Funny Food Poetry Contest The Society May 2, 2017 Poetry Contests 65 Comments RULES: A reprieve from heavy subject matter, we ask poets to write a funny poem (2-14 lines) that includes food. You may choose to replace words in a popular song with food or use food in any other way you like, as long as it isn’t inappropriate. Paste your contest submission into the comments section below with your name, city, and state (no need to list your last name or email address if you don’t want to). One submission per contestant. Submissions should be originally written just for this contest. No submission fee. DEADLINE: June 2 midnight EST. Winner announced June 12. PRIZE: Official Winner’s Certificate. JUDGE: Society staff and the Advisory Board will judge (those who choose not to participate in judging may participate in the contest) Featured Image: “Fruit Basket” by Giuseppe Arcimboldo Related Post 2018 Poetry Competition Winners Announced First Place ($500 Prize): C.B. Anderson, Massachusetts “Stonewalls Sometimes a Prison Make” “Praise for the Mother of Summer” “Meritocracy” "Verifica... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 65 Responses Bret from Brooklyn May 2, 2017 After Kendrick Lamar’s “King Kunta” Spelt where you when I was walkin’? Now I run the millet got the whole world talkin’, King Kunta Everybody wanna red-skinned potatoes, Kunta Black man emmer also known as farro Kamut where you when I was walkin’? Now I run the game, got the whole world talkin’, King Kunta Everybody wanna store energy in the form of carbohydrates King Kunta Reply Edmund Jonah June 1, 2017 There once was a pear on a tree Who desperately wished to be free. When he was plucked How loudly he clucked But that pear unaware He’d be ate till too late He wished he were back on that tree. Reply Juanita from Michigan May 2, 2017 After Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” My omelet was a jalapeno fire It went down, down, down And the flames went higher And it burns, burns, burns Jalapeno fire Reply Sally, Silver Creek, NY May 2, 2017 Wobbly Reflections What does the jello think As it wobbles in the bowl? It dreads the sucking sink, But has no stated goal. A crystal dish will suit Its personality. It snuggles up to fruit, Is clinging as can be. Aggressive; passive too, It has one simple dream, And jiggles through and through At thoughts of plump whipped cream. Reply wendy lee klenetsky May 2, 2017 My Funny-Food-Poetry-Contest Entry Both neighbors had a barbeque: burgers, fries and franks. Potato salad and cole slaw drew happy smiles and thanks. One neighbor forgot to buy corn cobs, but HIS neighbor bought cobs and some beers So he got up his might, and very polite said “Neighbor, please lend me your ears!” Reply Alex Phuong May 2, 2017 “Give Me Food” Give me food! Give me food! Come on I’m so hungry! Linguine, spaghetti I sure do love pasta! I don’t care About the food’s price tag Just feed me please! My stomach is growling like a lion! By Alex Andy Phuong Alhambra, CA Reply Amy Foreman May 2, 2017 This is way too long (32 lines), but I started going and I couldn’t stop! So it’s not really a submission–just some fun: Hash Hurry up, and get your graters, ‘Cause we’re makin’ hashed po-taters! And from all the indicators They should taste real nice! First we’ll start with commen-taters, Typical pontificators. They’re the fav’rites of curators: Fussy and precise. Then we’ll throw in three dic-taters, Though we know they’re mostly haters, Culture’s evil perpetrators: Still, they add some spice. Next, a dozen imi-taters, Favored by the finest waiters: Vegetable impersonators, Best if held on ice. “No thanks!”to regurgi-taters! Bad digestion agi-taters: Gastric missile detonators– Not for any price! But we’ll take facili-taters, Go-betweens and mediators. Such untroubled regulators Taste like paradise! Last of all, some poten-taters: Spicy, strong vasodilators– And, by all the indicators, Several should suffice. Hey, let’s cut them hashed po-taters, Spuds for all you fabricators– Gather ‘round, collaborators, Get yourself a slice! Reply Joan Carol Fullmore May 2, 2017 You have my vote!! This is terrific! Reply Amy Foreman May 3, 2017 Thanks, Joan. Liza Williams May 3, 