Best Kraft Poems
My first grandchild was turning three,
sweet girl with a motherly bent.
The perfect present seemed to be
a dollhouse; so, shopping we went.
She found one not by accident -
real bells for the front and back door,
three stories, carpet on the floor
two-car garage, a three bedroom,
kitchen and bath. Who could want more?
Memory on the breeze, presumed.
She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done.
Trying to hide my discontent,
I asked, “What is wrong with this one?”
“It’s not real.” Not like home she meant;
her place, the five-room flat they rent.
The Little People caught her eye
"Here is my house," I heard her cry.
there's mom, dad and me, just like home."
With three dolls to boot, a good buy;
no chic decor, no polychrome.
Happy memory? not so true,
but truly it is in a way.
Only one went shopping, not two.
I bought that dollhouse on display
the fancy one, for her birthday
and sensed her dissatisfaction.
Her mom had bought the other one,
small with three dolls a child could clutch.
Three’s magic, mom’s gift so much fun
while mine sat at my house untouched.
written 02/03/2018
Six Unfinished Lunch Bags
(A collaborative confessional-witness lyric by Anne Winter and Daniel Henry Rodgers)
The memories of my childhood linger long,
With imaginary friends, my strong bond.
Echoes of loud and clear domestic violence,
Grief, tears, sorrow and unbearable silence.
Six years old—
six wax bags lined across the black-and-white table,
Sweet Lebanon bologna sandwiches
spread with Kraft mayonnaise.
My hands stayed pinned behind me—habit—
he reeked of beer; the metal post blessed my skull —
everything went dark.
When I woke, the basement joists
hung over me, unchanged.
Cold concrete floor.
The scar on my knee —
first thing I saw.
I cried, then finished the lunches
chips wrapped into waxed paper.
I should have died—
Why not.
No closet, no corner—only the table and all six bags.
Tomorrow, I journey into the lost woods—
blue-black comics tucked under my arm,
the only safe place my hands didn’t shake.
Flashbacks of alienation in some crowd,
Achievements accolade-worthy, no one to be proud.
Razed rage, lurking loneliness seeping stress,
Here I confess, my childhood one chaotic mess.
Adolescent to adulthood soaked in existential crises and
Decades spent begging for love and screaming with my favorite band.
O life, O dear life, what do you have for me?
If you don't care then please set me free.
Help me escape back to the lost wood.
Six unfinished lunch bags.
The Champion
Controlled by remote desires I trip the laurel fuse of longing ancestry
My Mom had been chosen to compete diving from the high platform of
Hitler’s mania for ‘Kraft’ ‘Freude’ living space terror raised arms and all in
guns blazing a misplaced childhood offered on the altar of manic delusion
Wreaths gathered dust on unmarked graves white crossed monuments
administered torches blazed parades marched lined the ‘Higher Faster
Longer’ ‘More Ideologically Corrupt’ abuse of innocent festival of youth
Replaced demounted sacred Mount Olympus for Auschwitz and Stalingrad
My mother was no Jesse Owens who blackened Nazi dreams of whiter than
white no ‘Black Consciousness Runner’ shoving gloves to the sky in post-fascist
Munich 1972 quite close to Dachau where Jews Sinti and Roma vanished
at the hand of Swastika’s psychopathology for denial distanced denied memory
A colour TV to watch remote from a distance was the closest she ever got to
her dream of honour and glory disgraced by politics assassinated like Israeli
athletes in a continuation and preview of fanatical devilish monsters high and
low jacking innocent sports for propaganda politics malignant ideas and ideals
In 1944 there were no Olympics titanic battles were scrambled instead in
General’s Admiral’s chessboards and tactical blood baths no dives into chlorine
and water just rotting gassed trenches exploding the dreams pawns in the Games
crushing to bone meal the Peace with their tanks and grenades fusing demise
1948 came to London awaking from ruins and rubble and the brain washed
German Olympians were banned from all sports had they not spread eagled
their passion prostituted their vigour for eugenics death Fuehrer and Fatherland
My mother tainted blemished in blood and in water a fallen hero on her sword
09th August
Written for Healing Peace and for the contest 'Olympic Mania'
Merlot wine
Kraft single slices
Dead roses not watered
Dead dreams unfulfilled
A nearly full bag of fries in a trash bin
is a little tempting to one not having eaten all day!
Somewhere is a single mom scrubbing floors
so her kids can eat a PB sandwich
smeared with a little jelly,
or maybe
she will leave them with generic macaroni,
a Kraft substitute easy for kids to fix alone -
but no big juicy red apples because
those would cost twice as much
as packaged macaroni for several kids.
At least cheese in little packets is calcium for bones.
Or is it?
When it’s the season to be jolly,
potatoes are rather cheap and versatile.
