Best Marinara Poems
Opening line from "Highway Five Love Poem" by Ruth L. Schwartz
This is a love poem for all the tomatoes
I squished to make our Date-Night spaghetti.
Our love, like the pasta, was shiny. So the story goes.
We sit at our table, between us a rose
Red as the marinara I chose. (He let me).
This is a love poem for all our tomatoes.
We watch the steam, which the mouth quickly blows
Away (like the wind and those petals the day he met me).
Our love, like the pasta, was sticky. So the story goes.
We sip our red wine. Chianti, it has a good nose.
(In the morning, do you think he will regret me?)
This is a love poem. For all our tomatoes
Are gone, just as the wine hides grapes squished by toes
in authentic California vineyards. (You get me?)
Our love, like the pasta, was steamy. So the story goes.
We finish our meal with gestures the other knows.
(I wonder if he'll someday forget me.)
This isn't a love poem for all our tomatoes.
Our love, like our pasta, was al dente. So our story goes.
she liltingly spun smiling and singing
"You are my sunshine" waving for us
to join in
the pan dripped dancing tears on
the hot black stove where they sizzled and died
"My only sunshine" with a quick hug
her apron splattered with a thickening marinara -
summer's proud yield
the kitchen...was there another room?
dried curled wall paper near the stovepipe
exposed the decor carriages and princes of
yesterday Mom's childhood
"You make me happy"
the old black spaniel curled in the middle
nothing moving but eyes wary of
being tripped upon yet worth the risk
and perhaps a dropped meatball reward
"When skies are gray"
Worn linoleum exposed paths of time
the oak threshold proof
of welcomes and farewells
not really noticed by we in
our comfort of "now" not
thinking about our sunshine
being gone
"You'll never know dear how much I love you"
with a smile...always remembered
I never round-or-flatly disagreed
with Johnny Appleseed,
so red, so crisp, so...quite.
Never in the dawning, evening dawn
did I fly up or s*it upon...John James Audobon
in the evening, morning night.
Ah, I'd never be rude or eat the food
of the pulchritudinous Johnny B Goode.
How could I?
And why would I harm
odorless, flightless John Barleycorn
or give him Spanish flea?
I'd sail the vast untarted sea,
or play drums obstreperously,
with that flapjack, John Paul Jones,
but what kind of pancake would I be
if I revealed I was bigger than, by three,
that wunderkind, John Holmes?
Would I ask Johnny on the Spot
for a rag to wipe my snot?
Unindubitably!
Would I surprise him with mascara,
or do the backstroke in marinara
like a mushroom in a noodly sea?
I'd be on time for Johnny Come Lately,
and eat bon bons till I sat, oblately,
under the midday moon.
I'd tell Johnny Carson, "That's a wrap"
and neatly wrap my dog's crap
up with cellophoone.
What about John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
that diaphanous, novelty hit?
Would I blast him with the guns of Navarone
under a sky that sticks like the glue
of a colorless, humid, hue?
Would I deny him a raisin scone?
No!
When Johnny Comes Marching In gets home,
I'd serve him grits and iridescent cornpone,
and sit him on my knee.
Then I give him a lavender shout,
and set up an appointment for my gout,
superciliously.
Would I ask John the Baptist to convert?
No, I'd offer him some camembert
and crackers!
And the sprightly John the Apostle?
I'd offer him a waffle.
and crackers
(for dessert).
Oh John Keats, dear clapboard poet - you left too soon,
before I could offer you a macaroon,
or anything that leaves a crumb.
There's a reason I asked you for tea.
Give me a sign. Tell me honestly,
do you think I'm a doofus - dopey, dippy, daft and dumb?
Would I pull the leg or make fun...or steal a tart, chocolate eclair, pineapple upside down cake or cinnamon bun
from the beetle, John Winston Lennon?
Nope, I imagine I wouldn't, in truth,
but I'd surely pull the tooth
of the weevil John Wilkes Booth
under the midnight sun.
A is for algae, red, green, blue cells, soaking up sun, sliming teeth
B is for bacterial mat, clumping underneath, earliest born, never asleep
C is for coral reef, the place we all find cover or the sand parrotfish chew and release
D is for diatom, all seeded calcium, all float free, all denizens barely seen
E is for eelgrass, nursery meadows of the anchovy, and other browsers of green
F is for fan worm, filter feeder like a flower, 8000 species on which fish feed
G is for giant kelp, floating on bladders of air they’re forests of cold waters clean
H is for helmet, the royalty of snails who protect our feet, queen, emperor, king
I is for isopod, the chameleon crustacean, they color match what they eat
J is for jellyball, or cannonball jellyfish, not upside down or moon, avoid their heat
K is for keyhole limpet, favorite food of ochre stars, will erect its own wall
L is for laver, the sea lettuce of nori, it swirls red skirt as ocean falls
M is for mermaid’s purse, the sack of the skate whose yolk keeps them alive
N is for nerite, the prisoner striped snail of the rocky zone as numerous as a hive
O is for oyster drills, the snails that slurp oysters and use them to lay eggs
P is for pleurobranch, a sea slug answer for oranges, with one active leg
Q is for quahog, the bivalve seaman who can survive eating the mud
R is for rove beetle, the one waiting to snatch the unwary beach hopper for good
S is for saxitoxin, those red tides produced by mating that can paralyze humans
T is for tubular sponge, they squish, bore and encrust as space lends
U is for urchin, those spiny skinned balls, no eyes or noses but dig food in sand
V is for Venus, Music Volutes dined or Vampire Squids skimming along land
W is for whelk, not the musically inclined, but the slow moving snail in a shell
X is for X and a half, the six rayed star, hungry for anything on the half shell
Y is for yucca, blooming on the beach, they bloom nice and tolerate the sand
Z is for Zostera marinara, the address of eel grass when they're feeling grand
All of this green life is what crunches, stinks, dries and slips underfoot
The rest that find the housing and dining compatible means someone’s on the look.
