Best Borscht Poems
The humid air sweats streaming curls down the toddler’s flush cheeks like Fusilli hot from the stove. The golden ringlets cling to her forehead, bouncing like Slinky’s in front of her, blue-agate, eyes. The backyard’s sounds-bat cracks and wise cracks-surround her. Squeals echo from the mounds of loam behind her new house. The homes out back form a red, yellow, blue, green monopoly board configuration.
The sand box she sits in is full of scrap two-by-four blocks. Using a naked purple-haired troll doll, she attacks the pine-block castle, tumbling the battlement. A plank spans the puddle
(created by the leaky green garden hose). The barefoot tike, troll in hand, starts across the board toward the moonscape of mud mounds; where her sister and friends run screeching armed with rotten tomatoes. She almost makes it before falling in and running mud covered to mother.
Polish Catholics, Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics, lived side by side with English Presbyterian’s and we errant, runaway, Jews. The scent of tomato paste, knackwurst and borscht wafts through the same soupy air, where we play King of the Mountain. Big Boys and Plum tomatoes flew indiscriminately through the August air like missiles. The only thing which stopped the action was the distance ringing bell of the Good Humor truck, here on Cherry Tomato Alley. Here where each new neighbor had transplanted themselves: their children, their gardens, their sprinklers, and their cars to fulfill the American dream.
First Published in Melancholy Hyperbole Spring 2015
Categories:
borscht, childhood,
Form:
Prose
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
PURPLE PANSIES
A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.
Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.
Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.
Fresh fairyland apogee
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.
6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
used Rhymezone and HMS
Categories:
borscht, flower,
Form:
Rhyme
nineseventeenPM on a winter's night asleep
wolf wind's a-whistlin' and a-howlin'
reaching under every blanket, every sheet
grasping shivering victims in dread's keep
Late spring or early summer, nineseventeenPM
resplendent sunlight's finally dimmed and darkened
though moments ago 'twas still radiant out west
time to head on in from porch or stoop
pre-midnight snack awaits, old-fashioned
homemade beet-borscht soup
nineseventeenPM in mid-Fall, Jack Frost's on the vine
of pumpkins large and small, candlelit smiles
greeting passersby … friendly faces masking
haunting sense that old man winter lurks nearby
nineseventeenPM in Chicago
Fore shadow of terror, or benign:
Evening's waning quickly now
~ Mark each hour's chime
Categories:
borscht, autumn, eve, spring, summer,
Form:
Free verse
The odor of turnips,
of seasoned cabbage water - borscht
flushed through musing kidneys.
Listening to Zhukovsky, Vysotsky, Tyutchev,
not comprehending a word of it.
Working my way backward
through an alphabet that echoes
proto-Slavic roots and chugs.
Muses that are a gloved slap of love,
an aching tooth,
a fondness for black-ice
words that gnaw wet socks and fingertips.
Suspicions wriggle like long dead Popes –
the smell of tobacco and damp sheets.
A dusting of earth shaken from chilled rhizomes.
Words simmer like sleeping Cossacks.
Whiffs of green water, grain, and potato,
the anguish of bruised beets.
A poetry that peels onion,
a crop used
in the pickling of cucumbers,
and other forever preserved romances.
Categories:
borscht, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
The fattest land mass within the borders of Europe
is also a mother with an extremely fertile womb
to once go third in the global grain export.
Sitting on a ground blessed with hidden treasures,
it has unfortunately been blown by the nuclear disaster of Chernobyl.
Its architecture, literature and music are a mirror reflection of its faith,
the borscht and verenyky- the appetizing symbols of its meals;
built ‘the Dream’ to wow the world of flight and weight
and emits the radiance of the Carpathian mountains
through the longest musical pipe ever played.
Home to the greatest ever boxing family
and having cities with their individual bragging rights.
Accumulation of cafes stands tall in its western giant
to the point, one of them exhibits masochism in soft core;
while its heart is home to the deepest Metro station
and also a sustainer of the chronicles of the Bald Mountains.
Among all is its amazing feature
of having the globe’s most beautiful women.
From Stalin to Putin, its road flirts with Russian misfortunes
and restricted by the limitations of corruption’s chains.
As one of the detached buttons of the soviet design,
it falls off but still tied with a closely knitted Slavic thread.
From such a connection,
it has since been under the suffering of its disowned father
to mount the stones of instability on a ground up north the black sea
for its identity to remain fully eastern.