You can boil, fry, bake or microwave them.
You can buy them flaked
for cafeteria style mashed potatoes.
But there is something special about salted French fries
put into red containers bought at McDonald’s although
they get tossed out barely eaten with half-drunk cokes
in the same way that people throw money out the door
almost any time they go out to eat.
Eating out! That is such a luxury for someone who is poor.
I’m ok; my belly has its fair share of fat.
Folks like me can always last till we get home.
But tonight while it is cold and dark,
I hope someone will find those fries I spy
sitting at the top of this garbage heap.
I know they’d be a treat for someone truly starving,
and they’d appreciate them more than he
who was eating them when they were nice and hot.
Even better, of course, I hope all those in need
can find a way to feed their families and always have
a place to lay their head down for the night.
For the Garbage Poetry Contest of Anthony Slausen
'Tis well-known that any pasta concoction will always me appease,
But I reckon my all-time favorite is plain old macaroni and cheese!
Ah! That simple but hardy fare sets my old taste buds a-twitchin',
When my spouse announces, "Honey, supper's ready!" from the kitchen!
As far as I know Mr. Kraft invented this delectable mixture,
That has over the years become a staple American fixture.
'Tis easy to prepare - on the box is the simple instruction,
And you won't clutter up the kitchen making a big production!
I've sampled exotic pasta dishes in romantic Roma and old Napoli,
Such as fusilli bucati, vermicelli, lasagne, fettuccine and ravioli.
They were scrumptious but if ever my palate you want to tease,
I'd prefer a hefty helping of plain old macaroni and cheese!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Linda's "Pasta Paradise" Contest - August 2010
Du Einsame,
in den Bergen getrotzt,
versteckt in den Wolken
getragen vom Geist des Inka,
hochgepriesen,
wie von Geisterhand
überragst du das
zerklüftete Tal des Urubamba.
Stein auf Stein,
gebaut mit großem Geschick,
geboren durch die Kraft
der Inkas.
Zufluchtstätte
der letzten Überlebenden,
verborgen vor den Augen
der Eindringlinge
aus dem so entfernten Spanien,
die Feuer und Tod brachten,
dich aber nie sahen.
Umhüllst dich noch heute
mit nebelgesponnenen Rätseln
wie neugeboren
aus tristem Gestein.
Deine Seele,
lebendig,
strahlt Erhabenes
und über deinen Mauern,
jetzt nur noch Heimstatt
der Götter,
zieht wie einst
der Kondor
seine vibrierenden Kreise.
---------------------------------------
You lonesome,
withstanding
in mountains,
hidden in clouds,
carried by the spirit of Incas,
highly praised,
as from ghostly hands
are you extending beyond
the rugged valley of the Urubamba.
Stone by stone,
built with spectacular craftmansship,
born by the power
of man.
Retreat
of the last survivors,
hidden from the eyes
of the intruders
from far away Spain,
who carried fire and death,
but never saw you.
You cover even today
in foggy-spun mystery
like newly born
from solitude stone.
Your spirit,
living,
radiates nobility
and above your murals
now only home of the Gods,
a condor is drawing as once
his vibrating circles.
------------------------------------------
Sitio solitario,
resistiendo en las montañas
escondido en las nubes
protegido por el espíritu del Inca,
egregio elogiado
como de una mano de fantasma
tu te levantas
sobre el valle hendido del Urubamba.
Piedra por piedra,
construido con gran destreza,
nacido por la fuerza
de los Incas.
Refugio
de últimos sobrevivientes,
escondido antes de los ojos
de invasores
del tan distante España,
que traeron fuego y muerte,
pero nunca te veían.
Te envuelves todavía
con enigmas hiladas por nieblas
como recién nacido
de rocas tristes.
Tu alma viva
brilla altura
y sobre tus murallas,
todavía sitio
de dioses,
gira como antiguamente
el condor
sus circulos vibrantes.
Woke up with a look of terror on my face
Dreamt I was an alien from deep outer space
With big oval eyes
A body small in size
With a complexion that resembled Kraft Mayonnaise
© Jack Ellison 2015
No form, no organization, no verse.
A crescendo followed by silence and screams.
A wooden home locked inside of a concrete tome,
With a world collapsing while we keep relapsing
And again the past resurges; what we bury tends not to stay that way,
After all, the piper must have his pay.
A dark closet and we’ve seen fit to rot in it
The Devil in the details told me to be his advocate.
And El Dorado’s gone because a city of gold just wasn’t sustainable
But if it’s attainable then you’re damn right it’s going to be painful.
And death isn’t an option for those of us who feel compelled to keep walkin’
On the sand-- or is it ash? It doesn’t really make a difference while they slash
Their prices by depriving kids of rice and pin open their eyelids
For their twenty hour shifts ‘till they try to plummet themselves off of
Concrete cliffs.
