You Found My Way
you cook so well
and i am so
anticipating about
the new menu
on the white
porcelain plate
beside the
silver spoon
and fork
and the corrugated
knife fit for
the medium rare
steak
more rice please
more lemonades
and lots of
lettuce for the
salad
a ripe mango
and alligator
pear
on a platter
lady, you found your
way into
my belly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Happiness In A Platter
fruits in a platter,
pineapple wearing a crown
apples, green and red in shining gloss
of their glory,
alligator pear
sleepy,
ripe mango,
your hands carrying them
your breasts
helping to put them all
in one platter
of flesh.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Last Poem Shall Tinker With Mood And Meaning
silence silenced, and dreams dreamt,
and the speaker that listens upon the beatings of his heart
like a little drum inside his chest.
it is this resounding. this re-echoing
that like a spoon and knife to a porcelain plate
tinkers with the meat and beans,
segregating, and choosing little things
in colors and smell, and swallowing some and
throwing out the rest of what we
like to have inside us. sorrow and pain.
joy and bliss. yours and mine. you and i.
these are categories that we see and feel,
and care and care less and choose.
we tinker with mood. we like always to choose,
and discriminate, the spoon is a spoon and the fork is a fork.
and the knife that cuts,
we are careful enough. There is meaning now.
Blood drops out from your veins, and some beans
turn red. You cull out, what you want to believe.
you leave and carry with you
what is painless. That is as simple as that.
more or less, either/or. write the name of the person
that you love. Burn those that hurt you. Close the door.
Open the window. See the sun. And let always the moon
to kiss you by your window. It does not know what a door is.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The ripe pear
Quartering this ripe pear
- a knife-and-fork job; it gave little away
except a slight softness around the stalk,
yet seems to contain more juice than
any work of man could hold -
quartering this ripe pear,
I'm caught up in wonder:
this is almost too good for human beings -
it should have a religion built around its praise;
as if it wishes to tell us something
that we might have overlooked
about such mouth-worn phrases as
Nature's bounty and God's grace..
or as if, two thousand years ago,
it had leaned, heavy on its branch,
from the wall of Plato's leafy Academy,
saw him writing of ideals,
and smiled;
and now I've written that,
I can eat this pear,
tasting it and what I've written;
this pear, I swear,
now tastes even better;
as if I had submitted
on some altar, to be consumed by praise;
praise that tastes of pear; pear that tastes of praise.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Medium
Medium, medium.
Waking up I smell the scent of coffee on the brew,
And I think about the amount of the sweet,
Id like to have in my cup today.
One for the two lump, three lump, four.
No half of one, no less no more.
Just give me a chance, let me make it mine.
Id like a medium blend of that piece of pie.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Dinner time just rolls around,
And I think I crave a steak but,
Im not too partial to the meat,
When its cooked too long and Im made to wait.
Not too much of the parsony,
And just enough of the spice.
I think Id enjoy a medium-rare dish with a side of fries.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. just a medium. medium.
? ? ? and I smell the pits but ? ? ? ? ? .
I couldve sworn a ? ? ? last week and scrubbed like ? ? ? .
I like to stink just a little bit,
Just to keep you on your toes yes.
The more I stink the more I think,
That you smell like a rose.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. medium. medium.
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pear Tree
Silver dust
lifted from the earth,
higher than my arms reach,
you have mounted.
O silver,
higher than my arms reach
you front us with great mass;
no flower ever opened
so staunch a white leaf,
no flower ever parted silver
from such rare silver;
O white pear,
your flower-tufts,
thick on the branch,
bring summer and ripe fruits
in their purple hearts.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Feelings Are Not Logical My Dear Cindy
looking for love? finding love in some discreet dark slits of the streets?
not quite right. Let love find you cindy, do not hide.
Take the good side of the lighter side of the system of the shin.
Take flight. Let the bees chase the flowers.
Do not an earthworm be like, in the hollows hiding
There is no mate waiting.
Show your glow. Be like a firefly with a light luminous carried by its body.