2017 This is brilliant! You know who would like your funny aesthetic, is Jerome Betts, editor at Lighten Up Online, out of England. Reply Amy Foreman May 3, 2017 Thank you, Liza– I had never heard of “Lighten Up Online” and I really appreciate you telling me about this fun venue! Liza McAlister Williams May 5, 2017 You’re so welcome. And another fantastic (monthly!) English site I discovered is Snakeskin Magazine (Ed. George Simmers) – not a focus on humor but a very interesting aesthetic… And while we’re speaking of the British Isles, the Irish (mostly women’s) poetry site Poethead (Ed. Christine Murray) is intriguing. All of these places publish Americans as well as Brits… Dona Fox June 12, 2017 Great! I’m always you’re fan and for good reason. Reply Amy Foreman June 12, 2017 Thanks, Dona! G. M. H. Thompson May 2, 2017 “A Slice of Eden” A mango tart broke my heart dark one stormy day because it said I’d be dead if I touched its glaze, & lotus cake made me ache late one luckless night because it cried when I tried taking one small bite, & once when I slyly spied baklava at tea a coffee pot boiled and shot liquid hate at me; exotic sweets, foreign treats,— everything I need has ever turned sour and spurned sweetness when I plead, thus I may try homemade pie, ice-cream, toast & jam;— perhaps this ash shall dispatch dreams of saffron yams, yet I’m afraid marmalade, cookies, honey buns cannot erase tropic tastes you left on my tongue, & so I’ll search all the earth’s xanadus for some patisserie half as sweet as your blandest crumb. Reply G. M. H. Thompson May 2, 2017 G. M. H. Thompson Saint Louis, Missouri, United States of America Reply Joan Carol Fullmore May 2, 2017 Joan Carol from Los Angeles CA I was pondering on this contest What food inspires me the most? While I was sucking a tootsie roll It spread and I almost choked! The moral of this story Is the secret to why we get fat We are eating what’s in front of us While thinking of what comes next! Reply Christine Tabaka May 3, 2017 PERFECT PEACH Juicy and ripe The perfect peach High on the tree Just out of reach Tasty and round That tempting fruit Had me climbing In sweet pursuit Higher I venture For the delicious prize The ultimate trophy I did surmise Finally mine The mouthwatering treat Now in my hands For me to eat Reply Susan Martin/Ocean, NJ May 3, 2017 My Perfect Mom Achoo! Achoo! A cold and the pain of the flu, No need to fret, attention I’ll get, My mom knows just what to do. She turns down my bed, hands me my book, Then off to the kitchen where she knows she must cook Chicken soup for her honey, her nose that is runny, Her bones that are aching, her frame that is shaking, Her hacking and coughing, achoo! She boils the chicken, skims off the foam, Adds the sweet spices that brighten the home, An onion, a turnip, parsley, and dill, Celery, carrots; it’s better than pills. Noodles or dumplings to fill up the pot, Then hugs and kisses, and how can I not Feel better this minute, it’s just what I need, Mom, I love you, you’re perfect indeed. Reply Bob McGinness / Columbia, SC May 4, 2017 Osteria The summer of two thousand eight was dry, producing Sangiovese grapes nearby the town of Montalcino, Tuscany. Caparzo wines with high acidity. The fruity glass, Brunello Montalcino, would surely complement with berried vino, the truffled ravioli and ricotta; a Cappelletti tune with string sonata. And Stracci: pasta ribbed in ragged splendor, immersed with braised wild mushrooms, warm and tender, sautéed in mildly bold rosemary oil, and wine that complements without turmoil. So long to savor life, my fare’s been tragic, until I tasted culinary magic. Reply Amy Foreman May 4, 2017 Lovely! Perfect ending couplet! Reply Josh Lefkowitz May 4, 2017 Pluot Pluot, Plout, The fruit that I knew not, The one with the crunchy skin, Yet juicy in the middle; You’re like a pitted riddle And our love affair now begins. Kinder than an apple, Stronger than a pear, Better than a mushy banana. You bury every berry; You make a man most merry; In me you’ve a got a new fan – ah, Pluot, Pluot, Like Al Pacino’s “hoo-ah,” You’re strange, unique, and divine. But lo, how I wish That my favorite fruit dish Wasn’t priced at $2.99. Reply