Best Breakfasts Poems
When tons of doom filled nights fall on your head,
hot embers glow and fires burn unabated,
you recall her last breath and wish you were dead.
In a poem's sad lines you've been castrated.
From the heavens a voice thunders dire threats
about losses and breakfasts consumed without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawn's hard hammer fell
last night's burns are reminders of strife.
You stumble and look up from the pits of Hell,
recounting the reasons why you lost your wife.
Your clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with its wretched lucent moon.
You dream of hungry tigers eating your boots.
Your house is perched atop two adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; but it's not a tiger he shoots.
Your second wife cuts off your legs at the knees.
With life's blood flowing from your severed veins
your heart bemoans that you married once more.
By morning you were free from nightmare's pains
but horrid memories linger behind closed doors.
What vast burdens you bear in fear of sleep
and hollows in your mind fill quickly with dread.
When your clock strikes twelve, I hear you weep,
" Odious anguish! I wish I were dead."
Shadows dance on your walls in candle light.
Dark images of her body pressed close to you,
waltzing in your arms on a moonlit night
but she vanishes when dawn's rays break through.
Which sort of dream scars your mind with more grief?
The ones in which you're butchered; burned by fire,
or when daylight steals her away like a furtive thief?
Will your penance release you from the leeching mire...
the terror you encounter each night as you lie abed?
Foolishly, you once thought love claimed your heart.
Therein lies the angst of what you most dread...
the vexing memories in dreams that tear you apart.
Co-Written with Robert Lindley based on the original
verses he offered in the open challenge on his blog.
Could it be only yesterday we met?
This night together seemed so very right.
So nice to wake up to a happy face,
To find you with me still at morning light.
I dare not think my lonely days are done,
It is too soon to be so optimistic.
I must be patient, wait to see what comes,
Dampen my ardor, be more realistic.
Is this but the first of our shared breakfasts?
I fear I’ll frighten you with silly talk.
You must admit that we are good together.
I grab your leash and take you for a walk.
Back in my mind a vision I see
Of the loving person who took care of me
When I would fall and scrape my knee
Her hugs would make the booboo's flee
There was a time I scrapped my arm
I screamed and yelled like a fire alarm
But who was there to rub on the balm
The person I lovingly called, my Mom
For the longest time I didn't know her name
But rest assured if I yelled Mom, there she came
She didn't seem to be ruled by a clock
And always had time to pick up a sock
She would always calm me in the midst of a storm
She smelled so good and was always so warm
She loved to laugh but she also cried
I remember it happened, when my puppy dog died
A printed dress that was always so worn
Smiling brightly she'd wake me each breaking morn
Her breakfasts were yummy and tasty and warm
Her apron was part of Mom's dress uniform
When I started to grow and would go out to play
Mom would be there watching throughout the day
At noon she would call me which was always so sweet
Come in little darling, it's soon time to eat
Peanut butter and jelly was the noon time treat
I'd be tired from playing but had time to eat
Then she'd put me down on the couch to sleep
And cover me up from my had to my feet
My Mom isn't home, she was called away
To a new home in heaven where she's living today
I'm sure she's at peace in her home up above
And showering other children with her motherly love!
7/18/02
In a tropical place, the climate
becomes a way of being.
Fruits and flowers on shirts and dresses,
breakfasts of bananas,
pineapple flavored passions of
afternoon, pathways to the moon on
evening seas, coconut-milk tipped waves at dawn,
palms tilting horizons and gulls gliding
the edge of time.
Yet, where I live does not define me.
Not like the Irish dairymen, who
rain or shine, milk cows they
could easily set their clocks by.
Here on this perfect stretch of sand,
I am rootless - envious
of those who have never moved.
I feel puppet-ized by modern life;
a little schizoid - liking where I am,
hearing the voices, while
a part of me pines
for pastoral beginnings.
I imagine when you first see it…all you see an old cast-iron pan…you don’t see where it’s been…you only notice the outside…not the history within.
But every time we use it…we handle it affectionately…because when we pick up this old cast-iron pan…that…is exactly what we see.
Some of this pan’s history we know…the rest we must infer…it was Debrah’s grandmother’s…passed down to her mother…then passed on down to her.
Now take another look at it…imagine, if you can, three generations of meals…cooked inside this pan.
Think of all the breakfasts, lunches and dinners served up lovingly…think of what this old cast-iron pan has meant to our family.
I wonder if that’s what makes anything cooked in this pan taste so good…as we think about how long ago it was cast…as the flavors we are tasting today blend with all those flavors from the past.
I suppose that’s why we get a little sentimental…why we use this pan so reverentially…knowing its age and history is what makes it special…knowing it’s a lot like Deborah and me.
And hoping how the three of us…Deborah, me and this old cast-iron pan…with a little bit of care and a lot of love…will keep cooking as long as we can.