Categories:
borscht, abuse, bullying, earth, education,
Form:
Ode
He was born in Yonkers, just north of New York City.
This man grew up to be funny and witty.
While working in a luncheonette owned by his family,
with the art of patois, Sid displayed proficiency.
As a funny comedian, he made his presence felt.
Sid got his start in upstate New York in the Borscht Belt.
As a saxophonist, his first job was at the Vacationland.
He became an influential member of the hotel’s band.
With the late Imogene Coca, he was a television pioneer.
On Broadway and in movies, Sid would also appear.
However, alcohol and barbiturates nearly destroyed his career.
A recovery brought him back into entertainment’s sphere.
Over the years, many awards and recognitions came his way.
At the age of ninety-one, Sid Caesar passed away.
RIP Sid Caesar
(1922-2014)
I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and variety.com for information
I obtained to write this poem.
Categories:
borscht, obituary, tribute,
Form:
Rhyme
A Vishyssoise of poets
Chicken soup for the soul
A site for we, who use it
Our talents to extol
A borscht of bards and artists
A consomme of flair!
Sonneteers and writers
Who with our pen do dare!
Poetry Soup I love you!
Anonymous yet warm
A broth of faceless friends
A shelter from the storm
A hearty bowl of stock
With feedback, thanks and praise
A wonton soup of cyber chums
With talent to amaze!
Categories:
borscht, inspirational, passion, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
Brunhilda married a fellow named Horst
For their first meal, she treats Horst to some borscht
She serves him with sweetest smile
But Horst cries, "This stuff is vile!"
Then keels over ~ should have filed for divorce
Categories:
borscht, food, marriage,
Form:
Limerick
About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
*“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”*
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
Soused on *Stoli,* reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm *détente* between us.
Categories:
borscht, america, angst,
Form:
Blank verse
Putin beat his old wolfhound so bad
Just for looking tired or scared or sad!
So the pooch smashed his best vodkas,
ate his borscht, blinzas and latkas
Then howled: Cri-me-a-River Vlad!
Nostrovia!
translation: Let's get drunk!
Categories:
borscht, humor,
Form:
Limerick
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.
Categories:
borscht, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
A bowl of borscht, split pea, or vasale' sublime
Add a cup of apt metaphor and a pinch of fine rhyme
Stir in a dash of passion and a pinch of zeal for flavor
Poetry Soup Voila' a scrumptious dish you shall savor!
Categories:
borscht, friendship, how i feel,
Form:
Quatrain
Putin has his butt in a sling
His Korean Smartphone won't ring
Bombs bursting in air
Is Kim Jong-un's fare
Borscht and Kimchee gassed Xi Jinping?
Categories:
borscht, humor,
Form:
Limerick
Behind the magnolia curtain, childhood ne’er knew.
Drawn to Sleepy Hollow - over the river, really
mountains; and the thruway, to Grandma’s we go.
Magnificent magnolias, bountiful with perfume,
born when I was steeped in maturity. Now I know
the shiny leaves that tremble in hot ‘lanta breeze.
Whilst the ghosts of the Catskills clip clop; shadows
that fell the canopy of treetops; the Borscht Belt
entertaining with neon signs, drawing my eyes.
Crépe myrtles connect the present and past,
I’d not notice the smooth legs until the gypsy eyes,
of a poet, were mesmerized by these sprightly trees.
Gone With the Wind comes to life as I entered
North Carolina life, bigger than life; Miss Daisy,
was driving me crazy; the drama of a small town,
I’d ne’er known, now bit my hands, slammed
my fingers in the door, waged jealousy and more;
brought to the surface my lack of skill and sins.
I gained my bearings, muscled my spirituality,
in other words prayed, bumbled, hurrayed any inroads,
gained love and fascination for these characters.
First thing said to me by the closest coworker:
“I know how much you make!”
‘Well, howdy do, and bless your heart’ -
that last bit, the burn I learned in the deep South.
You see in the Catskill mountains, we lob heads off,
well, at least the Headless Horseman does the dirty work.
Sweet smell of magnolias, Southern belles, mean old South;
still I met my best friend as I landed in Marietta -
I admire her, she’s kind, and wise, perfect in my eyes.
Categories:
borscht, people, tree,
Form:
Free verse
I traveled to Russia, bought me a horse
When we got home, I had buyer’s remorse
What would I feed it
What does a horse eat
Horse ordered vodka with beet borscht, of course
Categories:
borscht, food, giggle, horse, international,
Form:
Limerick