Generations Apart
She was the only
Person I know
Who painted
Interior window trim
In high heels
Helping us now
Get our house ready
For renters
She has always seemed
Dressed up
Even in an apron
Back when I was five
She pretended to count
The chocolate chips
Warning me that there
Wouldn't be enough
To finish the last batch
If I kept sneaking them
I was there to help
Get her the waxed paper
Grease the cookies sheets
And lick the beaters
I just wish
She hadn't
Scraped the bowl
So very hard
With her wooden spoon
There was hardly
Anything left
For me
When she finally
Handed the bowl over
I could barely
See over the counter back then
To know what she was doing
Buzzing around her kitchen
Her high heels clicking
poem by Tom J. Mariani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Draggin My Heels
(clarke / sylvester / hicks)
First at the gate post but the last one through
I hung around far too long for you
Left out the game left out the deal
Stupid of me to be draggin my heels
Oh oh oh draggin my heels
Oh oh oh draggin my heels, heels
Time waits for no one and I wasted my time
Got to the crossroads but took the wrong sign
Id go too far didnt know how shed feel
Stupid of me to be draggin my heels
Oh oh oh draggin my heels
Oh oh oh draggin my heels, heels
If I had the chance to go back again,
I wouldnt do the same
I learned by mistakes
Id be on my knees Id be there to please
Id be anything you want me to be
You want to be
Verse 1
Heels, heels
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Women Wear Heels?
Women wear heels, fashion dictate.
Women wear heels to imitate.
Women wear heels to feel great.
Women wear heels to look taller.
Women wear heels, feet look smaller.
Sky high heels to look sexy.
To walk on heels, one can't be lazy.
To walk on heels, a balancing act.
To walk on heels, risks the back.
Hell On High Heels
Bashful betty, such a bondage brat
Dressed in latex and coated in sewer rat
A serpents tongue calculating mind
Gets top billing for her hip shake divine
Look to the sky
No rain in sight
Better wear your rubber boys
If betty is your date tonight
Honey, its how ya makin money
Boys call ya
Hell on high heels
Baby, the way ya walk it talk it
Town calls ya
Hell on high heels
Sexy suki, little geisha girl
Given every samurai a twirl
An hiv v.i.p.
Backseat panties down around her knees
Shes got no money
Cant pay the rent
Its a sunny day now baby
Every night on her back thats spent
Honey, its how ya makin money
Boys call ya
Hell on high heels
Baby, the way ya walk it talk it
Town calls ya
Hell on high heels
Honey, its how ya makin money
Boys call ya
Hell on high heels
Baby, the way ya walk it talk it
Town calls ya
Hell on high heels
Honey, its how ya makin money
Boys call ya
Hell on high heels
Baby, the way ya walk it talk it
Town calls ya
Hell on high heels
Honey, its how ya makin money
Boys call ya
Hell on high heels
Baby, the way ya walk it talk it
Town calls ya
Hell on high heels
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All I want are high heels, high heels. If I was a girl, I'd wear a lot of high heels. High, stiletto heels.
quote by Isaac Mizrahi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Away The Bowl
Our grateful hearts with temperance burn,
Away, away the bowl,
From dram shops all, our steps we turn,
Away, away the bowl;
Farewell to rum and all its harms,
Farewell the wine-cup's boasted charms,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
See how that staggering drunkard reels!
Away, away the bowl;
Alas, the misery he reveals,
Away, away the bowl;
His children grieve, his wife's in tears!
How sad his once bright home appears!
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
We drink no more, nor buy nor sell,
Away, away the bowl!
The grog-shop's offers we repel,
Away, away the bowl.
United in a temperance band,
We 're joined in heart, we 're joined in hand,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
poem by John Pierpont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seamen Three
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be;
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Three Men of Gotham
SEAMEN three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.--
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Highschool Crush
(jon lind / john andrew schreiner / paula abdul)
Look out my window
Rain comin down
Waitin at the corner
Kids all wearin their frowns
Just another monday
Goin to school
Till you come along
Kickin your heels
Lookin my way- makin me feel real
You made me blush...
