Directory Of Poetry 24

This is a listing of all my poetry. These poems are all original, written by me at different times within the last 15 years. The food poems are the most recent. Please read them and if you enjoyed them - please comment. Your comments encourage me to keep creating.

This page will continue to be updated with new poems added.

• Baking is Poetry
• Chef
• Spun Sugar
• Dessert Plating
• Cyber World
• Bonds
• The Long Ferment
• Entertaining Glances
• Once The Whistle Blows
• Autumn's Curse
  
• Ice
• Phlebotomy
• These Soulless Times!
• Grandfather
• Death of a Flower
• Fallen & Forelorn
• Lost In The '90's
• Senior Citizen
• To the Survivors
• Lonely asphalt
• Truck Stop
  

These poems are NOT to be reproduced in any form - without my permission in writing.
Thanks,

Food Poetry : The Secret Life of Chefs 18

What is food? it is life giving, nourishing both physically, mentally and sometimes spiritually.

Working with food and creating food fosters a keen connection to not only the ingredients, but the kitchen and tools used to create it - the kitchen becomes a safe haven where both chaos and creativity are awakened - the sites, the smells, the sounds become a second skin, and you develop a sixth sense about this culinary world.

Your co-workers become a living breathing single entity, each and everyone striving for the same outcome. All dancing in a timed rhythm around the kitchen , hurrying to get your prep done, to get your major courses panned in hotel pans within the steamer or in stock pans and sauce pans upon the stove, whose many squared and blackened burners are set aflame, all movements are accomplished in a delicate balance of wits and skill.

Image Credit: ljcybergal
Here is a poem that I wrote that encompasses a brief glimpse into the chef's kitchen. I hope you enjoy.

CHEF

beyond
the
flavors,

beyond
the
prep
work

and
the
working
rhythms
of
the
kitchen...

clanking
dishes,

chopping
block,

chef
banter.

the
gleaming
stainless,

the
hot
steam
venting
from
stock
pots.

sizzling
from
the
grill...

spices
intermingle
with
pilot light
perfume...

walk-in
freezer
gives
brief
respite...

grab
your
ingredients
and
go...

open
door
blindly,

across
the
kitchen
doing
a
dance
of
100
men...

always
shifting
reinventing
a
new
way
to
carry,

to
reach ,

to
scurry,

into
the
open
arms
of
your
menus...

Poem © Amber 2008. All rights reserved.

Saterday Soul Search : Food Poetry 21

In my hopes to re-ignite my poetry writing, I try to find food pictures that will inspire me - then in a creative burst, I try to write out the thoughts that come to mind and type them out immediately. Here are some of my plated desserts shots and the words that became of them...

Sugar fired ---
extreme degrees render your cube like structure molten.

How you boil into a yellow frenzy ---
Scorching, throwing your strand like tentacles
grasping and attaching

your hot intensity
slips quietly into a more permanent existence ---
Hardening , your exterior smooth,
yet fragile in
your mock
glass sheen.

Related Posts:

• Soul Search : Saturday Food Poetry
• Poetry of Baking
• Poetry : The Long Ferment

Soul Search : Saturday Food Poetry 15

In an effort to reawaken my poetry writing, I will be featuring a food photo that inspires me, then let the words that stem from that image fall onto the page. Enjoy! Comments welcomed and appreciated.

Thanks ericmcgregor for use of this photo.

Muscular and artistic hands -
weaving the magic we call presentation.

I see the art,
fashioned of edible sculpture.

Your formulations
are
the
holy scripture.

you are profit of the palate,
to
your
unwavering congregation.

cutouts of cake, bases;
the pulpit
from
which
you preach
your decadent wisdom.

Dripping, oozing
thinning sauces.

Prepping, squeezing;
till heavenly visions
are realized.

Tuiles, chocolate decorations;
An offering
of snap,
of crispy symmetry;
Oh lovely visual revelations.

Is it enough to paint those lines,
to chase perfection
to gain
culinary
holy ground?

