Best Margarine Poems
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
Her kitchen of boiling bacon,
and margarine - it was always steamy
and 'welcomingly' warm.
The bathroom, off the kitchen,
smelt of carbolic soap, and a layer
of talcum powder dusted the cupboards
a reminder of its liberal use.
The garden, with a greenhouse,
had a glorious array of pinks
and Sweet Williams - it was always summer:
no winters here, always sunny, as I recall.....
The old corrugated air-raid shelter,
above ground now, was a haven
for childhood, childish games.
It smelt of paraffin from the heater.
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
She would lick her hanky and
wipe my mouth if it was sticky
from the gingerbread she'd made.
My Grandma always looked the same,
never younger, never older:-
her memory etched in my cerebral
photo frame as I remember her ........
smelling of peppermints,
fingers deformed with crippling arthritis,
but smiling, wiping mouths, cooking,
or sitting in her little garden in a floral dress.....
She's been gone for thirty years now,
but still I see her there.
I see the tissue filled pockets in her
'pinny'and the pin-curls in her hair.
Yes, my Grandma smelt of peppermints.........
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Holier than thou,
sacred as a cow
anointed with margarine spread;
a Sunday to rest,
some socks and a vest
and a penchant for laying in bed.
Sicker than sick
and thicker than thick,
drugged with a heroin chic,
bright light beams down
through a crack in the crown,
spearing a spoon-bending freak.
Speak unto thee,
the voice of a tree,
afire with gelignite balm;
whacky and wild,
abused and defiled,
born to succumb unto harm.
Lysergic the feast,
the mark of the beast,
halogen burned to emboss
symbols on skin
as forever begins
ripping infinite Christ from the cross.
Whatever happened to breakfast, lamented French Toast
People love me, gushing with syrup, I used to boast
But now my brand is flat as a pancake
~ as popular as a post-Halloween ghost
A dozen eggs beat back tears as they sat in a box
while patrons flocked toward the cream cheese and lox
Once a staple of a sound start to the day
~ now bagels and doughnuts hold sway
There there's whole milk and butter
lovingly culled from Betsy's best utter
Given way to that nebbish 'skim milk' and oily margarine
~ at their pale appearance I just shudder
But at least I pack my children a solid lunch ~
Peanut butter sandwich, corn chips, and twinkies to munch
I’m dining with my cousin Giles
Who disclosed he’d terrible piles
He’s wriggly and twitchy
Cos his butt’s so itchy
His visage is sad, there’s no smiles
He’d tried using soft margarine
This process had just made him scream
So he did not linger
With his index finger
But Anusol worked like a dream
I said it was my understanding
That surgeon ‘s do hemorrhoid banding
But if he has it done
Sitting down he may shun
On this subject I won’t be expanding!
Next time I saw my Cousin Giles
They’d successfully removed his piles
So he can sit down
No trace of a frown
And Giles is chock full of smiles
10/09/21
False promises and bold faced lies
From leaders we call men,
Too foolish, vain and unwise
It’s the election blues again.
Feign to believe the web they weave
With patient ears we listen,
Future balanced if they achieve
From deceitful eyes teeth glisten.
In principle, fate is our blame
Yet in our selfish pride,
Our judgment shadows woeful shame
Behind scapegoats fail to hide.
Ballot fiends they all may be
Watching poll numbers, plus or minus three,
What will their victory bring to me
After January twenty-three.
Subsidized youth sports, gun control
Child care dollars galore,
A policy a day, and truth be told
Campaign gifts are a chore.
What matters East-West-South ‘n North
Is that we get it right,
While opponents bicker back and forth
By cable, bus or flight.
Success depends on unity
Without it we’re a wreck,
While one side suffers mutiny
The Grits give Tories heck.
The separatist Bloc` says “Let us go”
Demanding sovereign freedom,
White margarine and one-tongued-signs
Does Canada really need them.
The answer is, quite simply, oui`
We cannot tear apart,
Instead, honor all with dignity
And make a brand new start.
