Best Crisps Poems
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015
Today it’s Sally’s birthday party; she’s the star of the show
She’s a lovely little girl and all her friends are invited to go
They arrive on the doorstep with presents in their hand
Wearing their best clothes, oh don’t they look so grand
Excited children are entertained by Coco the clown
She’s jolly person but her face wears a sad frown
Coco blows up balloons and amazing animals are created
The children clutch them eagerly; they simply are elated
The dining table is laden with glorious treats
Sandwiches, crisps, cakes and biscuits to eat
Sally’s birthday cake is shaped like a cute little cat
Cats are her favourite animal; her kitten is called Pat
The children sing ‘happy birthday’ and Sally makes a wish
Her mum cuts up the pretty cake and serves it on a dish
After tea is over a magician arrives to entertain
He’s called The Great Suprendo but it’s not his real name!
The magician does lots of magic tricks, the children think he’s ace
When he produces a fluffy rabbit they have a smile on their face
Soon the party is over and its time for the children to go home
Sally had a wonderful time but now she’s sad as she’s now alone
Secretly hiding in the kitchen is the Great Suprendo
He gives her the rabbit, her shrieks of delight reach a crescendo!
Mummy and daddy had planned this birthday surprise
Sally is so happy that tears spring into her eyes
Daddy had made the rabbit a wooden rabbit hutch
Sally is overjoyed, and names her pet rabbit Butch
Contest: The Birthday Party
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
01~31~16
I remember those days when just a kid,
the old ten shilling note, and the odd quid.*
Teddy boys in their drain pipes, fur collars
smelling of nicotine, street wise scholars.
Conkers,* glass alleys* and comics as well,
bow and arrows, gat* to ring the school bell.
Electric tram, trolley bus and steam train
holidays in Blackpool, not yet in Spain.
Left over stew, dripping dispersed on bread,
a choice of marg or jam, not both was spread.
Roly-poly pud with custard, oh yes
school dinners, oh the ridicule the stress.
Journey in to space radio drama,
while bathing in a tin bath pure karma.
Medicals at school and nit nurses too
combing for the eggs, washing with shampoo.
No drugs, only cigs in small packs of five,
fifty fifty dance halls, old and new thrive.
Outside loo, oh them freezing winter nights
oil lamps, a candle to enhance one’s lights.
High street fish and chip shop charging nine pence,
potato crisps, tab* of salt to dispense.
Tanners,* hape’ny’s* and those threp’ny* bits,
meccano sets, clockwork trains came in kits.
Motorbikes, British pride on just two wheels,
Triumph, BSA, a nation reveals.
Alas long gone these balmy days of laze,
happy to have played a part in this phase!
*Quid:::: A one pound note (UK)
*Conkers:;;; Game played with the fruit of the horse chest nut tree.
*Glass Alleys::::: A type of Marble for the game of marbles.
*Gat::::: A catapult, or slingshot..
*Tab::: One brand of crisps in the UK, place a small blue pack of salt in each packet
*Tanners:::: A sixpenny coin
*Hape’ny’s::: A halfpenny coin
*Threp’ny bit::::: A Threepenny 12 sided coin, also called Thrupence depending where one resided in the North of England
.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
I want to look like that potato chip
And be on the front of time magazine
Wear the latest fashions, I'll be so hip
I'll be the best French fry you've ever seen
And be on the front of time magazine
I will be the envy of all my friends
I'll be the best French fry you've ever seen
Keeping up with the latest fashion trends.
I will be the envy of all my friends
Wear the latest fashions, I'll be so hip
Keeping up with the latest fashion trends
I want to look like that potato chip.
(In the uk French fries are called chips and potato chips in the US are called crisps in the UK)
Written 20th July 2021
Picture number 3
For Pantoum Rhyme 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsored By Eve Roper.
Snow fell in dollops, in kite like laziness
too wet to stay white except in the margins.
The contrary air kisses each flake
melting each heart of ice.
Bittersweet the temperature falls.
Teardrops cling to greedy braches
reminiscent of hand stitched jewels
on a queen's gown.
The matted margin of lingering grass
crisps like spun sugar
snow flakes on the lash of night.