C.B. Anderson May 5, 2017 Just Desserts It started with a peach parfait With lots of multicolored sprinkles, And after that some crème brûlée Served over jalapeño Pringles. And next came trays of cherry Danish, Warmed up with shredded cheddar cheese, But after that the very main dish: A tart of candied larval bees. Three courses on, sautéed in butter, We tasted sugar-coated quince, And some of us began to mutter, While others of us had to wince. The feasting wasn’t over yet; I topped it off with chocolate cake. And one thing I will not forget: I wound up with a stomachache. C.B. Anderson Maynard, Massachusetts Reply Wendy Bourke May 8, 2017 Buon Appetito Come in, sit down, so glad you’re here. My ‘Themed’ Supper’s almost ready. I’ve made Mussels Marinara – Served with made-from-scratch Spaghetti. There’s Cheese Platters, Antipasto: Prosciutto, Melon, Pepperoni … Bruschetta, Olives, Breads, Chianti – And I churned my own Spumoni. I really pulled out all the stops. I swirled and whirled and tossed. But keep an eye out while you eat … My nose ring has been lost. Wendy, Vancouver, BC Reply Father Richard Libby June 9, 2017 That last line – wow! Reply Liza McAlister Williams May 10, 2017 To Arcimboldo Your lips are luscious – are those cherries red as poison holly berries? Your dangly earrings are so grape! I envy them with mouth agape in hopes that one might just drop in. Your nose, your ears, your eyes, your chin are ripe enough to gobble down – but then your smile would turn to frown, and moving on from fruit to cake I’d suffer from a bellyache. Reply David Watt May 11, 2017 Restaurant Critic I’ve become a restaurant critic – a pastime surreptitious, Disguised as humble patron, private connoisseur of dishes. But hidden in my briefcase, tucked neatly under table, Resides a voice-recorder, linked to sugar-bowl by cable. There within the sugar-bowl, supported by the spoon, I hide a mini-microphone for comments opportune. Interspersed ‘tween slurp and dribble, I chatter without quibble, Finding faults aplenty in each main, dessert, or nibble. “The stir-fry’s gone stir-crazy! The minestrone’s lacking! This mud cake fits description! The crackling isn’t cracking! Then the restaurant owner grabs me, and labels me “A phony.” To which I swiftly answer, “Sour grapes, and spoiled baloney!” David Watt Canberra, ACT, Australia Reply Father Richard Libby June 9, 2017 Very clever, sir! Well done! Reply Noah from Delmar, DE May 12, 2017 Apple a Day I’d been eating an apple a day; I’d peel the green skin and toss cores, I’d bob for said apples in days gay, And climb the boughs of fructus fruit But one day came walking a guest, And said to me with voice stooped, “An apple a day keeps harm away, But sir, please come–look this way!” Upon the hill and around my farm The trees were bare to my alarm! Reply Jessica from Browns Mills, NJ May 14, 2017 “That’s why there’s meat” ~ Bruno Mars Parody Swap out the broccoli, please, let’s put some cheese on it Miss me with that fruit, without some sugar on it I’d never go vegan, no never at all And I’ll show you why that is true! Dairy just tastes way too good Veggies aren’t even true food Lucky for me, that’s why there’s meat, that’s why there’s meat Lucky for me, that’s why there’s meat, that’s why there’s meat Burger grease makes me real weak Bacon is a real good treat Lucky for me, that’s why there’s meat, that’s why there’s meat Lucky for me, that’s why there’s meat, that’s why there’s meat Reply Charles May 15, 2017 Sonnet for J. Walter Hawkes Now if I told you that the icebox spoke to me, and then I told you at the end it hummed a tune, just how could I defend myself, my sanity, if I awoke tomorrow with my arms around its doors? A catsup bottle conducts spiral ham and cheese in symphonic harmony; jam and mallows playin’ jello with some s’mores. The icebox said, “At last! You’re home! Enjoy the heat, the stove is stoked, we’re all alone, my friend.” “All right,” I said, his voice inside my head.