Best Home Baked Poems
I reminisce, I miss.... The smell of fresh home baked cookies, today they come from a box of stale goodies. Please and thank you, now very seldom heard. When kids were kids just having fun, not tied to a computer so they cannot run. Life was work hard with simple things, like flowers you would bring. The days of old are long gone, never to return. The ones I loved, the ones that loved me are all gone. I reminisce, I miss....
Date Written: 3/17/2021
3/19/2021 Poem of the Day
"And"
1 Place
I REMINSSE I MISSContest Judged: 4/13/2021
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
Boxes and boxes of lovely soft creams,
ready to be loaded on our ship of dreams.
Chocolate cream pies, and chocolate E'clairs,
lemon filled donuts, and Jelly cream bars.
Oodles and oodles of illicit delights,
watching my hips grow out of sight.
i shan't resist, some coconut cream pies,
bulging above my double sized thighs.
With my mouth watering I sit and stare,
at all these wonderful home baked wares.
Give me fortitude, squeezed out with a tear,
need some treats? Help yourself my dear.
When over fed, I am finding to my ilk,
groaning, I need more cookies and milk.
A situation I should not have begun,
encourages a visit to the dietitian.
The chicken soup and matzoh balls
Are ready for the pot.
The hard-boiled eggs are in the fridge.
(We never eat them hot.)
The items for the Seder plate
All wait for their debut,
With my homemade charoses.
(Google if you have no clue.)
The chicken cutlets, farfel-topped
And stuffing made from same
Will share the table with some veggies,
Sautéed to acclaim.
Of course, there’ll be gefilte fish
With horseradish (so hot!)
And grape juice or sweet Kosher wine,
Which really hits the spot.
With home-baked brownies and
Some cookies vying for dessert
Along with lotsa matzoh,
There’s an “Oy, I’m stuffed!” alert.
But all the food is not, to me,
The most important part -
It’s sharing these traditions with
Those closest to my heart.
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
Oh for a taste of rhubarb pie!
Home picked, home baked--
Mouth watering, I don’t lie.
A tart and sweet delicious delight;
Tingles, mingles with the tongue.
Mom always cooked it just right!
Some might let theirs go to waste,
But I’ll eat their piece without delay,
I just love that capricious taste!
Note* I haven’t had a piece of Rhubarb pie
since my dear mom died in ‘94
Home Baked Bread
The aroma of manna’s heavenly scent.
By: Emile Pinet
A dusty, wooden table, painted a vibrant
red, stands alone in a vacant ole'
farmhouse kitchen. Nearby is a
window sporting many panes of
broken glass, allowing vivid sunlight
to filter throughout this rotting structure.
A large jar adorns this wobbly
legged piece of furniture.
A brown wilted vine drapes itself over
the edge, meeting a dry, splintered wooden
floor, covered of mud, dead grass
and murky colored yellow weeds.
As I canvass this grim place, a vision
of sunniness glinting from old
glasswork fills my mind of what this room
may have once contained. Light, airy
happy memories of a mother's
home baked cookies for her children,
holidays and family gatherings.
Indeed, an empty pickle jar filled
with lustrous sunshine can put a
smile within one's heart.
The metro man is out! Smooth skin,
They say, is now no longer in.
The sexy man has facial hair,
Some stubble, or a beard. His flair
Is outdoor rugged, manly charm.
He wears tattoos on hairy arm.
He loves his plaid, wears flannel shirt
And jeans, and sturdy boots with dirt.
Instead of going to the gym
He gives his apple tree a trim.
He loves environment and Earth,
Drinks fair trade coffee, finds it worth
To make organic, home baked goods,
Envisions living in the woods.
If he has nothing else to do
He goes out for a microbrew,
Opens the beer can with his knife
And dreams of self-sufficient life.
7/10/2017
I sat down many times to write a letter to you. I could never figure out what to say after the greeting. Have you ever felt the same way? To begin a letter and never have a single word to say because you begin and end my sentences? That's what the most sincere form of love is... What did you say?... Yes, and it is the best home baked bread since apple pie too... Oh, I just love you! How can I contain my heart from allowing these emotions to leak out? Perhaps I will sit back down and try to formulate the perfect letter! Or perhaps I will just call you? I can never make up my mind!
Funny; relationships. I was never good at them. How about you? I made it to the two week mark and then I just threw in the towel. I have ran out of towels and I have run out of glue too. There is not a single word left to be said and I still can't come up with a single word to write to you. Back to the drawing board again!
g. rix
1-12-15
The delicious odor of home-baked bread
instantly takes me to mum's kitchen door,
I'm in heaven, though not a word is said.
Kneading the dough, she'd punch it down once more,
calling for three risings, she'd give it four.
I can never resist that fresh-baked smell,
just one whiff and once more, I'm a small boy,
there's no smell like it; I could always tell.
It's forever linked to a time of joy,
a nostalgic quirk, memories employ.