All around looks cruel and starved,
and bleached bones define a stretch
of drought and death that halved
life for that lone, starving wretch.
Mountains have formed a background,
shaped by sporadic storms and rain;
a dry creek bed revives when drowned
where stands forlorn upon the plain.
One lone gum in friendless splendour,
where from a sapling passed the years;
stands without sibling contender,
to guard these vast untamed frontiers.
The passing years have left their mark,
with scars and wounds by elements.
Storms, fire and water stripped its bark
without concern for sentiments.
Life and death on widespread limbs;
decayed and fallen, yet endures
with glossy leaves and flowered rims,
to state still many years assures.
The sun that crisps the baking earth,
provided shade for travelling souls,
and sustenance in times of dearth,
or shelter in the dead limb holes.
Striving on through stout revival,
this grand gum rejecting failure.
Here stands the spirit of survival,
that represents Australia.
I stood before this gentle giant,
in silent wonder with respect;
observe foliage still defiant,
as hot winds blow boughs unchecked.
And so this solitary gum;
an outback artist’s wondrous theme,
becomes immortalized by some,
with a soft pastel colour scheme.
It Only Comes From Within
While sought eagerly,
mirage like, it vanishes as you approach,
only to move further beyond you.
It does not come from without,
nothing that you have done,
rather it only wells up and warms and sates from within.
The end of the day-
Camped on the Canadian Shield of the Boundary Waters
overlooking the reach of Saginaw.
Or the closeness of Other Man Lake as
the fire crisps rise to mingle with the stars overhead under a full moon
while loon’s call.
The end of the day-
in a well worn chair in the great log room
before the flowing glow of coals,
as you recycle the memories of the day in silent quietness.
That time of day-
when the young children have been
put to bed, given their glass of milk,
prayers given and tucked in,
the driving rain sound drenching the metal roof above.
That time when you are aware
that a deep breath slowly taken in
cleanses and releases you from whatever there was.
Contentment, fullness,
only comes from within, welling up.
Contentment not with what you have done,
only with the acceptance of your wholeness, with all its richness.
The fullness of who you are, shed of vanity,
shed of desire, only who you are.
David Holmes
May 21, 2021
Candles and nightlights flickering bright,
blackout curtains shutting out the moonlight.
Snuggle down cosy with blankets tight,
perhaps the war will end to-night.
Dripping setting from Sunday's roast,
spread so thick on Monday's toast.
Meat bones simmer on the old gas ring,
Pa's homemade soup,the 'real thing'.
Paper chains cut and glued,
beer in glass bottles brewed.
Christmas puddings with threepenny bits,
the Meccano present made to fit.
Sunday school outings upto Coombe hill,
my first ever train ride,so quite a thrill.
Walks over corn fields to the Bugle Horn,
crisps and lemonade upon their lawn.
A weekly soak in a round tin bath,
towelling off by a fire in the hearth.
A viewpoint from childhood scene,
growing up at sixteen,Beech green.
Morning time...waking with sweets in my mouth
cinnamon carameltmarshmellowed out
breakfast cereal Sugar Dynamite
secret prize inside,bestows x-ray sight
Sugar shock,tooth rot,'60s psycotropic lollipops
an infinite selection @ Treat's Sweetshop
its addictive candy flavors
improves moods and bad behavior
beware of its dangers
sugar rush overdose and hypereality at most
Peanutbrittle,jawbreakers,misfortune cookie riddles
limesours with saccarine middles
crispycreams filled my mouth
multi-colored jelly beans,sweet and sour insideout
Chocolate candy bars filled the candy jars
cinnamon coal pepper scorchers
mouth and stomach torture
jellied fruit medley,candied vomit,flavor bliss
oatmeal crisps and spicey comets
cool peppermints sooth
my tongue stuck to sticky tarts stronger than glue
Sugared hyper,spoiled rotten
the last flavor blast,gone not forgotten
Narcotic treats penny gag sweets
firecracker gum
blistering flaming lip smackers
and moldy sugarplums
Blue cotton candy,caramel dandies,gingersnaps
assorted sugared snacks,
bubblegum taffy stale rotten candy
are tough chewing tasks
the good stuff in my secret stash:
vanilla cream mashed between two oatmeal cookies
even tried vegan fruikies
my heart's desire...
