No matter what your specific tastes are, we all have them. Everything & Anything, can and often is written about and or expressed through Poetry, involving…? You guessed it,
And why not? An old Jamaican saying states, “Food is The Staff Of Life”, DEEP. During funerals, in many cultures, the food is SERIOUS BUSINESS.
Think about it? Who hasn’t eaten something so good, that you knew you were dissolving into its rich blend, touched every sensory perception that you had & some you newly discovered and or forgot? You that went down just right as it soothed its passage, gently filling your beautifully created vessel? Spreading its richness all over your essence? Yep, food matters and many poets have expressed this as well, lol!
We’re not here to promote any food agenda’s or menu’s, nor to cater to diets or health specification and or limitations. But there will be “FOOD-PORN” (Sorry no nudity or grossness, just food & dishes) now and again, lol! Maybe you’re a Magician in the Kitchen! Heck, maybe you’re trying? Let’s see what you got! Hmmm…Maybe your dish or picture of something yummy can inspire a poem, lol! Hey, stranger things have happened, lol!
~By Maxwanette A. Poetess
We all enjoy delicious food,
Makes us happy, fixes our mood.
It’s all about the juicy taste,
Doesn’t matter, where the food is placed.
We should consider, nutritional support,
We shall need it if we engage in a sport.
Energy; food provides – plenty
Need a bit more, if we’re over twenty.
A great dish, we should all savor,
Eat slowly, as we taste the flavor.
Choose our very favorite cuisine,
Is it red? Or is it green?
BY ROBERT FROST
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe it’s coming on,
Or just some human sleep.