Hors d'oeuvres have always a pathetic interest for me; they remind me of one's childhood that one goes through wondering what the next course is going to be like - and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d'oeuvres.
quote by Hector Hugh Munro
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
If you're into architecture and you're from the West, everything is hors d'oeuvres for working to rebuild the Temple. Ultimately you're led there. You can't escape it.
quote by Ben Nicholson
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Often for hors d'oeuvres, I serve room temperature vegetables, something like that, so that the main course might be quite rich but the first course has balanced it out.
quote by Sally Schneider
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Unable To Commit
I choose not to sing,
'We Are The World' with anyone.
Don't be stunned.
I just refuse to sit and sip,
With hypocrites spilling philosophies,
They themselves admit...
They are unable to commit to,
If not assisted by photo ops...
And served hors d'oeuvres!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Serving Of More Hors d'oeuvres
The only thing that is not working for them,
Is the accusation that someone else...
Created their devastation.
And...
How could that be?
When...
No one was invited to feast with greed,
Or feed on deceit...
That did not meet to their approval.
And those the people have chosen to lead...
Are blamed for not providing to supply,
A serving of more hors d'oeuvres.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If the Beginning Had Not Ended
If the beginning had not ended...
Would we find a need to be in discussion,
About addressing its start?
Again?
Or the unbalancing of nature...
Affecting the moss growing on trees.
And who authorized this meeting in the first place,
Without beverages or hors d'oeuvres?
I hope we are not expected to pay attention.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Quickly Delivered
It's not polite to slam the door,
On the face of one who aggravates!
Invite them in...
And push them out the window instead!
Your point will be quickly delivered,
When they discover you serving hors d'oeuvres
To the attending ambulance crew!
Leaving everyone with a taste of your graciousness!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stacked On Platters
The relevance of forgiveness,
Has distanced the significance of it...
From making an influential appearance.
Indignities are serve and presented,
As a choice on a menu selected to eat.
To feast upon by many shown licking their fingers.
The relevance of forgiveness,
Has distanced the significance of it...
From making an influential appearance.
And those preparing for the main course are teased,
With the passing aound of hors d'oeuvres...
Heated with biases to please and stacked on platters.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Getting One To Speak Fluent French
You can dress a monkey in a tuxedo
To mingle amongst key guests and their associates.
But getting one to speak fluent French at cocktail parties,
To impress those of social influence
Is almost impossible to negotiate
IF they are not asked to participate in selecting the menu
And choice of hors d'oeuvres served
They can be very tempermental when feeling imposed upon
To perform in atmospheres with too many pretentious people.
Gathering around to be entertained and 'Mais Oui-ed' for kicks
'My next impersonation?
Edith Piaf
La Vie en Rose
In the key of G-flat, please
AND
May I just say this
IF there is going to be any of that fluttering around
As I deliver Edith
I'm leaving
I want that understood
I can not be mesmerizing with all that other stuff competing.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sautéed In Fiasco
Simmering and sautéed in fiasco,
This chef finds himself...
Blending a mix the patrons have nixed!
Overheated in a kitchen,
With a haste that loses taste.
And a flair that has been wasted,
On those baited to sip!
They split in droves...
And leave him this tip:
'This feast you prepared,
For us to eat...
Continues to sour
The air on the streets!
The menu was fabulous.
One we all thought we would like!
But you have shown you're a flapjack king...
With promises of pheasant to delight!
You offered us substance,
And we have waited too long for that!
Your skills are based on delusion...
Infusing hors d'oeuvres served in crap!
We can no longer wait for more,
We are sealing your doors...
With you entrapped!
Nothing you have done has pleased anyone.
We want our money back,
Before the others come...
And burn down your shack! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When Hard Times Upon Their Shoulders Drop
A remedy that guarantees,
The laughing of those of others stop...
Is to pass along pictures of them doing so,
When hard times upon their shoulders drop.
And they are in the midst of discussing their failures,
While being served with those they had disrespected...
Waiting together patiently for a meal to eat,
In a collective food share line!
Time after time and again and again,
Some people have to be reminded...
What goes up will and can come down,
When one least expects their trun is next!
'Excuse me but...
I am not accustomed to leftovers.'
~Pretend they are hors d'oeuvres.
You are very photogenic.
