Potty About Pot Noodles!
He bought the 12-pack, took it home,
No patience, straight away...
Chicken and mushroom, added foam,
With sweetcorn, too, hooray...
Yet its taste required something,
The tongue to dazzle more...
With an oxo's beefy stuffing,
It thrilled him to the core!
He salivated there, of course,
For what else could he do?
The noodles topped with soya sauce,
Were spicy through and through!
He swirled and swirled the mixture round,
Aromas everywhere...
One slurp and he was Heaven-bound!
A feast beyond compare!
He leaned against the worktop's side,
Stood up and yet laid back,
With sniffing sounds he couldn't hide,
Then he took off his mac...
He shovelled noodles past his lips,
They slithered down his throat...
While spilling drips on fingertips,
Whatever floats your boat...
His guilty pleasure thus went on,
His belly boiling hot,
Till finally, all noodles gone,
He raised and drained the pot...
He licked the giant spoon as well,
Then thanked the Lord above...
You see, pot noodles cast a spell!
One pot and you're in love!
Denis Martindale, copyright, September,2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Blue Noodles And The Silver Moon
Twas christmas time in Oxford street, we shopped for presents, trying to be discreet, carols and lights that end so soon, blue noodles and the silver moon.
The cobbled street's of Tunbridge Wells, each time we kissed, it rang the bells,
love is all, when all cocooned, blue noodles and the silver moon.
Riding elephants on a Thailand beach, tsunami heartbeat and gentle feet,
blood red sky and clouds that swoon, blue noodles and that silver moon.
Summer in Paris, arms entwined, I loved you so, for you were mine, caress the louvre, mime the rhymes, bastille gate's they sense a crime, wicked feats condemn and soon,
blue noodles shiver beneath frightened moon.
Barcelona nights of a fashion lust, a tapas dawn and velvet crush, sense foreboding and creeping doom, blue noodles choke by a crying moon.
So tell me then, what changed your mood? I hoped to seek of a heart turned crude,
we said goodbye and I thus conclude, farewell blue noodles, adios sweet moon.
poem by Fergus Michael Condron
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kudos
Don't you feel a mess,
When you don't get those kudos?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
And don't you feel a wreck,
When those kudos don't come through?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
Then you find a life,
Watching mice eating cheese.
Sitting in your kitchen nibbling rice and beans.
While looking out a window hopscotching over dreams.
And there's no kudos.
No kudos.
Have you ever 'tripped',
When you didn't get those kudos?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
Did you get upset,
In a mood with no kudos.
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
And then you chased the mice,
With a broom you swung.
Knocking over lamps and feeling dumb.
And then the doorbell rings,
And a neighbor is there...
With noodles.
Meatballs and noodles.
Don't you feel a mess,
When you don't get those kudos?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
And don't you feel a wreck,
When those kudos don't come through?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
Then you find a life,
Watching mice eating cheese.
Sitting in your kitchen nibbling rice and beans.
While looking out a window hopscotching over dreams.
And there's no kudos.
No kudos.
And then you chased the mice,
With a broom you swung.
Knocking over lamps and feeling dumb.
And then the doorbell rings,
And a neighbor is there...
With noodles.
Meatballs and noodles.
And then the doorbell rings,
And a neighbor is there...
With noodles.
Meatballs and noodles.
But no kudos.
Sitting in your kitchen nibbling rice and beans.
While looking out a window hopscotching over dreams.
And there's no kudos.
But now you've got some noodles.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sexual Soup
A man so sick that the sexual soup
cannot save him -
the chicken soup of sex
which cures everything:
tossed mane of noodles,
bits of pale white meat.
the globules of yellow fat
like love...
But he is a man so sick
no soup can save him.
His throat has healed into a scar.
Rage fills his guts.
He wants to diet on dust.
I offered to feed him
(spoon by spoon)
myself.
I offered my belly as a bowl.
I offered my hands as spoons,
my knees as tongs,
my breasts as the chafing dish
to keep us warm
I offered my navel
as a brandy snifter.
"My tongue is gone," he said,
"I have no teeth.
My mouth is with my mother in the grave.
I've offered up my hunger to the air,
my nostrils to the wind,
my sex to death,
my eyes to nothingness & dust."
"What do you lust for then?"
I asked.
"I lust for nothing."
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ambush
The leopard laid low to ambush
Whatever came his way.
When hunger gives big cats a push,
They'll hunt the livelong day.
His whiskers twitched as tensions grew,
He dare not tap his toes,
He merely crouched, maintained his view
Of passing friends and foes...
His back was stretched, at peace for now,
No awkward pains to bear...