(I know you think this is a ploy for sympathy, an act you can’t let slide; until you see the smoothie play trombone). Reply Michelle Simon May 16, 2017 O Gummy Worms (sing to the tune of a popular holiday song) by Michelle T. Simon, Scottsdale, AZ O gummy worms! O gummy worms With rainbow rings so tasty; O gummy worms! O gummy worms! Your vibe is never pasty; Fresh and fruity without the dirt, Stashed in the pocket of my skirt. O gummy worms! O gummy worms! With rainbow rings so tasty! O gummy worms! O gummy worms! Upon my tongue you wriggle; O gummy worms! O gummy worms! ‘Stead of gagging, I giggle… Yes, gummy worms! O gummy worms! Sure make my tummy giggle! 🙂 Reply Joan Carol Fullmore May 16, 2017 Love your poem!!! I love gummy worms too! Reply Suzanne in Connecticut May 21, 2017 Tenderloin I lifted you, up to my lips, upon the fork’s unflinching tips. You shuddered as you rose to meet my tongue, a hostess indiscreet. With juicy sweat upon your brow you entered in my darkened mouth. Once there I pressed and fondled you, and thence I swallowed your virtue. Reply Joan Carol Fullmore May 31, 2017 Your poem is So good and I agree! Going to get a tenderloin this week!!! Reply Judy from Gautier, Mississippi May 21, 2017 Dissertation on Peanut Butter I don’t like peanut butter; that’s all that I know. My psychiatrist says that perhaps, long ago, a cruel aunt stuffed great quantities down my small throat. My reply to this statement, I don’t think I’ll quote. He tries to console me; he says he is sure that for every neurosis there must be a cure, and by starting out slowly – a teaspoon a day – I’ll some day put pots of the vile stuff away. If he should succeed (oh, that sadistic sinner!), I will gulp it down daily for lunch and for dinner! No thank you, good doctor. It’s sad, but it’s true, I feel nothing but villainous malice toward you, and when “creamy” or “chunk style” is offered to me I think I’ll just exit precipitously. Reply Father Richard Libby June 9, 2017 I like peanut butter – but I like your poem, too! Reply J. Simon Harris, Raleigh, NC May 30, 2017 The Drunken (Parody of “The Raven” about Liqueur) Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, drunk and weary, Over many a quaint and dimlit alley of forgotten doors— While I plodded, barely standing, suddenly I heard a chanting, As of someone softly ranting, ranting from the darkened doors. “It’s some other drunk,” I muttered, “chanting from the darkened doors— Only this and nothing more.” Only vaguely I remember, for I’d been on quite a bender, And each alleyway I entered left me lost more than before. Wishing that the night weren’t over, vainly I had bought an Uber, Then I walked away more sober—sober for my lost liqueur— For the sweet and fervent ferment that the brewers name liqueur— Shameless here forevermore. And the windy, winding backstreets, when I left behind the taxi, Filled me with bewilderment—I’d never seen those streets before! So that now, to get my bearings, I had stopped and stood there staring At my phone as I was hearing whispers from the darkened doors. “Just some other drunk I’m hearing whisper from the darkened doors— This is all and nothing more.” Now I felt the foolish courage of the drink, and thus encouraged: “Asshole!” I cried out, “or Madam… show yourself now, I implore! Walking home and barely standing, I can hear you back there ranting At a whisper, almost chanting, chanting from the darkened doors— I can hear you sneaking back there”—and I squinted at the doors. Darkness there and nothing more. In that drunken stupor, peering, I stood listening though not hearing, Dreaming dreams of all the sweetened whiskeys I had drunk before, And it was three in the morning, so the whiskey wasn’t pouring, But I thought I felt the warming of a sip of a liqueur. So I swallowed, but I tasted just the whispered word, “Liqueur!”— Merely this and nothing more. Down another alley turning, all my thirsty soul was yearning, When I caught a glimpse of something glinting on the cobbled floor. “Surely,” said I, “on the cobbled pavement that must be a bottle!” So I stumbled and I hobbled to investigate it more— “Don’t be empty,” I implored as I investigated more— This I said and nothing more. Reaching down now to the pavement, I picked up a flask of fragrant Whiskey which was labeled “Raven” from the good ole days of yore; Not a moment had I waited, not a second longer wasted, Than I popped the lid to taste it on the street of darkened doors— Popped the lid and took a swig there on the street of darkened doors— It was air and nothing more. Then this fragrant bottle raising my drunk brow into amazement, I began to shake it and could hear the liquid that it bore. “Though you taste of air insipid, I can feel you’re full of liquid,” Said I, and I tried to sip it but it baffled me once more. “Tell me what the hell you are—this isn’t funny anymore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” I was shocked to hear an answer from this spiritless decanter, Though it made no sense to me, for who had heard of that before?