While men debate with pointed fingers
On issues big or small,
Our neighbor’s fear of terror lingers
With plans to build a wall.
Five billion they shall not relinquish
While bring East to peace,
Infernal war fires ne’r extinguish
Diplomacy for lease.
Denying partnership in war
To Iraq we didn’t go,
And up in space where eagles soar
Again we said “Oh no”.
Canada is not the States
Their future is not ours,
While Bush comments on us, berates
His future quickly sours.
When we look back upon these days
In golden years of life,
Will mirrored lakes obscure with haze
Too thick for sharpened knife.
Or does the future hold great treasure
For Canadians, one and all,
With strength and courage beyond measure
Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall.
Like years before, each voter chooses
With hopes and dreams of change and glory,
But in the end there’s winners and losers
Different writer, same old story.
Scott Goldsberry
December 30, 2005
The fancy degree from a world famous school
set in a frame that’s worth more
than the paper on which it’s printed
all the awards
the accolades
none of it has taught you
the lessons I learned long ago
before either of us could even read or had ever heard
of Shakespeare or Marlowe
Dickens or Carroll or Hemingway
when we were but larvae of what we would become
when you put on your first pair of patent leather shoes
polished to a high shine
before you toddled to the table for tea
at around the same time that half a world away
I slipped into my sandals
the straps hanging by a thread
the holes in the soles patched with duct tape
before sauntering into the kitchen
to spread mayonnaise or mustard or margarine
onto a single slice of stale bread
so I would have something in my stomach
to see me through until supper
which would consist of a can of some sort of beans
and a ten cent box of macaroni and cheese
with slices of cheap hot dogs stirred in
sometimes cut into quarters
when money was even more tight due to a medical bill
some other unexpected expense
You may be capable of convincing an audience
but you can never really know
You will never understand what that life is
Some things they can’t teach you at Cambridge
It was a mistake to take home economics out of the curriculum at so many high schools, says Wally, a retired teacher who has an ongoing interest in education. He taught high school for many years and still misses his students.
At a Walmart recently there was an incident Wally can’t forget. It pained him deeply because it made him think about the quality of high school education today. He’s not convinced it is what it should be at many schools.
He was standing near the dairy case when a young man, not long out of high school, held up a package of margarine and asked Wally if it was butter. Wally at first thought he was kidding but then said it wasn’t butter, that it was margarine.
The young man wanted to know the difference between butter and margarine. Wally told him butter comes from cows and margarine has a vegetable base. The young man turned to his two friends and said, “I’m glad we asked.” They smiled, thanked Wally and headed for the register, margarine in hand.
A week later Wally was at a local charity making a donation and was told the charity had quit giving baskets of food at Christmas after learning several clients had tried to pan fry a turkey. Now they give gift certificates instead.
At the charity Wally also learned that many young people today don’t know how to cook vegetables or fry bacon and eggs. And more than a few have no idea about budgeting or nutrition.
Wally thinks this reflects poorly on secondary education today. When he taught high school, home economics was taught and students who didn’t learn the basics from their parents at home could learn them at school in home economics, even though it was not a required course. Now he thinks it should be, at least for the many who seem to need it.
He says young people today know a lot about cell phones and computers but sadly some of them don’t know the difference between butter and margarine or how to cook a turkey.
A semester of home economics, he says, might help change that. He wonders if a lot of Advanced Placement courses are that important if young people can't fix themselves something to eat. Sandwiches and fast food, he agrees, do not a good diet make.
Donal Mahoney
No store bought jump starts
Cool creamy dough kneaded by hand
Baked until golden then cooled so slightly
Carefully sliced and slathered in butter
Because margarine would never do
Sun ripened berries diced and stemmed
Tossed gently with sugar forming the glaze
Fresh heavy cream beaten in a chilled bowl
Using a wire whisk until stiff peaks stand
Placing the layers one on top of the next
Then garnish with diamond wedges of fruit
No more cheese!
By Stanley Russell Harris
Poetry Soup Honorable Mentioned.
(The mad author)
Saw my doctor the other day.
