LPiA-25 Nov. 2

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 2

Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by a recipe. (bonus points for anything spicy)
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[RiverNotch]

What your dish needs, Photis, is not more garum
or silphium or fennel or asafetida
but a good crack of long pepper
to add a touch of heat.

Maybe a splash at the very end
of that with which the flesh-eating god
blessed his beloved mother's race
and rarefied our pleasure.

The tongue is already tender,
the cream most surely will no longer curdle
when you squeeze some fresh citrus onto the mix,
and the dormice are crisp.

Does your mouth water as much as mine?
Or is it mere sweat that runs down your thighs---

[CRNDLSM]

She's doing this just for me
A dance turned into a tease
Hands moving effortlessly
Imagining underneath
The overhanglight a breeze
Spices placed just out of reach
A glimpse of what might shake free
Cooking breakfast we both get to eat

[dukealien]

Could Not Find It


I remember you, young couple
nearly newlywed
at Thanksgiving
too few years ago.

There was asparagus
and I sighed because
there was no sauce for it.

Challenged, you teamed up
to find a recipe online
and make the finest Hollandaise
I’ve ever tasted.

Such a shame you never could
find a recipe
for staying married.

[Todd]

Recipe for Meaning in Modern Life

Why do I always take the first bite
and feel nothing?

The same dishes in the sink,
laundry on the floor,
bills unpaid, and my children
who still believe
that dreams do not lie.

The seconds between this moment and the next
are the clacking of the rollercoaster before the drop.

The second bite, crushing
the red skin, seeds on my tongue
and the heat rises
to blister my throat in a scream,
masked by a cough
a starter motor struggling
to turn the engine over

one more time.

I count the seconds
and prepare for another bite.

[busker]

Could Not Find It


I remember you, young couple
nearly newlywed
at Thanksgiving
too few years ago.

There was asparagus
and I sighed because
there was no sauce for it.

Challenged, you teamed up
to find a recipe online
and make the finest Hollandaise
I’ve ever tasted.

Such a shame you never could
find a recipe
for staying married.

Unexpected twist...nice one

[Quixilated]

Heirloom Recipe

She saw the break of dawn and eggs together---
yellow rays and yolks, then pancakes magically appeared.
Warm loaves of bread sprouted like mushrooms.
(Mushrooms also sprouted on her custom-ordered log).

Something was always boiling, baking, rising, or basting,
while the laws of nature and reality would bend around her
to accommodate her wind-like whims and sketchy add-ins.
Nothing was ever measured. Every dish was always amazing.

I thought cooking would be easy. I thought
bread basically makes itself. I thought
soup didn't need to follow rules. (it does).
I thought---but I was wrong. Dismally.

I can only conclude that my mother has magic, 
that she is some fey being who crossed realms long ago.
She fills her house with aromas and songs---with memories 
and biscuits I will never be able to replicate when she is gone.

[Tiger the Lion]

In Today's Economy

the pasta water
no longer tastes like the sea

and olive oil 
has lost her virginity

the other white meat
is outlawed in public

and daily bread 
means a tricky tummy

[busker]

In a former life he sold
paint by the kilolitre,
and in his spare time rolled
out verse in variable metre.

In town after dreary town,
with heat and dust for tea,
he nailed the recipe down
of non-attached equanimity
to the tee.

Man does not live by bread,
but the blood of man instead.
And so began his spree
(as the herd wound o’er the lee)
of cannibalism. A cowl

worn at the hour of the owl
with matching brogues to boot
rogue mafiosi in suits
he stalks with impunity.

Anything was better, he said,
than selling paint with a lead
recipe.

So if you’re a dastardly crim,
beware this man, fear him.
For though not Mano a Mano,
he took out Tony Soprano.
He’s grim.

[Weeded]

Ogrish Tendencies

Grumbly gremlin of a gobstopper
atop a swamp in lunches meats
consists of a slug, garnished
with a hint of lemon
adorned by an earwax candle
and mice, three of them precisely
to keep good company
while the fairy tale invades the peace.

[Keith]

Influencer Pie

Take a handful of bullshit,
a little a piece of soul
Turn on the bright lights
and let the streaming flow

They'll eat you in the coffee shop
and crown you with a heart
then name you the latest flop
as they lick another's tart.

[rowens]

"Lewd" Network

Isis is sameness,
Osiris is difference;
Difference ends
where sameness begins:
The Child is a Prisoner.

One in the oven
is several dozen,
even and odd though
not very thorough. 

Wind is its own
unnegotiable blowing.
Back-alley planting,
the dark seed is sterile:

potent as a rhizome
mistook for a halo;
a child is a hermit

dripping,
pure flow,
out of a cavern.

[MidaPoems]

The anguished cook

Anxiously, he looked at,
Garlic.
The angsty anger of a vampire.
The tongs are his defense.

His mind is his offense.
You are what you eat,
But dying of hunger?
Or 
Dying by the cook's hands?

He is the cook.
Or at least was,
For the clove hit his hand.

In the end,
He couldn't stand.