The instant its unique aromas waft
up my nostrils, with that heavenly scent,
I envision my mum's hugs, firm yet soft.
Going to the bakery's an event
that brings back flashes of mom's French accent.
(English- Quintain)
2/18/2018
I scribbled quickly
As they wrote their final exam
Little notes of appreciation
A special individualized message
Thanking each student
For having been in my class
And for bringing me joy
Reminding each one
Of the potential that lies within
For each is a remarkable individual
A personalized message
Of encouragement
And a shared Bible verse
Psalm 37: 4
This was a special class
Made up of pastors
A journalist
An architect
Adults from different walks of life
Some married
Others single
Some shy
Others bold
All wanting to become
Better writers
What an amazing group
My French came in handy
With my students from Algeria
How I loved their French accent
As they tried to pronounce
The bothersome words in English
Leaving a never ending smile on my lips
After they spent an hour writing
I made them pause
To have home baked brownies
I’d made from scratch
Along with a soft drink
A time to relax…
Refreshed
They continued on their essays
And I decorated each note
With stickers
“Great Work”
“Way to Go”
“Excellent”
“You are a Star”
And for the women
Lots of hearts!
I love hearts
They decorate my office
Pillows
Key rings
Earrings
And now
My little notes
Which came straight from my heart
Each one got to exchange the finished essay
For a handwritten note from the teacher
I said with a sheepish grin
“These stickers are not because you are a child….
But…because I am!
I am a child at heart!"
That brought smiles
And a hug from
The journalist from Brazil
“I’m going to cry,” she said.
As she gave me a bear hug
My heart sang
They had learned to love writing
What greater joy could be mine?
The Brazilian journalist
Met me in church last Sabbath,
Gave me another warm hug and said,
“Teacher, thank you for the note
You inspired me to do my best.”
And what she couldn’t articulate well
Sparkled in her eyes
And danced in her hand motions
Silly little stickers
Simple little words
A whole lot of love
Love for my students
EVERYONE needs some encouragement
Everyone needs to know
That inside the heart resides
A wealth of beauty longing to be expressed
A piece of the soul that longs to live forever
In the written word
I thank God I’m a teacher
After all,
I’m in good company
For, the GREATEST Teacher of all time
Jesus Christ
Is my mentor!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I want to tell you a story,
about one Christmas morning.
The snow was falling,
and the wind was roaring.
Holly and Christmas ferns decorated the door.
Gifts piled high around the tree on the floor.
Home baked goods from the kitchen filled the air.
The children opened their gifts with great care.
Time stood still for a moment when,
I reached for the box to open.
The box was white like snow.
Delicately tied in a big red bow.
Inside the box was a gift for me.
A tiny silver bell laid silently.
I picked it up and it begin to ring.
The music of Christmas, so charming.
My little girl said, "I hope you like your present too."
"Every time you ring the bell, a note of love from me to you."
A silent tear fell from my eye.
What a beautiful gift, and such a surprise.
I placed the bell on the mantle with care.
Even today it still sits there.
This happened many years ago.
The Christmas box with the big red bow.
A tiny silver bell plays a precious tune.
A note of Christmas joy from me to you.
Yes, I’ll admit I am that crazy cat lady,
mother of my beautiful Persian Sadie.
She’s sassy and brassy and full of spice,
naughty in the morn, but at night she's nice.
When I leave her alone I must think twice!
I dress her up in fine linens during cold days,
take professional photos on special holidays.
She purrs and I stop what I am doing instantly,
probably why my mind is filled with insanity.
I gently rub her pretty paws constantly.
I style her silver fur the way she likes it,
and she never listens when I ask her to sit.
Home baked kitty treats are made with love,
she’s rough like a lion, then gentle as a dove.
Definitely sent from Heaven up above.
Yes, I’ll admit I am that crazy cat lady,
guess that’s just the way God has made me.
I spoil her most when she feels the worst,
always putting her pretty lil’ kitty face first.
Can’t tell if I’m blessed or if I’m cursed!
Crazy Cat Lady: Rhyme Poetry Contest
Line Gauthier
January 3rd, 2018
"A King deserves His full name~Christmas. Xmas is not good enough." By Poet
Can you smell the home-baked cookies,
all the wonderful goodies.
The tree is all decorated,
beneath the nativity scene has been created.
A beautiful word like Christmas,
has been cut down for business.
Xmas will never do,
the word makes me feel blue.
He passed on turkey, passed on ham
and even on Mom’s candied yams!
He passed, for sure, on salad greens
and carrots, peas and lima beans!
He passed on Mom’s best home-baked bread
and cheeses ready to be spread.
The gravy and the mashed potatoes:
Those he passed on - and tomatoes.
Mom then served desserts; we knew
he’d pass on pie and ice cream too!
But for fruit JELLO, the small brat
yelled, “Mom, please pass me ALL of that!”