Beloved you are
Caviar of Caviar
Of all I love you best
O my Japanese bird nest

No herring from Norway
Can touch you for flavor. Nay
Pimento itself
is flat as an empty shelf
When compared to your piquancy
O quince of my despondency.

William Carlos Williams


How strange is Love: I am not one
Who Cupid’s power belittles,
For Cupid ’tis who makes me shun
My customary victuals.
Of, Effie, since that painful scene
That left me broken-hearted,
My appetite, erstwhile so keen,
Has utterly departed.
My form, my friends observe with pain,
Is growing daily thinner.
Love only occupies the brain
That once could think of dinner.
Around me myriad waiters flit,
With meat and drink to ply men;
Alone, disconsolate, I sit,
And feed on thoughts of Hymen.
The kindly waiters hear my groan,
They strive to charm with curry;
They tempt me with a devilled bone —
I beg them not to worry.
Soup, whitebait, entrées, fricasees,
They bring me uninvited.
I need them not, for what are these
To one whose life is blighted?
They show me dishes rich and rare,
But ah! my pulse no joy stirs,
For savouries I’ve ceased to care,
I hate the thought of oysters.
They bring me roast, they bring me boiled,
But all in vain they woo me;
The waiters softly mutter, ‘Foiled!’
The chef, poor man, looks gloomy.
So, Effie, turn that shell-like ear,
Nor to my sighing close it,
You cannot doubt that I’m sincere —
This ballad surely shows it.
No longer spurn the suit I press,
Respect my agitation,
Do change your mind, and answer, ‘Yes’,
And save me from starvation.


P. G. Wodehouse

Italian Food

Oh, how I love Italian food.
I eat it all the time,
Not just ’cause how good it tastes
But ’cause how good it rhymes.
Minestrone, cannelloni,
Macaroni, rigatoni,
Spaghettini, scallopini,
Escarole, braciole,
Insalata, cremolata, manicotti,
Marinara, carbonara,
Shrimp francese, Bolognese,
Ravioli, mostaccioli,
Mozzarella, tagliatelle,
Fried zucchini, rollatini,
Fettuccine, green linguine,
Tortellini, Tetrazzini,
Oops—I think I split my jeani.

Shel Silverstein

Daily Poem – Homesick

June 16, 2014


By Terry Molinari

For the sight of you putting flowers in vases.
For you face peeping over the windows of The house in Rochester.
For the small boy I was.
For your hands on my face.
For trips to the diner at three a.m.
For seeing your face light up
With a new found treasure.
For the smell of Spring in my youth.
For watching you read on the big leather couch.
For the way you set the table.
For time with you above the clouds.
For the sound of your voice when you wake up.
For Pound Sweet apples and strawberry fields.
For the sight of your face in the night.
For nights without sleep.
For watching you give the dog a bath.
For your touch.
For wood fires.
For rainy days.
For the man I could be.
For turning 17.
For Spring afternoons in the park.
For a snowstorm in November.
For your voice calling my name.
Calling my name.
–Calling my name.
—-Calling my name.

A tired nurse walks into a bank, totally exhausted after an 18-hour shift.

Preparing to write a cheque, she pulls a rectal thermometer out of her purse and tries to write with it.

When she realizes her mistake, she looks at the flabbergasted teller, and without missing a beat, she says:

‘Well, that’s great…………..some arsehole’s got my pen!’




And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;


Daily Haiku – Veins

June 14, 2014

veins are in the color

of a lake

chestnut blossoms

Sachiko Takase