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Don B Cameron Poem
On earth I know of no such taste,
No nectar of the Gods so chaste,
So pure, so gentle, full of grace;
As my true love, tomato paste.
Good “ketchup”, as you’re widely known
Wouldst that I could all thee own;
Round thee, ketchup, I’m thy drone;
Ascend thee to thy regal throne.
In bottle, you with bright, red sheen,
You beckon like a harlot queen,
And oh, my heart is swiftly keened,
Like babes to mothers wean.
The bottle tipped, thy rich, red ooze
Slips forth like soft and tumbling glues,
And marvel I. Yet I must choose
T’annoint the heads of sleeping foods:
‘Pon fish or chips or stoutly steak
Thy blessing might I deign to make,
And slowly o’er them thou dost snake
In anacondic swirls and takes.
I praise thee, ketchup, and I haste
To glory at thy noble taste:
‘Pon my tongue you swiftly chase
My tingling taste buds, and you race –
O’er my teeth you blood-like flow
‘til all my senses rush to know
Thy rich and red and warmly glow
- - and so!
O ketchup, thou art garnish queen
And thou art gracious food supreme,
Companion thou hast often been
To many foods of lesser mien.
And this I know, dear ketchup, yet
Have I in faith, one great regret:
Though I and you in love are set,
. . . my wife and you are in dissent.
Must our affair be clandestine?
Must I be forced to steal and hide
My fuller portion on the side
Of mashed potatoes, shrimp, or pie?
No, ketchup no: I know that I
With such deceit cannot comply;
Choose I must ‘tween thou and my
Belov’d . . . oh how I cry.
Yet wed so long, I must confess
When “pass the ketchup” is address’d
No more my hand will serve excess,
. . . but my dear heart will cry no less.
Copyright © Don B Cameron | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Don B Cameron Poem
Like a mess of hooting school kids freed for vacation,
They come honking and scolding
Long before you see them they come honking and scolding
Hidden from sight by leafy trees,
They are loudly scolding, urging, bragging,
“Get flapping”. “My turn to lead.” “Your turn to lead. “Let Fergus lead,”
I imagine.
When at last overhead I can see them and they are honking, without rhythm.
Honking, and forming lines;
A long line at first, a perfect line,
Then a splinter slides astride
And two perfect lines form, a skewered vee.
A flying wing it is now, yawing left, and then yawing right,
Sensing the wind’s direction, its velocity,
Looking for a helping wind. Looking for a lift.
And honking and scolding.
They pass behind more leafy trees and they are gone,
Still honking and scolding,
Still searching for the streaming air.
And going southward.
Copyright © Don B Cameron | Year Posted 2017
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