Best Curds Poems
Cheese curds make my day.
My wife has a daily habit
Of caring for all my needs.
She keeps her eyes wide open
To see what she can see.
This week was no exception
As she neared the dairy case.
Greeted by one of my favorites
Now staring her in the face.
You see. . . I love cheese curds.
I even love their squeaky sound.
When she finds real fresh ones
I can eat them by the pound.
Several months ago,
A nearby dairy closed its door.
Never to make great curds again
No. . . never “curds” no more.
Shullsburg, Wi. was the next place
We’d make the day long drive to.
When we’d go so far fetch,
We’d always buy more than a few.
But it goes against my “system”
When those curds are in the home.
I’m always “digging” in the frig
I can’t leave those curds alone.
But as sometimes life will go
Our local grocer now has in stock
So we can buy fresh curds
Without driving a "million blocks”.
She announced as she returned
From the weekly trek she makes.
“The store had some ‘new’ curds”
To mention curds is all it takes.
I quickly fought open the package
To taste and hear that sound.
I scarfed down several chunks
Before in the frig they’re bound.
“Oh my !” is what I shouted.
These curds are really best.
But at my age, I must control
The quantities I now ingest.
For my old system can’t tolerate
All the cheese I’d like to eat.
So I must regulate the flow
Save my curds for just a treat.
My son, however: doesn’t seem care.
He can mow them down full feed.
But I know “our kitchen tender”
Will supply us all we need.
So “Thank you” Homestead Dairy
And all the folks involved in that.
I’ll be up to see your operation
Maybe get to see you “stir the vat”. :o)
A parting note to all Christian readers,
I’ve a thought about life’s end.
With all the banquets talked about,
I trust my curds “someone” will send.
Written by oldbuck to commemorate the discovery of a “local” supply for fresh curds. Curds and crisp bacon are two of my favorite foods.
Dogged In the pursuit of truth
Science writes text with bone dead words
Worse parched than extra dry vermouth
Oft as tasty as rancid curds.
Keeping terms tight as verbal shields
Description is the task of prose,
The draft horse of the science fields,
That ploughs grounds where ignorance grows.
It plants the seeds of truth in rows
Which may produce some bitter yields.
I seek to learn what is real
But much prefer what I can feel.
The sun, I read, moves in ellipse
Joining earth and moon in eclipse.
Dry equations scribe orbits hips
But lack the power of poets’ lips.
I feel things of meaning to me
In robust words of poetry.
Free of parallax’ precision
Of syzygy and equation.
The sun plunges to nightly swim
Bathing deep in a crimson sea
Fringed by cumulous atoll rim
As starry friends gaze silently
Watching through the dark veil of night
Until sun splashes up the dawn
Raising up night’s curtain to light
As friends fade out without a yawn.
Crunched Away Her Curds
What a woman who
To say only had few words;
Crunched away her curds.
It was something about
Mary being so contrary.
Get it?
Jim Horn
Tasty tidbits of pepper
Jack snuggled blankets
Of seasoned cornmeal and fried
With a creamy dip
For coating makes a
Luscious snack,
Wow!
Tasty tidbits of pepper
Jack wrapped sweaters on
Seasoned cornmeal coat and fry
With a creamy dip
Tasty coating makes
A great snack,
Wow!
Bizarre and illogical
the successions of images
unthinking in the mind
the mixture of visual
experiences influenced by
the happening's of the
wakened world
ideas, emotions and sensations
Frustrations from the debate of
two people who believed that building
a bridge over the Cook Strait was
a good idea.
His restless mind found him trouble
he dreamed of him being on
a horse
along side a woman on
her horse
with ice-cream in there back pockets
with horses following them
It's beleived he awaken from
the dream inspired to
to build an under ground amphitheater
there he'd televise shows
across the world