Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air
Maternal grandpa owned a car where boot lid came back and folded down
From underneath our shearing shed he'd bag up lots of sheep manure
Tied to tray on back of car , travel four hundred kilometres back to town
Would pile the poo on his suburban garden
where he grew beetroot lettuce and some corn
to water and weed this vegie patch
he would rise at break of dawn
So thank you grandpa for this mentorship
since those days, I've loaded ute, with many different kinds of poo
There's horses, goats, ducks, donkey, cow, hens and sheep
I'm not much into waste , with compost dunny, to soil, mine adds much richness too
I have many different types of fruit and lots of greens to make a meal
with world events a lack of food, maybe not too long, it could all get real
On a high steep cliff, by the deep, deep sea,
Where the birds can't rest or swing in a tree,
Far from other towns, in the unknown wild,
That is where I lived when I was a child.
Greenland, the island of the polar bears,
Greenland, with so complex foreign affairs,
Greenland, that replaced the cars with wild dogs,
The only country that doesn't have frogs.
We caught seals and then ate their warm raw lungs,
And we let them melt on our hungry tongues,
We have never eaten a single fruit,
Or a cucumber, or a red beetroot.
Greenland, where we wash our hair with warm pee,
Greenland, mirror of the infinite sea,
Greenland, where the wind blows really fast,
Where the days are planned based on the forecast.
It was completely dark half of the year,
People switched their therapist with the beer,
I often felt I was misunderstood,
I had a long and barbaric childhood.
looking back to when I was a lad
They said times were hard, They said things were bad.
Picking up tatties, the pulling of peas
Coming back home with scratched grimy knees.
Screwing the Beetroot, yes that is right
Removing the tops from morning till night.
You couldn't cut the tops off, that made them bleed
Keeping your eye out for the sharp stinging weed.
Finger nails were always full of mud
Scrubbing hands would do no good.
Summer break were still lots of fun
When working the fields were almost done.
We didn't have computers, four channels of TV
Top of the pops were the highlights for me.
Kicking the football out on the street
A clip around the ear from the bobby on the beat.
Looking back it wasn't that bad
Lots of fond memories when I was a lad.
Holidays were over it was back to the grind
Wondering what lessons the teachers had in mind.
I didn't mind maths and history was great
The adventures we made up me and my best mate.
Now that I'm older looking back realise
My whole life's been an adventure through this pair of eyes.
Never will she stop
beetroot chops
My daughter's Tenth time
swinging across
Children behind waiting,
their arms crossed in a strop
I call out and say,
Being fair you are not
Then reaching quickly
she climbed to the top
Pointing her finger toward
the near ice cream shop
I nod in agreement
Both are smiling a lot
My daughter runs over
excited and hot
Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of a noble order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only valid creed was,
window squinting prayer meets
The woman has no place to be put,
the man is restless; his feet are slipshod,
The child won't eat greens,
he prefers beetroot slices from a sickly can,
The family may once have been human,
now they have been reduced to cartoons,
caricatures tossed into a cardboard box
and left out on the curb in the rain.
Soon enough, but not right away,
a teenager discovers the disintegrating box,
he puts the woman in a safe warm place,
and waits until the night finds him alone.
The restless man and beetroot boy
float away along the gutter,
until they both fall into a drain.
Paper-thin alligators
chew on wet talk-bubbles.
In the woods behind the school,
soft **** magazines
are buried in shallow graves,
so that the priest will not find them.
All the Pickled produce gathered
At Branston Manor - if you please!
They entered via a staircase
Made of Jacob's Crackers and Cheese.
The Gherkin Girls and Chutney twins,
Who's names are Tom and Mango
Compete against the Beetroot Troupe
To make the taste buds Tango!
The Beetroot Troupe are not alone.
They have a wise old friend
Zingy Mr. Vinegar.
Always ready to defend.
The Silverskins call upon
The Shallots acapella choir
To pack a punchy added flavour
In a pitch that can't go higher.
The sour Grapes sulk in the corner.
They apparently should not have come.
Only Pickles were invited.
It was not open to everyone.
The Eggs got pickled with too much drink.
They thought it would be fun
To gatecrash the party
Just to confuse everyone!
It was an event to be remembered.
But alas, though sad to say
The party ended abruptly.
For they were consumed that very day!
Written 18th August 2022
For the, "It's A Pickle Party Contest"
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
I bought her a bunch of blue violets and roses of red
Pure romantic thoughts were going around in my head.
Thought I'd surprise her and went round to her back door
There she was with my best friend, sprawled out on the floor.