Who knows...
Maybe one day you will be discovered to do a movie.
And all of 'this' will be reminisced on Oprah!
Grab a seat.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Demand A Return Of Those Old Remedies
I understand the economy suffers,
From an assortment of bankruptcies.
I understand there are those...
Who may be processing for the first time,
Their own financial emergencies.
No need to tell me,
I must endure through agonies.
Yesterday...it 't'was'...
I would not fathom or could believe,
Such dire straits would dance upon the horizon.
But...
So much for tragic impressions!
'Where' is my caviar?
And before dinner hors d'oeuvres...
I've grown accustomed to eat.
I'm feeling a bit despondent.
'Uh...Mister Pertillar,
They have long not been within your budget! '
EXCUSE ME?
I want and need my delusions fed!
Where has the Prince of Delsuions gone?
'He and the others,
Were replaced by your new medications.'
Well,
I demand a return of those old remedies.
'Sir...
Your 'supplier' is on strike!
Demanding those fees be hiked.'
Oh I can't wait until they legalize that stuff!
What has happened?
Has 'everyone' been corrupted...
By rumors and that kind of bluff?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fresh Cock
No one exploited the evening.
No one dared to declare
The host as boring
As any snoring conversation can get.
Even the hors d'oeuvres seemed to beg for escape.
Faster than the 'help' could deliver them.
They were deliciously placed...
On silver platters that held homemade doilies!
And dipped to taste in minted sauce.
The better half of 'Mister Excitement' had made.
Even the chambermaids made an appearance,
To check for life by feather dusting!
And this was to be the highlight,
Until some drunkened and delusional socialite exclaimed...
'May I have a fresh cock here please! '
And all the men rushed to her aid.
As the butler squeezed a bit of lime to deliver,
To this minx!
'As you like, madam!
One fresh...cocktail.'
And she sipped and wiggled her way through,
Stiffened embarrassments!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Became Those 'Things
You became those 'things'.
Your car, your jewelry...
Watches and diamond rings.
The shoes and suits.
Shirts and ties.
The dinner parties you hosted.
With those hors d'oeuvres you insisted...
I would love if I tried!
You became those 'things'.
With such a credibility!
But when you lost them...
Something I saw died within you.
And the family you knew,
Saw that too.
None of us who witnessed it...
Recognized you at all!
Did you believe when those 'things' left...
You could restore your emptiness,
By pretending to be someone else?
That everyone would accept?
You became those 'things'!
And you expected us to accept nothing less.
Now you suggest we respect that.
But you invested your happiness in things.
And you neglected life!
You became those 'thing's you chose to be.
What makes you believe...
Now those things are gone,
You can be someone that is liked?
Without those things you seem to have no life.
And 'that' you chose to ignore.
Without them you seem such a bore!
You became those 'things'!
What are you now good for?
A useless nothingness?
You had said of me...
And your family.
And those who then had less!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Denialitis
It is true.
We are not in a 'recession'.
That happened years ago...
When we digressed from truth!
Remember the days when having 'that'
Had been the most honorable possession?
What we are currently experiencing,
Can be termed, 'Denialitis'.
The feeling of being swept away into oblivion,
And given cocktails and hors d'oeuvres...
To enhance the setting that has been romanticized.
And as long as that is kept from being diagnosed...
Call what is going on anything!
They have perfected disguising lies!
Since recession does imply,
An intended return to something,
Eventually!
Allowing an endurance that completely depletes...
But with a dignity held to be admired.
And as long as that is believed...
A complete bleeding of a quality of life,
Becomes more acceptable.
Much like a 'Night Before Christmas' story!
Keeping those thrilled with an anticipation,
A myth will come to gift them with sweet treats.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Unfortunately to The Credit of Their Misfortune
You were led wilfully to the gutter.
Now you complain there's no spring water,
To drink?
And your utilities aren't affordable?
And you admit your self worth,
AND the economy stinks?
As it's sinking?
Hey! ?
Don't stare at me!
I thought it was going to be as easy
As watching a Hollywood movie too!
One of those low budget 'shock and awe'
Extravaganzas!
But no...
The 'director' wanted to impress with this one!
This time it was decided to film this conflict,
On location with flair and pizzazz!
And it has been 'thee' most costliest productions EVER!
