Food In Poetry Is Done in Layers Like Lasagna

Are Food Metaphors More Common Than the Moon and Stars?

Just as the Space Program will eventually eliminate the Moon from romantic metaphors and Mars as the god of war, perhaps “breaking bread together” will die along with the “unbridled” joy of horse metaphors — horse power(H.P.) might go like cycles-per-second became Hertz(Hz).

But in the meantime, for a while, let every man bring home the bacon. Chocolates, apple pie, and ice cream with a cherry on top may yet be served before the end.

Yes, the grass is greener on the other side

Moo Grass is Green1

The meadow is green with esteem,
the shepherds sheepish to laugh although
the grazing sheep, the knowing cows, and
the stampede of children in the joyful fields, does

yield a deep moo guffaw in the blue giggle grass
where lovers’ ruminations are wildly wise, gourmet
and they take their hugs indoors where tenderness
makes a warm day fruitful enough for after prayers

Oh yes indeed, all is well when knowingly
the cows come to walk beyond the pews
to stand tall in the chorus under the stained glass
singing, “Praise the giggle grass and the long chew.
Hallelujah we have churned the corner to
times of butter, cream, and honey

The landscape of the shepherd is gentle;
amen and pass the ice cream:
cherry please

The End of the World Is Nigh

The End of the World2

An ice cream volcano in Iceland erupted.
Nobody knows why, but hordes
brought spoons and whipped cream
’cause they all know
free ice cream rules, but

machetes on sugar cane
aren’t needed anymore with many
confectionery states going bankrupt
but if anyone fears the beans
of the vanilla, fears the seeds
of the strawberry and a new flavor
with swirls and sprinkles, fear not

because all can look
to the skies with glee
to hear honey bees buzz,
and know

unidentified flying cows have been seen,
their moo’s seeming mournfully sung, but
when their guffaws blow out of ice cream cones
the walls near blueberry fields will fall
and pistachios will be unshelled

Oh have you not seen
there is no more shelling
and I hear the trumpets triumphant

Oh glory be the syrupy dawn
the caves are full of chocolate.

Regret and Symbolic Gestures

The Layers of Food

The Need to Say3

I always wondered if
you kissed my gifts, ’cause
you really needed them

Tulips for you when I was blue
so you wore the blue dress for me

You tickled me and needled me
’cause you loved my laugh
your two lips often said

And too when you were blue
I almost gushed a thought to you
I never said, but

I love Fontina cheese for melting
and on a lily day, I

made you a lasagna
and you said
there were layers to the fragrances
of Parmesan, of provolone, of wet flour
creaminess to mascarpone, though you
thought I said
mass car pony, and
I had oregano and basil
but I couldn’t buy you
a pony or a car —
only a heart race
at a pace of joy

But now you’re away
and I’m in a cold place

And you always said
I’d share a space
with Santa Claus
at the North Pole

I’d love to see you again
just for a laugh and a pony ride.

Buttercup Babe4

Visiting America, I met her
in a field of renoncules that
locals call butter cups

She’s my darling Buttercup
a compatriot

She wanted to offer me a partnership
in her business and to share business.

But much ado about love in the dew
and then onward afield ’til

we were back for a romp
under and around
the Arc de Triomphe
to play like tourists and
then marched to her home,
palace of the cuisinière
at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.

We homed in on her nest
over the bakery with zest, and
she was hot because the
spice of the day made for
joy and frolic at home

We chilled with a wine
she recommended for the night
and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy

and as our voices modulated to a purr
we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough
and my Buttercup
melted in the bed.

We kneaded in layers of joy
to be crisp and flaky like a croissant

In the morning, I left early to buy butter and
I had wondered: what is a croissant
if to do it is not to have it?

I came back uncertain.

I proposed:
My darling Buttercup,
let me keep this butter,
have the bakery, and
I will make you a croissant with love.

Well, she said:
You want the butter and
the money from the butter
and le cul de la crémière…
So you my love, must bring me
a buttercup of the field and I will
peer into your eyes until I decide
if you’re flaky enough to cook.

Cherries Near and Far

Cherries in a Pie

Succulent Pie5

by Her Majesty, “Zawmbyee”

I taste the cherries
new and succulent
like you when I
had you for a salad
of me, and there were
many things to lunch on

Succulent days I remember
when you came to my table

There was a lust
to your musk
while you served me pie
desire

I remember
succulent you

I tasted the cherries
you brought me

I tasted you, and

what will you
bring me now?

I wait for succulent you.

What’s Wrapped in Chocolate

Wilted Dreams6

Hating roses is
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries

You were a healer
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,
cauterized

I look for the
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go

For good luck
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate

Roses are red
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
anymore;
hold your ghostly fire

I wrap all red cherries
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted

1Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, “Moo Grass Is Green”.

2Ibid., “The End of the World.”

3Douglas Gilbert, Faustti Poems and Jousts (New York: ISBN 978-1-387-90990-2 ), 2022, [Amazon: Faustti-Poems-Jousts-Douglas-Gilbert/dp/1387909908], “The Need to say”, pp. 94-95.

4Ibid., “Buttercup Babe,” pp. 122-123.

5Ibid., “Succulent Pie,” p. 130.

6Ibid., “Wilted Dreams,” p. 148.

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