Best Casseroles Poems
like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come
dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings
don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat
I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure
but, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine,
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy, with goals
beyond our reach...beyond belief
beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control
like visitors from outer space, we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us, and then they all go home...
do we cry........? Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now
for, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
__________________________________________
4/12/13
Categories:
casseroles, child, cry, daughter, grief,
Form:
Free verse
Dear Fridge, you’re getting up in years. Oh, my!
How many now? You must be twenty-five!
The dishwasher already I’ve seen die.
How ever have YOU managed to survive?
Sir Oven also is a hanger-on,
But rarely do I spend my time with HIM!
I use his stove sometimes to cook upon.
Too bad you kitchen things can’t keep me slim!
You never rest! I open up your door.
The produce you’ve been keeping fresh I see;
The cheeses, breads, and butter, even more:
Cold casseroles and pizza tempting me!
I do not clean you often. That is mean!
I ought to prize more my appliance queen.
Categories:
casseroles, humor,
Form:
Sonnet
Oh, pungent onion, large, sweet and fried
in golden rings, diced, sauteed for
casseroles or grilled with meats;
tossed raw into my greens!
I love you so, that
when I slice your
skin, I’m the
one that
weeps!
Categories:
casseroles, food,
Form:
Nonet
Rare Cooking This Fine Morn
To have deep-thoughts, dreams a poet slowly eats
Or spiced casseroles of ink-piggy feats?
Meals written on yellow paper to enjoy.
Chinese fried rice with steamed adjective soy!
Experience new dishes, of rare flavor
Spread like butterfly wings upon glazed ham.
Pour tasty hot liquid words to thus savor
Bluebird wings sprinkled in blackberry jam!
What ? No essays, delightful adverb desserts?
No pans of Poe-like raven-baked pies
Yes! And add in boiled rhymes and magpie tales
Booming baked echoes of Mobydick whales!
What next? Fiction, tasty mysterious spurts?
With deep fried fish and red-button from shirts.
What taste? Tonight toasted Spanish serenade
With sweetest Sangria spice red Kool-Aid!
To have deep-thoughts, dreams a poet slowly eats
Or spiced casserole of ink-piggy feats?
Meals written on yellow paper to enjoy.
Chinese fried rice with steamed adjective soy!
Robert J. Lindley
Rhyme, Lin 10/11
Syllable count
11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10
Total # Syllables: 223
Total # Words: 146
Note, a Lindley family tradition, I cook the last day of the old year..
I've already completed breakfast and got the idea to cook up something on paper..
Lunch is running a bit late...
I cook but no hurry, is my motto.
Categories:
casseroles, appreciation, art, creation, food,
Form:
Rhyme
My Dad, a pretty ordinary man,
Suddenly taken by a heart attack.
People are offering all that they can,
Cakes and hot casseroles we do not lack,
Hard to believe the whole town has our back.
Their kindness seems to be never ending
The new normal of mine just keeps bending,
Focus seems to be on us completely,
Thoughtfulness and support, all are sending,
Comments of sympathy made so sweetly.
Sorry for your loss, just how old was he,
Using this information did matter.
I reply he was almost eighty-three,
The mood changes, I hear idle chatter.
Suddenly I feel a great deal sadder,
Death is simply another part of life,
You should be grateful and not feel such strife.
He was old, did not suffer, I was told,
My heart bleeds after the cut by this knife.
Judging approval of death by age --- cold.
Written July 27, 2012
For Cyndi MacMillan’s contest
“Do You Understand”
Won 3rd place
Categories:
casseroles, death, father, loss, sympathy,
Form:
Dizain
Vegetables are boring
'til they're drenched in cheese!
Give them a calorie bump
with a buttersauce -
decadent, creamy,
Thanksgiving
dream!
Categories:
casseroles, food, thanksgiving,
Form:
Epulaeryu
How to describe the color of love? Might you frown in surprise if I spoke of brown? Dull, pockmarked, ocherous brown.
A tarmac of grain, stained the color of earth, that never saw rain.
One humble old table, from an oak that would fall. Who could have known the
moments recalled?
Just a scarred weathered plank, with a warp in the middle. Blight she would hide with a bright checkered cloth. Those who would sit, night after night, greeting with eyes, meeting with ears,... filling the gaps with laughter and tears
Decades were spent, over string beans, and potatoes, bridging the gap of a mid-day mishap, a chat after school, or a new family rule.