We only hope there is at least one item in your house filled with memories…filled with its own history…an item like our old cast-iron pan…that’s part of your family.
When tons of doom filled nights fall upon your head,
embers glow fierce and fires burn unabated.
Recalling her last breath and wish you were dead
in poem's last line, you've been beat and castrated.
From the heavens, a voice thunders out dire threats
about loses and late breakfasts without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your foolish bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to bitter, burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawns hammer truly fell.
Last nights burns are reminders of your tortured life.
You stumble and look up from pits of dark raging hell,
recounting now the true reasons you lost your wife.
Your alarm clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your dark house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, sad wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with it's huge wretched lucent moon.
Dreaming of hungry tigers eating your new boots.
your house perched atop two tall adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; it is not a tiger that he shoots.
Second angry wife cuts your legs off at the knees
Metaphor amputations are so savagely sever.
Your spirit cries out I must flee, tiger is near.
The tiger roars with laughter, I own all your pain.
Second lioness purrs with abject contempt and disdain
Your old slaughtered heart bleating faint cries out.
Memories tainted and dreams coercing a shout.
In abyss of regret the famished tiger dines.
You struggle to cope, tree sways breaking it's vines.
What of taunting lioness who's false words defame?
Half muted stutters quivering lips murmur blame.
Muttered niceties in deep with disgust feigned.
Tiger haunting your dreams, as King it truly reigns.
Will you take a stand your courage regained?
Can you bare the cost, can you bear the pain?
Be strong take back what your past gains.
Clean the slate wipe away the shameful stains.
Climb up from the depth of hells dark pits.
Replace dawns hammer with soft cotton mitts.
Let satisfied lioness purr, hunt the raging tiger.
Be happy, be proud of regaining your swagger.
WRITTEN WITH ONE OF THE BEST POETS I KNOW.
ROBERT LINDLEY FOR THE CHALLENGE ON HIS BLOG.
THANK YOU ROBERT FOR CHOOSING TO WORK WITH ME.
Lady Bird
Though not a lady
nor even is she a bird
But she's the most
exquisite beauty
ever seen
though never heard
Her coat of ruby red
‘tis almost designer
one could have said
With small black polka dots galore
This gorgeous creature I adore
Sometimes she walks across my floor
Multi-talented this gal in red
flying on hidden wings out spread
The dots upon here ruby coat
Some say will tell her age
This is untrue
It tells her species
For there are very many
A beauty in red
Impossible to perceive
an insect is she
a beetle I believe
One of five thousand species
munching aphids she sees
for breakfasts
for dinners
and even for teas
This lady in red
she is so well fed
Farmers welcome
with open arms
She can eat 50 aphids
on farms each day
keeping those pesky creatures away
But to me she is something quite special
This beautiful Lady in Red
Queen of all beetles
When I see her
I want to touch her
and gently stroke
her ruby red coat
My favorite beetle
She makes me gleeful
thus forever to me
she will always be
A beautiful Lady in Red
Written 13th April 2022
Contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIER CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
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Contest Your Second Chance 2nd Submission
Sponsor Sotto Poet
2nd PLACE
Recalling being age seven, at breakfast around
the white, oval wood kitchen table.
Sitting on a telephone book so as to reach the
table, I was not able.
Mom, of blessed memory and always a fresh
tablecloth, newly pressed.
Nobody in leisure clothes allowed, so we all
were fully dressed.
Only the small radio played soft melodious
tunes,
Music that today, nobody could even croon.
My frisky wire-haired fox terrier played with
his toys.
Breakfasts, decades ago that I
both cherish and enjoyed.
Faces of sun and peace, in my memory live.
The early days of this poetess, her happy,
precious retrospective.
September 18, 2020
2:30pm PST
Edited. 9/19/2020
For 47 years and 2 weeks
He was there by my side
Then the sad day came
When he up and died.
On my way home he was there
And as I turned onto the road to home
Garth Brooks began to sing "The River"
It's message was so profound.
Then at breakfasts some songs they'd play
Were messages to which I could relate
"Remember When," by Allen Jackson
And Garth Brook's song "The Dance"
Rascal Flats song "The Long Lonesome Road"
Could have been his life,
It's message I first misread
Until I opened up my eyes.
With "If Tomorrow Never Comes,"
Garth Brooks breaks my heart
But with his song "Sometimes Other Than The Night"
The message was quite strong.
And then there were times I'd go to town
Where usually business was involved
One of these special songs would play
To let me know he was along.
I'd even turn from station to station
To keep the signal clear
And yes, You are right my friends
One of these special songs would be there.
Yesterday it was "The Dance"
Today I learned the news
The bank had presented the papers on the house
So they could be approved.
Today I learned it had been approved
And Our things we'll once more share
We'll look from our window
And see the buffalo there.
I sometimes wonder if there is a message
In a song Leanne Womack sings
It happens following stressful times
And it's called "I Hope You Dance."
