Best Crockery Poems
Oh, how we are poisoned!
The Yonega, the Wasichu,
a new creature,
different from us in more than just their
white skin and sunflower hair.
They come to our people with gifts of death.
Their ulcers wrapped in calico cloth.
Their fevers traded to us for our good food.
Baskets of evil spirits in jars of glass
and crockery made by hands not their own.
Pouring toxins, shame and sloth,
into our proud warriors.
Our people are blinded by their shiny metals
and made deaf to the ancient beat of our ancestors drums.
We weave their stories into the braids of our youth
who forget the stories of our people.
Oseronni eyes of blue and green
cannot see the wind that moves the land,
shaping it and making the soil sing.
Sunlight steals their sight.
Mother Earth and Father Sky, and Brother River
nourishes the Three Sisters who sustain us
with their corn, squash, and beans.
They are offended and leave us to our folly.
The white man teaches us dishonesty and sloth,
making of our backs the bow
that draws the arrows
that break our hearts.
The bone in our back bends our faces to mother earth.
The only color left to us is
the crimson in each salty tear that falls.
Oh, how we are poisoned!
The scent of lavender and Rosemary
In the hedgerows as I walk
The fox disappearing so quickly
Into the hollow caves of chalk.
Within the old oak acre
The trees reach up to meet the sky
A humming bird providing magic for
A little boys enquiring eye .
Then I see her wild raven hair
and those gleaming emerald eyes
She beckons me with her finger
To disobey would be unwise .
Though she may be elderly
I know she'll bring me luck
So I carry her crockery
To wash in the friars brook
Then I fetch her water
and I do not spill a drop
I turn to leave as I was taught to
She insists I stop .
She takes my hand in her hand
In silence she reads my palm
I don't know how but I understand
This lady means me no harm .
Then she made a big mistake
Her story did not make sense
What does a child know of heartbreak
Or its dreadful consequence .
I was to remain faithful to my conviction
and true love would find me
I must not be swayed by contradiction
The colour of lavender held my destiny .
At home my grandma told me
Gypsies were fantastic at reading sign
That dear old lady Rosie
Had just predicted mine .
I have had so many heartaches
As into a man I grew
but forever love make no mistake
I still believe in you.
My Monster
Every week on Good Friday I get restless
Palpitations rise for my week end disasters
A monster boldly barges into my silent abode
Depriving me of my peaceful slumber
Crash! Now which crockery has ended its life?
The moment I reach the dreaded site
Littered remnants of mugs and glasses
Sprayed on the kitchen floor
Having an afternoon nap is a crime indeed
The dining tablecloths are scrooped down
And I curse my heavy eyelids for drugging me
I wake up to run and my shoes are not there
The good Lord save me! My kitchen cabins
Are invaded, explored and ransacked
The bright packages are crushed and ripped
Salty and sweety snacks carpet the freshly scrubbed floor
I pads, mobile phones, remote controls vanish
I magically recover my drowning hopes
When their batteries are over
My heart beats louder than the speakers
Strumming the beats of nursery rhymes
Till tiny flakes start peeling off the quaky roof
The iridescent walls showcase
The world's finest art repertoire
Nothing short of an international gallery of art
The monster is finally trapped on the garden swing
Smiling gleefully with an outstretched arm
All frowns erase when the two year old
Bob cut tomboy dramatically wails
Granny! Granny! Granny! Granny!
Contest: My Monster
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Here on poetrysoup, the newest poem,
pops up on-screen
like the latest off-shoot, or newborn babe
or like a newest floral bud,
in the orchards of poetry.
Or like a fresh wave of words
crashing and cresting upon the turf
For all and sundry to view, enjoy and surf!
Or ha ha, even like linguistic kernels
that pop like popcorn
in the crockery of poetrysoup
with different flavors to choose from,
to reveal what's been cooking in the minds.
Some indeed spiced-up,
some spicy
some acidic or buttery
all of 'em', more or less with melody.
Or the newest poetry is
to put it more exquisitely,
is a fragrant flower just bloomed
in the bedecked bowers of poetry
Or to say, each latest poem pops on screen
Like pop goes the weasel
For poems pop up like meerkats
but on the lookout for friends instead of foes.
Ah, and then they might wait
for the honey and jam of comments
and perhaps even the bitter gourd of criticism,
for healthy constructive criticism
is like any bitter pill vital to health.
You're lucky if the doctors of poetry
refrain from prescribing chits
of bitter pills to swallow,
Or opted for sugar-coated ones
for which you heave a sigh of relief
you didn't receive, blunt sharp critique!
As I prefer sugar coated pills in all matters.
Yet if they do administer the wrong dose
out of sheer bias and prejudice,
you can always give them a taste of their own medicine,
if you wish to be vengeful and impudent
Or you can forgo, overlook and be lenient
For my poetry is meant to be tasteful
and gentleness is nice.
