela fast.
No more future, no more past.
Large ships!
Arriving, at the docks.
Time goes crazy,
when there are
no more tocs.
A lovely world of only tics.
no more stealing,
no more tricks
no more soft talk,
no more big sticks
It's raining gold,
no axes no picks
chickens sleeping
with the fox-es
Un coveting of the neighbor's ox-s.
And his gougeous
brick house wife
and his so called
perfect life
Dict. : Deleting
words like strife
dancing to ditties
from a fife
Wearin fine hats shaped
like a Chinese Wok
sittin alone on a roadside rock.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
I bought the shirt
to tell you I was there
when the electric slide was
cool,
when I wore dandelion
hair.
I knew the words that could
school
your mind so that you'd
stare.
With your electric hide
you can go
anywhere,
but imagine your jealousy
when I'm in all the photographs,
not noticing I don't fit.
In the millennium's decade
I wove webs at bars
I healed dames their scars
and gave them my brand.
I told jokes with slight
of
hand;
left coats with nowhere
to stand.
Oh, I was the border patrol,
********* pockets,
though none could pass.
My security measures were
long and vast,
probing questions
slick with crass,
I'd lead them to pasture
epiphanies from my grass.
Yes, I wore the hat,
compliments, too,
but my hat wouldn't fit
no matter what
I told it to
do.
All that time,
searching for something to fit.
Keys slipped out of locks
Numbers ripped off of clocks
women deprived of their... talks,
for my language was divine.
That was the problem:
how could I be divine?
Was I the branded fool?
Was I truly sublime?
A prince I was, set to inherit the world
till misfortune struck, disaster unfurled.
I couldn't fit into my home
or wherever I'd
roam.
I couldn't fit into school
now a blunted
tool.
I couldn't fit into work
Who's that?
****
No, no, don't feel sorry for me...
After all, I'm only 3.
Three things you wouldn't
want to be.
Too round, too soft, too... me.
I'm not the sort of peg
that fits in at any degree.
I'm just the laughing stock,
that you put in your wok,
who tastes bad next year,
that much isn't clear.
Yet if I live in the past,
I'll eat my own tail,
so in order not to fail:
into the future, fast!
Someday I'll find,
that fitting is not the key,
it's learning to
relax,
in something bigger than I'll
ever be.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
As children
We who wore tights to school
were taught
to wok in high heels
with a book on our heads
to never wear mascara
on our bottom lashes
red lipstick = harlot
red nails = *****
wearing jewelry = sinful
to be proper
to mind our manners
the three monkeys mantra
So we still
Go downtown in our good clothes
Wearing high heels carrying a matching bag
We have expensive taste
Reputations to uphold
fast cars
+
faster boys
=
red lipstick
red nails
bodies bejeweled
We learned
All of that Indoctrination
was nonsense
Oh! The high heels of heartache!
How those cruel shoes constrained us
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 9:30 AM UTC
EVERYTHING HAS TO BE LOOKED AT, SQUEEZED AND PRODDED,
NO POINT IN BUYING IF IT LOOKS MISERABLE - SO MUCH TIME
IS SPENT - IT'S IMPORTANT IF YOU CAN SAVE A CENT,
SO MUCH FUSS -IT JUST HAS TO BE, 'FIT FOR PURPOSE,' DOESN'T IT?
THE COLOUR IS WRONG, THE FIT TOO LONG, WE BOUGHT IT FOR A SONG;
DON'T MENTION BIRTHDAY CARDS - SOMEONE'S READING EVERY WORD,
THE 'BROWSE' IS ON - IF YOU ASK A QUESTION, IT WON'T BE HEARD,
THIS IS TOO HARD, THIS IS TOO SOFT, THE CONTAINER IS DENTED,
WHEN WE'RE IN COSMETICS -THE DEODORANTS ARE TOO STRONGLY SCENTED,
THIS MUST BE OLD STOCK BUT I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT ANOTHER WOK,
WE RETURN SOMETHING BECAUSE IT'S FADED - NOW I'M FEELING JADED,
FORGOT THE POINTS, FORGOT THE CARD - DON'T FORGET THE NEXT ONE'S FREE;
WE'RE IN THE LINE, IN THE QUEUE - HOW MUCH LONGER MUST WE WAIT,
I CAN'T HELP IT IF I'M PAST MY SELL - BY - DATE!
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
In this place
chopping so much your hand cramps,
so you have to hold it by the wok
for five minutes before it unclenches,
is something to by proud of.
In this place
college students scoop and cook
to pay for school,
or pay off school,
instead of applying what they learned,
which cost them more than money.
In this place
the line never sleeps,
you are Pavlov's dogs
trained to a bell.
And if you are unlucky enough
to be put in the kitchen,
you'll find it worse than Hell.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
sometimes, life is suprising....
the orchid I left to die of loneliness
has put forth a new shoot and seeks
the sunshine from the dusty window
my brother's daughter
has taken up residence
in the nannexe and
is exuberantlu adventurous
next weekend she jumps
from a plane, strapped
to a stranger...
this lifestyle is of course
my fault....
my mother enjoys having
her knees massagd by
the big muscle bound attendant
and flirts outrageously with him
(don't have the heart to tell her
he is gay..... a lot of the older women at
the residence also flirt, he takes it all with a
gentle smile)
the tuxedo devon rex has
taken to sleeping in the wok
sometimes with the purlioned
sock stash of the day...
one of the academics, a geologist
a gentle quiet man, steady as they come,
stripped naked before dancing
the charleston in the quad
....he is now under care
as I said sometimes life is suprising
sometimes a little sad
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
My beautiful love, how I missed you
Though only a day since you died
My life was bereft of all meaning
There was emptiness yawning inside
I knew it was you that could fill it
So I put you, my darling, on ice
And I heated the oven and skillet
And the wok for the 'special' fried rice
First I loved you with boiled potatoes
And a medley of seasonal veg
There was gravy and roasters and stuffing
But I cleared my plate to the edge
I discovered how much I adore you
Marinated in honey and spices
Then stir-fried with noodles and peppers
Once carved into sensual slices
I savoured a sandwich of passion
I was hungry for seconds and thirds
And I marvelled at your generosity
As I fed some of you to the birds
You were soft, you were warm, you were tender
Slow-cooked on a moderate heat
And I'd frozen a chilli-con-carne
For if ever I fancy a treat
But my hunger for you had abated
And each burp was a loving reminder
So I gathered your beautiful carcass
And bundled it into a grinder
For a couple of weeks there was sausage
I was ever so heavily fed
But I wish that I hadn't have killed you
And had battery farmed you instead
***
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC