Narrative Food Poems

These Narrative Food poems are examples of Narrative poems about Food. These are the best examples of Narrative Food poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative |
They organized a church bazaar,
To raise money for the poor.
A booth for selling chances
Was set up, outside the door.

When I bought the raffle ticket, 
My reasoning was murky,
And I could only just believe it,
When I won that doggone turkey.

Now, the kids were all excited
When we brought the critter home.
So we placed him in the barnyard, 
Where he'd have lots of room to roam.

Since the date was late October,
I'm quite sure you understand,
That to have him for Thanksgiving
Was my awe inspiring plan.

Well, the turkey was no birdbrain,
As I was very soon to find.
That bird knew what I was thinking;
Why, I declare, he read my mind. 

I let the children care for him,
To my most profound regret--
He turned on his charming manner,
And, quickly, he became their pet.

But that fact did not deter me,
I told myself it didn't matter.
I was dead set and determined
To see that gobbler on a platter.

When the kids perceived my purpose,
They turned on the tears and pleas.
Then, the wife joined in their chorus,
And that brought me to my knees.

So I told my grieving family
They could dry up, and relax.
I concealed my disappointment--
Went and put away the axe.

Came the dinner of Thanksgiving,
Not a sad face could be found.
And our live Thanksgiving turkey
Was the gladdest bird around. 

We gathered around the table,
And I humbly asked the blessing--
While Tom gobbled down his corn, outside,
We had hotdogs and dressing. 

Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |
In the cool of the evening he laid there basking 
as my fingers touched the gleaming surface of the pool.
Deeper i penetrated till my hand was beneath him,
slowly my fingers engaged his slithery belly,
then gently with a slight single movement
to and thro, then up and down 
his whole body fully relaxed as he rolled a little
to accommodate me.
As he laid there his eye and my eyes connected
each of us wondering no doubt what the next move would be,
while carefully not to let my nose which was just above the surface
play any part in this my devious quest.
Suddenly a water skater bug came floating by
and decided to explore my nostril,
at this point making me sneeze, the force of the blast
sending the bug careering on to the surface.
In a flash swallowed by my impending supper
who then scurried away to the safety
 of the rocky bed of the creek,
to become King Trout for another day.

Copyright 2010
Harry J Horsman

Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
Within these walls…
Fragrant aura of comfort
Freshly washed baby hair and sweet breath;
Passed around in soft pink pajamas
Laughter and wit from older minds;
Even though the stories are well used
Awkward ramblings of youngsters;
Still testing their wings
Warm delicious wafts of seasoned meat
And sugared pies
From a kitchen full of women;
Sharing recipes and secrets while sipping Chardonnay
Rambunctious giggles from upstairs;
Playing children’s games in pretty clothes
While piles of coats, hats, and purses
Sleep soundly on the guest room bed;
Along with one gray tabby cat
Crisp fallen leaves dance with shimmering snowflakes,
The first of the season
In a chilly November breeze
Just outside the door;
Painted a vibrant red
Illuminated by glowing amber post lamps;
Stalwart sentinels for our
Within these wonderful walls

Copyright © Kelly McDonald | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |
It Takes A Whole Village to Raise a Child: The Farmer

It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does a farmer help
Families raise the children?

Farmers live near the village; and together,
Everyone helps raise the children.
How do they help?

The farmers near the village grow food to sell.
They plant, tend, and harvest vegetable crops.
Veggies: lettuce, beets, cucumber, and tomatoes
Collard greens, cabbage, onions, and potatoes
Green beans, artichoke, peanuts, the list and work
Goes on and on and on— 
Farmers hire many workers to harvest their many crops.
Products are then, sold and sent to many vendors.
Although there are still some independent farmers,
Some farmers, like those in olden days, grow on rural farms.
Families, men, women, and children working together,
Using hoes, beasts of burden and hand plows to work the soil.
Children helping along side watching adult examples—
However, these days, big agriculture businesses own farms. 
They use huge machinery to operate their many acres.
Food producing farms: planting and harvesting to feed masses.
Their products, like smaller independent farmers’ products,
Are sent to markets in their homelands and abroad.
In the process of providing food and cotton for people,
Agriculture businesses and farmers alike set examples.
Good or bad, the children watch wide eyed
And ears perked!

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Germ-free Mason jars, hot from the pot of boiling water, gurgling on the cast iron wood stove, stood ready to receive the fruits and vegetables, fresh from the fields and orchards. Lids and sealing rings locked in the freshness. Mama, in her apron skillfully flavored the veggies as she prepared for meals months ahead. The old pressure cooker hissed as it played its part in preserving the bounty of the family farm. Preserves, jams and jellies, sealed in wax, filled the cupboard just waiting for future hot buttered biscuits. 

