Best Freezers Poems
*Been posting some heavy stuff lately. Time for a bit of levity.
"Hey babe, you're never gonna believe this. Crab fishing in Alaska has been cancelled for 2023."
"I don't understand, dear."
"Well, according to the paper, all the crabs have 'left the building.' It's crabs no mo."
"But where did they go?"
"Ahh, that's the mystery, indeed. Some are blaming sockeye salmon, whatever the flip that is. But I have my own theories."
"Sigh. here we go..."
"Yeah, I figure the little buggers finally figured out that not getting out of the way of the sweeping net is really sucky. Or maybe they all went on strike and decided that ending up on dinner plates was a crappy way to go. Then again, it's possible that alien visitors sampled the tasty crustaceans and transported the lot of them to their home world. Of course, the prevailing conspiracy theory has it that a certain former president with a craving for crab monopolized the fishing industry in Alaska and hoarded them all in ginormous freezers at his Florida resort. All I know is, I'm gonna miss our seafood Sundays. Shrimp and lobster just ain't the same without a complementary pound or two of crab legs. I really believe the end of the world is here."
"Poor, poor baby. By the way, seafood Sunday is on this weekend. I was able to snatch up a few dozen pounds before they all did the Elvis thing."
"Seriously? Kewl. Crab Armageddon will have to wait. Hey, have you noticed the price of beef lately? There goes my Saturday steaks on the grill. I've got some theories on the present crisis..."
"Yes, dear."
I walk into the room walls appear
Nothing less nothing more
I feel my heart crawl as the emptyness hits the floor
Once a home but now undone as the close of the door
The stillness surrounds my pounding heart distracts
Windows the vision of fullness outside within its crowds
Nobody sees my place of coldness that freezers
Deepness of ivory cream painted easel
The memories that have past make this a box now
The pictures inside my head like an old black and white film
No ticket needed just an overwhelming knowlege of whats gone before
For this is my empty apartment
sarah hales
contest empty apartment
Hope built upon the sand
as castles before the waves.
Heart filled with Puppy love
and hymns sung beneath
Daddy's watchful eye.
Nothing Holy remains
Happy a forgotten word.
Love drowned in Jack and coke
before he was thee years old.
No harmony in that house
that house not a home.
Her health a poor excuse to stay
a good excuse to leave him home.
Praying no one would see.
My hand on fire as it closed
on the frozen food.
Filling my pack ~ without looking
Hungry doesn't care
as long as it's fed.
A starving beast~ wild
Anything a feast
after three days.
Afraid of getting caught.
Pride a terrible thing.
It always grows before the fall.
Tonight we eat like a king
in a land of milk and honey.
Pigtails and peas with rice.
Never knowing he knew
till the end. ~ Grateful
that he understood.
wishing I could change things.
Ashamed of my actions.
Sometimes sand castles fall.
Holding a feverish hand I
laughed until I cried.
I should have thrown down
that foolish pride. I could have had
steaks and chops too.
I still have the old key
He passed to me.
I hold it in my hand sometimes.
The old freezers long gone.
I Hold on to it remind me.
Sometimes Sand castles fall.
There isn't much a parent
misses. Hidden in our eyes.
Remember that and remember too
that The good stuff is locked away
But that Daddy shares with all!
Ted Cogger is our local butcher and he’s been here seven years;
full forward for the footy team and drinks a nightly seven beers.
He played one season for the cricket club, but he was just a slugger,
and Ted’s become a mate of mine, but he’s a pretty sleazy bugger.
I have suspicions ‘bout fidelity but of course there is no proof,
and if Pat his wife did get the bell she’d probably hit the roof!
All in all Ted’s just a bloke who loves his beer and sport,
but if other rumours are all true then one day he’ll get caught.
And caught he got, in front of me; there in his butchers shop.
I was wandering home near five o’clock, so I thought I would stop
and have a chat with Ted before he shuts up for the night,
when in walks Mrs. Grundy much to Ted’s chagrin delight.
I sat back and listened to their conversation taking place.