Harshly insensitive reviews can leave
a sour after taste in the mouth.
As I'm habituated to taking sugar coated pills.
A biased person could never appreciate my poetry.
Let's taste and try out all the varied variety of curries and broths of muse out here...
Let's all appreciate the different flavours that simmer in the poetry soup melting pot,
many cooking up delectable foods for thought...
Yesterday, I happened upon a quaint, old-time country store.
I felt I was reliving my youth as I trod its squeaky wooden floor!
The sights and smells were familiar when I entered the door.
Memories flooded my soul as I gazed upon those things of yore!
A glowing pot-bellied stove provided an inviting place to sit and chat.
Upon a barrel of cheese snoozed an inscrutable tabby cat.
Old-timers were playing checkers hunkered over a pickle barrel.
'Mongst the clutter of merchandise you browsed at your peril!
Suspended from rafters were horse collars, lanterns and milking pails.
Boots, overalls and cured hams were hung with ten-penny nails.
Silverware and pocket watches were displayed in sturdy oak cases,
And others held buttons, thread, needles and rolls of fancy laces.
There were boxes of cigars, Mail Pouch tobacco and various tools,
Straw hats, aprons, bonnets, corsets and rolls of colorful tulles.
Stacked on shelves were galluses, overshoes and boys' caps,
Crockery, umbrellas, mantel clocks and several muskrat traps.
One wall was lined with churns, cream separators and kerosene stoves.
Wafting about the place was the pleasing scent of cinnamon and cloves.
There were bins of onions, taters, carrots and fresh roasting ears.
I sat by the stove a spell to absorb the flavor of yesteryears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
She stays awake for hours, cutting Xs in the sprouts,
Then peels all the tatties, a ton or thereabouts,
Slicing and dicing parsnips is next up in the plan,
Chops up carrots and a swede, and put them in a pan,
Mixes up her sage and onion and stuffs it in the bird,
Along with some pork sausage meat that’s been pre-prepared,
She takes apart the oven, to fit the turkey in,
Hangs it up with bits of string, there’s no room in the tin,
Wraps sausages in bacon, in case they catch a chill,
But makes sure they‘re all cooked thoroughly, so the family won’t get ill,
Cooks the bird for hours, while the table’s being laid,
With all the finest crockery (and some of lower grade),
Makes space around the table, brings in extra chairs,
Adorns the place with candles and other Christmas wares,
Lays out a Christmas cracker in everybody’s place,
Complete with rather tacky joke, no doubt of a straight face,
And brings out all the condiments, the pickles and the sauce,
The salt and pepper, the mustard and radish known as “horse”,
Next she makes the starter, the simplest course by far,
A cocktail made up of prawns and a sauce out of a jar.
The family then all piles in, and argues over seats,
The children are already full of chocolates and treats,
Grandmother is mumbling, “Kids should be seen not heard”,
Meanwhile back in the kitchen Mum’s wrestling with the bird,
She tries to carve up slices, but ends up with turkey chunks,
While Dad and Gramps have become a pair of Christmas drunks,
They start an argument about which wine goes with the meat,
And restless children run around, not staying in their seat,
Mother tries to keep her calm and bravely soldiers on,
But the roasties are all blackened and the sprouts are over done,
Mum enters the dining room looking very puffed,
She throws the turkey down and shouts ,“There you go! Get stuffed!”
18th November 2012
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.
A dish issue is whether the verb forms a series of events containing two or three ingredients. Ingredients are often officially interesting when placed. And material such as Velcro is very very useful when balancing on a widespread bed of crockery. Well cook then. Worldy worldwide without waste. And a hare is never a problem when hopping through an abyss. Calibres of officialdom. Wow. No problem at a beach house and home and away for the weekend is fine but the other side of the United Methodist Church is the name of the first place of worship. Oh dare one meet a jackdaw in a cardboard car. Or a ministerial monkey. Holidaying hopping hippies have havens. And bend not over a crevasse as dangers stem from rock. And blades spawn from spacial secrets. Secretary then. A portly lady humming. Hahahaha and now a salty dew. Hahahaha and an additional android arguing. Hahahaha dare to swim with the dog. *** multiplication z
Sweet-scented lupins , foxgloves , violas , giant lillies ,damasks ,
mosses and china roses rich in a variety of perfumes and colours
Circular herb beds, rare , exotic climbers on the Elizabethan wall.
Overhanging undergrowth winding little path past rose flowerbeds
Nestled among large mossy rocks rays of sunlight filtered through
round tables set with candles, crystal and Middle Ages crockery.
In each guests place was a little red box tied with a gold ribbon.
At the Castle , it sprang out of an impulsive hearthside challenge
Natures needs are lavish in Spring with light and dark capacities
Blossoming artfully full of sweetness + light or dark and Gothic.
