Poetry competition CLOSED 20th July 2022 11:45pm
WINNER
wallyroo92
wallyroo92
Page:
Cordon Bleu
Poetry Contest Description
The best ....,,.or the worst in terms of experience
You are the Cordon Bleu Chef ( or the Pastry Chef) at the biggest hotel in this dream town frequented by some of the biggest stars in the world. The A crowd. Describe to me your chef-d'oeuvre, your most delicious prize-winning masterpiece. Or your biggest flop.
I hope you make it funny. Or maybe soooooooooo tragic, tears will flow. Have fun.
Poems to 50 lines or so. You are allowed two sumbissions. New poems only.
I hope you make it funny. Or maybe soooooooooo tragic, tears will flow. Have fun.
Poems to 50 lines or so. You are allowed two sumbissions. New poems only.
Swan song
Marie-Hélène was looking for a special confection
For her wedding cake.
Not the usual two, three, or four tier piece of work
With the tiny little couple standing on top.
No.
Something quite different
She wanted two swans facing each other in a heart
Such as she sees regularly in her favorite lake near Munich
The home city of her beloved Franz.
No big deal for me to comply.
She was so proud of it
As she and her husband stood by it
Ready to cut that first piece, knife in hand.
But that is when the shot rang out
The bullet hit her in the heart
Her white dress smeared with blood.
The intruder, the rejected lover
Then pinned to the ground.
The bride gone.
The groom's life shattered
And so many lives destroyed.
For her wedding cake.
Not the usual two, three, or four tier piece of work
With the tiny little couple standing on top.
No.
Something quite different
She wanted two swans facing each other in a heart
Such as she sees regularly in her favorite lake near Munich
The home city of her beloved Franz.
No big deal for me to comply.
She was so proud of it
As she and her husband stood by it
Ready to cut that first piece, knife in hand.
But that is when the shot rang out
The bullet hit her in the heart
Her white dress smeared with blood.
The intruder, the rejected lover
Then pinned to the ground.
The bride gone.
The groom's life shattered
And so many lives destroyed.
Written by robert43041
(Viking)
Go To Page
Fava beans and a nice chianti
Blades sharpened
Scalpel precision
Where to start with this fine specimen?
Look at you dangling on that meat hook
all twitching, writhing...tenderising
Let us commence?
Perhaps flay off some flesh
Turn those arse cheeks into Jerky
Fine dining slow process
After all
Artisan delicacies should never be rushed
Twelve hours at a low temperature
After a two day marinated bath
should do those legs wonders
Not like you will be needing them
Hung living carcass
Come the main course is about to start
Fitting poetry
Feeding you
All that young succulent innocence
You chewed up, consumed spat out
Discarded without a second glance
Open wide
Bon appetite
Scalpel precision
Where to start with this fine specimen?
Look at you dangling on that meat hook
all twitching, writhing...tenderising
Let us commence?
Perhaps flay off some flesh
Turn those arse cheeks into Jerky
Fine dining slow process
After all
Artisan delicacies should never be rushed
Twelve hours at a low temperature
After a two day marinated bath
should do those legs wonders
Not like you will be needing them
Hung living carcass
Come the main course is about to start
Fitting poetry
Feeding you
All that young succulent innocence
You chewed up, consumed spat out
Discarded without a second glance
Open wide
Bon appetite
Written by Carpe_Noctem
Go To Page
Gordon Blurr
There was a young chef called Gordon Blurr
fresh things in his wok he liked to stir
but when veg lost it crunch
and spice packed no punch
Gordon would say 'its not bleu'.
So Gordon unlocked his Chakra
he even tried abracadabra
but the veg still went limp
and his glaze lost its glint
until he added a pinch, of Viagra.
Then his bookings were full of elderly couples
who swore Gordon's grub helped fix all their troubles
as the prices went up
they wished him good luck
'since its not just the profit that's doubled'.
Written by Razzerleaf
Go To Page
For My A List
Chefing up a miracle
For the healing
Of the soul, sealed
With a pentacle,
Taking any ingredients -
Making something
Out of
Nothing, seasoned
With the
Hunger of the voracious
For the
Voracious, for
The
Ravenous,
For the rapacious,
For the vicious,
For my
A
List.