— No one else was there to hear it, but who’s heard of any spirit, Any brandy, beer or claret, any vodka or liqueur, From a label called “The Raven”?—who has heard of a liqueur With a name like “Nevermore”? But the Raven in my fingers didn’t flinch, but ever lingered, Speaking only that one word, as if that word were all it poured. Nothing more came from that cistern, not a drop and not a whimper, Till I scarcely more than whispered “Other flasks have drained before— This one likewise must have emptied, as my Hopes have drained before.” Then the flask said “Nevermore.” Startled by the words it uttered, I replied with slurs and stutters, “Doubtless that response must be the only draught that it can store. Some unhappy alcoholic must’ve felt the pain of colic From imbibing all the tonic which this dire bottle bore— Till the ballad of his Hope was but a promise that it bore: ‘Not ever—nevermore.’” But the Raven flask still raising all my brow into amazement, Now I stopped and took a seat upon the curbside in a court; Then, upon the concrete sinking, I abandoned hope of drinking; It was then I got to thinking what this teasing flask of yore— What this gross, ungodly, gustless, glass, and teasing flask of yore Meant in gasping “Nevermore.” Thus I sat and thus I reckoned, while the ghostly bottle beckoned Me to take another mouthful of the aether at its core. This and more I speculated, though I was inebriated. Roadside lamps illuminated the liquescent smoke it stored— But the evanescent texture and the airy taste it stored, I would know, ah, nevermore! Then I thought the stuff grew denser, as if poured from some dispenser Tipped by waitresses whose footfalls clicked upon the cobbled floor. “Sot,” I cried, “my God has meant me to imbibe this flask he sent me— Let it be that dear nepenthe from my memories called liqueur; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and retrieve my lost liqueur!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Sorcerer,” I said, “you tempt me!—tempt me still, if full or empty!— Whether someone dropped you here or you were blown here by a storm, More than just a mere decanter, you’re some mystical enchanter— With your curt and cutting candor, tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there sweetened liquor?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Sorcerer,” I said, “you tempt me!—tempt me still, if full or empty!— By that god of grapes and wine who makes us merry on the floor— Tell this thirsty, drunken heathen if, within the distant Eden, He again shall ever even sip the potion called liqueur— Sip the sweet and potent potion of ambrosia called liqueur.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “By that word may you be shattered, flask or fiend!” I shrieked, now madder— “Go on back to where you came from, whether Hell or other shores! Leave me no deceptive omen! Leave behind your airy potion! Leave my wretched thirst unbroken!—break yourself upon the floor! Take your opening from my mouth, and smash yourself upon the floor!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” And the Raven, always tempting, still is empty, still is empty— In my fingers’ desperate grip as desperation grips my core; And that bottle has the seeming of a vessel that is teeming, Full of alcohol and gleaming like a golden sweet liqueur; And my soul within that bottle that lies floating in liqueur Shall imbibe it—nevermore! Reply Amy Foreman May 30, 2017 Genius! 😉 Reply J. Simon Harris May 31, 2017 Thanks! I’m glad you like it. 