Peeling, dicing, chopping, pickling were all part of the process that brought kin from far away to socialize and join in preserving food for times when the land rested and awaited the start of a new season. 

Outside, Sauerkraut (layer of shredded cabbage, layer of salt,) repeated and compressed, awaiting fermentation filled the depth of a Crock on the front porch.

These glimpses of the times that are all but gone will remain with me forever. Life was tough at times but love was the balm that treated the abrasions of near poverty. And the tender touch of those who came for “Canning Days” was felt until the last jar was consumed. God’s bounty awaited, and next year’s promises stood always before us.

Written by: John Posey 10/21/13
Inspired by Canning Colors, 
A poem by Donna Jones

Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
The dog seen a rabbit and how he did chase
to catch that little critter and boy what a race

But one thing that rabbit knew as he ran away
he was not going to be lunch for that dog today

Around the tree and  into the bushes he went
the dog was right after that little rabbit's scent

the dog was so busy that he never did see
that big old  hornet nest  way up in the tree

running and barking and making a sound
made all the hornets start buzzing around

They all made a dive and together they flew
when they  hit the dog he knew he was through

He made up his mind right there and then
he would never go chasing that rabbit again

Copyright © Oma Bennett | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |
I am Canine lupus familiaris
Known as dog
Man’s best friend
Someone to fetch 
Someone to catch with
Someone to walk 
Since I cannot speak
I watch and listen 
I also watch my master drink sour water from cans
As he and his friends laugh
Their shrill laughter becoming louder and louder
Their voices hurting my ears until I leave the room.

One week master was excited
The phone rang constantly 
A jarring message
A three day weekend
More sour water
More loud noise
Then suddenly I was left alone
Quickly and firmly
The door closed to me
At first I was glad for the silence
My eyes grew accustomed to the dark
Hungry, I searched the house
Found food and some water
I could smell the bags of dog food in the pantry
But it was no use
I couldn’t unlock the door
But I was brave
I didn’t panic
I made do with what I had
I conserved what little food was left in my doggie bowl
I drank water only when needed
I pooped in the bathroom
Like my Master always did
But it wasn’t enough
By the third day the water was gone
The doggie bowl empty.

When the door opened three days later
Master walked in
Sour water on his breathe
Short angry hissing words escaped his lips
When he found me
Alone and hungry
Rubbing his face
More short words followed
Anger directed at himself for neglecting me
Then he hugged me
Suddenly there was water
There was food
Looking up at him
My eyes told him
My father was the Wolf
From the frozen North
My mother the She Wolf
Who ruled the forest
And guarded the wolf dens
I came from strong genes
I learned how to survive.

Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |

  On a blustery winter night my loved one comes to dine.
The table is set for two in front of a cheerful fire and 
a candle flickers in delight beside one perfect yellow rose.
I greet my love with a kiss and a glass of Napa Ridge Sauvignon
Blanc. We sit for a while and enjoy fig and Humboldt Fog 
goat cheese crostini, while we sip the sweet nectar of the grape.
Soon it is time for me to serve a salad of grilled romaine with bacon and
cherry tomato vinaigrette. We enjoy our quiet conversation while
listening to a compilation disc I made of some of his favorites…
Chopin piano sonatas, Billy Joel ‘s Uptown Girl, The Phantom Of The Opera
and a few selections from an old Beetles album.. Now the entre,
Lamb Chops with a garlic and mustard crust, haricort verts in browned
butter and potatoes gratin . With our entrée we splurge on a bottle
of  Screaming Eagle Zinfindel..A bit later I bring out a huckleberry tart
with homemade vanilla bean ice cream.
It was an an evening of culinary delight, made truly special by being with
 the one that keeps me safely in his heart.

Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
HEAVY TUMBLING STORY Before forbidden words dawn to confess Come... Come.. C O M E... Uncoil your taste-buds to me Entrust you health fully to thee Yours truly, FOOD ___________________________________ Enamored beyond possible reproach I opened my mouth for crumbs of tasty Crumbs later become spoonfuls Spoonfuls turned to one, two, three plateful Appetite feast in crescendo of daily treats Boosting my body: front and rear - pound per pound My clothes then groan: a cri de couer Yet, desirous mouth craved for more and more Eating up to the crust and core of everything Months passed, Bigger! BIGGER, I come to be. 'Til even walking and standing, I can't do My room - my only day and night intimate boo My children, I robbed tardily of their joys As their focus and attention divided by two Fats stored everywhere on my bod Gradually they are killing me - stealing my breaths An oxygen via prongs must be on beside to help me breathe My back an archipelago of aching ulcer... Comestibles become my sweetest agony Breaking me and my dignity so gently Obesity then my heavy tumbling story... __________________________________________________ Food Can't Live with it can't live without it - Poetry Contest Sponsor Debbie Guzzi ~~~1st Place~~~ ©Olive Eloisa Guillermo 10:51pm, Oct. 17, 2014

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
What was better than pumpkin
pie stuffed in my eye? Nothing
more than a burger and a fry..
That's why I wonder why? 
If pancakes are great at 
breakfest time? A sandwich
is great at lunchtime? 
A spaghetti a great meal at 
dinner time? But what was 
better than just old fashion
ham on rye? Nothing more
than a burger and a fry..