Mrs. Grundy mentioned she hoped Ted would be her saving grace,
but being Friday Ted’s not sure, for he’s let his stocks run low,
therefore his freezers full of empty space with nothing much to show.
She ordered sausages and corn beef, but Ted just shook his head,
so Mrs. Grundy scratched beneath her chin, then she finally said,
“Would you have a chicken I could buy” and one Ted duly found,
then plonked it down upon the scales and weighed it as three pound.
“Oh goodness me that’s not enough” Mrs. Grundy made another plea,
“My son is coming for the weekend and that won’t feed his family,
would you have a bigger chicken?” Ted went back for another look.
I saw him bring back from the cool room - the very same old chook.
He plonked it down upon the scales but Mrs. Grundy couldn’t tell,
even though the chook is on the scales - Ted’s finger is as well.
Ted mentioned that the weight’s four pound, thinking this would do …
“That’s marvellous” said Mrs. Grundy - “Now can you wrap up the two?”
The kids are in bed - there are dishes to do
Some washing, ironing, paperwork too
Children, office, housework, sometimes I think life’s hard
But it isn’t really, not when it’s compared
To my mums, who rose up early and who was never late
Lighting the coal fire, sitting in the grate
She then cooked breakfast on a range,
Haven’t things for me, now changed?
Over the range for hours mum would slave
Cooking meals, whereas I have a microwave
And a vacuum, to clean this house of mine
Mum used to beat rugs on her washing line,
I have gas central heating, to keep the house warm
For my waking up to electric alarm
Then straight into the bathroom to have a shower
With instant hot water, mum had to wait hours
For the water to boil in her dolly tub
With its mangle, her weeks washing to scrub
A washing machine, daily, washes my clothes
What I’d do without it, heavens knows
And only a larder and pantry had mum,
No fridges or freezers, with meals ready done;
Between rudding steps and the range black leading,
She always had time for games and for reading,
My children don’t bother to go out to play
They stay in their rooms, on computers all day,
I guess each generation, has its ‘hard times’
I suppose at the moment, I feel this is mine
But, on reflection, of the life my mum had
I consider myself lucky; my ‘hard time’ is not so bad.
© Janette Fisher – June 1995
I wrote this poem about 15 years ago when I was a bank manager and my girls were about 12 and 10
The kids are in bed, there's dishes to do
Washing, ironing, paperwork too,
Children, office, housework, sometimes I find life hard
But it isn't really, not when it's compared
To my mum's, who rose up early and was never late
Lighting the coal fire that was sitting in the grate,
She then cooked breakfast on a range,
Haaven't things for me now changed.
Over the range for hours mum would slave
Cooking meals, wheras I have a microwave
And a vacuum to clean this house of mine
Mum used to beat rugs on her washing line.
I have central heating to keep the house warm
For my waking up by electric alarm
Straight into the bathroom to have a shower
With instant hot water, mum had to wait hours
For the water to boil, for her dolly tub
With its mangle, her weeks washing to scrub,
A washing machine daily, washes my clothes
What I'd do without it, heaven knows.
And only a larder and pantry had mum
No fridges, or freezers with meals ready done
Between rudding steps and range black leading,
She would always make time, for games and for reading,
My children son't bother to go out to play
They stay in their rooms, on computers all day,
I guess each generation has its 'hard times'
I suppose at the moment, this must be mine,
But, on reflection of the life my mum had
I call myself lucky, my 'hard time's' not so bad!
Grace Harbour
First into Grace Harbour
Me in classic sailboat
At anchor alone
In Desolation Sound
Where silence reveals the place
And the world is bigger
Because I can hear its’ vastness
It’s Bioacoustic diversity
Seals surface, gulls dive, water ripples.
A breeze in a cedar whispers
The buzz of a bumblebee.
The distant whistle of an eagle trembles in air
And falling droplets of rain taste of spruce.
The very place sparkles in silent sound and my soul is still
No need to block out
The combat zone of flashing messages.
From CNN and Fox.
But stillness of silence
Is reflected in blue water
and framed by oyster encrusted rocks,
While green and orange algae talk
Tidal pools and purple sea stars walk
And I can hear the world as music.