You were my high school crush...(ohhhh)
Billy got married
Lizzy left town
Barrie went to new york city
Shes dancin around
You went off to college
To conquer the word
I stayed home
Thinkin bout you
Now youre back
What am I gonna do?
You made me blush...
You were my high school crush...(ohhhh)
Now give me back my dream
Ooh, how the tables turned
I see your eyes
And I feel the burn
One thing I know for sure
Theyll never find a cure
For what I got for you
My love is true
(oooohhh)
Baby my love is true
Now youre back
Kickin your heels
Lookin my way- makin me feel real
You made me blush
But that was high school (yeah)
I loved you so much
But time is changing all the rules
Enough is enough
This aint no high school crush
This time now Im ready to be with you
This ain no high school crush
song performed by by Paula Abdul
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Recipe For Chocolate Chip Cookies
Chocolate Chip Cookies
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup packed brown sugar
1 cup butter, softened
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Get a large bowl for
¾ cup of sugar
¾ cup of packed brown sugar
1 cup of softened butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
And 2 large beaten eggs
Mix by hand in large
Get a small bowl for
2 ¼ cups all- purpose flour
1 teaspoon of baking soda
And ¾ teaspoon of salt
Stir all ingredients together in large bowl
Drop dough in rounded tablespoonfuls
On to ungreased cookie sheet
Bake the cookies 8 to 10 minutes
Or until light brown
Remove from cookie sheet
And then enjoy
poem by Kelsey Isham
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Pantomime – Red Skelton and His Cat
The old man comes cautiously down
The stairs to the kitchen.
He takes the last step
That isn't there -
A bone shuddering stop.
Pausing, he searches the dark room
For the dangling light cord,
And moves toward
The center of the room -
Carefully.
It's unfortunate as the cat
Is discovered sitting in the middle of the floor.
As the old man steps on its tail,
It howls it great pain -
Startling the old man.
Finally, after groping the empty air,
He finds the cord.
Pulling it; he is
Blinded by the sudden light -
Causing him to cover his eyes.
Looking about the room.
He sees, in the corner,
The offended cat.
He ask for forgiveness -
Stoops to pet and caress.
He stands, with apparent pain,
Moves to the kitchen counter,
Sees a number of cans,
That must be cat food –
And selects one.
He shows the can to the cat;
Returns to the counter and
Taking a hand-cranked opener
He begins -
To open it with great difficulty.
Finally opened,
He places the lid on the counter,
Raises the can to his nose,
Smiles appreciately, bends and -
Offers the cat a smell.
Bracing his back he stands.
Takes a spoon,
From the counter,
And bends over the cat's dish. -
Placing a portion in the dish.
Pushing the cat away,
He adds a second helping.
Then, thinking he has
added too much, -
He spoons a bit back into the can.
Standing again with difficulty,
He straightens his back,
And once more sniffs the can.
Raises the spoon -
And takes a small bite.
Liking what he finds,
He turns his back to the cat,
And eats
All that remains -
Then wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
Guiltily he looks back at the cat,
Seeing there is liquid in the can,
He once again bends low
Over the cat and its dish -
And pours the remaining liquid into the cat's dish.
He stands,
Places a hand to his aching back,
Wipes his mouth on his sleeve,
Places the spoon and can on the counter -
And steps to the center of the room.
He pulls the light cord;
The room is dark.
From the darkness
You hear, -
'Good night and God Bless.'
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all…
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Head Over Heels
Late at night in the park
I saw her slipping in the dark
For heaven's sake, what's going on?
It's like someone is here
Got to follow now
Like beeing in trance for me
The silence here
More than all the noise
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels every day, every night
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels, oh yeah!
Down on my knees, God help me please
Gotta know who's out in the dark
I've stopped my breath, can feel the hands
Could hear the sound of people making love
I surrender right now!
I've to be touched
I feel so much...
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels every day, every night
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels, oh yeah!
[Instrumental verse]
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels every day, every night
Whispering in the dark head over heels
Overheated heart head over heels
Treating it so hard the spurting feels every day, every night!
Head over heels, head over heels
Head over heels every day, every night
Head over heels, head over heels
Head over heels every day, every night!