While he was poised with furrowed brow
And one almighty stare!
He licked his lips imagining
The thrill the chase would be,
The feast the drawn-out day could bring
If all went hopefully...
His stomach rumbled without shame!
He licked his lips again!
He lacked all guilt, all sense of blame,
Until the moment when
All hell broke loose, the chase was on!
His body was a blur...
And suddenly! One life was gone,
His mouth was full of fur...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2010.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Ambush'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Watch You From the Window When You Pick Up Poodle Doo
Is that your moody poodle,
You feed heated noodles to...
When I see you,
Rushing home from school?
I want to say to you,
That I could walk your poodle too.
And scoop up all that poo poo just for you.
I watch you from the window,
When you pick up poodle doo!
I imagine if I helped out...
You would not have to rush from school?
To noodle up your poodle.
Then pick up poodle doo.
Is that your moody poodle,
You feed heated noodles to...
When I see you,
Rushing home from school?
I want to say to you,
That I could walk your poodle too.
And scoop up all that poo poo just for you.
If you had a cat,
You wouldn't have to do that.
You would have so much free time.
I had a cat but he got fat...
And died when I chased him,
With a turkey butt he swallowed...
I was thawing.
For some greens I was going to buy!
He was the only cat I had,
That did not have nine lives!
I watch you from the window,
When you pick up poodle doo!
I imagine if I helped out...
You would not have to rush from school?
To noodle up your poodle.
Then pick up poodle doo.
I will do that,
If you want me to?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I wouldn't exactly call it 'cooking' but I can make noodles. That means I can boil water, put the pasta in and wait until it's done.
quote by Devon Werkheiser
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Untitled
All day and into the next
all wasted agitation
receding and twice round and
down to the shops - the shaded
smells of detergent and noodles
all that summer, trees in phosphor
the light explodes and does not yield.
Back at dusk by the Kirk walls
I pour this petition, it's
gravity falling, through a
mute wall, a pencil thin mouth.
God does not pray for us
in his heaven dear fools,
the tree's hair quilts
rooftops beyond.
This starched sky and
pavement, the moon
and silence.
poem by Lelio S Shirra
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The Ever So Tall Giant!
The farmer was busy ploughing,
With three fields left to do,
When a figure overpowering
Came suddenly in view...
The giant stepped across the gap
In seconds so it seemed,
The farmer thought he'd had a nap
And this whole thing was dreamed...
The farmer blinked yet stood his ground,
The giant's shadow loomed,
The giant's voice a booming sound...
The farmer thought, 'I'm doomed! '
'Don't be afraid, it's only me! '
The giant said amazed,
The farmer gulped quite suddenly,
For he was feeling dazed...
The giant smiled a lovely smile,
No bad thoughts on his mind,
The farmer stared up for a while,
His neck somewhat inclined...
'I'm from another planet, friend!
Just visiting, that's all...'
'Good God, will wonders never end?
How did you get so tall? '
'I'm only tall on planet Earth!
At home, I'm normal size!
I exercise for all I'm worth
And study so I'm wise...'
The farmer groaned, he'd hurt his neck!
'Your poor neck must feel numb!
I know I'm tall, but what the heck!
Wait till you meet my Mum! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I cook everything. I love Mediterranean cooking, I love Asian cooking. I do lots of Japanese noodles.
Some Like Poetry
Some -
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.
Like -
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.
Poetry -
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Homeward Bound
The elephants were homeward bound
And walked as in a dream,
As if their peace were newly-found,
Content to be a team...
Left-right, left-right, they marched as one,
Slow motion, gently paced,
Beneath God's precious golden sun
They travelled without haste...
No point in charging dead ahead,
When patience was the key...
For that would merely lead to dread,
With great uncertainty...
The little ones among the herd,
Must be protected still,
Such that no troubles had occurred,
Here's hoping that none will...
Just look at how they live so long,
Till pensioners at best
And think of how they look so strong
And then you'll be impressed...
Thus homeward bound, the herd moves on,
From day to day to day...
Until, at last, the last mile's gone
And home's the place they'll stay...
Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Homeward Bound'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Foody Valentine
My Valentine
Another day, another year through the passage of time,
Another day, another year still wanting for you to be mine,
But in my heart and in my soul as time goes whizzing by,
I’ll be addicted to you all my life till the day I die.
So I send these gifts from my heart to the one I need,
And hope there’re not rejected by the one I love to feed,
Then taste these ribs that I send and become addicted to,
And every time you taste them you’ll be affected to.
You’ll love the ribs the noodles to,
The taste will always stay with you,
Then all through the passage of time,
You’ll be my spare rib VALENTINE.