Lunchtime Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2010,2014..All rights reserved.

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
I remember back when times were simple. You could have your milk
delivered to your door. One of my favorite memories was waiting for the
Helm’s bakery livery to drive slowly down our street, alerting us with his
musical whistle. Specially built Chevy suburban panel wagon’s, bright
and shiny yellow, contained the most heavenly scents of do-nuts and
cinnamon swirls, rolls and breads to delight the most discerning. Our driver,
we called by name, would stop, get out of his seat and come to the back to
open double doors to the smiling faces, of usually about three or four neighbor
kids besides my sister and myself. The most difficult part was trying to decide
what delicious pastry we would put on our monthly tab. Fine wooden drawers
with glass windows let colorful do-nuts peek through. We would get our usual loaf
of potato bread mom would tell us to buy, but then, quite often we were treated to
a glazed jelly do-nut or a chocolate covered cream filled éclair. Mmmmm my taste
buds tingle at the fond memories. Those succulent delights would be out of the bag
and into our mouths before we hit the front door. By the time we got inside all that
would be left would be little pieces of sticky wax paper and our gooey little hands.
As I recall those happy memories of the late ‘50’s, my only regret is that I am sorry my
children were not given the thrill of hearing “Here comes the Helmsman”, let’s beat feet!

© September 12, 2012

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
He glances through the curtains as she leaves.

And he knew she was going with him instead.

Desperately he washes his soul of her but its for naught.

And  he hangs each feeling on the line and the cool breeze.

She walks to the corner and gets into his car and flips her hair.

He always loved the way she flipped her hair and the body after a drink.

Her body would glisten with the sweat of his thrust and the bite on his shoulder.

The car pulls away and he watches the lights drive off with his heart and the bite.

The laundry machine moves like her and shudders and vibrates.

But she will return with food from the Chinaman.

Chinese food was how he knew.

She never ate Chinese food except afterwards.

The clothes lay fluttering in the night air as his heart dried.

And she came home with egg rolls and the feint smell of polo.

Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Start and end each day,
and life,
with a taoist egg.

I doubt my eggs are religious.

No, but they are natural,
organic incubators, 
co-arising nondual yolk form
with white-transparent regenerative function,
and cosmology, maybe,
if you're a chicken,
or a turkey, 
or a sitting duck.

So you say. 
I guess these eggs are merely metaphysical.

You might best remove "merely" from "meta"
lest you perpetuate an oxymoron.
Metasystemic physics,
like life, 
at their best, and most permanently encultured, 
have room for culture and language and religion and spirituality, 
as well as economic science 
as eco-logical nature.

OK, but I'm not absorbing this political empowering metaphysics
of a co-arising incubator,
or an egg,
or whatever.

Eggs are temporary organic incubators.
Therefore, comparatively Closed-Set,
double-boundary individuated.
Only their exterior shells 
remain actively interdependent with their environ-mental 
risk and opportunity.
This double-boundary formatting eco-centric development
responds to thermodynamic balance
both yolk-cellular
and transparent organic/holistic fuel,
compost of 4-channel co-operatively balancing synergetic organization.
Eggs are sensitive to co-gravitational pressure
and have bilaterally limited tolerance levels for speed of climatic change,
which interact with their relative temperatures,
temporal sense of internal heat and exterior cold,
breathing in and out,
slower warm and faster cold.

Maybe I am lost in the forest of your analogizing
but sounds more like you are co-arising
well-composted ego in these eggs.
And, this shell sounds like a scientific eco-paradigm,
with some seriously revolutionary boundary issues,
mutual incompatibility building up a defensive perimeter, 
anti-inductive while pro-deductive
of in-formation dissonance
protecting internal design process,
even language and enculturation,
secluding indigenous specialists to research within,

Still not seeing the Tao in this egg, 
or ego,
or co-arising incubator,
or whatever whenever 
and cultivates 
new life.