© All Rights Reserved. 2008

Chocolate column 4

When chocolate is tempered (a series of temperature drops to encourage the forming of a specific crystal which allows the chocolate to harden), you can do just about anything --- this accetate strip was rubbed into a stream of tempered chocolate, until evenly coated. The coated side is then turned inward, then taped to form a column. These column are then set aside to harden. Once hardened the accetate strip is removed.

Here you can see the inside.

Chocolate column, originally uploaded by Amber *.

Please stop by to see my latest template upgrade, I promise it won't disapoint! After recoding and tweaking --- I think I am finally happy now.

Today we had a winter storm...the snow was blowing sideways...brrrrr!

I have been doing alot of pondering, more specifically along the lines of "Pay it forward"; If America or the World ever needed this concept--- they definetly could use it NOW!

I am thinking about all the practically nameless people, who have connected with me, in the vast cyber universe.

I browse their webpages,tinged with subtle clues from their non-cyber lives --- proof of an outside world.

Touched by the words on glowing page, after glowing page. A testament to human emotion. Sheding light on our own disablities or insecurities; making a mockery of our own sarcasms.

We are not "the blind leading the blind" , nor our we drifters.

We float on bandwidth --- toggled to our keypads. Clicking link, after ugly colored link.

Seeking out the most current and relative information.

Until our eyes strain, our heads fall heavy....overrun with the immaterial.

Poetry: Bonds 0

Where has the wind carried you?

The distance is chilling me.
Yet our bonds cannot be severed.

My heart aches with such a stone -cold.
The sun cannot dull it.

For it is etched eternally
across either of our hands.

Like a scar, jagged and incomplete in shape.
Yet, familiar.

In it's own right...
...It makes each of us complete.

Amber ©Jan. 13, 1998
All Rights Reserved

Poetry : The Long Ferment 0

My thoughts are a cloudy mess
gluten like epiphanies,
that meld into a thick opaqueness.

A forever state of
complex biochemical changes
slowly dampen my sweetness.

A rough life
my emotions inflate
leaching into alcoholic fumes.

I am stretched
into delicate webbing,
threatening to break.

A formula of years
tears moist yet salty
friction makes for uniformity.

Lay me down
let the realizations
multiply and engulf me.

Stowed internally
eventually I peak,
overflowing.

Constant reshaping
proofing the layers
which precede me.

I am thick skinned
yet vulnerable to
each harsh action.

Watch my color
fade,

the sheen ---
the splendor---

a dull reflection.


Amber © May 05, 2005. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry: Entertaining Glances 1

Soft muted colors
make impromptu kaleidoscope
in my pint glass.

Slip past the warm blooded,
flush faced regulars,
the fretting malcontent hands,
fingering empty pitchers.
Salivating mouths,
shout their ill satisfaction.

I catch your stray glances-
a haphazard tapestry of fate,
spilled out through hazy cigarette smoke.

What intentions?
Foamy realizations leave their mark.
As I sip to the tunes,
watching sharks get sharked -
in pool hall glory.

We , full of promise and alcoholic malice.
Closing time paints a weary picture.
Will phone numbers call themselves?

-- Amber © 2002. All Rights Reserved

Poetry: Once The Whistle Blows 1

All these men.
I see their faces,
in these crowded streets.

As if fallen birds -
their hearts like broken bone,
disfigured and misshapen.

Egos are like feathers
concealing the transparent flesh,
which hides the confusion within.

Away from the roughnecks,
jobs keep them civilized.

Once the whistle blows,
Find them clocking out.

from under their bosses'
or fathers' thumbs.

They watch the liquor poured,
throwing caution to the wind.

Their debts and duties---
as if the foaming head
of a lager,
--- to be blown off,
'till morning comes.

---Amber © Jan 02, 2000

The things that shape us - Grade school incidents 1

When I was 8 yrs old,my class was assigned to write about the seasons - mainly Fall. I set out my large ruled paper & newly sharpened pencil & set to work. I finished and came up with this:


When Autumn's curse comes alive,

And spreads it's
loneliness throughout the land ,

Leaves crack and crows caw for they are
all creatures of Fall.

squirrels quarrel with the mice and leaves fall
because they have lost their lives.