Head over heels!
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Comforting Place
You rush downstairs to the kitchen with excitement as the heart felt aroma of chocolate chip cookies seeps through every room in your house.
So enamored and filled with relief that your anguishing wait is over, you cannot help but notice each cookie's golden brown, wrinkled crust glistening as steam whisps seductively around your nose drawing you near, as if in a trance. While rich chocolate oasises seep delicately into each cookie.
And when they are finally cool enough to eat, you push and grab for the biggest chip, filled cookie on the rack and bite eagerly into the crust, but savoring every flavor.
The texture, so soft and moist, melts like ice in a bowl luke warm water. But, as the last piece slips down your throat, the after taste is so overwhelming that you yearn for another, and another and another until you are satisfied.
But then you comforting place is shattered, like a mirror to a hardwood floor, as your mother walks in to an empty cooling rack and a nervous child afraid of what her mother will say, with chocolate smears resting in the corners of ther mouth and the tips of her fingers.
By: Cece
Age: 14
(This was orginally an imagery activity for my honors english class. Our assignment was to write about our individual comforting place and... mine was chocolate chip cookies! So, I hope you liked it. But I don't know about you but, I'm hungry!)
Hot Chocolate
Black Butterscotch, Caramel
Coconut In A Cup
Cookies-N-Cream, Brown Sugar
With A Vanilla Scent Of Lust
Let Me Spin My Straw In You
And Watch The Waves Swirl Through
With A Thick Blast Of Honey Almond
It's A Hot Chocolate Whirlpool
So Hot The Heat Could Melt Marshmallows
And Make Our Bodies Feel Warm
I Could Feel The Temperature Level Rising
In Your Soft Steamy Form
When I Get You On The Table
Or On The Counter Top
You Are A Simply Delicious Delight
From Your Bottom To Your Top
Down To The Last Drop
I Just Don't Want To Stop
Hot Chocolate..... Hot Chocolate.....
So Many Flavors To Savor
Every Time I Finish
You Keep Me Coming Back Later
Addicted To Sweet Sips
By The Touch Of The Tongue
I Believe That I Need You
Hot Chocolate Got Me Sprung! ! ! !
poem by Cortez Maurell Lewis
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A Poet in the Kitchen
West Fifty-third was still Hell's Kitchen
the summer I first came to town,
Eleventh Avenue was boarded up,
the West Side Drive was falling down;
Jimmy Carter was still President,
though he'd become a running joke;
Abe Beame had recently been Mayor,
and New York City was flat broke.
I, too, was broke, the flat was free,
and so I landed in that place,
a walk-up three-room shotgun which
a gallery used for storage space
and where I could stay as long as I liked,
provided I kept an eye on the art . . .
but truth be told, it was hard to tell
where art might end and garbage start.
The premises hadn't been cleaned in years,
and clarity was not what the art was about--
there was clutter right up to the ceiling,
and I didn't dare throw anything out.
The bowl of pasta off in a corner,
the wall stuck here and there with pins,
might be a mural by Dike Blair
or an "installation" of Mel Chin's;
ink spilled across come binder paper,
pencil hashmarks by the phone,
might be a Vollmer, or a Tuttle,
or just a doodle by no one known;
a length of two-by-four was art;
and empty carton was art, too;
so was a hole in the plaster, where
an embalmed cockroach was on view.
There wasn't any inventory
and no way not to be impressed
with the thought that passing judgment
would be trickier than I'd guessed.
The entryway was the room in the back,
where a bathtub clogged the floor,
and a toilet filled an adjacent closet
left unencumbered by a door.
The entrance also served as the kitchen,
with no space, but with a range
on which I cooked whatever fare
I'd scraped together with spare change:
mashed potatoes drowned in ketchup,
kidney beans boiled in the can,
onions, pizza crust, and lettuce
chopped up with Crisco in a pan.
The middle room, which had no windows,
held a mattress, though no bed,
and what I hoped were only scattered
books I took a chance and read.