If Yang is the power of yolked formation,
while Yin is bilateral-squared flow and function
of ecologically positive octave-frequency nutrients,
regeneratively composting embryonic fractal forms
of RNA/DNA-rooted teleological function,
then which is this full-colored economic health-yolk
and which is this transparent ecological webbish light,
and is it healthier if they tango gracefully,
or tangle bad karmically?

OK, yes, now I see the taoist, well-timed, egg. 
This begins to feel like egg-cooking class for a vegan. 
Now what?

An embryo is a "budh", 
if you are a conscientific Buddha-brain
co-arising embryo,
and a "bud"
in English.

If you imagine your Left brain ego-identification
as your egg's DNA yolk-center
being fed most eco-nutritiously 
by your RNA-inclusive 
SuperEco Right-Only Bilateral
Not-Languaged Eco-Exegenesis
TransParenting cultural fuel-power 
of yin binomial light squared = c-squared 
= e-squared prime-relational Wisdom,
that might be how a post-millennial eco-scientist
would incubate,
and research, 
and nondually bicamerate incarnation,
comprehensively con-scientific 
polyculturally co-operative 
co-arising consciousness
as co-regenerative enlightenment.

So, we are all economic scientists balancing ego-logical 
as eco-normative systems.  
Homo Bicameral Sapiens as EcoNomists.

But, because Yang (+) ego/eco-bodies
are dipolar incarnations 
of Yin's transparently co-arising eco-soul intention,
Yin is Yang equivalent only as squared,
or double-negatived,
or double-bound,
or double-identified,
or both-and
as well as either-or,
or dipolarly frac-taled,
like RNA strings of regenerating in-metaphysic-formation,
coincidentally co-arising
balancing eco-binomial 
[prime root of "polynomial"] 
Right intuitive fractal-octave frequency harmonic
in RNA/DNA's spacetime natural co-arising systemic consciousness.

Wow, dude, that's some really esoteric shit you've been smoking!
Left-yolks just bangin' gracefully away
with Right
TransParently flowing evolutionary information
of eco-conscientific revolutions.

but sticking with generic embryonic Left-brain beginnings,
embryonics, genetics, metaphysics,
a bicameral Taoist ego language developer
might re-paradigm "esoteric" as "eco-terra"--
Earth's ecological syntax-normative
autonomic intelligence,
as ubiquitously displayed
in co-gravitated fractal-root tree structures
of healthy temporal-spatial cellular development,
emerging from aptic-universally transparent
permacultural awareness
appreciation of a more aptic-thru-synaptically inclusive
bicameral Right-unitarian with Left-universalist eco-consciousness.

Now you're saying we are a species of anonymous Buddhists,
and also Unitarian Universalists?
You know,
that "anonymous Christian" conjecture
by Hans Kung
really didn't get great reviews
from many multi-religious exegetes.

but Christianity is a theistically framed view
of our shared eco-consciousness,
our Original Story,
while UUs,
and Buddhists
emerge naturally bilateral co-arising principles of shared consciousness
as self-proclaiming exegetical teleology
incarnating systematic theology;
an ecologic of Fuller's Universal Intelligence,
Yang-Form with Yin-Function, nondually unitarian,
assumes co-gravitational balance as transparent purpose
toward discerning ego-satisfactory meaning (and "meme"ing),
for "Universe",
"Earth", and all DNA/RNA encrypted Earth Tribes
sharing a cooperative vocation
to balance our co-gravitational solidarity
with our thermodynamic eco-DNA/RNA harmonic default preference
for Win-Win mutual Yolk and White subsidiarity,
reverse-hierarchical governance eco-norms,
electromagnetic with elder webbed transparent nutrients
co-mentoring infant yolk.

I think more rainbowed folks
will like these yolks
but I'm not so sure our whites
will appreciate such co-arising/co-falling transparency.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Yes, the time had allowed another opportunity to be near you,
Though well heaven knows whenever you are near my fear crunches my breath,
Leaving me starving for you, and wanting nothing more than to flee…

I stood in line, mainly because my family was there…
God knows I was not hungry at all…
Which is odd—I’m usually always hungry when I come to food gatherings
But there I was, my stomach swirling, and I looked out of the window,
And I saw you with the others, serving the food

My first thought was, great, here’s an opportunity,
And then the fear came—oh boy, what are you serving?
Are you serving something I like? 
Something I hate? 
So I closed my eyes and opened them again…
And I looked at what you were serving…
It was either macaroni salad, or potato salad; wasn’t quite sure at the time
I was more intrigued by how you presented yourself,
So friendly…so easy-going….so very natural and engaging

Damnit! The line is moving fast! 