--- Amber © 1989. All rights Reserved.

I was truly excited to show the teacher. When she took the paper from my hands, I couldn't help but grin. But a frown slowly moved across her face. She looked at me squarely, and shrilly asked:

"where did you get this? What book did you copy this from ?"

I was taken aback. I had written this, like many of my other poems - the words seem to fall right onto the paper, with little editing. I couldn't understand the disgust she showed toward me.

Her voice grew louder & shriller - she was making an example of me.

"If you don't own up to this lie, and tell me what book you got this poem from,
you will go out into the hall - to think about what you've done!" she remarked. Her face flushed.

I stuck to my story, for it was the truth. She grabbed my arm, pulling me out into the hallway. I was alone, left to internalize this chain of events.

I know now that she had probably figured that a girl from a poor background and divorced, single parent home could never have parents who educated her, better yet encouraged her artistic side.


But that was the opposite. I led a happy existence. My mother was always full of creative ideas to keep little kids occupied. She had encouraged my creativity, more than that she had awakened my thirst for original thought.

Photography : Ice 0

An arctic blast has frowned upon my existence.
Sheeting the landscape in a frigid cocoon.

More new Poetry stuff ... " Phlebotomy" 1

A poem about blood donation, through the eyes of the phlebotomist.

Blue shades,
heart beats wander uneven skin.

Illusive tributaries
pushed to the surface sporadically.

More apparent once red color
floods vulnerable tissues.

Veins,
rubbery at first palpitation.

Cold fingers,
tap skin with skin

Make mental notes---
..."Position"..."Depth"..."How rubbery?"

Latex snaps.
Antecubital scrubbed yellow,
odor is one of sterility.

Needle uncapped,
reveals flinty surgical steel from within.

Pursed between thumb, forefinger.

Bevel penetrates flesh.

Elegant, yet forceful insertion.

Hollow needle---
---not hollow intentions.


---Amber © Jan. 11,2005. All Rights Reserved

Poetry : These Soulless Times! 0

This poem is a nod to some of my favorite poets. A bit old fashioned in it's stanzas.

PLNTS by SAM DA PLANT

Past and future stand -
mirror like images
on a vast plateau.


Trip the light fantasy -
ethereal profusion
and transcriptions.


Far from the falsehoods
and these soul-less times.


Numb to the pinprick counter action,
and calculated dreams.


I find sanctuary without any grounds.

The peace I seek
has no conventions,
like the countless nothings
without any visions.


I seek and find -
my ebbing...
deep patterned thoughts
and rhyme less conjectures.

My moods are forever roaming.
dipping like pools,
seeping into the countless cracks ---
which form in our crooked streets.

----Amber ©All Rights Reserved.Aug. 24.1999

Poetry : Grandfather 0

"Grandfather" was written on the day of my grandfather's death. I had a seat in my uncles vineyard looking out across the grapevines and the towering blues beyond..this inspired me.

Where are you?


Among the dust and vines scattered below my feet,

keeping what little warmth to nurture the roots?


Are you amongst the wings of the prairie chickens,
whimpering in content like a silent flute?


Are you the breeze who shelters us from the unwanted heat,
shivering under the soft spoken branches ---


these who nod their lonely solitude?


Or,
are you growing amongst the vines,
helping to guide your grieving wife, daughters and sons?


If I stood among the hills, rubbed the soil on me,
would you rise through my veins---


your spirit radiating to those who know?


Do you float on the tides in murky river water?


Could you take shape as the iridescence dew on the newly harvested fruit?


Or ,
do you linger amongst the barrels only hesitating in fermented fumes,


Or,
is your spirit just with us all,
piece
by unspoken
piece?



Amber © All Rights Reserved. May 28, 1995

Poetry : Death of a Flower 0

I wrote this poem within a year of losing my aunt to cancer and my cousin to an aneurysm. It is about mourning and grief.

the mourning by onkel_wart

What heals these wounds?