She saw me and screamed saying "it's not what you think"
I lost one of my gold earrings under the kitchen sink.
Her face was red as beetroot, my former friend too
We exchanged insults and the air then turned blue.
Well I'm certainly no idiot and I have travelled worldwide
And it opened my eyes that she was taking me for a ride.
But there's one thing for sure, it killed my romantic mood
And you don't search for an earring when you're in the nude.
Written 8th February 2022.
NOT FOR CONTEST.
[Written with much love and bonhomie in
response to Milt’s Poem ‘Hearty Poetry Soup’]
*
Not so long ago in a land called Soup
A warlock gathered a talented group
These were the wordsmiths who writ all Soup Lore
But the warlock decided that they’d write no more
For he had been born to be ‘Soup Laureate’
A role he’d hold longer the more folk he ate
Even a warlock is sometimes unreasoned
Not much consolation…when you’ve been lightly seasoned
So here in this cauldron we boil and we bubble
Somehow I sense we’re in some kind of trouble
My hope is this as I cling to the edge
I hope I’m the meat and not the two veg
But, lo, I discover that Milt’s being mother
He’s spotted my need to write something or other
His warlock-like methods at first seemed remiss
Until this old turnip sat down to write this
But still I find one thing decidedly troubling
I look like a beetroot from all of that bubbling
My poor scalded feet are developing bunions
So at my next barbecue… Milt’s in the onions!
Young Lemmy was humping a ‘cushin’
His owner turned beetroot red blushin
She said to her cat
Please will you stop that
Old Nancy next door may be lookin!
Thanks to a lovely on line friend for the inspiration
1/1/21
My eyes scan over the table.
My taste buds begin to perspire.
There’s so much food here on offer,
so I wonder what I’ll desire.
There are some beautiful salads.
There’s carrot, corn and green peas,
bar-be-cue meat to perfection,
and a platter of selected cheese.
There are prawns cooked in their shell,
paté, salami, olives and chips.
There’s my favourite dried tomatoes;
dry biscuits and all kinds of dips.
I’m ready to make a selection.
My craving helps me with ease.
I bi-pass the foods of sensation,
for an entrée of Vintage Cheese.
I could have tried Camembert first,
but its flavour just never agrees,
and why would I ever want Blue Vein,
when the platter holds Vintage Cheese.
Swiss has a nice nutty flavor;
cheddar’s soft with flavour so light.
Pecorino, Romano, are for cooking,
but Vintage is cheese with a bite.
It must be made out of whole milk,
and it has to be seven years old.
There must be mould on the cheesecloth,
and it must be the colour of gold.
One chop; two prawns and tomato,
lettuce, onion, beetroot will create,
a very bland meal, at a bar-be-cue,
without Vintage Cheese on my plate.
The New Diet
I've put myself on this new diet,
Trying to drop a dress size or two,
Believe me it's a taste sensation,
I'm loving it and think you will too.
So here is my secret to weight loss,
Success guaranteed to please,
The day I discovered sweet Karma,
Beetroot salad and Greek Feta Cheese.
My body feels free, newly awakened,
Skin tones, complexion much better,
Helped by one simple life choice,
A diet of Beetroot and Greek Feta.
in the garden
the gardener digs and digs away
he pulls a hundred thousands weeds
he grew up a hundred thousands seeds
he grew peas red and round
and Pulls beetroot from the ground
spinach cauliflower are green
the basket full of peas and Beans
oranges both large and small
broccoli fit for Queen or King
onions tied up with a string
a very clever man is he
who grows so many things for me !!
This pile of pills keeps me afloat,
Washed down with beetroot juice each day
To keep the aches and pains at bay
And ailments more substantial. Who knows
Just where or who I'd be without them
Or what indeed each one bestows
To aid and optimise performance ?
The red ones and the blue ones,
Each of some importance,
Mingle with the squarish pink and multi-coloured
Striped ones. Some dissolve in water
And are ready for the fray,
Ready for the battles , hidden from our sight,
Each has a role to play.
But are they players in a team,
With a clear united mission,
Or is each within our bloodstream
Jostling for position ?
We follow doctor's orders,
Blind faith is what's required.
These cures for our disorders
We've swallowed as prescribed.
Sometimes they'll solve the problem,
Sometimes they surely don't.
We hope they may prolong our life
But fear they maybe won't.
We can't predict our future
Or measure years we've gained or lost,
So keep on with the tablets -
And keep your fingers crossed !
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.