spent several days sugar wired...still ain't tired
When tastebuds crave an everlasting taste
even toothpaste's nothing to waste
suck,never chew hot swallows in haste
found tastebud relief
gulped this 32oz. blizzard
topped with chopped strawberry twizzlers
Nighttimes mean euphoric wake dreams
cool whipped creamed baked desserts
milkshakes quenched my sugar thirst
Next an ice cream brainfreeze sprinkled with the works,
Ate three slices of icecream cake unthawed,
and an entire carton of chocolate marshmellow smorgasborgs
smothered in toffee fudge crunch and caramel popcorn munch
Baked treats make each morning time sublime
Sugared creamed pastries cake sweet
Saccarine cereal tastes surreal
Chocolate sprinkled ,vanilla milkshakes
completes morning meal
Then the entire day of sugar shock toothrot
indulgence at Treat 's Sweet Shop
Right? Fine. Finished.
During what avail, what time.
Shake this, crisps on bread.
Ultimo Dragon, wrestling and fights
Likewise, Mr Artist.
Package this, like fries.
McDonald's, eat much.
Yum, yum, delicious times.
Screwball sassy.
Likewise this.
Zeitgeist - My 1960s - Liz Walsh
Kaftans, mini-skirts, Carnaby Street fashions.
Angel Delight, Hirondelle wine and that sheepskin rug.
"The price of round steak on a Saturday" while
Magdalen Laundries kept dark, dark secrets!
Nylon socks, Cuban heeled boots, body odour -
"it's always the girl's fault - she led him on!-
Button-down collars, civil Rights Marches,
Suspender belts old fashioned, false eye-lashes black -
Excitment, tights, "parents afraid of the new".
Stilletto heels crucifying, Rosary beads grumbling -
"Oh Sacred Heart of Jesus I place all my trust in thee"
Hamburgers, Fleetwood Mac, Anoraks - guilty! remember
Archbishop McQuaid! Bishop Lucey bullying Father Good!
"Wimpey Take-away" - meet a fella - womans lib!
Vietnam War, Albert Hall and Wilson Pickett.
"Would you kiss a boy on the first date?
Drip dry nylon, Dickie Rock gyrating
"Plastics are the future” the graduate said.
"Would you take the pill?"
Tayto crisps - "cheese and onion" munching in the dark.
Che Guevara, Mao Tse Tung and that little red book
In an empire line dress.
Church domination, contraception and major cigarettes
"Back-combing" Vesta Curries and a packet of smash
Maxi, mini, midi-dresses - pan-stick
Mary Quant, Twiggy and the Film Society party.
Flirting innocently, terrified hope - guilt ridden thoughts.
Surges of males, females standing
Eyes scanning, high pitched laughing
"Would you like to dance?"
Free love, flower power, heart thumping
Expensive shoes, a relic of St. Imelda and a chain-store dress -
"She will only get married” Miss Brigid Hayes said!
Afraid of the future, afraid of corruption
Brain exploding - ALL MIXED UP -
It’s your birthday so chin up Joolz
But don’t forget to follow the rules
Cos going out is only for fools
And nurses!
As you are stuck in your abode
I decided to write you a birthday ode
But it will probably just be a load
Of verses!
Just cos you can’t go out on the p*ss
You can still take part in a virtual quiz
And have a lager and a packet of crisps
Safe at home.
And while we can’t go to the Roman baths
Or even to visit some giraffes
We can still have lots and lots of laughs
Through the phone.
The birds have all come to your window
Singing happy birthday, let’s play bingo
Don’t be tempted to let them in though,
That’s just mad!
I know you like to cook and bake
So won’t be short of a birthday cake
Even if it’s one you have to make,
Don’t be sad.
So I hope you manage to have a great day,
Don’t let this lockdown get in your way,
It can’t go on, or so they say,
For much longer.
Cos one day soon we will be free
To celebrate, Claire, you and me
I promise I’ll take you out for tea,
Or something stronger.
So while your birthday in 2020,
Isn’t quite how it was meant to be,
Memories there will still be plenty,
Don’t you fret.
So enjoy your birthday, this strange year,
And in a while , not far from here,
We’ll get together and raise a beer
To one you’ll never forget.
