Best Homemade Poems
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
For the contest: Sounds and Smells
Hosted by: Frank Herrera
Placement: Honorable Mention
A lot of work and effort it does not take.
In fact, these treats are very simple to make.
They don’t require a lot of time to bake.
You need flour, water, and yeast to make the dough.
Adding a little honey is also a fine way to go.
Mix everything together and let the stuff rise.
In just a couple of hours, you will have a pleasant surprise.
Divide the dough evenly and shape the pieces into rings.
Letting them rise another two hours is what is required for these things.
Floating them in boiling water for a couple of minutes is what you need.
Watching them brown in the oven is a pleasant sight indeed.
Hot, soft, and crispy, they come out ready to eat.
Serve them with jelly, butter, and cream cheese, and they’re a great breakfast treat.
A stuffy nose leads to runny nose, frozen toes and thick as jelly mucus
sitting in your chest not allowing you to rest, mucus really sucks because there is nothing you can do but suck on lozenges and say aw nuts -
sitting on the couch all afternoon
watching cartoons run across your living room
listening to geese fly by
thinking is it time to lie down and rest
just take a breath and maybe two.
My lungs feel like they have ingested glue
they huff and puff to no avail
so off to the kitchen I go to warm a big huge heaping bowl of...
touch of magic, toad tongues stew, a pinch of nutmeg, thyme for two - what are some homemade remedies that work for you?
gold poinsettias
decorate a green wreath
.... my homemade gift
bakery smell fills the air
buttered after a slice cut
eat until your stuffed
P.R.Deremer
GRANDDAD’S Homemade BEAN SOUP
Bean soup was served ‘cause Granddad was in town.
Yes, every grown up in the neighborhood.
Was glad when Granddad’s boat was homeward bound.
His homecoming was grand, for he was good.
If bells on grandma’s door knob jingled sound,
Or someone made the knocker tap on wood.
He quickly would wake up though sleep he should.
Bean soup was served ‘cause Granddad was in town.
The neighbor folks came calling, gathered ‘round,
And when they did, my granddad understood.
That every ear would hear his tales, spellbound—
Yes, every grown up in the neighborhood.
His stories, games and tricks blessed my childhood.
Fun memories within my heart abound.
And every one that on his shared path stood,
Was glad when Granddad’s boat was homeward bound.
When he was near, I wore an invisible crown.
That he loved me, I clearly understood.
Such love cannot be measured by the pound,
His homecoming was grand, for he was good.
I dream that he, with heaven’s love is bound.
Walking with God, talking…life, understood.
Smiling God says I’m glad you’re back in town.
The angels now understand why, as they should
Bean soup was served.
Dedicated to My Granddad, David Elliott ("Ellie") Brandt Sr.
Who made my life magical even from a distance!
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 13, 2010
Poetic form: Rondeau Redouble’
The Warmth Of
Homemade
Cooking, freezing,
and raspberry jam
Beef stew, salmon
pie, and egg rolls
out of ham
Quick party foods
and a hunters
breakfast
Castle cake, feather
bed, and little
trees for Christmas
Cakes of Dolphin,
Smurf, and Muno
too
Butterfly, Barbie
Doll with thousands
of views
Baby items, aprons,
and dresses to sew
You can make your
own maple syrup, you
know
Wreaths, snowmen,
and Christmas logs
are a craft
Helping toddlers
make bird food is
always a laugh
Peanut butter,
sugar, and chocolate
chip cookies
Banana oatmeal, no
bake, and
centerpiece of
crispys
Deer meat lasagna
and savory stuffed
shells
Leftover turkey meal
with stuff off your
shelves
Pumpkin carving,
candy apples, and
nature hunt fun
Accessories for
creative cakes and
rolls of cinnamon
Game night
quesadillas and
wraps too
More is in store and
waiting for you
By: Doris Anne
Beaulieu
At:
https://www.youtube.com/user/Dorisanne13
I can still smell Mom's homemade soup on the stove,
she always had a pot simmering for us kids to welcome us home;
it was made in this huge soup pot which I inherited,
old, and dinged but it is one of my favorite possessions.
She did not invent the recipe for this homemade soup,
it was passed down from her mom, and her mom;
not a complicated soup, the ingredients simple to obtain,
but it had a secret ingredient called love that made it special.
Comforting on a cold Canadian day after playing in the snow,
or skating on the pond or having a snow fight with my brothers;
or after walking home from school I knew the soup was waiting,
I helped my mom making it sometimes, I was the perfect dicer.
It is an easy soup but has a lot of vegetables to dice up small,
like onions, celery, carrots, there could be other vegetables too;
but Mom kept it simple for us kids, we added four litres of broth,
Mom made her own chicken broth (I buy mine) that simmers a bit.
Next we added two cans of crushed tomatoes, stir, stir it up,
after a bit we added rice, how much, well you be the judge mom said;
and simmer, until all the vegetables, and rice are cooked and blended,
she also added some herbs like basil, salt and pepper, and that's it.
I guess the most important thing about the soup is the memory,
of mom in the kitchen with her stained apron humming away;
she was happiest when she was cooking for her family,
I am blessed to have these memories to keep close to my heart.
Memories of mom making homemade Tomato Rice Vegetable Soup,
in that big pot and stirring in the love maybe that is why it was good;
we would eat it with big hunks of buttered French Canadian bread,
delicious, a tasty soup, a lovely memory of a gone away time.
.
Boy was I rolling in dough.
Click on:
"About This Poem"
.
Sift flour in Mom’s crock bowl
Make a volcano
Add the buttermilk and lard
Squeeze! ..Have fun! ..Nip buds
Wait!! First, pat for luck!
Bake!…Eat warm!...
Home!!
Inside this scroll is a bowl
Of homemade ramen thoroughly
Cooked with fresh meat and vegetables.
Inside this scroll is a bowl
Of a homemade meal thoughtfully
Cooked with love and passion.
Inside this scroll is a bowl
Of homemade noodles thoroughly
Cooked in oka-san’s home and kitchen.
Tomatoes fried whole till dark
Peppers friend with them
With cilantro and onion
Now blend this great mix
Add a little salt
My mouth now
Craves
Written by Wayland Bunch 2/1/2013
Ok I like experimenting but this form is a little too forced. I have syllable count and content already decided. It was trying experiment anyway and a learning experience.
Mom's Homemade Fried Chicken
Mom's Homemade Fried Chicken
Dipped in egg, rolled in crushed Premium saltine crackers,
hot grease popping around chicken legs...Salivating...
When Grandma baked her fresh warm bread
Enough for the neighborhood to be fed,
The kitchen was rich with the smell of yeast
And our mouths watered for the yummy feast
We tore off a piece from a scrumptious loaf
With butter or jelly slathered, generally both,
Nothing ever was so delicious, I can tell you,
Time after time, Grandma scored her coup!
written March 5, 2022
They reside on the other side of the city
They bathe in the quiet and still fertility
They own yard-keepers and docile servants
Dogs, cats, hyenas and precious plants.
They breathe the camphorated air like us
Swallow the transparent and abominable dust
Cross over and fall in the muddy rivers like saints
Like our siblings living under the tiny tents.
They reside on the other side of the old towns
Over the mountains, not too far from the plains
They bathe in tranquil fertility
Of the country-side, not too far from the city.
They ignore that we are the same, the same formulas
And that we live and endure daily the same dilemmas
And one day, them and us, all of us will answer
Present in the river, under the bridge of forever.
Copyright © September 1982, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.