Clever deep forest kitchen stone pantry glittering with candlelight
glowing and smouldering with a sage smoked medieval orchestra
Angel cake and hot-buttered muffins, bursting with peel + cherries
Wood sprites ancient merry rituals ,folklore primeval forest sounds
Knights templar greet Friar Tuck with gold gifts + flowers of chivalry
Interwoven drapery brilliant string musicians on chellos and violins
The chink of champagne glasses rustle of silk and trailing chiffon.
Breathtakingly beautiful green eyes sparkled her white slender hand
Blazing fire, rich ,dark fruit cake,she leaned against the trunk of a tree
Her long dark hair flowing in the secret garden enchanted hideaway
I entered the hotel dining room and sat at my table for an early breakfast, watching the rain pelting against the windows, overlooking the River Clyde. Conversation was limited; more audible the clinking of crockery and cutlery. The tour leader walked in and his booming voice cut through the gloomy atmosphere as he assured us that the trip was still on; the weather forecast was encouraging.
a senior lady
takes second helpings...
her bag bulges
When some time later we went out to board the coach, the rain had just about stopped. Outside the air was cold. Being people of little faith, we had donned jumpers or cardigans over our light clothes and carried raincoats over our arms. It was unwise to be caught unprepared. The tour leader was no exception!
crossing a bridge...
two honeymooners
sit on separate seats
The trip from Glasgow to Oban was calculated to take about two and a half hours, but with planned stops along the way it was going to take longer. We took our first break at Loch Lomond. The rain had stopped completely, but the clouds still hovered ominously overhead. More stops at Crianlarich and Kilchurn Castle followed. In the meantime the sun was making feeble attempts at making its presence felt, and sure enough the cold air became warmer.
the sky, reflected
in large puddles...
harebells and toadflax
When we finally arrived in Oban the clouds had dispersed, the heat increased, and thick clothing was discarded completely. A meal and a boat trip to Seal Island saw us all in high spirits.
On the return journey our luck ran out again. Clouds and rain accompanied us to the hotel, but it did not really matter. A nice warm shower and a decent meal was something to look forward to.
unpredictable
four seasons in one day
I juggle saijiki
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Haibun Contest sponsored
by Debbie Guzzi
Placed 4th
© 17th August 2017
Amidst the treasures of beauty that one can ever witness,
I was leisurely enjoying an exotic cuisine in evening's tranquillity.
A mystical forest it was, covered with magical trees
that blossomed crystal flowers flashing colorful neon lights
and gilded leaves playing a divine music swaying in the breeze.
Cascades of flowing glittery gums secreted from the silvery barks,
forming a pool in the middle that was softly burning with
ruby embers while it emitted heavenly surge of scent.
I was sitting on a grand table and chair abstractly designed
with rainbow moonstone; adorned with glowing moss.
Meal on crockery made of shells was served by spellbinding nymphs
as they joined me not to eat but to feed me with their tender hands.
It was a bursting riot of tasty food that rampaged my tongue
with wanting more and I couldn't stop until my heart was pleased.
I took a sip of invigorating mocktail made of mint, dew and nectar.
Cheers to me! I uttered with sheer joy as it quenched my thirst forever.
And splash, splotches of tap water drenched my clothes,
my hands raised in the air with an empty cheap glass
as the bubble of my daydream bursts in a notoriously shameful way.
In an ugly small eatery, sitting on a broken dirty table crowded with
more people than a bus can hold, staring at me with their raging glares
as if they want to kill me because the cheered up splash of my drink
not only drenched me but also spoiled mine and their hard earned food.
What can I say...quite a costly little daydream it was.
Date: 01/18/2016
Note: The daydream is real but the incident is fictitious.
Entered in two different contests:
A lovely little daydream by Mystic Rose - *Placed Sixth*
Alternative festive season by Kai Michael Neumann - *Placed Fifth*
It's a wonder young children still turn out all right
With the stuff that gets crammed in their heads every night.
