Tag Archives: poem about food

Please Pass the Potatoes: Feb 11, 2023

Please Pass the Potatoes

I’m not feeling spiritual and grace goes on too long.
It’s been at least ten minutes since I heard the dinner gong.
Six hours have now passed away since I imbibed in lunch.
Six hours since I had a chance to bite and chew and munch.

If they have fresh rolls, I swear that I could use a dozen.
That’s eleven just for me and one more for my cousin.
I trust that you won’t think this poem implies that I’m a glutton.
I don’t eat fish or mushrooms, rabbit, lamb or mutton.

So it isn’t true that I eat everything I see.
I just partake in food that I know agrees with me.
Cupcakes yes. Caviar no. Tripe I’ll give a miss.
Hearts and brains and liver are dishes that I diss.

I love hot dogs and hamburgers and gravy on potatoes,
but spinach does not thrill me. Nor do turnips nor tomatoes.
But if pot pies are what they’re serving now that grace is finally through,
I admit that I could do away with one or two.

Prompts today are trust, lunch, spiritual, imply, dozen,


Impertinent Food: NaPoWriMo 2022, Day 20


Impertinent Food

I don’t enjoy it when food talks back.
A potato chip or Crackerjack
makes too much noise when you are chewing,
and gives away what you are doing.

Beans tattle in retrospect
so all around you folks suspect
that you have eaten of their fruit,
betrayed by legume’s blatant toot.

Food should be eaten but not heard.
That it talks back is most absurd.
That’s why edibles less rude
are my favorite sorts of food.

NaPoWriMo prompt: I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food.



Flirtation is cathartic—a furbelow of life.
Though it is mainly fictitious, still it eases pain and strife.
It sets our spirits soaring and makes us feel much younger,
but takes the edge off appetites without dispelling hunger.

A nibble here, a small bite there might set our lips to smacking,
but a deeper part of us detects what might be lacking.
Caviar on toast is fine for an initial tasting,
but what we need is turkey,
crisp and golden from its basting,

but succulent inside, or a meal that fills us up
like an egg salad sandwich or pea soup in a cup.
Flirting’s great for starters, but it isn’t real.
What really solves an appetite is eating the whole meal.

Prompt words for today are soaring, cathartic, fictitious and furbelow.

The Vile Effects of Cabbage

The Vile Effects of Cabbage

I love eating cabbage, but its end results are crass.
It may affect digestion with propensity towards gas.
Between you and your closest friends it may create a scism
as you rival wild leaves in the wind with your psithurism.

Prompt words today are cabbage, propensity, psithurism (the sound of the wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves) and affect. Illustration thanks to Ibuki Tsubo on Unsplash. Used with permission.

A Culinary Manifesto

A Culinary Manifesto

I cannot overlook your incredible zeal
in polishing off the remains of your meal.
I surmise as you gobble up every comestible
that you are finding it very digestible.

The suspense that I felt as I chopped and sautéd it—
all of that angst that I felt as I made it—
seems unwarranted now, for it is amazing
how contented you seem to have been in your grazing.

You devoured the potatoes and chicken and peas.
You sopped up the gravy and licked all the cheese
from your plate before sucking the grease from your fingers.
And I see that your look of contentment still lingers.

Could that expectant gleam that I see in your eye
be because you have noticed the hot apple pie
that cools on the counter? I hereby assert
I’ll complete your seduction over dessert!

Word prompts today are suspense, surmise, zeal and amazing.

Edible Augury

Edible Augury

It was a type of augury, our playing with our food,
though Daddy said to stop it and Mom said it was rude.
Surprises in spaghetti, discovered loop by loop—
the future written out in words within our alphabet soup.

Mashed potatoes were our crystal balls. They told us what we’d be
stirring them around our plates to see what we could see.
We flattened peas with tines of forks and piled them in  towers
and when they fell, we saw if they foretold our future powers.

When Grandma saw us doing it, she’d rap us on the fingers
with a colossal soup spoon. The memory still lingers.
And yet I still play with my food—a type of edible rune.
I like it more these days since I’ve outlived the ominous spoon!

Image by Rakhmt Suwndi on Unsplash. Used with permision. Word prompts today are spoon, ominous, augury and surprising.

Feast and Famine



                     Feast and Famine


More is less,
I have heard.
I take another bite of chocolate,
starting more of me.
I keep getting fatter,
tasting delicious
love in my cheeks,
on my tongue.

It nibbles at my teeth.
My dental bills send my dentist to Singapore.
I floss more between my teeth.
I don’t listen
when other people discuss their diets.

It is painful
filling cavities with food.
It gets hard to sit in theaters,
my stomach pressing against my chest.
People ask if I am pregnant.
I say yes.
I am giving birth to more of me.

Meanwhile, I’m a good listener.
People eat my ears up,
take big chunks of them.
I can grow more.
Right now,
this third croissant
is going to my ear.
The next will grow me
more tongue, bigger lips.
When you notice and inquire,
I’m going to tell you stories
that will wind around your skinny waist
like snakes or punk belts,
coil over coil.