Resurrecting a family, at the end of the day, while chomping away on unidentifiable casseroles, that filled the belly, as well as the soul.
Consuming wisdom and noodles, in the comfort of home.
Who would have noticed this shabby antique, wearing wax from Crayolas, white coffee cup rings. Ink spots, and dings. And three winking holes made by father's misdeed!
(His picture-frame project, misjudging the nails! Three slender digits pierced in without fail! Hammered tight, to the top. While mother's shot through the roof!
Who could have ever guessed that a well-worn, weathered old piece of grainy brown oak could be the glorious color of love?
____________________________________
Categories:
casseroles, home, nostalgia,
Form:
Prose
Finished off the casseroles
a while ago;
actually gave them to
someone with an appetite.
The neighbors have taken
your parking space.
The hallway’s unlit now,
but I still see the unhappiness in the mirror
even in the dark.
You always left the light on.
I cling to the railing;
it’s caught me more than once.
Each step leaves me breathless,
each ascent lifeless –
stranded and abandoned
without even a shadow.
It’s just as you left it inside.
I haven’t dirtied a dish.
The calendar still says June;
only the clock moves on –
ticking countdown.
Sometimes it’s too much
so I sleep outside the door
and guard what you left behind –
protect what was.
Slumber reunites us,
but daylight exposes me.
And the pity’s infected their whispers.
Categories:
casseroles, lossme,
Form:
Free verse
How can it be that autumn so soon again is stealthily approaching,
With its pleasing sounds, scents and varied hues steadily encroaching!
The bouquets of summer have faded and their petals they have shed,
Now, the maple and aspen assume their gorgeous robes of gold and red!
Anon, their bare limbs reaching for the heavens as if in supplication,
Will be adorned with garlands of snow to enhance their decoration.
The haunting honks of geese is heard as they flee the cold and snow,
Guided by The Master Compass from whence they come and whither they go!
Old Harvest Moon hanging from the ebony sky will emit its mellow glow,
Providing perfect ambiance for lovers strolling hand in hand below!
Happy revelers will enjoy hayrides, marshmallow and wiener roasts,
Lounging about glowing fires spinning tales of spooky goblins and ghosts!
Soon, hordes of pirates, witches and fairies will be prowling the streets,
And stopping by to make their annual plea for Halloween treats!
Thanksgiving Day is on the horizon, a day set aside for counting our blessings.
With tables laden with green bean casseroles and turkey and its dressings!
A special day to honor and thank our Valiant Veterans will also be observed,
And to remember and thank their supportive families for they also served.
I can say without hesitation that autumn is my favorite season of the year,
And since I am in the autumn of my years, I especially hold it dear!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
casseroles, autumn,
Form:
Rhyme
Accordin' to my totally unbiased and very detailed research,
Jerimiah Flood pastored the Happy Valley Baptist Church.
From the pulpit he flailed his arms as if fightin' a hive of bees,
Elicitin' "Hallelujahs" and bringin' sinners fallin' to their knees!
His boomin' voice disturbed the peace of those who chose to sleep.
Interminable two-hour sermons were tolerated by his faithful flock of sheep.
He preached hellfire and damnation and the dire results of sin.
He was a'gin any form of gamblin' or dancin' and drinkin' moonshine gin!
An all-day meetin' with dinner on the grounds was an annual tradition,
A time to repent for sins of commission and omission in order to avoid perdition!
Dinner was held under the spreadin' sycamores if the weather allowed.
A half-hour blessin' by Jerimiah was normal as hungry stomachs growled!
Tables groaned 'neath heaps of fried chicken, baked beans and pertaters,
Green bean casseroles and garden fresh stuff includin' beefsteak termaters.
Most disturbin' and unknown to the reverend, there was a little tad of booze,
Snuck into the gatherin' and surreptitiously shared by old Deacon Hughes!
Pastor Flood served the faithful congregation for nigh on forty years,
Baptisin', marryin' and buryin' through many happy times and tears.
Oh, I failed to mention Sister Lois, ancient organist and director of the choir.
Her tea was spiked and she became so inebriated she was invited to retire!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
casseroles, humorous, religion,
Form:
Rhyme
Shame on those who malign the green bean casserole!
