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

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The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary.


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67 Responses

  1. Bret from Brooklyn

    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

      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
  2. Juanita from Michigan

    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
  3. Sally, Silver Creek, NY

    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
  4. wendy lee klenetsky

    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
  5. Alex Phuong

    “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
  6. Amy Foreman

    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
    • Liza Williams

      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

        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

        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…

  7. G. M. H. Thompson

    “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
  8. Joan Carol Fullmore

    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
  9. Christine Tabaka

    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
  10. Susan Martin/Ocean, NJ

    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
  11. Bob McGinness / Columbia, SC

    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
  12. Josh Lefkowitz

    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
  13. C.B. Anderson

    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
  14. Wendy Bourke

    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
  15. Liza McAlister Williams

    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
  16. David Watt

    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
  17. Noah from Delmar, DE

    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
  18. Jessica from Browns Mills, NJ

    “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
  19. Charles

    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
  20. Michelle Simon

    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
  21. Suzanne in Connecticut

    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

      Your poem is So good and I agree! Going to get a tenderloin this week!!!

      Reply
  22. Judy from Gautier, Mississippi

    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

      I like peanut butter – but I like your poem, too!

      Reply
  23. J. Simon Harris, Raleigh, NC

    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
  24. paul hawkes, Aberteifi, Cymru/wales

    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
  25. S David Gold

    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
  26. Edmund Jonah

    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
  27. Ruth Asch of Madrid, Spain

    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
  28. Ruth Hill

    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
  29. Jim Tweedie

    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
  30. Al Salehi

    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
  31. Steph Myers, Tigard, Oregon

    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
  32. Father Richard Libby

    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

      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

        Well, thank you very much! Perhaps I should write more anti-cilantro poetry. Let’s see . . . . what words rhyme with “soap”?

    • C.B. Anderson

      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
  33. Florence Major, New York, New York

    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
  34. Bernadette Perez

     

    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
  35. L. W. Owen

    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
  36. Hannah Johnson

    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
  37. Carb Deliseuwe

    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
  38. Angela

    Can’t Live Without it
    by Pookie McDowell:

    When I see it I want to eat it my belly begins to growl
    If it’s green and good for me my nose turns up and my mouth becomes a frown

    Sometimes it’s mooshy and kind of gooey too
    Other times hard and crunchy but rarely the color blue

    If I go without it, i get a case of bad moods
    Bless that hands that grow it
    Man, how I love my foods!

    Reply
  39. wendy lee klenetsky

    FUNNY-FOOD-LIMERICK
    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 beers
    So he got up his might, and very polite
    said “Neighbor, please lend me your ears!”

    Reply

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