Best Dining Table Poems
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
These days my home is a disaster where no neatness is mastered.
For years I did the spic and span scene for a spouse who notices
only the TV screen and our part alien, completely annoying teens.
I eventually deciphered my efforts made none of them nicer or wiser.
I realized that to remain a cleanliness and organizer striver would sooner than later require I take a daily tranquilizer.
In time, I learned my bed was quite a smart desire and the
art of long naps was my perfect mood equalizer. So, why brood
over other family member's feelings when my own felt nicer.
There was a time when dust bunnies reduced me to shame
but, now they’re just fluffy cuties that I individually name.
Whereas I once frequently behaved like a total grump
because all treated our dining table like the local dump,
I now idly ponder when the pile will style a solid ceiling thump.
Home-nest chores of potential upset-tests no longer interest my
new style, but soaking in the tub attracts my delight worthwhile.
My bathroom has become my private, pampering isle.
Magazines to thoroughly savor, tempt me in a dream-flavored pile.
Within that little room I’m managing a pampering cocoon.
Once upon my stress time, I would be cryin’ over clothes
not ironed and family tried neither soothing or inspiring me.
These days my ironing policy is that such is pure folly
and that only laundered attire need be desired. I no longer
grow vacuum sore ‘cause rooms are too trashed for dirt to hit floors.
I am learning to keep my child-like, spontaneous smile
despite any and all house or family trials.
If in this lesson I succeed, that’s all I really, truly and mostly need.
I wish to live and love centered in a state of relaxed
‘cause that’s where my spic and span are truly at.
I went searching for-
that little child who cuddled in her mother's arms,
those tender feet that jumped in rain,
that little heart which melted for a kiss,
those twinkling eyes that gleamed in the moonlight.
I enquired the oak tree about-
one little nose that smelt the early morning jasmines,
an enthusiastic voice that sang the stories of the sky,
those tender fingers that brilliantly belted out the piano,
that curly hair which locked the light of life securely in it.
I kept on searching for those red ribbons, that blue tunic and those black shoes which accompanied the girl to her school
I walked all the way right from her study table to her office desk following her footprints to get some detail of her
I ran amidst the woods where she breathed the pure early morning air
I checked the cabins of the city metro that seated her comfortably when she choked for breath.
Her spectacles had no answer to any of my questions regarding her whereabouts
Her golden ring lied lifeless on the table having lost its royal glory
Her favorite shoes are still waiting for the mountain trekking event.
Her black bike had no answer when I asked why it's engine is never ignited.
Her friends still kept her number in their contact list pointlessly waiting for a text message from her.
Her boyfriend silently walked into his office cabin and seriously worked on his assignments - he'ld probably never smile again
Her mother sat on the dining table with two plates in front of her-she'ld probably never realise that the food remains untasted forever.
An aardvark walked into IKEA
Why he did that I have no idea
Ignoring their calls
To try the meatballs
He searched for some ants out the rear
He does ‘civilised’ when he’s able
So found a flat pack dining table
He’d built one - not ever
In inclement weather
And thus it was rather unstable
You don’t see aardvarks wearing wellies
While stuffing ants into their bellies
And if he should drown
While slurping ants down
Would it show up on closed circuit tellies?
He wouldn’t be humiliated
Embarrassment is over rated
The ground was now boggy
And aardvark was soggy
His hunger was not to be sated
So he snuck in to get meatballs - Swedish
He was wet so they gave him a free dish
He ate them real quick
And then he got sick
Had somebody done something fiendish?
The police came and said, “Well I Never,
Was it IKEA food or the weather?”
They found lots of clues
They thought they could use
But they struggled to put them together.
There are rumours of a land,
A land more beautiful than anything else.
There is sunshine out there…
And trees. And grass, animals, bushes, flowers, vines, laughter, love, smiles, hugs.
It’s beautiful there.
Though… I wouldn’t really know.
Cause you see, I am housed in a different compartment.
I live in a room with one window.
