No Love for Mustard

Mustard contest or fraternity dare?
The fact that you can't tell the difference
tells you everything

In the spirit of my other food sonnets, I have penned this one about my least favorite of the condiments, mustard. This one I wrote with some imagery help from Janessa, a well-read sixth-grader with equally disapproving tastebuds. If this poem pleases you, you might also enjoy the vituperation of another would-be food, white chocolate. Anyway, my apologies to all the mustard lovers out there. No, I take that back. I stand by the poem.

No Love for Mustard
by Gideon Burton

Let's just be honest: mustard is a slime,
a sour, gooey, beige-brown-yellow paste
ground up from foot-long garden slugs who dine
on maggot larvae and on cabbage waste.
That color --oh, so cheery. Neon fraud
disguising moldy pesto, eye of newt.
But go ahead and lather up your dog
or victim burger with that poison stew--
that con of condiments, a pretzel's bane,
that choice of kings (if kings have gone insane),
that turdy must that does all food profane,
that musty turd, so wrong except in name.
   If heaven's food is fair, then oh, not this--
   the bug guts Satan smothers on his grits.

image: creative commons licensed by Swamibu (Flickr)

There Will Be Fries

There Will Be Fries
by Gideon Burton

Tonight there will be fries, and fries aplenty.
I'm driving to McDonald's with my craving.
I'll get three orders, four -- or maybe twenty.
In vats of ketchup soon we will be bathing.
Don't talk about the salt, the clogging fat,
my arteries constricting with each bite.
Shut up about the carbs, enough of that!
I'll gobble up some more just out of spite.
So savory crisp, deep fried to beige nirvana,
each one a blessing from the fast food gods.
Like bits of meat tossed to a starved piranha,
I will devour all these starchy rods.
     Wolfed down while driving, lest their heat is lost,
     there will be fries, or Daddy will be cross.

Photo: flickr - shazam791

Cold Cereal

Cold Cereal
by Gideon Burton

Cold cereal, my morning's grainy ration,
why must you sog so quickly in your bowl?
Your sugar melts, your fiber loses passion
(unless dyspeptic hurry is my goal).
Allured by spongy marshmallows or frosting,
I yearn to savor flavor, feel the rush
of icy milky sweet, each crunching costing
a heightened timeliness for fear of mush.
Nabisco's shredded, Cheerios expire,
and Special K limps dull and ordinary.
For milk's a solvent, taming crunch and fire
with strength to squander, terror in the dairy.
     If ever I can feel it firm and fresh,
     I'll know at last I've bought the very best.

Photo: flickr - jek in the box

A former student of mine has done his own remix of this sonnet. Check it out , "A Grainy Test" on his blog.

Ribs

Ribs
by Gideon Burton

You vegetarians -- just walk on by.
You do not want to see this slab of meat,
dark charred in carnal lusciousness -- not dry,
but robed in tangy-smoky sauces sweet.
Utensils -- I don't need your girly aid;
I rip, I gnaw, I tear the carcass tangy,
You want to interrupt me? Be afraid.
No time for napkin nonsense, manners dainty.
I toss the whitened bones into their place,
sucked clean of any morsels I could chew.
A reddened ring expands across my face,
the beast has left his mark in barbecue.
     Self-tortured on the rack of fleshy bliss,
     Oh, trousered ape, have you evolved to this?

Photo: flickr - jk5854

Luscious Peaches

Luscious Peaches
by Gideon Burton

Don't picture them, forget the way they smell.
It's not the fruit that's sweet; it is the sound
of luscious peaches. Say it! Can you tell
the way the S's slosh in slushy mounds
of fructose-addled consonants? It seems
a sin, almost,  to speak those luscious peaches,
moist-ripened in each repetition, clean
and fresh, four syllables and sonic leeches
suck in or out the nectar nouns, a rush
of breath, saliva summoned, ready fruit
unlike their orchard counterparts that hush
to silent wrinkled pits once down the chute.
     No need for Autumn's chill or season's prime;
     I say my peaches, lusciously they're mine.

Photo: flickr - floradog

Chewing Gum

Chewing Gum
by Gideon Burton

Asleep in tropic sapodilla trunks,
the chicle trickles once the bark is lanced.
Collected, boiled, coagulated, chunked,
it's bounced to Wrigley's where it is enhanced.
The milky latex, kneaded, sugared stiff,
with peppermint anointed, pressed and wrapped,
is shaped and shipped, now ready to be sniffed,
remoistened, all its sponginess untapped.
A nasty mass of tangled tissue, dense
yet yielding; sweet, but then a cardboard glue.
Resilient resin, tenderized yet tense,
a rubber plug fatiguing as you chew.
     With chomping, snapping, spittle, wearied jaws,
     Unpeaceful gum breaks all of Buddha's laws.

