Word UP!

Feel free to post your POEMS.

 

Yup! Online journal here in Toram. Nice poem! Thank you for sharing.

 

So, it's like a motivation poem? Cool! Thank you for sharing!

 

Breakfast Sandwich Bacon Egg Cheese and Ham
If you had a long week, or very long weekend, this is the perfect sandwich to help perk you up, or down, maybe!
I promise you, after you eat this Texas Size Breakfast Sandwich with Bacon Egg Cheese and Ham you’re going to need one of two things, a nap, and/or, a nap!

 

Adobong Bahay Itlog ng Manok
(Chicken Ovary Adobo)

Most of what I've read about the texture of cooked unlaid eggs describe them as either creamy and velvety, or chewier than a rubber ball. With a recipe like adobo for which a long, slow simmer is ideal, achieving the former is a matter of timing that may be difficult to hit, while risking the latter by overcooking the eggs is a definite possibility. My compromise was to add the yolks toward the end of cooking and watch them diligently, rather than leave the pot to simmer at leisure as I would normally do for adobo. Thankfully, I managed to produce balls of mildly yolk-y flavor, a consistency closer to that of hard-boiled egg white and the appearance of plump kumquats, as Japanese yakitori-lovers had astutely observed.

I'm happy to say that the dish was quite satisfactory over all and even earned my mother's proud approval. Not an ignorant child after all.​

 

Off the Turkey Path: Panch Phoran Roasted Chicken

Wild Turkey
Panicked and confused
You ran in front of us on the trail
Distressed by the aura of less fortunate fellow fowl
Thanksgiving meals past
Clinging to us
Like Marley's chains.

Brined Turkey
Succulent and moist
You were the best of them all
Immersed in salted spiced water per Alice Waters
Thanksgiving in Minnesota
Reminding us
Of family ties.

Fried Turkey
Crisp and juicy
You were too dangerous to make
Submerged in a gallon of bubbling hot oil
Thanksgiving in the Carolinas
Tempting us
To risk third-degree burns.

Porky Turkey
Tender and smoky
You were falling off the bone
Blanketed with bacon strips to keep you basted
Thanksgiving in LA
Providing us
With time to bond.

Outsourced Turkey
Tasty and lazy
You simultaneously cost and saved a lot
Purchased along with fixins' from Whole Foods Market
Thanksgiving in Urban-Suburbia
Releasing us
From kitchen captivity.

Desiccated Turkey
Dry and stringy
You tasted like cranberry-sauced cottonballs
Disguised as meat but in truth synthetic upholstery
Thanksgiving subpar
Parching us
With your absorbency.

Undercooked Turkey
Merciless and raw
You got revenge from beyond the gravy
Consumed at lunch and reappearing before dinner
Thanksgiving best forgotten
Purging us
Of all appetite for the rest of the day.

Wild Turkey
Skittish and distressed
You were safe from us on that day
Amused by your antics and enthralled by autumn
Thanksgiving meals yet to come
Freeing us
To explore off the turkey path.

 

thats some rad poetry dud.

 

To The Person Who Left Me Hanging
We all have that one person, the person that leaves without reason and forgets to close the door. Here's to them and all the words we couldn't bear to say.


It gets easier. It goes away.

They said.

I want it back. We can try again.

I said.

It’s not something that could be fixed.

You said.

It's like every day I had fallen harder and I could tell by your smile that you knew. You lulled me into a false sense of security—the security of thinking you felt the same. I know I should have been more careful, but you should have been less selfish. Yes, things may have gotten hard but if you just tried to fix it then maybe we wouldn't be where we are now. We could have started over if we had just tried. But instead, you chose to decide on your own; the decision to see what you wanted to see which meant seeing that it wasn't enough for you.

Looking back, it still stings a little. I remember everything. The way you whisper, telling me that I was different, sent shivers down my spine every time. The way you would give me that reassuring smile and how I felt that that was enough. The way I thought this was going somewhere and how you knew it wasn’t.

I still think about you more than I would actually care to admit. I still hear your voice inside my head, singing along to the very first song we had called ours. I'm not much for remembering, but I still remember that loud thump the door made when you chose to walk out of the debris of "us." And sometimes, I wish I walked right out with you.

 

Welcome back~

 

Hey! Thanks.

 

Deep

 

The way you walk, or sit, or stand,
Everything about you, to me, is grand.
Everything my saddened eyes will see,
Sparks in my mind another memory.
Your personality captivated me.


That certain way you twitch your head
Quickly looking away instead.
The color of your eyes, length of your hair,
When I see these things they make me aware
I'll never forget your love so fair.


I go nowhere without being reminded
Of a time when by your love I was blinded.
The sun when it rises on a brand new day.
At night in the window the bright moon ray.
Just how long will these memories stay?


A smile on someone else's face
In some totally unsuspected place;
An expression, a gesture, a blink of an eye;
The tone of a voice, or a subtle sigh.
I'll never understand exactly why


Things I see, or taste, or smell
Serve to remind me of you as well.
Little things make me keenly aware
And I think of you and see you there.
You are awesome and none will compare.
Everything reminds me of you.

 

The Way In Which We Cry

Do we cry to heal ourselves?
Do we cry simply to shed a tear?
Is it because we just can?
Or because that certain person isn't here?

Do we cry for the attention?
Or will we silence every sound?
With hopes of no due reflection,
Of the way in which our heart is bound?

From a tiny kitten,
To the calling of a bird,
Every creature has its cry,
With the hope to be heard.

So when we let out a raking sob,
With a hand cupped so closely to our cheek,
Is our desire to be heard,
Or to just let the pain slowly leak?

Is the point to cry out
For help and warmth and care?
Or is it our body finally breaking down
From so much more pain than it can bear?

Is it the sound of symphonies,
Or of pure pain in liquid form?
Is it truly up to us when we cry,
Or does it happen when we're far too torn?

Is it really up to us?
Do we even have a choice?
We can try to hide it,
Or let it spill with its own voice.

But can we really decide?
Do we hold that power?
Or is it beyond our will,
When we let every tear shed in the shower?

Is it a form of healing?
Or just a sign of the weak?
Is it meant to help us,
Make a final leap?

So much could be said,
For the way in which we cry,
As it could be a simple way,
To motivate ourselves to forever try.

But whatever the reason,
No matter the cause,
Let it fully heal you,
So you may never have eternal pause.

 

Oh, I probably won't be able to for a long time. I've had enough.
And then I feel like a cork is being inserted into my ass instead of fingers.
After a small pause, Galya gathered and blurted out:
massageescort.biz/costa-rica/san-vicente-5
From this one sight, I was stunned, everything rushed down, and I myself seemed to take off. The heart was heavy. Taking a deep breath, I managed, "Hi, Diana. You're so beautiful." She smiled.
I must say that Aunt Ira was very happy about the arrival of her nephew. I, too, was glad - rather simply that my long journey ended safely. We stood at the door for a long time, exchanging greetings and such words as are customary on such occasions.
Fi, you are… selfish.
In turn, the student, sensing Mishkin's helplessness, grinned and looked under the dressing gown again. Mishka had a very good idea of ??what could be seen there, since before the road he watched his mother himself, when she was getting ready and in a hurry did not pay much attention to him. Beautiful pink panties, which he really liked. I must say that he knew all her underwear well, having meticulously studied the contents of her closet earlier. There were also various exciting items - belts with straps for attaching stockings, beautiful bodysuits ... The memories of this acquaintance with the mother's wardrobe always pleasantly excited.