Steve, ready to go,
ignores meatloaf: just says no!
Nothing beats jello!
Sat down to meze
that’s anything but blasé
You needn’t be Creole
to enjoy dariole
in Tirol. Or in Seoul.
Or, afloat, on patrol
as they sing barcarolle
or on a carriole
pulled by dogs Dhole and Cole.
A caleche pulled by foal
who knows to caracole?
It’s fresh, no glory hole
source: twas made by Nicole,
though vegan on the whole,
she can do carne rôle.
I really will cajole
you to eat summat, Joel!
What? You’re not he? How droll!
We should still share a bowl.
The true lasagna noodle is thin
and light, not heavy,
it’s fresh, sweet and melts in your mouth.
The perfect sauce is tasteful
and not overpowering
lightly savoury as to delight the tongue.
The succulent cheese is crispy at edges
but so smooth in the centre
with an aroma tantalizing mouth and nose.
Altogether the homemade lasagna
entices my appetite but satisfies
not only today but with irresistible tomorrow leftovers.
Who can say what rhymes with the marvelous pizza?
Surely that is only the Empress of Russia: the czaritza!
But those secrets are long gone, not even stored in Vinnytsia,
and it’s not even clear if the Empress even ate pizza.
West of her bones, in Montenegro the great city of Podgorica
sits below the cypress hill: ask Radmila ’cause that rhymes with pizza.
And there some may play the moveable frets of a tamburitza,
a long-necked lute, which would well accompany the eating of pizza.
On the day of the party those pizza-phobes may watch he or she who eats a
cheesy, goodly, gooey comestible that IS, surely, a pizza.
That will be a bright day and on that same day an oven Friar Tuck treats a
hungry crowd (none wearing a shroud nor sporting a frowd) to many a pizza.
So mark in your calendar where a big pizza pie meets a
sky you know when to lunch with more than one pizza.
I should stop there but a poet (Laureate) never knows when he completes a
poem. Especially one about the great, grand, going, going, gone pizza.
Cassie stood up
a little drunk
and announced to our table
in the restaurant
Food to women
Not to be outdone
Phil raised his beer
which he might have thought
meant he was upright
Food to men
and something to fart with.
when I’d finished laughing
made my own speech
Fuel to cars
for Climate Change.
Dead quiet was
understating the lack of sound.
They all nodded
and I sat back down
When a child gets to that age
you know when she or he wants to control
the food she or he eats
what the folks do
how they look at modern culture
you’ll find you have
to take that child to the farmer’s market.
Let she or he make the choices
though you might script some of those
as you can only carry home so many watermelons.
You guide to the homey
and good value stalls
and away from the posers
and miracle food pushers
that is to say
the real alternatives
to the grocery store
as opposed to the countrified
snake oil salespeople.
You hope the difference is seen
with the source
and not the reverse.