🙂 Joan Carol Fullmore May 31, 2017 Your poem is amazing and can change lives. Alcoholism runs in my family and although I was lucky and escaped the curse, this helps me understand and I will forward to someone close! Thank You!! Reply J. Simon Harris, Raleigh, NC June 1, 2017 That’s very humbling. Thank you. Alcoholism can be very tough to deal with, as Edgar Allan Poe certainly knew. It’s good that you escaped the curse, as you say, but it can be just as difficult to see a loved one struggle. I’m honored that the poem has moved you enough that you’re sending it to someone else. Thanks again! Dona Fox June 12, 2017 Thank you. Wondrous. Reply J. Simon Harris, Raleigh, NC June 12, 2017 Much obliged. paul hawkes, Aberteifi, Cymru/wales May 31, 2017 Menu A La Minute bonnie Dubonnet from land of Monet ouzo Greek boozo Ani-Seed likes it best with nice ice pumpkin iron ses-ame see sow seeds salt of the earth organic Greek olives far from Kalamata-ous tzatziki Greek starter smarter taramasalata bar-b-q bargee on Dutch barge with Indian bhaji tried curry early flavour his chuztneypah savour don’t come the raw prawn cocktail Soup of the Day soupcon away being super cawl all the call you’d want it to be no need to scowl poached eggs salmonella/asparagus come on a coach with a poacher/ aspire to bed a smoked salmon Eggs Benedict benefit from saucy Hollandaise fool English rasher fatty fry-up saus-black pud-basher Welsh Rarebit as rare a bit of not-rabbit could wish for Oz pommies frites French fries Michelin 5-star spuds-u-like Harry Coe overtly orders haricots verts pizza the action salty fat reaction pasta-baker past besta pesta can’t live in the pasta pesto pestered fish course coarse of course scampi scampered a mish-mash mushy pease veg moussaka a mousse quorn corn not mouse/moose Lamb of god lambasted the little Lambikins crucified not fasted A La Carte D’Or porky pies told by butcher post Chernobyl 5 legs window “just don’t say all from same lamb” Dracula’s heart ache stake steak tartare raises stakes ta-ta horses over the sticks korma on form-er not much warmer than the norm-er vindaloo goes well with vin from Vinnie’s vineyard phall hottest never fails full-fill fallout in mouth Scottish bonnets hottest chilli bonnie red peppers look like Tam O’ Shanters retsina resinates when pine for wine vine pancake Panhandle can handle if panloafy crepes crept over creepy creeps still creeping about feta better if without Danish fetters bara brith fruity broth bar of cake see-food and eat it “Ice cream” I scream as I desert last desert for dessert coffee they can’t make for Evertonian fan Toffee digestif digests the teef scotch-on-the rocks at school carcinogen hard knocks brandy randy cancer agents handy or hand-shandy Metaxas stars Milky Gala-xy Way absinthe makes the heart grow fonder Van Gogh mad if much stronger pan-galactic gargle-blaster at the very laster whole meaty Bill they dairied to pay in full at the heart-attack till Artijoke I was Leaning on the Tower of Pizza had a Trifle of the Tower in France don’t eggsaggerate been kebabbed said Pitta a blood doner by magic mushrooms Abrakebabra Open Ses-ame pull my legumes set my pulses racing while full of beans I falafel for you Rosemary sage mage s-parsely gives of her thyme I seed it cumin beware the cancerous tumouric of the nuclear fishin’ Mackerel the Knife in a pickle be jolly hum(er)us an advocateado or 2 of the Sardineistas I should cocoa just teasing the tea leafs see-food and eat it Oliveatea type o-vile writer o-live and let o-live take your veg-an leaf it out get your nut-rition ration not nut-ting chicken out if you’ve got a beef telling porky pies about salmonella rasher than a bake-on butty the silly burgers dont know what’s at steak when the chips are down sits in the taxicabbages practises appeasement with her collieflower dog listens to brocolli and roll and Herb Alpert spinaches it out as long as can so saucy to Tom-ato so pure-eh? Gaerlic ancestry you c-love time to say goodbye tatahini get bakhlava to our ancient Greek tzatzikistry ouzoing re(t)sin-a taramasalata very much Reply S David Gold June 1, 2017 There once was a man from Madrid who kept all his wealth under lid ’til his wife got the mood for boiled seafood and cooked all his dough with the squid. Reply Edmund Jonah June 1, 