Glitter. Twinkle. Show not a wrinkle. Periwinkle. Tingle.
Be like a shining sheen of the sunny side up of the favorite fried egg
On the white porcelain plate. A fork. a spoon, a glass of tea.
Pancakes with glaze of honey.
And pink watermelon slice and yellow pulp of a ripe mango.
Eat. Lick. Savor. Bittersweet. Sweetest of all sweets in
Suntory Whiskey. Feelings, oh, feelings my dear simply utter
What is there. What is felt by the heart. Like all these
There is no pattern, no system, no formula,
All but unfinished roads, and you figure out
What to do, where to go, but Here you are
Start from here. All. It is all play. Enter.
Click the right icon for you.
Press enter. Go.
Fly away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Other Side Of This Equation
beyond poetry
do not think of something
deep and mysterious
it is this ordinariness of our
everyday life
that comes after
i am finished with the last
poem for tonight
i will be watching the evening news
as i sit on an old hard wood
chair reserved just for me
as i start opening my plate
and wipe my spoon and fork
with this soft white cloth
on a menu of soft rice and
unsalted fish and green
leafy ferns heavily spiced
with onion and red ripe tomatoes
beyond poetry is this eating
this dinner and this listening
to the happenings of events
around us, this comments of
tsk tsk tsk
and u huh. and what the hell
is happening to this country?
this waste of lives and waste
of so much time on matters
of injustice and defrauding
and blinding and shutting
and shouting and shooting
after this dinner i may read
some poems again and even
write some more, but it is
getting late, and the door
is locked and the windows
are all closed and the wind
has come with a stronger rain
earlier this time, i have decided
to sleep and stop minding what
is happening to my surrounding.
beyond poetry, too, is rest.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What's On The Menu?
Now don’t be rude
Yes I like my food, ok it shows a little
Mmm blue cheese and crackers, got to have a pickle
Spaghetti Bolognese, muesli with blueberries
Chocolate of course and ice cream with cherries
Give me a steak of medium rare
A fresh rocket salad
better than a love ballad or a prickly pear
Seafood fresh from the ocean
Carrot cake like mother used to make
Tradition set in motion
Sunday roast, burnt toast
Well just a little overdone
Crème brulee, savoury soufflé second to none
Eggy bread, wine gone to my head
Cup of Earl Grey set on a tray for afternoon tea
Cucumber sandwiches just right for me!
poem by Allie Lusha
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A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love's Young...
They were young lovers, and seated at the table in the window;
where in Paris they'd be watching
the passers-by watching them...
but no.
He was silent, unyielding; but uncomfortable;
she with her head buried in his shoulder,
and pale as a damsel
in some stress.
I thought at first, they've had a long night
and she tired first...
but no.
They looked at me as I took the table across from them
as if I were a threat to their lovers' bubble
of unhappiness
not quite fully demonstrated...
Their order came.
He'd ordered a huge steak platter each;
and with his male priorities,
tucked in with vigour
eating with his elbows
which made it difficult for her
to maintain her body code
so leant her head behind his shoulder blade
uncomfortably
and left her meal untouched;
he undaunted;
one sensed a sympathy held sternly
by a sense of moral support;
it was not unbecoming
to another male...
but she was getting nowhere
and his was a large and satisfying steak.
Finally, she pushed her plate away.
I must say, she played the lovers' code
just right; not overdone,
not underdone, just medium please.
Minutes later
he went off to the Gents.
And then she gave the game away.
Sat up, mind clear, looked out the window
and very, very nearly
did all those feminine things
done at such a time.
O lady, lady, in thy orisons
be all thy sins remembered.
But they left together;
as if with a common purpose.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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5. All Scone
Fresh baked scones all golden brown
With jam and clotted cream
Espresso coffee frothy whipped
For high tea what a dream
A platter full of sandwiches
Garnished green with salad
Piano in the corner plays
Another well known ballad
Torn between selections
Is it brown or maybe white?
