Poem | |
Steak pies is my favourite to eat with vegetables for dinner
With succulent pastry which couldn't be thinner
Meat and gravy are cooked in unison
Making this pie a lip smacking tasty one
Dessert what more could I ask for, I love
a Bramley Apple pie cooked with a clove
The flavour is one to die for,
With lovely creamy custard, over it pour
Now it's nearly supper time what pie takes the lead
Nothing more than a Cornish pasty its a nearly pie indeed
Inside some tiny cubes of potatoes and swede mixed with onion and meat
Looks longingly at the clock, is it time yet for this treat
Goes to bed repleted, full of pasty and such
Dreams of pies and pasties, would think i've had enough.
More great poems below...
Poem | |
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Poem | |
he think he is cool
eating all that food
with hois blue swede shoes
he was on the news
singing and playing the blue
eatting is his hobbies toy
hes a well dress
Poem | |
She stays awake for hours, cutting Xs in the sprouts,
Then peels all the tatties, a ton or thereabouts,
Slicing and dicing parsnips is next up in the plan,
Chops up carrots and a swede, and put them in a pan,
Mixes up her sage and onion and stuffs it in the bird,
Along with some pork sausage meat that’s been pre-prepared,
She takes apart the oven, to fit the turkey in,
Hangs it up with bits of string, there’s no room in the tin,
Wraps sausages in bacon, in case they catch a chill,
But makes sure they‘re all cooked thoroughly, so the family won’t get ill,
Cooks the bird for hours, while the table’s being laid,
With all the finest crockery (and some of lower grade),
Makes space around the table, brings in extra chairs,
Adorns the place with candles and other Christmas wares,
Lays out a Christmas cracker in everybody’s place,
Complete with rather tacky joke, no doubt of a straight face,
And brings out all the condiments, the pickles and the sauce,
The salt and pepper, the mustard and radish known as “horse”,
Next she makes the starter, the simplest course by far,
A cocktail made up of prawns and a sauce out of a jar.
The family then all piles in, and argues over seats,
The children are already full of chocolates and treats,
Grandmother is mumbling, “Kids should be seen not heard”,
Meanwhile back in the kitchen Mum’s wrestling with the bird,
She tries to carve up slices, but ends up with turkey chunks,
While Dad and Gramps have become a pair of Christmas drunks,
They start an argument about which wine goes with the meat,
And restless children run around, not staying in their seat,
Mother tries to keep her calm and bravely soldiers on,
But the roasties are all blackened and the sprouts are over done,
Mum enters the dining room looking very puffed,
She throws the turkey down and shouts ,“There you go! Get stuffed!”
18th November 2012
Poem | |
Vegetables are so versatile I use them every day
Such lovely shapes and colours, they are so bright and gay
I always use them in my cooking
Or eat then raw when no one is looking
What is there not to love about the humble carrot?
I peel it tenderly, chop it up and feed it to my parrot
Broccoli it always gets my pulse racing
When it’s steaming in the pan, round my kitchen I am pacing
Potatoes are so wonderful in every shape and style
Boiled, baked, mashed and roast, so totally versatile
I’ve just discovered butternut squash and make a tasty soup
I bake it first and boil it, its taste makes me cheer and whoop
Mushrooms are my favourites I would eat them all the time
Sauted, raw or stuffed with cheese they really are divine
Tomatoes are so colourful and full of lycopene
Its hidden away inside them and it is never seen
Brussel sprouts you either love or hate
But no Christmas dinner is complete without them on your plate
Parsips and turnips are not my favourite food
I will eat them occasionally, when I am in the mood
My love of veg will never fade
I buy organic that have never been sprayed
Vegetables really are so good for us
My family eat them without any fuss
The humble pea is the love of our life
If they are not on the plate I’d not be a good wife
Swede and carrots mashed together
I eat it with ground black pepper
My ode to veg I think is fine
I want them to be my Valentine
They help to keep us strong and healthy
With veg in our lives we are truly wealthy
More great poems below...
Poem | |
Tonight there is a match on telly
The lads are coming round
most of them are married
So my home is to be the neutral ground .
If any of their wives ring
I'm to pretend that I am deaf
and they've all elected me to be
head barman and chef.
I've got Guinness and lager
A crate or two of Yorkshire ale
Newcastle brown and bitter
So the booze just cannot fail .
I've made three lovely shepherds pies
but I asked the lads which veg I should use
I've just been reading their replies
Now I'm totally confused .
One lad doesn't like cabbage
Another doesn't like swede
and it seems broccoli and cauliflower
are members of a dying breed .
The veg that the lads want
From all the replies I've seen
are lots of French fried onions
and cans of Heinz baked beans .
12 drunken farting Yorkies
My house would smell like an old cess pit
So they'll get what their given
They can take it or leave it .
Lemon sole for starters
Chocolate cheesecake for dessert
and if I get a single complaint
I'll kick them where it hurts.
Poem | |
The glass shades hang on chains
A thin glowing light begins to fill
Creating shadows in the room
Across the pictures on the wall
Weddings of children flown
How lonely now you have become
The needles click against the clock
Your concentration is complete
Lips deployed to count the loops
Tight as your corner where
Your chair is drawn to feel the heat
Sharp sparks spit from the fuel
You collected from the beach,
The widow and her pram of coal
A circumstance that feels so cruel
And hope seems out of reach.
The smell of bacon penetrates
The air still cold with winter breath
A permanence in spite of death
The sandwich that is breakfast
The swede the leek the carrot
The bones of homemade broth.
The thoughts that run inside your mind
I could not begin to guess, before this time
Your life not mine, are secrets left untold
The war you fought, your children grown
The depth of love and loss you've known.
Poem | |
When I worked, selling furniture, much expensive, as a Store Manager/Salesman-
(really, the "Manager" title was euphemistic)...
It was easy to get bored....
You can sit in the showroom
for some hours,
And see no one at all...
So when some poor person
did come in...
I tended to want to
Not for the customer,
But, for me....
I had over time
developed a talent....
To speak in accents a'plenty
No one would know
just what to expect....
To one, I might be
to another a stiff
or a Swede,
Jackie Mason style Jewish,
Oh Indian was a favorite
of many... but I did more...
a Brooklynese bable,
a southern drawl...
oh... so many more...
I'd change from one
in the same conversation'
as it progressed;
whether he bought or not
to me secondary
I had to have my fun!!
Sometimes a customer
would come back
on a later day...
looking for that
who had helped
them some days before...
I made many many people
laugh, many many a time
I had many other crazy
things I did
You come into
you won't be bored
one thing you can be assured.
Poem | |
The Race Thing
My ignorance was total, xenophobia in Africa; no, not
white people against black but black on black.
One sided I thought, mostly reading western history
that xenophobia was white against coloured people.
No I’m not shocked if surprised and I do not applaud
but somehow make me finally understand that Africa
has many races and many faces and are as different as
the Portuguese from The Swede, we get that we get
that and when we do xenophobia in Africa too.
No, this knowledge is no getting a white person off
the hook because white anti racism is built on fantasy
that we are so much better than them.
We who invented fascism a fever we now see seeps into
Israel too and make the people there think they are superb.
and have contempt for the rest.