IS THIS HOT ENOUGH
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
p.s. women were made from a spare rib (Genesis)
Dignified
The wolf watched everything in sight
While he heard every sound,
For soon he'd run with all his might
Across the unturned ground...
No farmer ploughed across this land,
The wolf was on his own,
No creature there to understand
His hunger that had grown...
So there he stayed before his crime,
As if quite dignified,
So statuesque, so cute, sublime,
Yet starving deep inside...
Of course, he'd done this all before...
That's how he still survived,
But, oh, my goodness, what a chore,
Till his next meal arrived...
He licked his lips, let out a sigh,
Then breathed in long and slow...
For all day long beneath God's sky,
He stayed, nowhere to go...
But that wise wolf survived again,
Another moon to see...
That's why we'll hear him howl again,
All night, till half-past-three...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2011.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Dignified'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Way Down Yonder
The Thingamabobs and the Diddleysquats,
Ate platypus-puke and hot booger-tots.
The Tiddleywinks and the Snickerdoodles,
Had roasted head lice with stink-bug noodles.
They played all day on the purple seesaw...
Then headed on down to the Mardi Gras!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Impatient Poem
A poem with an attitude
Turned up at half-past-three,
It woke me up and said, 'Hey, dude,
It's time for poetry! '
I wrote nine poems yesterday,
Those guys give me no rest...
I slithered out of bed O.K.
And stayed there, unimpressed...
Now almost dozing, lay there still,
How long, I know not when,
Then crawled across the carpet till
I found paper and pen...
The poem prodded, like they do,
Impatient like they are,
All ready with its point of view
To broadcast near and far...
So there I was, with one eye closed,
The first line on the page,
My body slumped and strangely posed
At this most awkward stage...
The first verse came, eight, six, eight, six,
The syllables in form,
While I lay there, as cold as bricks,
Fatigued, no longer warm...
But onward, ever onward, I,
Began the second verse,
To finish this before I die,
If things should get much worse...
The third verse started very well,
I smiled at what it meant
And even giggled for a spell,
Like it was Heaven-sent...
The final verse, at last, at last,
The poem shook my hand,
'Well done, my friend, that was a blast!
I knew you'd understand! '
With that, the poem paused in prayer,
'I couldn't ask for more! '
'That's great! ' I said, eyes closed, right there,
Then slept upon the floor!
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Indian Reflections
The tiger waded further on,
He had some place to go,
Somewhere to be, where sunlight shone,
So bright as if aglow!
Not here, while waters gently stream,
Reflections here and there,
Confusing him, as in some dream,
That caught him unaware...
The river's mud stirred up and swirled,
Reflections came and went,
Such that he strode a worried world,
His time there almost spent...
While bubbles surfaced now and then
To pop and disappear!
Such wonders were beyond his ken,
The kind he needn't fear...
The tiger looked back one last time,
Content that he must leave,
Although at first it felt sublime,
He saw no cause to grieve...
The river would be here next week,
Upon his glad return!
For now, his feet dry land would seek...
His legend he must earn!
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Indian Reflections'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sakei
yasai ramen
hot and fuming to the
nose
tongue is
familiar to the
taste of
Japanese
noodles and you
recall same old faces
that make you smile
facing the
passing crowd of
people
in the mall
the banana split
comes later
beside
vanilla ice cream
you chin is
resting upon your
fist
everything is
tolerable here
until
the toy train comes
towed by a
plump white kid
whose hands are
tightly held by
a strict grandmother
what we see
sometimes turns sour
then bitter
at first glance
everything is sweet and
we think
that sweet is forever
and desirable
smooth relationships
nothing messy
but it is never that way
mind you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story
—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies—
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other—
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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High Tech World
Google
quick results
data gathered
Word, Powerpoint
chat, information highways
Facebook,
instant noodles
e-credits, etcetera,
everything at the tip of the fingers
everything at the tip of the tongue
flowing following
without much meaning
like electronic poetry
what a waste to figure out
emotions...
what emotions? nothing.
pressing keys
placing words,
and they keep figuring out
what is the meaning of all these
nothing. nothing.
decay and oblivion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Truly Yours
Hey I like you like hell,
Never can I bid U farewell;
I love you only when u r hot,
U are the nicest my eyes have ever caught;
I can have U anytime,
Rest assured U will only be my prime;
I forget if its day or night,
Even if U come to my sight;
U r awesome and to the dot,
To define U my words r falling short;
U r my lock as well as key
You are none other than
My favourite noodles Maggi Maggi Maggi! ! ! ! ! ! !
poem by Kavita Iyer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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