I cringed at the thought of approaching you,
Even when I was following all the others;
And I knew you couldn’t be left insinuating-
Oh, that girl’s kinda weird and creepy…
I guess you’d only think that if I went to the table for the third time or something- 
But still, I was shaking with stupid thoughts

There was a problem though…
I do like macaroni salad… well, a little bit--I've never loved it
And I’m rather sick of potato salad frankly…
So if I refused the food, would you think it’s just another way to avoid contact?
Or will I give eye contact and smile at you, and say “no thank you”?
As I got closer, it was apparent it was potato salad…
And I begin to think
Well! Potato salad…it’s not that bad…let’s play it safe, shall we? Let’s get a little bit.

And before I knew it, I was where all the food was
You were talking speedily, happily with the others
About just everything it seemed… my ears heard blurs at this point
A lady offered me salad – I accepted the bowl and slowly put dressing on and looked up
And you smiled at me and said,
“Best potato salad in the world, right here.”
And I can’t remember if I smiled, 
But I most certainly lifted that stupid plate…
The lady next to you said, 
“and there’s another kind right beside it!”
I said quickly, “I think I’ll pass…” 
What she didn’t know was that I was trying to get the hell away before I vomited on everything and everyone...

I wasn’t hungry at all…
But one thing was certain…

I accepted the potato salad because you were serving it! 
And I ate it too… 
It wasn’t bad…in fact I could say pretty easily,
It was the best potato salad in the world

Right here….

You were… were….. right there.

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
It’s Christmas Eve and through the house There creeps a curious little mouse. He climbs into the big arm chair And finds the cookies waiting there. He only takes the smallest bite. Santa will find his treat tonight. He gazes with wonder at the tree And the bright wrapped gifts left there to be A mystery tale to tell his spouse, When he gets home, this curious mouse. What an adventure it has been, He has drunk of some spilled over gin, That had been left upon the table. His wife will think it is a fable He has concocted to amuse her. She is home-bound, we must excuse her. He once came home all out of breath To say he had been scared to death By a huge rat with fluffy tail. She noticed he was very pale. “While I was nibbling off some cheese To bring to you, my love, to please. He almost had me in his paws. I’m sure he wasn’t Santa Claus”. But this night is so very quiet. He spies some fruitcake, has to try it. It reminds him of that sip of gin And wonders if his head will spin. He hears a noise, runs for his life, Carrying fruitcake for his wife. Christmas morning, spread before their eyes For the baby mice, a grand surprise. Their mama had fixed a Christmas meal From food their dad managed to steal. A bit of butter, a glob of jam And a fairly good-sized piece of ham. Bread crumbs saved from other forays. They had enough to eat for days. Those little mice would never waste it. If they didn’t like it they’d still taste it. This food their mamma set before them, Their dad risked his life to get it for them.

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
The Truckers:
It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does the village help
Families raise the children?

Truckers live in the village; and together, they,
Along with everyone else helps raise the children.
How do they help?

The truckers transport the goods that merchants
Need so the merchants can sell the things 
That folks need to be smart, strong, healthy,
Entertained, clothed, and happy.
They work around the world…endlessly. 
Delivering products. Through towns and cities
Driving here, driving there; delivering goods.
Back in the times of the horse and carriages,
The “truckers” used horses or pushed handcarts.
If someone had an extra hog to trade or
Crops to sell, they usually bought directly.
The farmers or someone else in the village
Helped deliver the things that needed to be delivered.
Together, people worked, struggled, and helped
One another.  Children were responsible. 
Their help was needed for survival…appreciated.
Everyone in the village helped to raise the children.
Even the children helped with the younger.
People interacted, closely.  Thus, they helped raise the children. 
Today, men and women still help raise the village children.
The children watch truckers on the road.
Driving, passing, changing lanes, shopping in shops
They set examples, good or bad.
And children watch wide eyed with ears perked!

© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 19, 2010
Poetic form:  Free Verse

© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 19, 2010
Poetic form:  Free Verse

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |

Hmmm “finger food!” I can only guess at what that means Surely, we don't actually eat human fingers If that's the case, it would be cause enough For me to become a vegetarian Then I could devour a whole “head” of lettuce Or a bunch of celery “hearts” How about an “ear” of corn Or a “hand” full of grape tomatoes Wait a minute!!! That's still sounding a bit cannibalistic to me Think I'll just stick to grass and rain water EEEUW! That don't sound too appetizing! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Last nights kiss,
still on my mind,
you stole my heart,
while not even trying.

Whispering softly,
into my ear,
perfect little words,
every woman loves to hear.

Holding my hand,
while crossing the street,
hurry, hurry,
chocolate kisses I keep.

Every different kind,
almond, and plain,
mint, and coconut,
drive me insane.

Kisses, Kisses,
I love them all,
I am here waiting,
for your sweet call.

Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
(Good Advice Spurned)

Grandmother packed a picnic lunch.
Brother, sister, and I, with two uncles
traipsed into the woods,
in search of adventure.

We found it.
We ate our picnic lunch, sitting 
on a fallen tree, spanning the creek.

We sampled “Rabbit Ice,” formed 
on weeds, hugging the stems
in smooth, thin white curls.
We drank creek water in cupped hands,
so cold, we shivered.

“Let’s build a fire,” my brother said.
Uncle Larry cautioned, “You’d better not. 
You’ll set the field on fire.”
We built the fire,
warmed our cold hands.

As the circle of fire began to spread,
we beat it with branches,
water carried from the creek in our hats. 
Undaunted, the fire ate up the dry grass,
spreading like a pond ripple
from a rock thrown in.

Uncle Larry refused to join
our efforts to ‘beat out’ the fire.
He stood, callously laughing
at our futile efforts.
The entire field burned.

We worried all afternoon.
What would Granddad say,
when he saw the black field
from the kitchen window?

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |

Blue cheese doesn't sound good to me Food should never be blue! Orange and red and green are okay To mention you just a few! A man's suit should never be pink It gives off a certain vibe! It portrays a kind of effeminate touch A thing you might want to hide! You be the judge, what about ice cream? Would you order a flavour called cow? Probably not, but you never know Could be the next craze after sow! One more thing then I really must go What would you think of purple fudge? Not your thing? Doesn't turn your crank? Just give your funny bone a nudge! Why are we bound by customs and norms? Why can't we step out of the box? Like a body builder wearing a pink tutu With pink and green polka dot socks! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Sa kisame ng bahay, itong si Butiking Pasas
Ay minsang nakipaglaro sa kanyang mga KAIBIGAN
Kanyang inaliw, mga pakpak na kumikinang, pumapagaspas
Binola ang bawat lipad na kay panglaw
Habang sa isip, may nabubuo’t nakaambang kalokohan
Tila naiinggit sa kanilang kakayahan

Nang hindi na sila nakatingin, tumalikod lang saglit
Nagsimula ng ibuka kanyang mapinsalang bunganga’t bibig
Nilantad matatalas na dila, na may malaasidong laway
Na tutunaw unti-unit sa kanilang katauhan

At sa isang kisap mata, dila’y pumulupot, sumalaksak, 
Nilunok, nilamon sila ng buong-buo, walang kamalay-malay 
Sila’y kinitil, nalinlang ng mga matatalim na SALITA,
Kawawang mga KAIBIGAN…
Kanilang magagandang LAMANG LOOB…
Tuluyan ng nawasak, nalusaw

Copyright © jhucel del rosario | Year Posted 2014

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When the sands of life run out for me
And I'm about to die,
Will St. Peter say "Come in, Ma'am,
If I bring a piece of pie?

Gravensteins from my own orchard
Are the apples I lke best,
With sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour.
Recipe on request.

I handle the crust carefully
To preserve the tender taste
And delectable deliciousness.
Not one crumb should go to waste.

I learned the process from my mom
Who learned it from her ma.
Grandma honed her skills a lifetime
Making pies for my grandpa

Who was connoisseur of pie
And ate it every day,
Wanting fresh pie for his breakfast,
Not stale slice from yesterday.

Grandpa's hankering for pie, perhaps
Brought him to early grave.
Dad said if pie should bring him harm,
He'd just try to be brave.

My apple tree is bearing
An unusually big crop.
My family is clamoring 
For apple pie non-stop.

Last week I had no money
When the tithing plate came by.
I hoped no one was looking as
I left an apple pie.

This week a plumper minister
Could not quite meet my eye,
But when my money hit the plate
I'm sure I saw him cry.

If you think I am just bragging
About my luscious pie,
I'm taking one from oven now.
You're welcome to stop by.

For Linda Marie's contest.  "Dreamy Desserts"
Placed 8th

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2010

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the quiet of the spring day was broken by the noise and shouts in the fields belching smoke the great iron beast dropping its sharp blades into the soil took large bites into the soft belly of the earth warm and moist the soil yielded to the blades as the monster moved quickly forward leaving straight lines of soil like long ribbons behind following was yet another of the beasts smoothing the rows and carefully planting seeds into the long ribbons of soil the season of planting had begun and another year awaited for the time when the soil would give up the long awaited harvest of its crops the call of that grand lady welcoming all to our shores with her message: "bring me your hungry and tired, and we will care for them", was being answered America's feeding of the world's hungry had begun, and the great food basket of the country was about to be filled the first tender shoots began to appear - small and fragile at first - and then with the aid of a soft rain grew stronger and taller looking over the fields the long green ribbons of the manna of the soil - soybeans, corn, sugarcane and the once king of them all, cotton, now reduced to a lowly position due to cost and price - all were about to fill the breadbasket of the world the great crops of the South all in one of many fields spread out as far as the eye could see great green ribbons - swaying in the soft summer breeze majestically saying to the world that the time would soon be near to provide a filling of the baskets of the world another season, another planting, another feeding - the busy cycle had begun as had been done since the earliest days of the nation corn planter, bean puller, cane cutter and cotton picker of the world, the great smoke belching, iron monsters of the fields had begun their work. rest would not be an option until the work was done and the plates of the world filled with the products from these southern fields