Photo: flickr - canonsnapper

 

Don't Snicker

Don't Snicker
by Gideon Burton

Today I found a candy bar, forgotten.
It somehow made it's way beneath my bed--
a no-man's land where food goes to go rotten--
a place of dust and junk, ignored or dead.
I thought it would be harder, firmly stale;
I thought I would just huck it in the trash;
I thought my better thinking would prevail;
but I have done a thing both sweet and rash.
How easily its wrappered skin gave way;
how readily I tore the nougat's tissue;
how quickly spiked my gloucose in that spray
of burning chewy sugar -- how I'd missed you.
     So many things when lost dissolve to dust;
     a few, preserved like nectar, you can trust.

Photo: flickr - jennratonmort

Asteroid Peach

Asteroid Peach
by Gideon Burton

A peach is like an asteroid except not hard,
much smaller, rarely tumbling off in space,
quite softer, really, fewer nickel shards
throughout, and smoother, kinder on its face.
A poor comparison? Digest it further:
once all the orange sugar globe is eaten,
a pit remains -- a horrid thing, like murder,
distorted, scarred, as though too often beaten.
Of course, when tonguing peach flesh on parfaits,
aglow with fruity perfume sweet to taste,
we act as though all peaches come our way
without that gnarled nut, that pitty waste.
     Both peach and planetoid have darkened cores
     that cling and cut: sharp pods of alien spores. 

Photo: flickr - verysubmm

Fajitas

Fajitas
by Gideon Burton

Another pepper chopped to juicy heat
then slathered on a chip of salty corn
A salsa, with cilantro newly born,
tomatoes diced along the basil leaves.
The barbecue has blackened cuts of meat
that, sliced to lengths, acquire the needed form
to wedge among tortillas, flour or corn,
which we, sauteed with onions, gladly eat.
A spread of reddened rice to dress the plate
perhaps a dab of sour cream as well
the guacamole lingers on the side
The platter, a sombrero, filled with great
aromas, Mexico has cast its spell
that we consume with gusto and with pride.

Photo: flickr - ugod

Burning Sugar

Burning Sugar

by Gideon Burton

I won't pretend those marshmallows aren't mine.        

For one thing, sticky-fingered, I'll confess            
That something gooey sounded mighty fine.                

Forgive me for that smell and awful mess                 

Inside the microwave. You see, I thought                 

With heat I could make smooth and luscious cream         

From hardened sugar balls. You're right, I ought               

To check with you next time. At first it seemed               

They were invincible. But then I heard                        

A pop, a splatter. Sweetened rivers streamed
Right out the oven door. I think it burned.              

    I promise, next experiment I'll ask;
    Some taffy just might be a better task.

Photo: flickr - jessamyn

Vegas Buffet

Vegas Buffet
by Gideon Burton 

Enough. You've had three plates and it's enough.
A caravan of carbohydrates washed
in gravies, sauces, sloshing over puffs
of pastry; kilocalories accost
your system, pancreatic panic sends
along the lubricating insulin
outpaced by fresh eclairs stuffed end to end
as meats and buttered breads try to fit in
your gasping gastric track that chokes and squirms
accommodating seconds' seconds, thick
in naughty, knotty fats not making firm
your figure as desserts arrive in sucrose bricks.
     Great bargain, endless courses till you cough;
     Whatever -- oink your way back to the trough.

Photo: flickr - Librarian Avengers

Gummy Bears

Gummy Bears

by Gideon Burton

The gumminess of gummy bears is vital:
too warm, too soft, they're but a viscous goo.
The opposite needs no profound recital:
too old, too hard, as tasty as my shoe.
One's teeth must squeeze and pierce, and yet rebound

(a tangy sweet's released as form resists).
The candy abdomens no longer round,
saliva's fast corrosions will insist.
At times they're squirming, squeaking as they die.
If so, their passing souls unmask all flavor.
Their little limbs dismembered seem quite spry.
Who'd think that amputations had such savor?
    My mouth has conquered zoos of hapless bears,
    and will again: no other sport compares.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Rachel Lake

Watermelon

Watermelon
by Gideon Burton


What is the watermelon? I will say:
No reservoir of red and cooling fruit.
Do not be fooled when tissued sweetness sprays.
For heavens sake, don't gnaw it like a brute!
This rindish pod, this green ellipse of dew,
has swallowed rivers to preserve its ounce.

This garden sponge to just one thing is true:

a thirst that will on any droplet pounce.

I have a theory, pause and hear me out:

These lumpy water jugs are not from earth

at all, but come from distant lands of drought

to where they will return to ease that dearth.

     Before you smile and taste this summer treat, 

     remember, thirsty Mars has sent its fleet.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - S n o R k e l

Korma Karma

Korma Karma
by Gideon Burton

The spices sleep in dryness first, hold back
their sweet and heat, restrained in piquant peace.
But cumin is a comin', oil cracks
and spits at onion, garlic; turmeric will grease
the saucy sauce a mellowed, yolky hue.
Then comes the cardamom and cinnamon.
The coriander, ginger, cloves construe
masala's mysteries. A Solomon
could not unweave the embered cooling burn,
foreshadowed by the vapored summons, smooth
upon the patient palate. I must learn
the map, must memorize this gravy's groove.
      My senses sense what wisdom tells in force:
      Good karma brings sweet korma in its course.
  