Like
one endless funeral procession.

The owls
are forever screeching
in our trees ---

---Calling out
the names.

Now lost
to the
infinite blackness,
akin to the night sky.

---Predicting our losses
which loom so large.

As if
each soul
were as nameless
as a star,
or
a million rosary beads.

At this hour
counting seems
futile
to the
billions
who feel lost,

here
wearing their mourning

like
owls wear their feathers.

---July 23, 1999 Amber © All Rights Reserved.

I have written new Poetry!!! 0

A poem about nightmares.

Nightmare by Kaptain Kobold

Bloody mess
broken and torn.


Wipe the barren nonsense away,
Shake off the bad dreams
and illicit pict-o-grams.



Why do you fret?


Your morbid facade`disrobed
A softness made unaware,
innocent, yet dismayed.



No longer a bitter core.



---All rights reserved © Amber Jan.11,2005

Poetry: Lost In The '90's 0

DSCF4350 By mattbuck4950

I seem to always find
the oddest things at
garage sales...

Treasured lava lamps,
and the velvet pictures...
Orange Naugahyde chairs
with cigarette burns...,

old vinyl records,
cracked of course!

How 'bout that avocado colored Formica ?

I seem to know
disco beats...Those retro fads---
crimped hair; Afros;

don't forget Charlie's Angels ®
Queen Farrah
Oh that stupid Fawcett!

The pipes froze with degrees in the '80's...

But that hustle
of platform heels
surfaced again --
In 1990.

along with that vinyl craze;
For after "you spin me 'round, 'round Baby"
We're still left dizzy!

FLASHBACK! to the '60's

The Fashion Forecaster
calls for more nostalgia...
dropping to the lower '50's...

We wear confusion like a trend in these late 1990's

---Jan. 1999 Amber © All rights Reserved.



ESBN 33737-060223-254509-40

Poetry : Senior Citizen 0

This poem was written in response to the ever growing problem our elderly are facing. So many elderly are left to wither in apartments, houses or  senior citizen homes - they lack human contact and are ignored by the younger society. Volunteer your time - affect someone who is lonely or who has no family.

Senior Citizens by nicubunu.photo

He is old -
As if life itself was creaking,
Like one big porch swing.


So many years -
Like the rusty links of a chain
needing to be oiled,
From so much wear as time jolts
taking it's tole.


His bones lay -
weathered and splintering
like old boards.


His skin, missing the radiant glow
Of it's youthful shellac,
Now wrinkled, grayed
And aging.


If not left in corner somewhere
under a layer of dust;


If well oiled with respect-
He will glide,
Carrying you on many adventures.

Last Journey by  izahorsky

Memories will flow
like a welcomed breeze on a humid,
Summer night.


And he will bask in "usefulness"
Again.


Not ill and forgotten
in the darkened storage of loneliness.

Waiting 3 by sheilaz413

--- Amber© All rights reserved. Dec.12, 1995

Poetry : To the Survivors 0

This poem was written in response to the Dec 26 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami.

Memorial by wvs

Chimes call out
in remembrance...

Time, with it's out stretched hands,
wraps a chilly embrace
on a moments' passing.

As if frost bit.

The past takes on a eerie, bluish hue.

To those ---
once alive and joyful.
Now earthly bodies blackened .

To those ---
The survivors...
Whose eyes are
Veiled with tears.

-- Amber ©All Rights Reserved , 2005

ESBN 62383-060223-540962-33

Photography : Lonely asphalt 6

Have you ever seen a photo, that inspired you to write a verse or two, or three? I saw this and was hit with a sense of immediacy, that I must pen my thoughts.

Lonely asphalt, originally uploaded by joaobambu.

I have walked down streets like this, shrouded in sunlight and shadows. 
If I could see lonely spirits, they might be suspended here 
- on gossamer strings.
                                                 - Amber © 2004. All Rights Reserved.