And Macondo is Columbia, unless it’s in the Gulf of Mexico,
but you already knew that, Mr. Critic.
But what are you going to do with it?
Frankenstein was the man, not the monster
The confusion first came when our blame ceased to reclaim
An association between dissociation and our relation
To whatever the truth may have been
‘Cuz it certainly isn’t the truth anymore.
Blank pages in our textbooks and you ask me to memorize it
Regurgitate it and tell you what you want to hear--
My foods teacher says no eating in her class
And sees fit to harass her students with her utter lack
Of discernible knowledge while we cook some Kraft Mac and Cheese.
But who can blame her with the pay she’s getting?
No Telemachus on the television—Nor do we see Stephen
Not while the Situation is breathin’, cuz that’s what’s loved by the station.
Where’s the frustration? The indignation with the ignorant elation
That comes with living in a used-up world?
Dig a treasure map out of the trash and get it unfurled,
You walk to the ‘X’, but it’s been dug up—no wonder it was in there in the first place.
And the esoteric is what they find hysteric ‘cuz they’re all in on the joke
That they find so funny ‘cuz the system is broke.
Politics in work, in life, in marriage, in LIFE,
The wall of separation was torn down it seems, and soon you’ll find them tapping your dreams.
Enjoy watching your people’s nightmares, O Creators.
Tell us it’s what we want.
Im stillen Kornfeld dort,
wo sie verborgen lag,
des Schnitters Sense,
da liegt jetzt sein Grab.
Und nur der Wind
verweht das letzte Wort,
das niemand mehr vernehmen mag.
Bezwinge deine Seele
und stiehl dich heimlich fort.
Damit nicht Angst dich quäle
an jenem stillen Ort.
Die Hoffnung gibt dir Flügel
und leiht dir auch ihr Wort.
Nun liegt nur Einsamkeit
auf deinen Schultern.
Die Ruhe vor dem Sturm
ja die erkennt du schon,
nur sie verleiht dir Kraft
ist deiner Mühen Lohn.
---------------------------------
In quiet grain field there,
where it lay covertly in fear,
the reaper's scythe,
there is his grave.
Only the wind
let last word drift away,
that nobody more may hear.
Defeat your soul in silent race
steal secretly away.
So that fear will not torment you
at this yet peaceful place.
Hope gives you wings
and also lend its voice
Now there lies only loneliness
upon your shoulders.
The quiet before the storm
this you will recognize,
only this gives you strength
and is your efforts' choice.
----------------------------------
En campo de trigo tranquilo
donde se escondía,
la guadaña segador,
se queda ya su tumba
Y sólo el viento
dispersa la última palabra,
que nadie lo puede oír más
en ningún día.
Conquista tu alma
y que te vayas escondido.
Para que el temor no te tortura
en este lugar tranquilo y perdido.
La esperanza te da alas.
También te presta su palabra
La esperanza te da alas
y te presta su palabra.
Ahora sólo soledad
queda sobre tus hombros.
La calma que precede la tormenta
sí tu la reconoces sin defensa,
y sólo te da fuerza
y es tu esfuerzo recompensa.
My first grandchild was turning three,
sweet girl with a motherly bent.
The perfect present seemed to be
a dollhouse; so, shopping we went.
She found one not by accident -
real bells for the front and back door,
three stories, carpet on the floor
two-car garage, a three bedroom,
kitchen and bath. Who could want more?
Memories on the breeze presumed.
She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done.
Trying to hide my discontent,
I asked, “What is wrong with this one?”
“It’s not real.” Not like home she meant;
her place, the five-room flat they rent.
The Little People caught her eye
"Here is my house," I heard her cry.
there's mom, dad and me, just like home."
With three dolls to boot, a good buy;
no chic decor, no polychrome.
written 1/30/2018
Berge riesig und stark,
Gottes liebe und Kraft schutz einem,
Sonne strahlt lieblich und schoen,
Dann will ich wandern gehen mit einem lieben Mann,
Zusammen mit Gott und verewigt,
Ein Picnic auf dem Berg,
Ein Korb mit Brot, camenbert und schoenes Getrank,
Eine Decke wo man sich drauf setzen kann,
Er schaut in ihren huebschen Augen und sagt ich liebe dich,
Sie schaut verliebt zuruck in seine traumhaften Augen.