It gustatory delightfulness I shall e'er extol!
With 'fork in cheek' I'll take nonbelievers to task,
And their foibles and biases will strive to unmask!
Folks who disdain this dish ain't tellin' the truth.
Their culinary tastes are so pitifully uncouth!
I'd like to meet the feller who began this unsavory fable,
To ask why he destined it for such an untimely label!
At the church potluck dinner on fellership night,
There's always a green bean casserole to my delight!
A holiday repast with bountiful board just ain't complete,
Unless there's the inevitable green bean casserole to eat!
'Tis such a scrumptious dish, yet so easy to prepare.
Even I could whip up a batch, I really do declare!
Mix some beans, some onion thingys and mushroom soup,
And there you have it folks, all in one fell swoop!
Ere I flee this realm I aim to found as one of my goals,
"The Society For The Propagation Of Green Bean Casseroles!"
Upon my stone you may etch when I end this life's pursuit:
"Many were the green bean casseroles consumed by this galoot!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
casseroles, food, funny, green,
Form:
Rhyme
a waltz wave
gifts
profuse
tree
pre-lit
peachy-keen
glazed ham
cakes
cookies
casseroles
Christmasy cheer
no fruitcake
no coal
no
stockings
no fireplace
Santa
knows
our front
door
written December 15, 2015
Categories:
casseroles, celebration, children, christmas, food,
Form:
Verse
I am from bobby pins and countless bottles of Aqua Net hairspray.
From yellow blankets and pink satin, Russian Pointe shoes.
I am from the yellow house with the brick red roof on the corner of the street.
I am from the sprawling orange tree and its sweet smelling blossoms and the mile-high Oleander bushes housing hundreds of pesky orange caterpillars.
I am from annual Thanksgiving reunions and southern belles. From Gaetano LaMarca and Prince Pasta.
I am from “When I was your age…” and the Thanksgiving talent shows that Aunt Laura always seemed to coax me into participating in.
I am from “Tomorrow is another day” and “5…6…7…8!”
I am from the body and blood of Christ and the musty incense of Easter vigil mass.
I am from sticky and sweet monkey bread and unbearable, soggy, and glutinous southern casseroles.
I am from the WOP’s of New England and the Jet Ski that sent my grandmother tumbling into the ocean and the origin of Prince Pasta Wednesdays.
I am from towers of elaborate handcrafted Clarice Cliff china and the antique armoires that hold a million memories of the past and a million more to come.
Categories:
casseroles, family, memory,
Form:
Free verse
When I was young older ladies thought me charming
Sweet and cute and totally disarming
But now that I've grown closer to their age
They seem no longer anxious to engage
In amorous and peccadillish roles
They only want to feed me casseroles.
Categories:
casseroles, age, , cute,
Form:
Light Verse
They're known by many names - taters, potatos, pertaters and spuds.
As a Hoosier lad I toiled hoein' taters and flickin' bugs off their buds!
So I was very well qualified when I entered the service, by and large,
When 'volunteered' for kitchen police to peel taters by a mean old sarge!
There's even a National Potato Day observed with tumultuous celebration,
With a Potato Queen, parades and other such nonsense across the nation!
Politicos pontificate about the virtues of taters 'specially in Idaho and Maine,
Where they transport them to our kitchen tables by truck, plane and train.
There was a national debate on how to spell potato with or sans an 'e'!
Dan Quayle didn't know how but I would've spelled it 'tater' if it were up to me!
Some taters have a patriotic bent since some are called reds, whites and blues!
Other varieties are yellows, fingers and russets from which you may choose.
To fill a feller's paunch the lowly tater can be mashed, diced or sliced.
You can make a tater salad or tater soup though you'll want them lightly spiced!
Taters roasted on the grille or scalloped tater casseroles will go with anything.
Barbeque tater chips or French fried taters with hamburgers are just the thing!
Mom would've been horrified to find lumps in her taters when company came!
In cafes today lumps are cela va sans dire s'il vous plait and is their claim to fame!
No matter how you slice 'em, taters are savored by commoner and king as well!
And you can argue 'bout the spellin' of 'potato' but 'tater' you can easily spell!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
casseroles, food, funny,
Form:
Rhyme