--------------------------------------------
War, bombs and shrapnel.
Roaring yachts arrive like Hummers or tanks from Kandahar
Stacked high with gadgets, guns hanged,
Travelling as a pack of waking house-mobiles
To conquer wilderness with bars, showers, propane barbecues
Gas generators, deep freezers, and boom-boxes
All sorts of folks; models in bikinis with pedigree dogs.
Fashion ladies in silk that launch revving zodiacs
To carry standard poodles for an urgent pee.
Then ‘A Tea Cup Yorkshire terrier’ yelps
At a Jack Russell that barks at a Chihuahua
As a Dachshund and Afghan Hound take offense
In frenzied jealousy.
Big hipped humans scream ashore in tenders.
Acoustic awareness numbed
The get-away-from-it-allers that bring it all always, partied.
As night fell they turned the generators off
“I haven’t seen any wildlife”, said one,
“There was more to feed at the zoo”
Said the other boomer
“Yea, where’s the loon.”
Fixed ideas of progress consume.
Then our mother moon
In full dress exposed an array of limpets
Of many sizes and shapes all clinging to obvious rocks
Exchanging freedom for the security
Of a defensive shell of fixed ideas
And automated reflexes.
It is useless to talk kindly to a limpet
One must detach it by main force.
an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly.
though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!
Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers,
but altruism, civility, Dharma bum ethnocentrism,
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism,
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness,
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,
brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness,
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak,
zealous antipathy craving everything.
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question
occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily
upon major American holiday,
whereat figurative bro
thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic
good-samaritan charitable ambitions
especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities
other than
when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes
play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility,
diligent energy, and friendly hello
and sundry pleasant greetings
hook hood be some
soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger
ready to make shares available vis a vis IPO
I’ve seen the freezers
where they store the mother’s eggs
where the unborn sleep
cradled in maternal dreams
cribs of baby fantasies
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Little Green People’s Work Is Never Done
Life calls on little green people, to work, to continue
As everyone else sleeps in
Hiding from the corporate comatose leader
Normal people rise, at a later date, from beds dead tired
Smiles crack on faces; lines move along the traces of old age
And breaks the new dawned day wide open
You can’t count on little green people for anything
They work for nothing. They work for free
They cut trees down in forest with their teeth
Place them into piles for safe keeping
And by the way
Arrive from outer space from other planets to take our place
Little green people take our jobs
I know this can’t be done
They have no work permits
Their visas have expired
They must line up to be deported as per orders
You can’t count on little green people
Without proper documents
It is illegal
They never sleep but hang out inside of freezers
Or cold, in wooden boxes, toxic beyond their borders
Catch colds, catch fire with the trees
To burn the forest down
Pretend to weep, pretend they don’t have matches
Call it an accident as they move from house to house
No one keeps the peace and secrets like little green people
You can count on that
They press their little green suits with tiny irons
And eat their greens. They even kiss your feet
Some pray for peace in churches
Just like the rest of us
Little green people will never move back home
Work is finished there
Their suns burnt out
But other work still needs to be completed
It continues on the foreign dawn
If, as hippy folklore claims, it never rains in California,
Then the watermark is never washed out of the phoney cheque,
And when you’re dead and gone there’ll be no one here to mourn ya
For it was only God above urinating down your neck.
Carbon monoxide inhalation, it’s said, is pretty good for you,
So quit that forty a day habit, baby, move it with the flow;
Auto-suicide will wend its merry way and turn you blue,
So wrap your ruby red ones ‘round a tail pipe instead and blow.
Handprints down at Graumans, stoned celebrity status crested
Of the celluloid long-dead and the many who are soon to be;
My shopping list wants tummy-tucked, liposuction-sculpted, silicon breasted
Platinum blonde-haired bimbos who are certified free of H.I.V.
The boardwalk stretches like a sunshine catwalk by the sand and sea,
That roller babe looks good enough to eat, this must be heaven,
A junk food, high-cal sex blitz, glitzy steam hammer driven reality,
Her brain and heart aged sixty, yet her body twenty-seven.