Having cut the crusts away
Leaving nothing but one bite
Out came the fancy cake plate
Full of fresh baked scone
Six of them and four of us
I hope for more than one
We finish off the platter
Now scones all piping hot
I didn’t eat mine quickly enough
So one was all I got
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Born Without A Silver Spoon
I was born without a silver spoon.
On a raining day in the month of june.
We lived in a face me and face you,
it was a crowded neighbourhood.
Born without a silver spoon.
To have a three square meal
is like wishing for the moon.
Many times we bed the night,
cold night without food.
Without a silver spoon.
My father struggled me through school.
Primary, secondary and university
education i made it through.
A silver spoon.
My wish which must come true.
For i dream of it everday.
Think about those moves i'll make.
Praying to God for steps to take.
Though i was born without
silver spoon.
Yet if heaven be true,
my family's pain will not be vain.
I was born without a silver spoon
shall be erased.
To my generations it shall be a tale.
And only a silver spoon shall remain.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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Woman is like a mango
A girl is a mango infantile,
That tastes in pickles.
A lass is about ripe mango,
That tastes in curries.
A woman is a ripe mango,
That tastes with its flesh.
At forties as juice and at fifties
As jelly, she lingers to my taste.
Even in sixties, she is like mango-essence.
In seventies, as endosperm of its nut
She still taste though differently.
Woman to men is evergreen.
29.05.2001, Berhampur
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sunrise's Entrance
sunrise is such a lady
with a fashion sense
clad in rays of light
slim between the
shadows of the trees
jeweled with diamond
warm like a lover's hand
sunrise dramatically
arrives full of hope for
another brand new day
there is a fruit tray by the
window
five shiny red apples
there is a base of white
magnolias inside a
golden vase by
the window
there is breakfast on the
table: smiling fried egg
tasty hot dogs, pearl white
rice, brewed coffee and
a slice of ripe yellow mango.
poetry in bliss
music from the breeze
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Strange Restaurant
I said, 'I'll take the T-bone steak.'
A soft voice mooed, 'Oh wow.'
And I looked up and realized
The waitress was a cow.
I cried, 'Mistake--forget the the steak.
I'll take the chicken then.'
I heard a cluck--'twas just my luck
The busboy was a hen.
I said, 'Okay no, fowl today.
I'll have the seafood dish.'
Then I saw through the kitchen door
The cook--he was a fish.
I screamed, 'Is there anyone workin' here
Who's an onion or a beet?
No? Your're sure? Okay then friends,
A salad's what I'll eat.'
They looked at me. 'Oh,no,' they said,
'The owner is a cabbage head.'
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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He's Not Fond of Rice
She dresses nice and speaks with falsities.
But she's never without spring water.
She wants to give impressions like she's queen of deities.
But true leaders listening in are getting bored(er) .
She shops without stopping for those TV ops.
In the finest silk tailored suits.
And her hair doesn't move' cause it's glued!
He's not found of Rice.
Me neither.
It gets gummy on the plate when it's thickened.
Not too many cook it right.
And overnight it has lost many their appetites.
Some might like their Rice,
But I dislike it when it sickens.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Kissing My Disgrace
Cut her into little pieces
Move her round the plate
Knife and Fork, Ill dream you're all talk
I'm kissing my disgrace
Kissing my disgrace
Older fragments with no meaning
Cloaked her smiling face
Today I eat myself a breakfast
I'm kissing my Disgrace
Cut her into little pieces
Move her round the plate
Knife and Fork, I'll dream you're all talk
I'm kissing my disgrace
Kissing my disgrace (repeated)
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For My Dog Amber Who Died A Year Ago
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
Gonna catch that freesby,
then bring it right back to you.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you feed me steak, ill jump in
the pool.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you let me sleep in your bed,
ill protect you from demons and
ghost.
poem by David Gerardino
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Belly rub
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
Gonna catch that freesby,
then bring it right back to you.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you feed me steak, ill jump in
the pool.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you let me sleep in your bed,
ill protect you from demons and
ghost.
poem by David Gerardino
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