2017 There once was a pear on a tree Who desperately wished to be free When he was plucked How loudly he clucked But the pear unaware He’d be ate till too late Now wished he were back on the tree. Reply Ruth Asch of Madrid, Spain June 1, 2017 Trifles The moon is candied lemon on a cake iced midnight blue. The kind of sweet disaster no ordinary Mum would make, just you. Like when gingersnaps went floating a lime green-jelly pond: no settling for trifles; biscuits became goldfish touched by your spoon-wand. The fruit-cake fell down-under collapsing in a heap. Re-named Wallaby Pudding ignominy to family fame – at one leap. Your words and thoughts play monkey: swinging, upside-down, immensely irritating to men whose heads believe they wear a crown. They earn the daily bread and just desserts. Anarchic fun is not everyone’s cup of tea. But sweetened with such lumps of love – a mug of sun. Reply Ruth Hill June 1, 2017 Geoduck I slipped on a geoduck, on the buoy deck, stuck on his boy-neck. Feet flew on gooey glue. Slippery slick trippery trick. Oh, heck! I nearly broke my neck, on the neck of a geoduck. It raised a welt. He wished I were a whelk. Reply Jim Tweedie June 1, 2017 Jim Tweedie, Long Beach, Washington In Praise of Baklava Baklava is a tasty treat in Turkey and in Greece. When Pashas ask for something sweet they get a fresh baklava piece. Flaky pastry—sometimes nuts—and honey (apples, too), There are no “ands” or “ifs” or “buts,” baklava is the thing to chew! In ancient Greece Diana was the goddess of the moon. She never cooked or baked because she hunted morning, night and noon. A shame she wasted all her skill for now she is quite dead. She could have been immortal still by baking baklava instead. Reply Al Salehi June 2, 2017 Ordering Dessert Since you are on a diet, and together we are one… To satisfy your sweet tooth, Honey, Sweetie, Sugar Pie… I have no choice – but to take one for the team. © Al Salehi 2017 Buena Park, CA All Rights Reserved Reply Amy Foreman June 2, 2017 Love it! 🙂 Reply Al Salehi June 2, 2017 Thank you for the kind review, @Amy Foreman Steph Myers, Tigard, Oregon June 2, 2017 NARE FARE Nostrils can be caverns filled with hidden delights, more breathtaking than bristle forests or mucoid stalactites, with treasures extracted only by forceps or great gusts, gems stashed by deft toddlers whose vittles they encrust: hamburger, edamame, peas from chicken pot pie, blueberries, golden beet bits, dilly cream cheese on rye, champagne grapes, tapioca, macaroni, tater tots. Nimble moppets defy lessons that wee noses are not: for stuffing with stuffing, ladyfingers or pears; for plugging with pickles, wheat crackers, eclairs; for bunging with bacon, bean salad, or pitted dates; but merely for sniffing foods on septated plates, with compartments for cuisine cut up small with care, before parent doing dishes spies kid with snoz-blocked stare. Reply Michelle Simon June 5, 2017 This is quite funny. Nice work! Reply Steph Myers, Tigard, Oregon June 5, 2017 Thank you very much! Father Richard Libby June 2, 2017 I’m glad to be a Texan; we feast on hearty food. Smoked brisket and potatoes and slaw are mighty good, And pinto beans, well seasoned, augment our cooking’s fame; But if you add cilantro, I’ll pass, thanks just the same. Old Mexico’s influence can be perceived with ease; We love our breakfast tacos, with meats and eggs and cheese! A tangy, spicy salsa is always kept nearby; But if it has cilantro, I’ll eat my tacos dry. Give me sage and lavender, and rosem’ry, dill, and thyme; Parsley has a pungent taste, and basil is sublime. Chives make a dish more tangy, and mint makes food more sweet; But you can keep cilantro, that’s one herb I won’t eat! Reply Dona Fox June 12, 2017 Thank you. You’ve charmed me and made me hungry at the same time. I can smell the carnitas cooking. No cilantro in sight, in your honor. Reply Father Richard Libby June 14, 2017 Well, thank you very much! Perhaps I should write more anti-cilantro poetry. Let’s see . . . . what words rhyme with “soap”? C.B. Anderson February 27, 2018 Father, I am totally with you when it comes to cilantro. This reply is a bit belated, and I hope it will come to your attention. In my