Hang loose, chill out in air-conditioned stretch limo deep freezers,
It sure ain’t safe to mosey around alone, so don’t take chances;
And the infrared sun might fry your cheek to cancer and bejeezus,
Tough to keep your tongue in it, then, under the circumstances.
At night the stars reveal themselves, yet don’t look to the skies,
Dead super novas are never seen through pollution and stagnation,
Diaz, Hanks, Di-Caprio hold heaven’s wonder in cash cow eyes,
Down here that just about outshines every thing in God’s creation.
Multinational, mega-corporate, Hollywood moguls kick sorry ass,
Bedroom or boardroom these bondage freaks wield Olympian power,
Snorting lines of purest coke, feeding teenage pussy a champagne glass,
A minute on the screen, her life destroyed within an hour.
Gordon Gecko got it wrong, for greed is far from good you see,
Ray Chandler’s quip about this place a compliment and a half -
You know, the one where he gave this town a paper-cup personality -
Still you’ve gotta laugh, don’t you? Well, don’t you gotta laugh…?
What if trees never got old?
What if Doritos weren't extremely bold?
What if my mom was my dad's uncle's cousin?
What if bees chirped and birds were buzzin?
What if every house had a drawbridge and moat?
What if the Cubs hadn't bothered the Billy Goat?
What if girls changed bodies with boys?
What if there was no such color as turquoise?
What if black turned into white?
What if day turned into night?
What if a freezer made things hot?
What if I had a personal robot?
What if the Little Engine never did try?
What if Pinnochio never told a lie?
What if they just gave the poor rabbit Trix?
What if after one, two you didn't pick up sticks?
If all of these what ifs were actually true,
The world would be wonderful for me and you.
Then I Would...
If the sky switched places with the ground,
Then I'd be forced to walk upside down.
And if there were no age to a tree,
there'd be plenty of oxygen for everyone to breathe.
If every house had a drawbridge and moat,
When I went to my neighbor's, I'd need a boat.
If the Cub's Billy Goat curse wasn't severe,
Then they could win a World Series this year.
If the boys switched place with girls,
Then a muscular man would wear a necklace with pearls.
If the day happened to turn into night,
Then the sun wouldn't be nearly as bright.
If the freezers were used to heat everything,
I'd use a microwave to cool my ice cream.
If I had a personal robot whose name was Gabe,
Then I'd never get up except to bathe.
If Pinnochio admitted that he was a doll,
Then perhaps his nose would be rather small.
And if the little steam engine didn't think he could,
He'd be stuck on the tracks, and that'd be no good.
If the kids gave the rabbit Trix and answered his cries,
The he wouldn't have to dress up in disguise.
If all of these things happened just as I hope,
Then everyone would be happy, and no one would mope.
Form:
The Bride under the left wing; The groom under the right
The Ice Swan , landing on the lake in the Early Morning Night
Her feathers , intricately patterned in a Moment of LOVE Forever the thinnest chisel
Curves her neck, to the kiss of her beak upon the LOVING Bride and Groom
The Lily pads need a circumference scratchier to be polished ; For Love’s Landing
The cold and numbness from the freezers melts from me; with their happy Smiling
Hearts
After the “I DO’s” They each thank me for my thirty hours of an ice block work of art
Thank-YOU and may YOUR Life Together be Forever ( I also made this Swan in an
Aspic Salad
Inspired by Nette Onclaud for Her Contest “ Anything Handmade “
Dedicated to the Posners for their Seventy-fifth Anniversary
Author’s Note I was in Hospital when Contest was Finalized so this was not
entered
Summer Heat
What could be colder than the sun
Hell froze below all thermals known
Ice cream burns the tongue
Less than zero, the bitter winds begin
Glaciers form on Florida shores
One snow flake at a time
Hurricanes move in opposite directions
Work just like vacuums
Clears the landscape clean of ice and trees
People on the streets shiver at the thought of heat
Ice turns debris and minds to crystal freezers
Under the cover of summer sun
Delirium sets in