This mouth has blistered
in the sun of Africa
in countries now starving.
Well, they were even starving then.
And children sat very close
and learned the words I pointed to.
In the market,
women taught the words
that my mouth needed
to buy their goods.
This is what I bought
in Bati market
on those three hills
where the desert caravans
would wind,
where the high black breasts jutted,
where the scarred faces sought beauty.

In the red dryness,
I bought a silver beaded marriage necklace for myself.
An old woman offered it.
I thought she had done with it, it was such a bargain.
Years later, looking through my photographs,
I saw my necklace on the neck of a young girl––
her bride price purchased for ten dollars.
I never wear it.
It is so beautiful
and I
am growing larger
to feel more ashamed.

I bought also:

lemons, string and wooden beads,
embroidered strips to make a belt of,
Lalibela crosses out of brass,
Shawls as thin as gauze,
a bride dress to be packed away,
camel dung chips for my fire.

On the dead television
in the other room,
some nights they show worlds
that are not strange to me.

Things haven’t changed that much,
 though fewer die now than back then.
I’m not insensitive. I send money
I send money
I send money
but it’s never enough.
What I want to send back
is the necklace.

Too late. That young girl is dead,
buried in a woman forty years older.
I eat for her grandchildren.
I imagine their bellies
swelling with the food I eat for them.
I can hardly ever eat enough.


daily life color065

Picture taken at Bati Market, Ethiopia, 1973


For the dVerse Poets challengeto write about some hidden part of ourselves–something we would ordinarily not talk about.

Culinary Timing

We reached Corfu this morning and are now 8 hours ahead of my usual Central Standard Time in Mexico.  This can wreak havoc with both maintaining contact with friends back home, sleep and appetite. This morning as I ate breakfast at what would have been midnight back home, I wrote a poem that had nothing to do with this subject. Unfortunately, I unthinkingly ripped it up and threw it away later after I used the same paper to record our scores for a dice game, so here is a substitute on the subject of what big time changes do to the psyche as well as the appetite.

Culinary Timing

I’m in trouble with reason.  My time’s taken flight.
I don’t know the difference between day and night.
My head can accept we’re eight hours ahead,
though my body prefers to stay longer abed.

The diet they serve us now we’ve reached Corfu

agitates me with a troubling snafu.
When it’s breakfast time here, I am taken aback,
for my palate’s desirous of a midnight snack.

Time’s not in contention. I know I am wrong.
As they change the time, I should go along.
All day, it’s my stomach that keeps on resisting.
Shrimp cocktail? I’d rather they desist insisting.

Whatever they’re serving is not what I wish.
I’m ready for pancakes. They want to serve fish.
The meal I desire is not what they’re makin’.
They want to serve lobster when I prefer bacon.

I truly like visiting different places,
seeing strange sites and different faces.
Yet, I may give up traveling merely because
they cannot keep time the way that it was!




Words for today are agitate, diet, flight, contentious and trouble.

Born-again Dieter


My vegan concoction

Born-Again Dieter

My corpulent life style I now declare over.
I’ve taken an oath to only eat clover,
apples and carrots and barley and beans.
There will be less of me filling my jeans!
Instead of gorging, I’m going to be grazing.

I know the results will be just amazing.
So if you are willing and if you are able,
be careful, please, what you bring by my table.
Don’t pass near with ice cream or tiramisu

or I’m liable to accidentally waylay you
to survey your provender —those fruits of the cow—
just to “tsk tsk” your choices  with holier than thou
dieting lingo in loud fierce bravado,
eschewing your pancakes or your gado gado.
The world should bow down to my menu of choice

and if it doesn’t, in my loudest voice
I’ll be sure that you know what you could have chosen
that’s macrobiotic. That’s never been frozen.
That’s full of good fiber, sans sugar and gluten.

My mouth will be flappin’, my horns will be tootin’.
For now I’ve decided to be dairy-free,
I’ve decided the whole world should diet with me!!!


The Naming of Gassy Dan



The Naming of Gassy Dan

I’ll tell you of a man I knew by name of Gassy Dan.
It’s true he was a glutton—a mountain of a man.
A sopper-up of every bowl, a scraper of each pan.

He wasn’t the most pleasant guest to ever grace one’s table,
for his appetite was something of legend and of fable
as he gobbled up more than his share whenever he was able.

Once seated at the table, though, he never had enough
of pork chop and of gravy, still he’d commence to huff
and puff about some gossip with language rude and rough.

With his slanderous assertions, his posturings and brayings,
his sanctimonious protests and all of his trite sayings,
he punished all our eardrums with incessant oral flayings.

Thus the rumblings at our table as we commenced to sup

were not his gastric gasses growling like a pup.
His borborygmus rumblings came from farther up. 

The Ragtag prompt for the day is borborygmus. bor·bo·ryg·mus (a rumbling or gurgling noise made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines.)