Dann sagte Er heirate mich,
Sie schaut zuruck mit Tranen in ihren Augen,
Lange hat sie fuer diese gottliche Worte gewartet,
Er nahm sie in seine kraftigen Arme und hilt sie fest,
Du darfst nie wieder von mir weg gehen,
Dann sagt er ich liebe Dich,
Sie haben in eine huebsche kleine Kirche geheiratet,
Alle ihre liebe Verwandten und Fruende waren da,
Der liebe Gott hat Ihnen sonniges Wetter geschenkt.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
2009
WRITTEN BY: LORRIE DENTMON
DATE: JULY 25th, 2009
TITLE: DEAR CLASS OF 1987
DEAR CLASS OF 1987
RUSTY VANN CAMP,
WHY HIS NAME I'VE NEVER FORGOT,
POPULAR BY NO MEANS,
BUT I REMEMBER HE WAS PICKED ON A LOT,
I TRIED TO BE A FRIEND,
TO THOSE WHO HAD NOT MANY,
MOST OF YOU JUST PASSED HIM BY,
NOT THINKING HE TOO HAD FEELINGS,
I'LL NEVER FORGOT THAT MORNING,
WHEN THE HOMEROOM CLASS BELL RANG,
WE WERE ALL IN OUR ASSIGNED SEATS,
MRS. KRAFT WAS PREPARING TO TEACH,
SHE WAS INTERRUPTED,
CAUSE THE PRINCIPAL HAD AN ANNOUNCEMENT,
RUSTY WOULDN'T BE HERE TODAY,
BECAUSE HE 'D HAD AN ACCIDENT,
WE HAD A FEW MOMENTS OF SILENCE,
THOUGH NOT MANY DID IT SEEM TO BOTHER,
BUT I STILL HAVE THE NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS,
WHERE HE HAD FLIPPED HIS VOLKSWAGON,
DEAR CLASS OF 1987,
HAVE WE ALL GROWN UP JUST A LITTLE,
AND DO YOU EVER REGRET THE TIMES,
YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE BETTER THAN ANOTHER.
Helen is hysterical, so witty you laugh until you cry,
She’s a little spit-fire, 4 foot 11 -- a bit of a short fry,
Now I can say that because she knows it’s said in jest,
There is no finer person, as a friend she is truly my best.
We met while nursing where we had so much fun,
Managing to laugh at work yet still get the job done.
While we have switched jobs and moved to a different place,
We are only as far away as it takes to pack our suitcase.
At my Mom and Dad’s funeral I was lost and very sad,
She sat by my side, filling in as family that I no longer had.
Always there in my life for the very best and worst of times,
If I need her, she gets to me, over obstacles she climbs,
Following major surgery she came to nurse me to health,
Her kindness, compassion and care, is her greatest wealth
She babysat my children and made my favourite meal,
Kraft dinner and homemade applesauce, oh what a deal.
She said I needed a pick me up, so she bought hair dye,
Slowly applying the hair colour, careful not to get in my eye.
When my hair went purple and ended up a flashy, brillant red,
She said you don’t need a mirror, just know you don’t look dead.
Our husbands understand our bond, having been through so much,
We never miss a birthday, Christmas or any reason to stay in touch,
I sometimes feel guilty as it seems she is always there to help me,
She’ll say “Oh don’t be so silly, it’s just because I love you Lee”
I never feel so good as I do when I am with my friend Helen,
Together we’ve nursed patients and even the occasional felon,
We met on my first nursing job and she became my best friend,
Some forty years later, our longtime friendship still has no end.
Dedicated to my best friend Helen Tilden
Written July 21, 2011
For contest “Ode to a friend”
Won 6th Place
At a galactic social greeting
The universe had a major meeting
Over an issue that needed some work
Seems they'd all about had enough
Of the bad boy on the block
Commonly known as the Earth
Seems he's caused quite the ruckus
Since day one among us
Is what most planets and stars had to say
And when it comes to the Moon
We've all but about lost our view
Since Earth came along and got in the way
Plus all of the loud noise
From the parties to the wars
The occupants should really quit it down
Yes nothing's been the same
Since the day the wild Earth came
And settled in on this side of town
From all of the rocket ships
And circling of the sputniks
It's like a giant game of dodge ball
We have all tried to get along
Holding hands, Kumbaya...well you know the song
But this isn't working out at all
Wondering what all they could do
You simply can't turn the Earth loose
Creating havoc from one end to the other
There was not one single thought
From any in the entire bunch
As they all stared blankly at each other
That is until the planet Mars
The mischievous one of course
Said I have an idea that just might work
We'll all do something to upset the Sun
When he flares the Earth blow up
Then we can take all the left over dirt
Where we'll fill in all the holes
On the Moon with the Earth's soil
Putting it back into original form
And once that deed it is we do
All of us and the new made up Moon
Can enjoy the life we had before Earth came along
...so when you see the brightest light
quickly kiss your butt goodbye
as that flare soon enough will end the play
can't say it hasn't been loads of fun
once medium rare now very well done
Kraft would be proud at this ultimate Shake 'N Bake