The room up front looked out on a lot,
and I used to sit for hours and stare
at days of 1979
from a Day-Glo painted chair,
contemplating a state of affairs
that appeared to be falling apart,
acquiring the taste for odd interiors
it takes to dwell in the House of Art.
I see myself then, learning to view
this world with a noncommittal eye:
the Russians are in Afghanistan,
stagflation is at an all-time high;
outside, the Iranian revolution
is in its first chaotic year;
inside, a poet's in the kitchen
washing won-tons down with beer.
poem by George Bradley
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You Needn't Switch Your Cookies
You needn't switch your cookies.
To offer them to someone else...
With a giving to me of a preferred substitute.
Your cookies are good...
But they have not seduced.
I was the first to taste the flavor to savor them.
Now you believe the chocolate in your cookies,
You can addict somebody else with to lick...
As you sit back to enjoy the doing.
Who came to turn up the heat in your oven?
My sensitive tongue is unlike any other!
And this you will discover...
When you realize this and come to your senses.
Only I supplied the ingredients you used,
To make your cookies taste as good as they do.
You needn't switch your cookies on me,
To offer them to someone else.
The whipping done on these you give,
With the added spice has been overdone.
And not as good to my tongue as the other ones.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cleats
The way I walk these days the tips
of my soles and the edge of my heels
wear out too fast for a man with children.
So I tell Rocco, cobbler nonpareil,
'Tack on four steel cleats,
two in front, two in back'
so I can walk home between
two full shopping bags
and whatever pride I can summon.
All four blocks of concrete,
I'll keep those cleats from clicking.
Decades ago I wore cleats
as big as doubloons;
I struck them so hard sparks
flew from the sidewalk.
You bet all the girls
in high school knew
a man was walking behind them.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Moving with it
moving, moving, moving, moving, moving, moving, moving
I’m about to jump out and hit the sky close mind and
Tell it as is
like it hit the high line and walked too far
Here it comes making it seem light is here yet creates
A loving sense of determination as though it has the
High emirates
Watch out time is here biting you so hard you forget to
Look back through the rear view mirror seeing the dust
Bowl out into the cracks of the bowl and eat it like a fruit
Salad that punches you so hard you lose focus like a boxer
Hitting the soft feathered wall nice and slow.
Oh no where has it gone flew so far yet I’ m so close to
Feel your warm breath touch me like the cold eyes of
Today
Can you feel it go through you like a lighting hitting a
Simile of a red rose bleeding slow purple violet swaying
On the vines of the grapes that fed us with such a pleasant
Cold hearted death of life.
I am watched with the eyes envious love yet filled with the
Content of it all.
I require pent up motion clearing me with a heroic acts of commotions
Can’t you accommodate me and take me to the location that you locate
Don’t hear me come through the bowl that has fed me with an improper
Self correlation of it all as we ride high amongst the clouds that is now
And tomorrow shall follow it with the same sort of acting.
You can lick the spoon
This bowl full of
chocolate treat
pouring planed
scamper feets
heres a spoon.
poem by Is It Poetry
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The Woman With You
She hit the door, 6:55
Sack full of grocries, split down the side
Can goods scatterd all the way to the curb
The look on her face saying don't say a word,
So its me and her and can of beans,
Sitting there on the front porch swing,
Western sky all turn'n red,
Head on my shoulder as she sighed and said,
I 've Been gophering, cheufering company chairman,
coffee maker , Copy repair man
any more there ain't nothing I swear man
That I don't do
I've been juggle'n, struggle'n close'n big deals
Dancin backwards in high heels
Just when it feels, that I can't make it though
She said it sure is nice to just be the woman with you
She said, the girl I was with a bussiness degree,
probably wouldn't recogonize me
I was going to bank I was going to run the mile
Now all I want to run is a bubble bath
Back then you know I had this plan
Before all this reality set in
here comes life boy ready or not
hey I wanted it all and thats what I got
I 've Been gophering, cheufering company chairman,
coffee maker , Copy repair man
any more there ain't nothing I swear man
That I don't do
I've been juggling, struggling close'n big deals
Dance'n backwards in high heels
Just when it feels, that I can't make it though
She said it sure is nice to just be the woman with you
The woman with you
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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