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - pyrogenic

Orange Sonnet

Orange Sonnet
by Gideon Burton


The orange peel exudes a pungent oil
that stings its way into my open pores.
To shred its plastic skin may take some toil:
I twist, I claw, I probe its juicy core.
A citric mist explodes into my eyes,
an acid answer to my violations.
It's worth the tangy perfume I will wear;

I suck each nectar node with fresh elation.

My hands are strung with tissue, yellow-white,

that lined the interstices of this sphere;
beneath my nails, fresh evidence my fight
was won to quench my thirst in juices clear.
     So delicate, this pod of sugared juice
     I’ll tongue your secrets till they all come loose.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - J Devaun

Spam Sonnet

Okay, so I've been doing too much of the moody-heavy-abstract kinds of sonnets. Any moment now my nine followers will drop to four. Can't have that. Solution? Spam! (the kind you eat or don't eat; not the kind you filter)

Spam Sonnet

by Gideon Burton

Third cousin to a pig and twice removed,

It oozes, goopy, from its squarish tin;

Thick film conceals the lard with which its grooved,

Intestines pureed mottle its pink skin.

Would ancient man have glorified the spam,

In pictographs preserved its conquest sure?

Or would they shrug at its smooth texture, bland–

No boxy graphic to make spam endure?

In industry the spam is thrift itself:

No bones or organs spill aside as scrap.

Once salted, lives for decades on a shelf;

Discerning palates know its kind from crap.

     Maligned, despised, yet all the while consumed

     If spam’s eternal, earth itself is doomed.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - AJC1

Cherry Cola

Cherry Cola

by Gideon Burton

I'm told my cola beverage is a poison,

its stimulants a fraud of frothy sweet;

its syrups, surreptitiously the reason

that some are born twelve-toed and with three feet.

Alright, it isn't spinach juice and whey.

I know, the carbonation's lethal gas.

Of course, caffeine makes me obey

that spell of craving it so ably casts.

And yet, my cheery cherry cola's true

to me while bad for me: the rush is sure,

--no matter what unhealth it takes me to

--despite the artificial buzz it stirs.

   Sometimes you crave the craving, not the juice.

   So friends, your intervention is no use.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Kyle May

Potato Sonnet

Potato Sonnet
by Gideon Burton

Potato -- either russet, red or sweet --
you slumber under mud until complete.
While tubers zig the surface, indiscreet,
you swell to ripened fullness under feet.
You are the king of carbos, prince of starch,
the staple of our lust for chips and fries;
for you to Idaho I'd gladly march,
despite your tendency for sprouting eyes.
In families of five or twenty pounds,
I purchase you in bags of plastic brown,
then cook and smash you into steaming mounds
on which I ladle gravy without bounds.
       Les pommes de terre you are my daily buds;
       I worship at the shrine of fluffy spuds.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - LavenderCreek

Nacho Hell

Okay, I'm on that food jag again. First there was the toast sonnet, then that one about cheetos, then the white chocolate one. Here's a little Mexican food oriented poem, more spicy in its tone than many.

Nacho Hell 

by Gideon Burton 

The ancient Mayas fried their mash of maize,
creating crispy strips of crunchy corn.
Upon an altar, smoking fires ablaze,
tomato and cilantro slush was born:
the Holy Salsa, hot to feed the gods,
was slathered on the chips with shouts of glee;

a taster slave would have to beat the odds
as Jalapeños melt him to the knees.
A vat of rude Velveeta, spiced and warm,
would through a trough be splashed upon the mix.
The priestesses of munching would perform,
cavorting like a mass of colored sticks.
     Today, no take-out fetched from Taco Bell
     could match the brimstone of that nacho hell.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - kd bug.

White Chocolate: A Vituperation

Well, continuing with the same tone as yesterday's sonnet, I thought I'd express just how I feel about that great impostor known as "white" chocolate. Seriously. What sort of fraud is this? Anyway, another food sonnet for you.

White Chocolate: A Vituperation

by Gideon Burton

White chocolate, oh oxymoron foul,
No cocoa bean did bless your candy vat.
We chocoholics taste you and we howl.
What are you? An albino slab of fat,
Hydrogenized and sweetened past remorse,
Then peddled with hyperbole and fraud
To unsuspecting chocophiles, of course,
Who'd rather gargle liver oil from cod.
I've gnawed on better plastic in my day;
More flavor can be found between one's toes.
Perverse confection, fit to throw away,
Unworthy of my chocolate-sniffing nose.
     White chocolate, a joke not semisweet,
     Your coming means our end is near complete.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - kitchen wench