Best Larder Poems
Before reading this one read part one, the story will make more sense.
I felt safe amongst the colorful pages of the comic books wrapped around me. I could hear the little boy say bye to his grampa Cliff, his Grandpa said goodbye Ricky. There was a wonderful bouncing feeling as Ricky skipped out the door to his father's waiting car. As we started driving away Ricky pulled me out of the bag and I could see his mom, dad, sister and brother. As we drove along I learned the other boy was Roy and the little girl was Teresa. His parents simply were mom and dad.
I quite enjoyed the ride, Ricky's dadio had a need for speed and it was exciting passing the slower cars. In this world it seemed all of the other cars were slower. The first town we came to was Larder lake, if blinking had been possible I would have missed it. As Ricky looked through me I marveled at both the color of his eyes and the rugged landscape. Pine trees, poplar trees and beautiful lakes. I loved how the road was carved through sections of rock. The next small town I noticed was King Kirkland, it seemed rather little to be a King. It wasn't very long and we entered our destination which was Kirkland Lake.
Kirkland Lake was much bigger than where we had come from. I enjoyed watching the people as we traveled down Government Road West. I remember driving past restaurants and stores, Dadio slowed down to point out a diner called the Coffee Cup. He told us he had a Barber Shop at the back of the Diner, I was more interested in the theatre across the street. The theatre was called the Strand and I liked the flashing lights on the billboard. Just then Ricky placed me back in the paper bag with his comics so I slept for a while.
Orange Crush III to follow.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod
the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating
progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze
into fruits of sweaty labors
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint
the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects
for this season, before the
days bake the green back into
the humus and the cornucopia
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool
eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron
to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze
any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup
© Goode Guy 2011-08-22
I once shocked you
by my Queen Maud Fromage poem,
remembering a time
when the good Queen Maud
choked on the heavy stuff.
Her courtiers were
about her suddenly,
and Queen Maud was
thumped on royal back
most thoroughly...
Thoroughly, yes thoroughly...
I have it on good report.
A doctor would not lie to me
about Queen Maud, now,
would he so?
The event put Queen off
the cheese for life
and she forbade it in the larder
or else her staff
taste strife.
---------------------------------------------
10/13/2016
Contest - Give Me Your Best James Tate
Sponsor - Space Cadet
4th place win
Three weeks into lockdown, we're still in one piece,
the house is now looking pristine,
we've dusted and shined every surface we see
now only the air left to clean.
We've searched every cranny, we've looked high and low
but still there's no sign of our Puss,
I think that last night she decided to go,
got fed up with being over-fussed.
The missus each day in her favourite pyjamas,
and slippers, just wanders about,
but when she turns round, well, it really alarms us,
there's a hole,and her bum's hanging out.
We've tried to eat healthily, bought the right stuff,
organic, and calorie free,
but now it's got boring, and I'm feeling rough
so it's baked beans on pizza for me.
A real ale delivery is next on the cards,
it's top of the list on our plans,
don't know where to put it, there's nowhere to go
since the larder is full of beer cans.
At least we're all civil, no rows or profanity,
for three weeks now we've all been stuck,
I'm off to the shops,now, quite proud of my sanity
with mask on, and dressed as a duck.
It’s been three weeks
since I was in the grocery store,
and an emptiness weighs,
as if I’d lost a friend.
The government issued orders
for people like me,
calling it “social distancing.”
“Stay home,” they say.
Going to a place containing what I need--
things like crumbled feta cheese,
or low sodium pasta sauce,
is like being with a trusted companion.
Greeting cashiers by name
makes each spree a social event,
as well as a lifesaving one
that refills the pantry.
My last visit began with an App,
where I selected what I wanted,
and ended when a stranger
put bags into the back of my car.
My larder might be full,
but my heart feels empty--
deprived of its weekly ritual
of hunting and gathering with friends.
masons
repointing
our crumbling wall-
provision their summer
larder
Water, as most of you will know,
has the chemical formula H2O.
Now this essential liquid is, as well,
in its natural form, devoid of smell,
and also in its pure state,
it's clear and clean and really great,
for keeping living things alive,
as without it nothing can survive.
Yes it really is such magic stuff,
because without it things are really tough,
and it often makes me stop and think.
each time I pour myself a drink.
What would I do if it all dried up?
Turn on the tap, but an empty cup!
Nothing from the pipes emanating,
panic, as I'm not used to waiting.
This is not how it is for me,
I live where rain falls frequently,
and I can drink, shower and bathe too,
as often as I'm wanting to.