Copyright © Richard Moriarty | Year Posted 2011

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For several years when our kids were little, every Thanksgiving Day, we all loaded up and headed for Aunt Fanny’s house.   New faces and lots of food were big attractions.  There was much for which to be thankful. 

Just like myself, I suspect that everyone thought that Aunt Fanny's sweet potatoes were the best that we had ever tasted.  I suppose that everyone had no doubt that her mustard greens were the best in all America.  Who could  imagine anybody’s ribs, roast, or chicken being any better than hers?  Yes, we were certain that we could not see wings on her biscuit roles; but because they were so soft and fluffy, we also knew that if one did not consume them rather readily, they would fly away.

Doubtless, everybody knew Aunt Fanny the cook.  But the real question is whether or not we got to know Aunt Fanny the person.  If for any reason, and I can name a few myself,  anyone thought that the Thanksgiving gatherings were about the food, they, as did I at times, completely missed what Aunt Fanny was all about.  In time, that is, after her great and tasty food was clearly digested, I realized that she was all about people.                                                                                                          

Our dear aunt was indeed gourmet, but she was not about making us happy about her culinary abilities.  She was about making us believe that we could do anything God designed us to do; and to be  all that He purposed us to be.   Aunt Fanny was demonstrating to us that she learned to prepare many great dishes from scratch the same way she rose up from a very humble beginning and achieved prosperity in both material and spiritual ways.   She nearly started out in life from scratch.  So making much from little was second nature with her.

Those ‘massive never out of food gatherings’ were not about the turkeys, or the hams, or the chickens, and not even about the ribs.  I tell you, it was not about the food.   It was all about the family, the friendships, and the loving.  Yes!  Aunt Fanny was about the fellowship and the caring.  If we had thought that food was the centerpiece, we truly missed the real Fanny.  
01242013 cj PS Contest, Thanksgiving Day, Nayda Ivette Negron

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

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What can you do with all those seeds,
slick, black missiles that blaze
a path down your throat,
when what you want is to taste
the sweetness that surrounds them?

You collect them, as if they're treasure,
and curious grandchildren follow,
eager to play, sure of victory.
I spat those flat torpedoes beyond
the range of their imagination, and they,

in slack-jawed wonder at my dubious talent,
took turns spitting and measuring,
each determined to beat my record.
I dispensed seeds as lips pursed, tongues 
pushed, seeds flew and the air rang 

with spitting sounds. Grandpa shook
his head, laughing at our nonsense.
The game continued, dishes stacked 
unwashed, pride built, skills increased 
and seeds diminished.

But watermelon seeds' primary purpose
is not to be denied. Lush vines sprang up
in flowerbeds, dwarfed petunias and snapdragons 
and produced huge, sweet melons, 
replete with slick, black pips.

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

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How is it possible? Sixty years? Ouch. I shudder to remember 
those first attempts in the kitchen. At that time, the kitchen was 
“hands off” to men. I began cooking at age fifteen. But only 
desserts and breakfast food. I could make biscuits, cornbread, 
pie crust, and fried potatoes, eggs, ham, or pork chops.

But I loved everything from fish to sauerkraut and fried okra.
He is extremely allergic to fish. He loved steak. The year was 
1954. A thick T-Bone steak at the grocery could be had for 60 
cents. In our first year of marriage, we ate a lot of steak. 

He would eat only potatoes and corn, with his steak. I still love 
baked potatoes, but soon grew tired of corn, and hungered for 
veggies. Time changes everything. He now eats anything but 
fish. No problem. When we dine out, I order fish. 

If I haven’t cooked sauerkraut recently, he will say, “I think I’ll 
go get some Polish Sausage and sauerkraut. He brings it home,
then goes to work in the kitchen. His tastes almost as good as 
mine. He even makes the cornbread and stewed potatoes.  