It’s not a bad room,
It has a big bed, nice cupboards, a dining table… And a window.
I can’t reach the window though,
It’s on the ceiling and the walls are too high.
I try to climb but I keep on falling down.
And the window is very dirty,
You can’t see much out of it.
I don’t know what lies outside my compartment.
But there are rumours of a land,
A land more beautiful than anything else.
Sometimes I feel the gentle brush of wind on my skin
when the window cracks a little bit,
But it always seals itself back together.
I’ve started to think the land outside does not exist.
After all, I’ve never seen it.
All that I see is a room with one window.
Junk can become a enormously problem
Mountain of cheap and meaningless things
Hoarding disorder is a mental illness
Collecting junk because
they may be useful in the future
Narrow smelly paths cut through the house
walls of junk up to the roof
In this home love was born
The room where they were sisters
cozy they curl together
Walls with floral wallpaper
has been crumbled away
Things grow from the basement roots
grew larger and larger every day
Nobody finds the dining table
eats cold pizza on the floor
It’s four AM
I’m wide awake
no chance of more sleep
clicking noises
from the dining room
low hum
is it voices?
I get up
pad into the dining room.
daughter and grandson
playing Yahtzee
at the dining table
laughing together
grandson worked late
daughter insomniac
I sit down
join the game
daughter finally
peels off for more sleep
grandson and I
continue playing
he makes a sandwich
cuts me up
an orange
I have an oatmeal
cookie with my coffee
grandson decides to
go to bed
I stay up
dress for church
write some poetry
it’s nine o’clock
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
My little pussy cat ......
( A poem for children)
Mew, mew, here comes my little pussy cat
She wants to play with me all the time
Although, she is a naughty little pussy cat
but I like her so much because she is a sweet cat
She is brown in color and I named her brownie
When I call her by name she answers with mew, mew
When I am not at home, she loves to jump on my bed and to climb on my wardrobe
When I am at home she pretend that she is an innocent little pussy cat.
Often she annoys my dog and when he bites her
then she makes huge cry and wants me to punish him
When my supper time comes, she sits on my dining table
and wait for her share to be given before I eat
When she finishes her meal quickly and she looks at me for more
When I shout at her and say that's enough for the day
then she gets angry and says mew, mew and run away
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
All rights are reserved 2015
SCOTLAND
Very big sign on highway A1 going southways
Out of Scotland into England,
Painted with thistles, tartans, bagpipes, says
“Haste ye back to bonnie Scotland”.
The other side of road has a small squat
Stone saying one word - “England” - and that’s that.
I am not Scottish: there’s nobody perfect about.
But I’m the closest thing to I reckon:
I am a Geordie, a Scot with brains knocked out.
But mother often told me I was not born -
But conceived in Scotland - the Trossachs;
But nevertheless, still one of the Sassenachs.
I know Scotland as well as I know my hand:
Have crossed the mighty Forth bridges countless times,
Know the “charms” of Dundee’s sandstone tenement-land,
Breakfasted at the huge dining table with clock chimes
In Carbisdale Castle youth hostel, at ease;
And sawed logs for firewood from its fir trees.
I’ve hitched with Glaswegian drivers on the Campsie Moors
And listened to their pleasant chatter
In heavy dialect for twa hoors
Without understanding a word, for that matter;
And often had a dram and been merry
With the crewmen on the Ballachulish ferry.
The fact is that Scotland is the most
Beautiful part of the world I’ve ever known
And the Scots are a warm generous host
Always pleased to help a stranger on his own.
A pub-reading of Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter
From a soft Scots lilt is a real enchanter.
And when you go south on the A1,
All you find is just England.
That’s probably why they want
You to haste back to their bonnie land.
Kilts and haggis, the list is endless:
And while you’re there you won’t be friendless.