But in other parts it rains only rarely,
and people there, well they can barely,
find enough water for their needs,
to drink, to wash, to nurture seeds.
For them life is infinitely harder,
they've learned to live with an empty larder,
and simple hygiene is so hard to achieve,
when the detritus of living, they have to leave,
lying, rotting, stinking on the surface all around,
polluting any water source in the ground.
Because of the extreme poverty of these 'others',
on my TV screen I have seen the faces of the mothers,
whose children died because there has never been
access to water which is drinkable and clean.
Yes, something that we take for granted,
because we were born, where we were planted!
scrutable squirrel
stocks up the winter larder...
another nut case
© Harry J Horsman 2022
my Pharaoh’s Pyramids anchor my past
proving my future to be gold and vast
Kilimanjaro lifts my heavy brow
he brings my African heart back to wow
when my thoughts melt in a midday swelter,
baobab trees provides my soul shelter
I see life crossing the Savannah
she’s stocking my larder with my manna
contrasts are the future. As with zebra,
all balancing like the star of Libra
survival ensures our life intertwined
our forefathers the Cradle of mankind
Africa does not live in a passport
stamp your hearts and fly to any airport
-updated July 2016-
Limerick : Once a wife Nurse and husband Doctor
Once a wife Nurse and husband Doctor
Loved the meat served from Clinic larder
So they went in to see
Found morgue bodies for free
Since then stopped buying meat from butcher.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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
Cardboard covered the holes in his shoes
No money but he knew the rent was due
His wife had just given birth
She should be the happiest woman on earth
So he would do whatever he had to do.
To the pawnbroker he sold his fathers gold watch chain
He bought food for his family and left the little money that remained
He's heard of jobs being given but they are seventy miles away
He hopes to make it there inside two days .
Through driving snow and sleet
he arrives with No feeling in his feet
at the factory where new men are being hired .
He works two shifts each day back to back
Sleeping a couple of hours in an old deserted shack
He keeps that up all week
So tired he can barely speak
but at last he has some money to send home .
His beautiful wife feeds the baby in her arms
As the postman knocks she closes her dress to hide her charms
Tears stream down her cheeks as she reads the note
The first love letter my grandfather ever wrote.
She paid the rent and bills
The larder once more filled
Now instead of despair , She had hope.
Mountains can be moved by faith and hope
Now in the months to come somehow my grandparents cope
Though seventy miles apart
She feels the beat of my grandfathers heart
and her new daughter will bear the name of hope.
Hope was my mothers name
She told this story with no shame
Proud of everything her parents had done
Just as she told me
I share my families history
Telling you has just been so much fun.
Supermarket Sweep
I arrive in the car park it’s full of cars
Battered and bruised and covered in scars
I drive up and down seeking a place
To leave my old banger while I enter the race!
I approach the doors - a trolley I need
Don’t forget parsley and sesame seed
Down the first aisle fresh lettuce I see,
Feeling for firmness, that’ll do me.
I turn the first corner, the trolley won’t come
A push in the back and a bruise on the bum!
Now this trolley’s fighting, it’s lost a wheel
Screeching and scraping an occasional squeal.
Pasta and pizza must not forget
And top up on brown sauce, I need some I bet.
As the trolley gets full, the fight just gets harder
But it will be worth it to top up the larder!
I pass the meat counter, a chicken I see
But I need one larger - that won’t even do me
Don’t forget stuffing it won’t be the same
And I really don’t like a brand with no name!
It’s nearly over, just beer and white wine
The latter for Mrs., the former is mine.
Now at the tills, the queue is quite short
Unload it again to pay for what’s bought
“Need help with packing?” I hear her say,
Not with the packing - I need help to pay!
The honeybee; the maid of flowers:
Selflessly she toils for hours,
filling up her pollen stores---
never grumbling at her chores.
Sips of nectar keep her strong
as she labors all day long,
pollinating field and arbor,
and making honey in her larder.
Humble as her kind may be,
their loss would be a tragedy.
The earth would shed a mournful tear,
were honeybees to disappear.
The cockroach is a great success,
a paragon of hardiness.
It serves no queen and tends no hive;
its sole concern is to survive.
And this it does---to our chagrin:
Wherever we home, it settles in---
to feed and breed at our expense,
exploiting without recompense.
A champion at adaptation,
it garners no appreciation:
Were cockroaches eradicated,
their absence would be celebrated.
Two species doing what they do best:
The one a friend, the other a pest;
one a blessing, one a blight:
Worker by day or scourge by night.
According to its occupation,
each kind has earned its reputation.
Consider, now, society:
Are you a cockroach, or a bee?