opinion, there is nothing better than cilantro to ruin a perfectly good meal or a nice bowl of guacamole. Once (only once) I had a crawdad pie that was actually improved with just a trace (a small trace) of cilantro. You have read a number of my poems. I know this because you have made comments. My metaphysical poems walk a fine line between faith and doubt, as you must have noticed. This is just who I am, a prodigal not always in perfect harmony with his Creator. Reply Florence Major, New York, New York June 2, 2017 A Mirepoix for Batille Day* Liberté, égalité, fraternité- Heads rolled like vegetables of Escoffier In baskets never meant for pommes de terre, Choice as truffles, but not elantière, Sliced to order, no longer earthly fare. This banquet was to feed the multitude Who cheered the falling blade the Chef had honed. Their pot au feu was boiling as if stewed, The Country’s fair were being pared and boned. Then in frenzies of anticipation The kitchen and the larder ran amok: What they thought was cleansing of a Nation Became the rapid firing of each Cook. Egalité was braised and put to roast, Then Boney crowned himself and was French toast! *Bastille Day is July 14. Reply Bernadette Perez June 2, 2017 Edible Strawberry The Seeded Stud Edible Hello, Sweet fleshy one Raised in a rural town Where locals know your name Relief has no shame Stem open doors to remain Support comes naturally Water from the moistened soil Sprouts my roots My pink skin turns to fire red A burst from a blushing bloom My fleshy body ripens soaks up sweet sensation The taste is so delicious Full of mass nutrition Pick the berries in early day Before the locals can display Reply L. W. Owen June 2, 2017 A-Prankering Today I took a hankering for something quite lip-smackering, so… grabbed a sweet-salt snacker thing, and chewed with great think-thankering. Until with some purturbering, a strange taste was occurerring. Without a doubt disturbering, my mouthful was a-puckering! What was this awful sour-zing? …this wretched, spit-it-outering? I looked at my handful of fling, and there it was! Persimmons! GREEN!! Who ruined my treat? I wonder who? The proof’s in the pudding. Was it YOU!? Reply Hannah Johnson June 3, 2017 My Love Affair With Flan We met in Arizona In a never-ending summer A small brazilian lady Introduced us to one another Little did I know, This would be an unhealthy infatuation I would hide you from all others My eyes dilated, became hazy Then steadied You were breathtaking I inspected your curves When you concave and life Where your soft edges feel best on my lips I never knew We looked so good together What stuck me at first was the way you move To my tongue you are a vibrant foreigner You hold a sweetness so potent You cannot help but spill from you corners It took some patience, some money Some trial and error too But my love, every failed attempt was worth it To simply partake of you You must know as the years pulled us away To the arms of another Hard times meant artificial substitutes Which did not satisfy this hunger When they say you are “no good” You seem “flimsy and cheap” Make them sick to their stomachs, Make them disgusted and leave This is not their choice, my love They’ve never known you as I do You are more than my confection You are my home I come to We met up again, With some wings and chips I took my time to reintroduce You soft, honey glaze To my sugar-starved lips You outshine every temptation Every poor excuse Tonight, we will meet again It is you I choose Reply Carb Deliseuwe June 26, 2017 The Man at the Counter The man sat at a counter in a restaurant. He was consuming fluffy and light brown hotcakes and sausages. He thought, ‘It’s exactly what I want.’ (Nearby, another man was eating some bran flakes.) He leaned to put some golden-yellow butter on, and then he poured some syrup, making little lakes. He struggled briefly with a sausage, in that dawn, and then gulped it down after forking it good, well. The sweetened hotcakes melted in his mouth. A yawn appeared upon his face, a wee trace of a smile. He gave a tip and paid the bill, then left that spot content. That satisfaction lasted for a spell. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.