Unfortunately to the credit of their misfortune...
They can not blame this one on anyone of color!
You know how conveniently that has worked in the past?
Nominations?
Are you serious?
The folks behind this massive misguidance,
Should all be preparing to see a skilled plastic surgeon!
And an acceptable plan to introduce a new way of life,
That is sugar free and void of deceptions!
You talk about monumental?
Stay tuned for this rendition,
Of 'We Shall Overcome'.
Some folks are not going to adjust,
To the way the hors d'oeuvres will be served...
From now on!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Trop tard
Nature, accomplis-tu tes oeuvres au hasard,
Sans raisonnable loi ni prévoyant génie ?
Ou bien m'as-tu donné par cruelle ironie
Des lèvres et des mains, l'ouïe et le regard ?
Il est tant de saveurs dont je n'ai point ma part,
Tant de fruits à cueillir que le sort me dénie !
Il voyage vers moi tant de flots d'harmonie,
Tant de rayons qui tous m'arriveront trop tard !
Et si je meurs sans voir mon idole inconnue,
Si sa lointaine voix ne m'est point parvenue,
A quoi m'auront servi mon oreille et mes yeux ?
A quoi m'aura servi ma main hors de la sienne ?
Mes lèvres et mon coeur, sans qu'elle m'appartienne ?
Pourquoi vivre à demi quand le néant vaut mieux ?
poem by Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme
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Unaddressed
To be who it is someone claims to be,
Takes courage.
Little of what one says they are,
Is nourished to be encouraged.
People fear rejection.
Or a close inspection that upsets.
Instead of being happy with self confidence...
Some choose to seek approval,
With an acceptance of their footsteps.
Could this be connected,
To the mess that is today reflected?
With so much nonsense gone unaddressed...
And groups collecting to blame others,
For the lack of shown respect.
And satisfied to express in silence...
Their disappointing druthers to confess.
While a condoning of this continues to expose,
People who wish a quality of life to exist...
But caring less they produce an atmosphere of misfits.
And down the gutters their standards 'high browed'
Are watched like bystanders as this is slowly being disposed!
Allowed!
However...
Heard in heated discussions is the significance of this!
Everyone wants to project they are equipped with intelligence.
With resumés to prove they have the schooling and experience.
But for what?
To observe from glass towers eating hors d'oeuvres?
While below their own butts are being guttered?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Let's Go For Our Walk
A festive time they had.
Wining and dining,
And sipping on the best champagne.
The only complaints heard,
Were the hors d'oeuvres were late
In being served.
And the servants' shoes were not shined.
Times change overnight!
These same folks are finding themselves uptight.
Every dime that they had and their homes are gone.
Investments made and lives lived on good credit...
Came thundering to an end,
With the event for them was a freakish storm!
'Horace? Where's our money, dear? '
Horace snapped his mind...
When their 401k took a deep decline!
And the banks stopped all loans and credit...
As excuses for bankruptcy,
Bank executives could not find!
And the greatest of their pretensions,
Became as worthless as they saw those homeless!
Now the churches seem packed with redeemers...
But God does not control the mint!
And the demons who prayed to keep their lifestyles worshipped,
Suffer pain and hardships from their own decadence.
'Grandpa...
Why do you always keep your shoes shined? '
It's a reminder to keep myself respected.
And my steps grateful to be taken in simplicity.
Feeling blessed.
'I don't understand.'
You will one day.
Come on...
Let's go for our walk.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Studding
It is very much astounding
And somewhat more confounding
What happens when a horse no longer races
If the horse is just a mudder
He can still become a studder
To enjoy his future life that he now faces
Horses done with racing
Find mares so all embracing
Fraternizing with their sexy concubines
When retirement they’re facing
They go female hors-ey chasing
To better all their pony hors-ey blood lines
It surely is a shame
That a man can’t do the same
As thoroughbred, his life would be a blast
He’d have his fill of dames
Enjoying sexist games
And forget his less sexy muted past
poem by Stanley Cooper
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The Ambition Bird
So it has come to this
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine
like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
anc dome out painted on a ceiling.
He wants to pierce the hornet’s nest
and come out with a long godhead.
He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.
He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.
He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.
He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.
He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn’t it be
good enough to just drink cocoa?
I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.
poem by Anne Sexton
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