Best Canning Poems
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
Categories:
canning, community, farm, food,
Form:
Narrative
Snapping beans, the summer pastime
Filling Mason jars
With cornfield or half runners
Filling a crock with layers
Of beans and corn, canning salt
For pickled beans and corn
That would make my mouth water
Peeling ripe red tomatoes
That I called maters
Cutting them in wedges
Placing them in Mason jars
Adding a touch of salt
Sealing the lids and cooking
In a liquid water bath
For enough time to be sure
Those maters were preserved
For the winter weather
Chili, soup or spaghetti
Dicing cucumbers
Mixing them with vinegar
And all the spices, garlic
Everything that makes the best
Pickles ever tasted
They seem such a blessing
When the snowflakes hover
Near the windows, dusting
The entire mountain
With reflections of the season
As the harvest hands over its treasures
Beans, corn, maters and so much more
The wise worker from the fields
Leaves the front porch each day
With scrapes of bean strings, peelings
And excess husks so the pigs
Will be as blessed as the rest of us
Granny showed me how to can
She gave me her instructions
With a hug and a grin
Hoping to remind me to always
Blend a bit of love
Into everything I preserved
From garden to porch
From porch to jar
From jar to dish
Where the love is mixed in
So that everyone who samples
A dish from my kitchen
Knows that I have given
My very best intentions!
Categories:
canning, appreciation, blessing, garden,
Form:
Free verse
(A True Story)
She was only seven, this little petite Asian girl
took a trip to Canning Vale,
on a shopping spree, as a surprise.
But this day there, lingered evil
working at the local grocery store,
saw the little girl, grab her unbelievable in a crowd
to the public convenience fled.
Her brother did search in this place
but to no avail,
called out in desperation her name,
a sound from the cubicle disguised
sent him away.
The Butcher snapped her arms and legs
like a new born twig upon a tree,
then had his way,
but analyst says
she was dead before the deed,
which when interviewed disappointed him,
this bastard.
She died an agonizing death
yet he still lives, at society’s expense,
because today we are taught to tolerate
while lawyers profit to the shame of the human race.
One can imagine the sheer fear
in those final seconds of this little girl,
at the hands of the likes of the
Canning Vale Butcher.
My tears on this page as I write
I hope God are not wasted, as those for this sick society are!!
Last week in Wales
April a little girl was abducted
as yet to be found five days on,
bringing back memories of the above
in Canning Vale, Perth, W.A, Australia.
a few hundred yards from where I lived
yet I did nothing to stop this,
my excuse of not knowing
does not abide well!!!!!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Categories:
canning, death, sad,
Form:
Free verse
Poitician George Canning
also made his verse sing
Foreign Secretary&for War
with comic humour for sure
Categories:
canning, people, poetry,
Form:
Clerihew
The harvest comes in with the ending
Of summer heat and fresh green things
That fill my heart with laughter and joy
~
The garden grows wild and willowy with
Fresh produce - green beans, corn, tomatoes
All succulent and tempting me to start canning
~
The Ball jars sit waiting for me to prepare them
Press them full of plump red tomatoes or crisp
Snapped beans that make food feel a delicacy
~
There are pickling salts, vinegar and sugars
All waiting to be used in their various ways
Within the boiled jars and underneath lids
~
The jars are hot and reach boiling underneath
The water bath that keeps them processing
So that every bacteria that might be is deceased
~
Through the fall, I find myself reaching for jars
Filling them with fresh vegetables and salts
Canning each run with an expectant heart, a hope
~
These very next jars will be the ones that I know
Will all seal the best, with labels pressed atop
To tell me when I canned them and if I want them
~
Canning is a deed my Granny caused me to express
With rims filled to capacity with a sense of blessing
And assurance that tightening a lid was a part of love
~
As the jars are taken out and given away or eaten
To this day, I don’t have the how, when or why of it
But I know that it means I’ve given a part of my heart
Categories:
canning, autumn, blessing, food, garden,
Form:
Free verse
April was the koolest month
we walked in the green uprising,
to gather berries,
would eat them as we trekked
the crunching woods.
It was1999 and the sky was clear
for months after;
we had time to can the berries
and preserve them.
Thus when the TV conjectured
the possibility of a global plague
all the channels began to
reprogram themselves;
to electronically dream-up
the year 2020 into our reality.
We had to look away from the screen,
had to ponder our relationship
if perhaps one day
one of us ever went missing.
In a recycling pantomime of motion,
we watched the untimely dying
being pushed on gurneys
out into the deserted streets.
Later we trashed all the uneaten berries
scrubbing our hands
as if they would be forever stained.
Categories:
canning, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
pickling hot peppers
banana and cayenne green....
survival ?
Categories:
canning, food,
Form:
Senryu