My missus has a liking for those cheese and onion crisps,
the taste and the aroma she finds tricky to resist.
Yet oddly the real thing she simply will not eat
but me I find the real McCoy is just so hard to beat.
My favourite is Danish Blue but boy, she gives me hell
not just the weird appearance she cannot abide the smell.
You'd think that I could get away with something like a Gouda
but no, I find if anything her nagging just gets louder.
For Gorgonzola I am itching, but she just keeps right on bitchin'
and I get relegated along with the cats from out the kitchen.
Both our cats fancy some Edam, but she simply will not feed 'em
since the thought of touching it can make her shudder,
her distaste remains stolid over anything that's solid
if it started off in life inside an udder.
Things did come to a head half an hour before bed
my breath smelt of cheese, she was not impressed,
took a good swipe at my head, spilled my wine on me instead
you could say that I was now Chablis dressed.
I cannot understand, with my cheddar in my hand,
why she won't try it for once but anyhow,
I can still console myself as I put it on the shelf that she has one thing in common-
she's a cow.
For contest- Here's my whine now pass the cheese, sponsor Phillip Garcia
A slightly bruised Viv Wigley, with a plate of Camembert, August 2nd 2016
when the booze gets to me and nobody will care,
because of my beard or stink or hair,
I curl up under the cardboard and fly away,
to a place high up in the air
my brown hands part the partial, tipsy clouds,
hanging together like freshly laundered shrouds,
or like cops in a bar in a good part of town
I just fly man; fly in my titanium, uranium, cranium suit,
all cherry blossom soft linen, cute:
but I don’t know if I can keep it up, this cerebral act,
this fornication, supplication, altercation with the brew;
I really just don’t know; it’s kind of simple like a dimple, or
maybe a stubborn pimple, that’s never, going away; see,
I really just don’t know the time of day, or what to say,
or which crazy, hazy, game to play
and folks around just curse at me; they only see the walking
wreck, the speck, what the heck, not the man who used to be
a father, brother, son and lover;
no its all changed now, not for the better, never get a meal
with fetter; it’s crisps or pizza, scraps or pie, sometimes they
just spit in my eye;
yes I know it’s a severe admission, faulty cognition, its spiral
crashing aircraft position; but it’s like that here, where I’m at,
in the medication, obfuscation, strangulation cardboard city stay
So next time you see me and you look away all sly, unwilling to
look me, straight in the eye, remember, remember, with your
embarrassing sigh;
your’e looking at Simeon, Ranger of the Sky
I am the Latch-Key Kid
When I go home, no tea on the table
I manage to make myself something to eat
The best that I am able
Mum and Dad at work till past eleven
So I just sit and watch TV
When they come home they go to bed
They have no time for me
At eight-thirty in the morning
My dad gives me a lift to school
He tells me to do as I’m told
And not to play the fool
The guy at the desk behind me
Starts kicking my chair leg again
I loudly express my opinion
And I’m rewarded with getting the cane
At lunchtime I sit in the canteen
And open up my lunch box
It contains a curled-up ham sandwich
“Is that all you’ve got” the guy next to me mocks
His lunch box is laden with sandwiches and crisps
And a slice of homemade chocolate cake
I really can’t remember
The last time I saw my mum bake
The school bell rings at three ‘o’ clock
And we all make a mad dash for the door
A bully pushes me over
And I end up on the floor
He looks down at me and says
“Are you going to tell your mam”?
If I stand up I’ll get knocked back down
So I might as well stay where I am
My books and homework are strewn on the floor
And they get trampled underfoot
Before the bully leaves
I get a firm kick in the gut
My school has zero tolerance for bullying
But complaints are not effective
If my parents report an incident
They're accused of being over-protective
Finally I get home
After taking the longer route
The bullies have stolen sweets from a timid new starter
And they’re sharing out their loot
I have my usual meal for tea
A plate of beans on toast
The best meal of my week
Is when mum cooks a Sunday roast
Later as I lay in bed
I hear the front door slam
I listen for the familiar sound
Of dad arguing with mam
Tomorrow is another day
But for me every weekday's the same
I am the latch-key kid
But I know I’m not to blame