Quotes about yeast, page 3
Bogus Floaters
Bogus floaters rise like puff pastry.
The texture is a bit flaky and overdone with yeast.
But as long as the center sustains a sweetness,
Who today would care there is a lacking of substance?
None at its core to eat that keeps this stuff puffed up,
And above that which does maintain a taste...
To be acclaimed as credible.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Gingerbread
'Gingerbread,
Go to the head.
Your task is done;
A soul is won.
Take it and go
Where muffins grow,
Where sweet loaves rise
To the very skies,
And biscuits fair
Perfume the air.
Away, away!
Make no delay;
In the sea of flour
Plunge this hour.
Safe in your breast
Let the yeast-cake rest,
Till you rise in joy,
A white bread boy!'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Salad Poetry
neruda's chicken
nuggets
whitman's elbow
macaroni
william's mayonnaise
dickinson's olive oil
a little of elliot's salt
and robert's
frost, brautigan's
catfish, lowell's skunk,
sea canes of walcott,
bishop's broccoli
with armadillo meat
yeat's yeast bread
an afternoon of friends
in a party with
robinson
spring ice storm on
mountain road in the poconos,
as mayer says the grace.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dough
the canadian
dough
alice is not
everything
they come
always
even sometimes
when you
do not need them
you put the
yeast of
your dreams
and soon
everything alice
will rise
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Recipe For Scotch Whiskey
Start with cold, fringed beaches,
Laced with Smoke and fog.
In a cauldron.
Add Cliffs and caverns
With just a dash
of Monuments of mystery.
Blend in the breath
Of Ancient peat bog.
Add then a dollop
Of flavor of brine,
To Malt barley
And yeast,
blessed by a priest.
Finally meld in together
In a vast vessel of copper,
The Smell of salt air and tears
Bottle in layers of old Celtic prayers.
Then sit back and wait
For a number of years
poem by David Whalen
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Love's Betrayal....
consider me
an expert on the techniques
of love's betrayal
you who do not trust the wind
and the sea
lives on the song of the
seashells
the years die
time shrinks like bread
without yeast
in your mind i have always been
the traitor
my hands tremble
i could have said more words
to appease
the stone in you
but you left like a bird with a broken
wing
you fell in the middle of the sea
gone
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is All About Like
the world where
we live, and which we say
we love is all about like,
we operate on the likeness
and the unlikeness of it all,
forest like an emerald
crown of the head
of the mountain
love like ruby ring
in my finger
death like sunset fading
into darkness
life like bursting waves
in the sea
birth like a tight rose bud
unfolding to the
sun
and growth like dough
becoming bread on yeast
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Belloc IV
Take no councils from the east:
old Eden was the place,
remember, where in arrogance
our parents fell from grace.
The east is where the sun crops up-
the young and callow sun
that friend and foe alike alack
so goldenly smiles on.
Yeh, so he rises in the east
and yes, his beams are pretty
but those that truck in such sweet yeast
shall bank but scorn and pity.
And, though he rises in the east
remember, mum, the west
is where, day done, his work complete,
he comes at last to rest.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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My Death Wish
Carve me like a pumpkin
With a cap upon my head
Scoop out my brains to mix with yeast
And knead them into bread
Cut out my eyes so I can’t see
The evil everywhere
And use them to play pool with
Doesn't matter
I don’t care
Snip off my hair to knot and braid
A rope that I can use
To tie around my woeful neck
And end it none to soon
And with what’s left
Chop, blend and mix
A tonic that will grow
A crop of red tomatoes in
The Summer you might sow
[...] Read more
poem by Sara Fielder
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New England
Here where the wind is always north-north-east
And children learn to walk on frozen toes,
Wonder begets an envy of all those
Who boil elsewhere with such a lyric yeast
Of love that you will hear them at a feast
Where demons would appeal for some repose,
Still clamoring where the chalice overflows
And crying wildest who have drunk the least.
Passion is here a soilure of the wits,
We're told, and Love a cross for them to bear;
Joy shivers in the corner where she knits
And Conscience always has the rocking-chair,
Cheerful as when she tortured into fits
The first cat that was ever killed by Care.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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