OUR HOME ON THE RANGE, will be just that
For now till the end of time
And I'll continue to read my books
Sharing the life the cowboys had
When the west was free and wild.
This morning when I was getting up I turned on the radio and Garth Brooks had just started singing "THE DANCE".
Small furry, stripy, cuddly puss makes
Lots of noise as the early dawn breaks
And so the reluctant household wakes.
“Get out of bed now,
Come down and feed us for all our sakes,
We’re on our last miaow.”
The household can but do as it’s told,
This tabby cat is exceedingly bold.
So from my bed and into the cold
I creep to provide
The feline breakfasts as I was told,
With some milk beside.
This tabby cat is plump and quite cute,
Bossy and nurse-like, a real old boot,
Her every whim always bears fruit,
She bustles about.
She’s Hattie Jacques in a tabby suit,
Matronly with clout.
Her fur is sleek, her voice is sublime
What will she be like given more time?
Her bossy manner isn’t a crime.
Sometimes she holds back.
Her friend, an alpha cat in his prime
Is leader of the pack.
so, the frenzied hunt is on,
for that perfect gift,
that unique something,
for that special someone.
Heart-shaped chocolates,
diverse species of stuffed animals,
gold and silver anklets,
carefully trimmed bouquets,
painstakingly worded cards,
gift vouchers, moonlit dinners,
cruises, picnics, breakfasts in bed.
Gosh, I’ve got to run,
I’ve just thought of exactly,
exactly what my cat will love…
Home sweet home, Africa my mother's land
Where mornings arise with beautiful sounds of joyful birds
Giving thanks to the one who gave them life.
A peaceful yet chaotic place where souls find comfort in discomfort
Cherished by the smoke of love and wisdom
To keep hopeless hopes hoping for better days.
A land of my origin in which my life principles are rooted
And constantly nursed by my forefathers and mothers
To keep me wet in a well of norms and traditions.
This is home sweet home Africa my mother's land
Where breakfasts and dinners are blessed with arts& culture
In memory of days when forests used to produce food to eat
And herbs to cure illnesses.
Gone are the dàys , gone are the times
But Africa my home remains firm like a tree in desert
Watered by the streams of tears and blood
With sorrows lamenting in pains.
Yes, I still call it a sweet-peaceful home
Though famines and draughts
Continues to crush it with civil wars & political instability
As the world watches in silence for this is Africa;
Africa my home where hopes will never be lost
No matter the blood lost.
In pains and laments we will forever smile
For we know that a home we have
A home that stood heavy rains and horrible storms
For many years and will continue doing so
In decades and centuries to come.
The Valentine dress
A shock and surprise full of red and blue
coming from a heart, mine is devoted to
and from a hand I so value as my cute protection.
It is colourful, fitting and above all an exhibition of love.
The pan
A symbol of my dedication to the family’s need;
a loving reminder of all wonderful breakfasts,
its wash, a satisfaction of my duties already rendered.
The flowers
The purity of beauty without visual effect,
sparkle on the soul to answer their good morning call.
Please every evening with their aerosol of happiness spray,
causing every creature to relax and play.
The wall
A wedge to my upright smooth back
when in a tingly mood so homely and tender.
Its cold sensation, under my handy touch
serves as a suitable background to deep thoughts.
Unfortunately
On the wrong side of an argument,
the pan and my head cause an impact.
At the door ready for a nice outing
the admirable dress is now half way a rag,
the innocent flowers, becoming victims
of rage and uncontrollable violence
and a wall once noted for emotional reflection
is repainted with the splash of blood.
Indeed
I’ve absorbed all the heat and pressures- now he’ll burn.
Human right always prevail over the muscles- this he’ll see!
Immeasurable determination has been planted in a wounded lion
and no amount of sacrifice will deter this quest until justice is served.
For many years, you were our family's breadwinner.
Your money paid for our breakfasts, lunches and dinners.
Because of my mental impairment, you continued to support me after I turned eighteen.
You could've outworked two twenty year olds, you were the hardest worker I've ever seen.
After twenty months of chemotherapy, you lost your fight.
Your battle with Leukemia ended six years ago tonight.
For the last two days of your life, you couldn't even reply to what people said.
When I received a call from my sister-in-law, she informed me that you were dead.
Your existence on Earth ended at around 10:20 PM.
One day I'll go to heaven and I will see you again.
[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died on July 13, 2013.]
He never liked "Bob" - now a success
So Robert Croslin he is
Raise in Baltimore ("projects")
His mom (Aurelia) is grandma to my kids
His only son, a lawyer in DC
In his own right, now elected
Mayor of Hyattsville! (Praise God)
Once, my "good" eye-doctors place
Where I volunteered for its Literacy Council
Memories of Library, churches, New Year breakfasts!
A liveable community, a bit costly now
But memories continue to layer on