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

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I was fixing supper not so long ago,  
the kitchen full of smells, sights and sounds;
a new dessert was ready for applause.
We were waiting on Gramps to get home from work.
In retrospect, it was not so bad as it seemed.
Smiling, I recall three moments with grandkids -
a memory of a supper hard to forget. 
Chase upends half a box of spaghetti
over the floor, I look for an extra box
as the dog poops on the carpet near the sink.

Suddenly, my ancient microwave blows a fuse
spinning us in total darkness. “Watch your step!
Don’t anybody move.” I stumble downstairs
headlong into Jackson and his art project.
“Who turned the lights out?” he bellows with blame.

“Ring-a-ling!”  Who’d call me at a moment like this?
"Honey, I'm running late – just go ahead and eat."
Lights on!  Both messes cleaned up!  I decide - 
“Kelly, will you blow us up some balloons? 
party time - we'll have supper by candlelight.”

written December 24, 2015

Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2015

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Thanksgiving’s on the way
This had crossed my mind
But what?
While shopping the mall yesterday I came on this display –
Who could miss it? – 
Shelves and shelves full of teddy bears    nutcrackers
    dolls    delicate ornaments    and then!
    this big open square rimmed with the most perfect 
    synthetic trees one might imagine – silver trees    green                      
    trees    blue trees    even a red tree
    all decorated magnificently 
In the middle    exactly in the middle of the square – a stage          
    an empty throne    and this short    white slat-fence              
    enclosing the whole
I shook my head
What happened to Thanksgiving?
Who the hell is thinking about Thanksgiving?
    certainly not the merchants!
Well    I wandered down the aisle toward the food court    
    and    guess what?
I come across a pen with a real live turkey strutting around
Seems I was wrong about the merchants
So?    To top it off – in the food court    at one of the tables
   there sits a man in suspenders     white tee shirt    red   
   trousers   red coat draped across the back of the chair    a 
   phony white beard    red cap lying on the table
He is one ugly    bony faced    misshapen human being
Santa’s on lunch break    gravy and partly chewed food
   spilled down his chin    bald head red as a beet
I can’t help staring at him    totally freaked
He looks my way    smiles
“Gobble    gobble”    says St. Nick

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2010

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Based on a regular real time experience by my father

The best day of week – in terms of meals at least.
The canteen serves a pie,
It contains some sort of meat,
Perhaps some vegetables as well,
Its cheap, its tasty, its filling and it enables me to reject my wife’s meal that evening,
One thing spoils my lunch, however
It spoils it full and full
The baked beans that are served as a partner to the pie,
Are deposited over it,
By a dollop of carelessness from the lady server,
What makes it worse still is her adjoining  comment
“Didn’t you want your beans all over your pie?”
I cant really object,
She has done her job,
Sort of,
Every week this happens,
Perhaps the next week she will remember I enjoy a recluse pie,
Totally separate from the beans,
One day she was replaced by a younger woman,
Perhaps I can have a dry pie at last,
“Hello”, I said
“Pie with beans please”
With a smile, my pie appeared on a large plate,
It looked delightful – brown fluffy pastry,  ready to be eaten
She picked up the spoon from the pool of beans,
With a scoop and a wet deposit
“Oh….didnt you want your beans all over your pie?”

Copyright © Alexander Seal | Year Posted 2015

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   Family gathers for Thanksgiving dinner

  As you step into grandma's home
You smell the savory aromas

   Turkey is stuffed and cooking in the oven
Glazed ham garnished with pineapple and cherries
We’re getting very anxious for homemade buns to rise

   Table is decked with grandma’s fine china
Table settings and white lace linen
Fresh Thanksgiving Autumn floral bouquet,
Candles flicker in-tall thin brass candleholders

   Salad, asparagus and cheese sauce,
Mashed potatoes and gravy,
Cranberry sauce,
Cinnamon sweet potatoes garnished with marshmallows
Ambrosia fruit salad, cherry and pumpkin pies
Apple crisp with caramel sauce a prize
Punch bowl filled to the brim 
With eggnog and hot cinnamon schnapps

   A second ham sits in the baking pan on the stove
Of balance over the burner knobs
Pa picks up the lid to take a peek

      Did a hip-hop back

   As it slides off the top of stove onto the floor
Bathing everyone around with sweet greasy glaze
For once I wish I had Rover and Max around to lap up the floor
As they were locked up in their dog cage so they wouldn’t be underfoot

   Slipping and sliding and grabbing on to the counters I whispered
Please dogs come and save us from this wet dirty job

   We dropped plenty of towels and got a mop and a bucket of suds
To sup- up the entire sweet greasy glaze
 Finally the crazy mayhem was over
Turned to face the table and held our composure

Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.
Moaning and groaning too stuffed to move Rubbing their bellies that are just ready to bust Still enough food left over for everyone to take home 11/24/2016

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2016