Choking back the tears when I
Hear the tiny children singing Christmas carols
Reaching out to friends and relations
I haven’t seen all year but sending them my news in cards
Sitting round the festive dining table with my loved ones with
Thoughts of those who are no longer with us
Miracle on 34th street on the television
And hearing White Christmas on the radio
Seeing the smiles on little faces when Santa has been
Contest: What does Christmas mean to me
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
12~26~15
Well, It was early in the morning
when I stuck the turkey in
Looked down at my dog
as I wore a silly grin
Roasted Turkey, was high up on his list
And He glanced up at me
then looked back as his dish
I guessed he had me trained well
for I understood his sign
But told him it's a big bird
and it'll have to take some time
Then I started getting ready
all the fixings for our feast
Twenty different vegetables
to complement the beast
Then I set the dining table
with Knives forks and dishes
Uncovering the pies
Each one looked more delicious
I nestled in a basket
bread baked the day before
and finished all the trimmings
when a knock came at our door
Our friends and our families
started pouring in our house
and greeted rather cheerfully
by my kids, my dog and spouse
Then, we all circled 'round
the table with a smile
Working all day long
seemed, well worth the while
It was time for the turkey
Now the appetizer gone
But, when I looked in the oven
I forgot to turn it on.
I could Google it, of course, and expand upon it then,
Upon another's theory of how poetry began.
The truth is no one really knows when poetry first started.
Those pre-historic folks who knew have eons ago departed.
So bear with me and I'll tell you what I firmly believe is true.
God put poetry into humans when the Earth was very new.
Mother Eve first sang sweet lullabies to her darlings, Cain and Abel,
While they fed their pet dinosaurs beneath the dining table.
Why would God leave the love of art out of the human heart
When he already knew to always put the horse before the cart?
Can you guess how dark the world would be with sadistic poetry ban?
Common sense tells me God installed it into Adam, the first man.
as it can b
here’s it-cursed
tossed,crossed,
lost-indentation
a winter numberer,may be
“evacc-ed ejectt inject deject-ed subjects - ”as you like it,man
“missed Ann entire year this year “
& ,repeat man
& ,re-did
off the racks,tip toes may-b
born born - born born to b
from there to the--comatose
“ the probabilities ”,man
&then comes-
comes-&then goes
&comes-&comes-
the shenanigans,, man
easy come easy go ,,go
she ,howlssays
the finale, now!
comes-
comes-comes-&comes-
rendezvous,, the definationn
inept incept product uncutt n undone
it don’t
it
bequeathes,,,,
In what is
in between jac and jill
“jesus, man”
here, a tar pit the yellowed trees all that eyes see cherry blossom through
&through and through and through and through and through
if it soothes-----reanimations
so many many ages ago
“probabilities man probabilities”
that’s about itt,, it seems
“the drudge magenta!,
as i knoww itt”
well for once “ so pretty ” shesays -cohorts
justt a dayy more we are closer
the white linens the blue coats the finest
frivolities all that is pristine
a well laid dining table
a desk to write read eat
a tree outside
the never ending vanity fair
“that the magic will live never will die
cause it’s automatic for people”says-Scot
“ patterns emerge as my prime
whiter s,man”----tells,Joe
a cup of tea-- tells Jon
“as much as you will like to mingle/&dangle-&mingle /
double dribble/triple./Onegin //all the wriggling the implausible imposing
,, nibble ,,all the book keeping
“the classic anecdote” iff i mayy ...
we are all only supercilious there’s more here to come”----Jim,, retorts tells
“to which i may”,tells jill
I think your natural habitat is bed.
Although you do so nicely,
in your kitchen, baking bread,
and when at the dining table,
can enjoy the cheapest red,
still, I think your natural habitat is bed.
You paint truly lovely pictures,
in all colours, blue to red,
write some you beaut bonzer verse,
as swells a modest feller's head,
but you're at your most creative
when cavorting with clothes shed.
So I think your natural habitat is bed.
You're really such a lot of fun
at things much better left unsaid
but should we laugh the way we do?
Should we groan some more instead?
Perhaps neighbours might be thinking
we ain't really too well bred?
But you're such a lovely lady
and I'm so very easy led
so I think your natural habitat is bed.