Written by Cipher_O
(WarlordoftheWrittenWord)
Go To Page
Wally’s Pièce de Résistance
I called up my sous chef and asked him to do me a favor
I told him to take the steaks out of the refrigerator
While I was driving in to work I was thinking of enhancing the flavor
Basting the meat slower and longer would be something to savor
And perhaps it would bring me some recognition a little bit later
Upon arriving at the restaurant, I went into the kitchen
The cuts were already marinating in orange juice
With olive oil and oregano leaves
What’s this here sauce? Worcestershire, I believe
(I forgot my glasses)
Garlic powder, salt, cumin, I put them all to good use
All served with a niçoise salad and wild rice
But this time
With butter and thyme
Rosemary and lime
I add my special secret ingredient which I’ll never tell
But damn it I forgot my glasses
So I just kind of wing it
I cook it on the skillet until it’s perfect
Adding my special secret ingredient which I’ll never sell
For the appetizer a choice of stuffed portobello mushrooms
Or spicy butter and herb oysters all of them baked
And they have a nice spicy kick
With cayenne pepper, paprika, hot sauce and chili flakes
And for dessert my pièce de résistance
Customers can choose
Between the deep-fried plantain empanadas filled with custard
Or the strawberries with chocolate mousse
Written by wallyroo92
Go To Page
Nachos
Remember that oven you bought me two years ago? Well, I'm making nachos.
The chips fall into the pan with ease. Beans, distributed evenly (if I do say so myself.) Salsa is ready to go. Then there's the cheese. Shredded cheese blend of unknown brand. I dangle my (clean) fingers into the zip-lock bag, scoop out a generous pinch, and sprinkle mild cheddar on my gourmet meal. And I can feel the tears welling up. "You will not cry over shredded cheese," my conscience warns. I add another pinch for flavor, followed by another to assert my dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven and celebrate! But the next task is going to break me. When I try to change the heat setting, I get stuck. "You have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster," I hear you say, as if you're still calling from the next room. The tears begin to fall. I recall how delighted you were when the cheese bubbled to perfection- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We'd make fun of your picky tastes, which were most likely the result of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched your vision...when I made it the way you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I press the TOAST button and rush out of the kitchen to avoid crying in front of the smothered chips. I collapse on the sofa, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I sob in front of an empty house. In the air-conditioned room, my cheeks are flushed with tears. I feel so insignificant. I feel so stupid for crying over such trivial matters. I'm so... so... In the kitchen, a bell rings. I wipe my brow with my sleeve and return to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, then pan onto table. I take out the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge, as well as a spoon from the drawer that sticks slightly when you try to open it. I take the non-wilted bits of lettuce from the head and rinse them under the faucet. I complete the recipe. I take out a chair. For one, I order nachos.
Remember that oven you bought me two years ago? Well, I'm making nachos.
The chips fall into the pan with ease. Beans, distributed evenly (if I do say so myself.) Salsa is ready to go. Then there's the cheese. Shredded cheese blend of unknown brand. I dangle my (clean) fingers into the zip-lock bag, scoop out a generous pinch, and sprinkle mild cheddar on my gourmet meal. And I can feel the tears welling up. "You will not cry over shredded cheese," my conscience warns. I add another pinch for flavor, followed by another to assert my dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven and celebrate! But the next task is going to break me. When I try to change the heat setting, I get stuck. "You have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster," I hear you say, as if you're still calling from the next room. The tears begin to fall. I recall how delighted you were when the cheese bubbled to perfection- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We'd make fun of your picky tastes, which were most likely the result of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched your vision...when I made it the way you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I press the TOAST button and rush out of the kitchen to avoid crying in front of the smothered chips. I collapse on the sofa, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I sob in front of an empty house. In the air-conditioned room, my cheeks are flushed with tears. I feel so insignificant. I feel so stupid for crying over such trivial matters. I'm so... so... In the kitchen, a bell rings. I wipe my brow with my sleeve and return to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, then pan onto table. I take out the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge, as well as a spoon from the drawer that sticks slightly when you try to open it. I take the non-wilted bits of lettuce from the head and rinse them under the faucet. I complete the recipe. I take out a chair. For one, I order nachos.