Things like visions of sugar plum fairies and sprites,
Or a thousand tales of Arabian delights,
A frog who turns prince with a kiss from a lass,
A girl who goes dancing in slippers of glass,
A cow that gets high and jumps over the moon,
A crockery dish that elopes with a spoon,
A boy who can fly but refuses to grow,
A difficult girl who plants maids in a row,
A magician who wants to trade old lamps for new,
A woman so poor she must live in a shoe,
A waif who sells matches out in the cold,
A king who can touch things and turn them to gold,
A dog, an old woman, a cupboard that's bare,
A girl locked in a tower, a ladder of hair,
A magical wheel that spins gold out of straw,
A guy helps a lion with a thorn in its paw,
A girl wearing red visits grandma who's resting,
Finds a wolf in her nightdress and Granny digesting,
Three kids and a wardrobe, three men share a tub,
A brave tailor kills seven mean flies with a club,
An archer makes merry with men in the woods
While relieving the rich of their money and goods,
Kind huntsman, fair princess, a vain evil queen,
Seven dwarves, and a prince who gets caught in between,
Hateful fairy, a baby, a hundred-year snit
'cause her name's accidentally left off a guest list,
A piper who lures out of town rodent varmints,
An emperor with new but invisible garments,
A farmer's wife butchers three handicapped mice,
A house drops on top of a witch who's not nice,
While another with gingerbread children seduces
Then gets baked by some twins in her own savory juices,
A giant and a beanstalk, a cat who wears boots,
A wolf who's outfoxed by three pigs in cahoots,
A bad little boy who sticks fingers in pies,
And another of wood whose nose grows when he lies.
There are others, of course, far too many to mention,
But I hope these will serve to excite some attention.
With stories like these knocking 'round in their heads,
It's no wonder if kids toss and turn in their beds.
Yet throughout countless ages these stories survive,
Kids listen, and dream them, and still wake up alive,
No worse for having been charmed or affrighted,
Imaginations are stoked, little minds are ignited,
And continue to hold them in dear veneration
As they pass them along to the next generation.
As the sun glow is expelled by darkness,
I pour myself a whiskey and ice,
sitting in my favourite spot to relax,
distant traffic pollution, somehow soothing,
smell of freshly cut garden in the air,
the thoughts of the day’s reality leave me.
Staring through my framed garden,
into the distance, blurred visions surrounds me,
a shadow of uncontrolled feelings overcome me,
flashes of after life seeming a reality,
a tunnel vision of anguish appears.
Pasts flickering, streaming like an 8mm 1950 movie,
cries of pain, laughter start to echo in my minds space,
ghostly whispering and screams mashed together,
pitter-patter of children and drowned out laughter,
smell of cooking emanating from somewhere.......
Thoughts of past racing in my mind,
a panicked endless fall,
body shivering with cold sweats, hot flushes,
sounds of shattering crockery,
voices of anger, cries of sadness...........
Attempts to stop is consumed and relentless,
locked in my barbed wire prison,
my awoken nightmare of the past,
I cannot flush my mind.
Rocking to force a sleep, anxiety and paranoia,
Mind not resting, becoming drained,
tsunami of confusion overwhelms,
Tossed around in emotional waves.......
Background words I hear,
may I pour you another?
may I pour you another?
Tunnel fades, dark blur disappears,
muffled sounds, flicker of memories silent,
close call of stuck in my past, no return,
saved from my inner grey rainbow,
left for another day perhaps.
A beautiful image forms in front of me,
my body jerks out of numb stillness,
a clearer voice I hear,
are you okay, she asks?
may I pour you another?
my voice of saving grace now vivid,
a perfect body outline no longer rigid.
Thank you for being here, I say,
I embrace her tightly,
words I say, that physical touch,
mean more, than can be explained,
one day, you will understand.
Love turns my grey rainbow to colour,
I love you......................................
Everything I buy to touch or taste
is made in China, made in China
leave alone my china set, even my toothpaste
is made in China, made in China.
From my pencils to my stencils
to the golden locks on my stylish lockers
all bore labels of 'made in China' in block capitals
and that explains thriving doorbell hawkers.
And for 'economical' me, stuff made in China
does hold a lot of frugal charm
Comes all the way from China, my granny's parka
About 'made in China' I've never had any qualms.
And because I don't intend to fritter away
hard-earned savings on any frippery
for 'made in china' alone shall my purse'n' pocket pay
and don't they play their part perfectly,
both my 'made in China' stereo and frisbee?
And all that 'made in China cutlery and crockery
is just as fragile and breakable as any other
All my life I've stuck to made in China stationery
and their costs haven't been any exorbitant so far.
L
I have seen latest High quality samsung Chinese cellphones
My TV a longlasting decade old, yes chinese Hitachi brand
You can wisely avoid debts and loans
purchasing brand new grand stuff from
the Chinese land
And then to my surprise I discovered
that many people both here and abroad
tended to buy things made in the land of the Great Wall
for similar reasons: esp they're easier to afford.
Ah, I don't like the idea of squandering away
or thoughtless wasting of wealth
No one could ever make a spendthrift out of me
For that would be unhealthy for budget health!
To refrain from prodigality and unfeeling extravagancy
'made in China' seems to me the solution
Let millionnaires make-believe that only the costly has quality
for I ain't gonna buy that pricey notion!
walking the floor
regular pastime
not about you
more about me
tweezers and splinters
droplets of blood as blues
not about us
more about life
accidental klutz
lumps and swellings
not about happenings
more about hurting
dynamic stone teardrops
cubic zirconium crockery
not about pain
more about truth