Was a routine appointment I say.
Well was for me as I’m unwell.
Better than saying as sick as hell.
Another tablet I must take.
As my cholesterol number, is far too high.
Then Doctor did ask of me.
‘Do you eat cheese?’ She did you see.
I gulped and managed to squeak, ‘yes.’
Then she said, ‘cut it out.’
That raised my hackles don’t you doubt.
I faced the doctor and then did say.
‘That’s my main food, I eat every day.’
Then, I explained, ‘I’m sugar and fat free.’
And once specialists said, ‘no strong Greens for me.’
Between all the advice given there.
All I could have was a plate of air.
I was sorry, but begged to say.
‘Please don’t take my cheese away.’
Doctor did say, ‘your cholesterol is high.’
Did not add, ‘if you don’t lower it you will die.’
But it was implied, I do not lie.
So now fat-free cheese, and fat-free margarine.
On crackers, now I eat.
Or I eat brown bread, instead of white starched wheat.
One day I will fade away.
Not from what I eat.
But just because Doctor said,
‘Cheese, you cannot eat.’
I left doctors looking glum.
Her shopping basket was on the floor.
I saw she had two bottles of wine.
And blinking cheeses by the score.
0oo0ooo
Form:
Bread and Butter showed up first,
thank God, with bread and butter
(we hadn't any food out yet).
They had flown in from Detroit
on a real time-crunch.
Then the Gherkins arrived
Pushing through and eating
Half the sourdough and margarine.
Total Gherks.
The cornichons arrived soon after,
slightly smaller than gherkins
and with French accents.
They stood against the back wall
smoking cigarettes.
The limes ubered over,
Sour looks on their faces
while handing us egg salad.
Their driver got lost
Putting them in a real pick-
Oh here comes an army of Hungarians,
They had been sun basking all day,
Their conversations crisp and witty.
Must be all that vitamin D.
Ahhh the Dills, speaking of d's.
They're royalty here.
Everyone's clapping,
Which is hard to do for a pickle.
Oh Kosher was right behind the Dills
and we didn't notice.
Hope that's not a big dill.
Now I smell them. Garlic.
What's that?
Germans have been waiting in the hallway?
I told them skinless is fine.
They found my terminology "unappealing?"
Cumberto, send some herring out for them, anyhow.
Welcome full sour,
welcome half sour,
and the newborn,
Little quarter sour.
Now take those looks
off your faces
and have a seat.
Last but not least,
the hot pickles,
always late,
soooo popular.
Well, thank-you all for coming
We have herring, potato salad,
Bread and butter, we have baseball
pickle highlights on the tube on a loop and-
Oh!
One more guest I see,
Kool-Aid, of course,
Cuz that's a thing.
Try the vinegar dip,
And please don't stain my couch red.
Whether working wallabies would weave waved warm wafers or whether wallpaper would wear walls is two times a question really. It is rational to assume that an ass jacket would dart over a yak and a yam would appear. At intervals. Rotating. But rotating is not a salivating salubrious salutation singing strong songs. Nor is it a giant radio beam. Dancing. But the power of a hoover in many a house can simply be powered by five hundred and forty two heron wings. Hovering Hoovers having heaped hinged hunts. But a hunt disturbs a grunt so why line up paws and hooves in rows. Cinematic of scale and climatic of chaos. Said the four centimetre jar in a herd pile. Herd piles are not mooing nor are they moving either. Pan to the alloy and a fistful of iron ore can symbolise a very pretty pavement in a green patterned dress. But standing next to a chess set of colourful butter beans is pleasant for the partridges whose lacrosse abilities are really quite astonishing in a supernova diesel twist. Spinning. It is nit fashionable to quiz a funfair over which ride is the best for they all are egocentric and often argue with lashings of colours, noise, and fur ball darts. Pressure no pea to preform a painted piano concerto for concertos can control and control is akin to a line of skating cows on an outdoor rink. Always count the pink buttons carefully and slowly. Evaporated milk is often found playing near to margarine containers. Z cinematography Z at fifty nine little splooshes splashing to thirteen fish hooks waving at the fins. Z xxxxx zzzz whirrrrr the wings and eeeeee to mice piles. Z
Form:
