What you have cooked, you should eat as well.
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Campfire Meal
There is nothing like a meal
From a flaming hot campfire
It cooks the kind of food
For which you’ll never tire
A slow cooked smoky brisket
The best you ever got
Along with homemade biscuits
Cooked right in a iron pot
The beans are so hot and spicy
Your taste buds will yell hooray
The food is so delicious
I don’t know just what to say
The sweet corn and potatoes
Are cooked on the campfire too
Grab a plate and get in line
That’s just what you want to do
It’s the cowboy way of cooking
I’ll grab some firewood
Join us at the Rockin L & H
Where nothing else tastes as good!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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One’s life known is not authentic.
From no angle can one see
An object in full view.
The other side behind.
From no time can one see
An object in full growth,
The other growth away.
One’s biography is half cooked.
One’s autobiography is random cooked
Can history handed down be authentic?
06.10.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Duck! Don't Stick Your Neck Out
How many quacks does a quack quack quack
before he ducks for fish?
How many ducks does a quack quack duck
before his fish is fished?
How many geese's goose is cooked
because they ate up all the fish?
How many cooks cook geese
before their goose is cooked?
How many fowl fall foul
of fowl hunting cooks?
How many fowls' geese are cooked
before they flew from a foul hunting cook?
How many ducks' goose is cooked
because he didn't duck duck duck
when a fowl cook reached for his neck?
poem by David Taylor
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Domestic Shades 3
Kitchen mine cited varieties
Recipies, utensils, strange personalities
And Pathamadai Parvathi..
Matted her tresses to a lulling shine
Out with her freckles and pimples
Powdering talcum on a tantrum
Eye lining into the mirror
At a whir of every possible minute
In my absence..
Cooked my anger; ate my temper
Old Parvathi paatti next
Chithi patti for everybody
Of tonsured wedlock in yester pathos
A needy helper
To cook off my in- laws' diabetes
Cooked, ate, drank
Cooked, ate, drank
Often and nasty
Hardship towed me
Timely bruised by my paralysed m'-in-law too
Fortune eloped with chithi patti
Misfortune betrothed me
Hell of two months..
Parvthi paatti back
For a pay through her nose
poem by Indira Renganathan
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When Satanic Power Ruled A Third Reich
In another age time another pyre place agonized
beyond measure-able distance far away stretched
crimes committed surpass comprehension civilized
forgiveness murdered discarded remains unquestioned
mounds of broken coke carbon fuel cooked oven bones
pre-cooked unto oblivion new dust cremated termite mounds
mounds lie piled still an aging testament to craven third Reich.
An extract from the poem ‘Stone Cross’.85? 87?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Who Have Done A Great Sin?
The person who killed a living being, say animal or bird
The person who has supported and witnessed the killing
The person who bought the meat of the deceased animal and bird;
If you think twice, even
The person who cooked the meat of the same and
The person who ate the cooked meat;
All the five are considered to have done a great sin.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XIX: Fruits
grow the fruit till it's big enough
grow the fruit till the color turns red
grow the fruit till it smells good
grow the fruit to be cooked
don't be tricked of what is edible
a beautiful fruit can be sour
a big fruit can be raw
a delicious fruit can be poison
a cooked fruit can be forbidden
be careful of what is edible
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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We Are the Results of Our Seductions
Dieting on erotic products,
Induces an hypnotic feeling started.
And like a narcotic,
We are quick to become hooked.
Baited with temptations...
Seasoned to fry,
Or baked like a fish cooked.
And this mainlining,
Done to us without the prick of needles.
Afflicted with addictions done...
Without the prick of needles.
Dieting to get a fix,
Without the prick of needles to assist it.
Baited with temptations...
Seasoned to fry,
Or baked like a fish cooked.
Hooked!
We are the results of our seductions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
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As you cooked the porridge, so must you eat it.
He who would relish his food must not see it cooked.
My last comment was, though, that Congress has cooked the books.
quote by Don Nickles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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