Sex Advice For Men
Wear double rubbers 24 hours a day
Don’t have sex in boxer shorts
If your woman is pretty, do it in the light
If she is ugly, do it in the dark
If she is so so, dim the lights and pray that it’s ok
Bazookas are too tight for a vagina
Dynamite is dangerous
Never open up an umbrella inside of her
It is bad luck
Erotica has a time and place
We all know that salty but not unpleasant taste
So remember to brush your teeth and gargle
And say grace before and after every meal
Use butter in bed but never margarine
Peanut butter and whipped cream are allowed
Turpentine is prohibited
Never ride your wife like she’s a horse
Unless you saddle her first of course, to avoid divorce
The best advice to give in these holey matters is
Check for all the right body parts
If there’s too much apparatus down under
In the lower extremities
She’s a he
Never have sex with animals with or without your zoo shots
Sex with one woman at a time is advised
You don’t always have to wear a tie
Unless you intend to marry
When you take her on a date you have to wait
When she turns red, push the green button, (cash)
If that doesn't work, use the jumper cables or cable TV
Take her dancing, spin her around
It’s like rotating the tires on your car
Women with athletic skills and acrobatics are the best
Stay away from girls without a pulse
It’s the same as having sex alone or something worse
The Crushed Skulls
the crushed skulls
and the
torn-off legs
and the
single shots piercing countless heads
women, men, children
young, old, everyone just a human being
when will we tire of the senseless killing which we keep on impotently seeing
the gaping wounds soaked in blood
dismembered corpses piled high in some humid make-shift ****-stenched mortuary
who will remain to someday write, war's final obituary
for the killing goes on in the name of tribe
faith
race
religion
caste
sect
and the vested interests above all
but who really hears the whimpering sobs of a 4 year olds call
for her mother, father, brother, sister
as she lies dying, bleeding out like a gutted animal, on the stinging gravel
while we deliberate and engage and while to Geneva we always travel
to sign some scraps of paper that merely postpone the killing for a while
while the putrefying carcasses of human beings lie side by side, mile after bloody mile
war is ugly, they tell us
but necessary too
and we go to war for peace
while the generals and the money-men and the politicians drink and dance and screw
war is ugly
it is indeed
but so are we
if we fail to see the humanity stripped away
and peeled off the skin of that 4 year old girl
and if her cries for help we do not heed
war and guns and bombs and the very latest smart nuke
sickens me as it should us all
making us retch and puke
but who gives a **** about the bombs falling far away
we've got chores to do, margarine to buy, and take the family out for the day
war is ugly
so they tell us
while loading the magazines without much of a fuss
war is ugly
and cold and brutal and evil as the hounds of some distant hell
but who gives a **** for we have sneakers to buy and stocks to sell
war is ugly
but so are you and I
for we remain silent
as the bombs fall incessantly on
out of the open sky
shame on me and shame on us all, that much I believe is true
for our silence in the face of misery is tacit acceptance
and try as we might to inure ourselves
I am as complicit in it all
as are you...
Form:
Tasmania
Wool of the sheep in Tasmania is full of soot a fire has
destroyed the farms they belonged to. They have gone
feral now grazing where there is any grass left…
In a country where insensitive incomers stupidly killed
off the Tasmanian tiger, sheep are safe, no predators,
but man. Tasmania, this land of bungalows, sheep and
white immigrants seeking an Eden sans fear, then came
the big fire and people had to flee into the sea to avoid
getting burned. I was in Hobart once, it must be classed
as the most boring town in the world; and to my utter
disgust they sold margarine made of sheep´s fat. Think
of if fish & chips cooked in THAT FAT. People who live in
a secure society do not improve their culinary taste or
and their culture ,tend to be provincial and they love fat
sheep meat; an adoration which is typical for a people
who lives in a cultural cocoon.