Thought to first originate in Peru,
It’s a true tomato fact,
oval or round, and juicy too
from beefsteak to compact.
Tomato! be you red or green,
nutritionally you are boss,
whether topping a salad like a queen
or at the heart of pasta sauce.
Without you, ketchup would be taboo,
saucy salsa you wouldn’t see
marinara, we’d have to do without,
you’re the soul of the BLT.
Cousin to the eggplant,
you grow on vines above,
in France they honor you by name,
known as the “apple of love”,
So Hooray for you sweet,seedy fruit
let us all stop and pause,
to honor the rich ripe goodness you bring
with a hearty round of applause!
Come gather one and all
As I tell you of a feast
That in this land
Could not be any finer
What is this meal called?
Give us a hint at least
What is so grand
And Heaven on earth, fair diner?
I shall tell you of this wondrous meal
That I devour with gustatory zeal
When it comes to pasta
I'll never say "Basta"
That means: Can't get enough
Of that semolina stuff
Covered with marinara
Topped with parmigiana
That is my tasty treasure
And my perfect pasta pleasure
Ravioli, Mostaccioli
With sauce: Putanesca or Bostaccioli
A pan of Baked Ziti
With a bottle of Riuniti
Rigatoni, by Ronzoni
Oh, just call it Macaroni
Ditalini, Cappellini
Twirl my fork in the Fettucini
Here comes mama with the lasagna
Everybody Mangia, Mangia!
I could easily consume it
For breakfast, lunch and dinner
It doesn't matter to me
That I'll never be any thinner
It's delightful beyond measure
This is my perfect pasta pleasure
You are the stuff my culinary dreams are made of.
Unending shapes and sizes.
From skinny linguini to the rounded orecchiette
and squiggly fusilli.
As my tongue tastes morsels of your saucy tubular goodness,
I compose a rhyme of the ancient marinara to atone
for my over-the-top pasta love.
Stuffed, plain, buttered. Swimming in Sunday sauce.
The tastiest were those plain whites I pilfered from the pot
before nonna caught me. Whack! with the wooden spoon.
It’s rumored my very first uttering was mangia – an oft-heard word
spoken by mama as she attempted to feed me.
“You’re going to turn into a rigatoni
if you don’t eat something else,” she implored.
Ha! If I were a rigatoni, we’d be cugini.
I only liked you, beautiful al dente you.
And semolina only, please. I accept no impastas!
You’ve been with me through thick and thin,
mostly thick ... around my hips.
Late night comfort snack,
midday bowl of depression-busting goodness.
The breakfast of strong Italian women!
You are Sophia Loren’s guilty pleasure.
Mine, too. With the emphasis on pleasure.
One bite and I am transported back to childhood.
Visions of homemade pasta drying on pristine
white flour sack towels tantalize my taste buds.
You, dear pasta, are la bomba.
My love for you is unending, until we all farfalle down.
It was a bigly time ago.
I was rock and rolling.
The guys wore gel or mop-top beads;
The girls were cool strolling.
Asking for her time, forthrightly,
Permissions all obtained.
A friendly double date, indeed,
In stylish dress, constrained.
Hands held, nervous knees, butterfly
Bellies and Summer Sun.
Zombie kids shuffling to their doom
With cold-foot pizza fun.
Names all changed to insure the past:
Pete and Prue ate like hogs.
Joe loved June with all of his heart --
Until the girls shrieked, "frogs!"
Joe chased Pete around the table,
Marinara splattered.
Napkins called an encore order.
June and Prue both flattered.
Joe and Pete were at it, again.
Girls with sticky-face smiles.
We settled down and sauntered home.
A night of teasing trials.
Just before parting, Joe kissed June --
So ... unsymmetrical:
He was cloud-sailing, upside down.
June smelled boy chemical.
July 14, 2016
Pink Domino - Poetry Contest
After Eight Mints
Anchovies
Apple Pancakes
Applesauce
Atlantic Cod
Barbecue Sauce
Black Bean Soup
Blue Cheese
Blueberry Pancakes
Brussels Sprouts and Lamb
Buttermilk
Caribou Liver
Carrots
Cauliflower
Chicken Breast
Chicken Patty
Chicory Roots
Chocolate Pudding
Chocolate Pudding !!!
Cinnamon Raisin Bagel
Coffee Cake
Coleslaw
Donkey Balls
Dried Plums
Durian Fruit
Garlic
Garlic Roast Chicken
Green & Yellow Peppers
Green Leaf Lettuce
Grilled Cheese
Hamburger
Hashed Brown Potatoes
Honey Pops
Horseradish
Iron Steak
Jellied bouillon with frankfurters
Jelly Sandwich
Marinara Sauce
Melba Toast Crackers
Milky Way Bar
Mozzarella Cheese
Muffins
Onions
Pasta Shells
Peanut Butter
Plain Bagel
Pot Pie
Potato Medley
Potatoes
Queso Asadero
Salisbury Steak
Shredded Gruyere
Shrimp
Smoked Chicken Sandwich
Smoked Ham
South-western Sandwich
Turkey Pastrami on Rye
Waffles
Weight Watchers Chicken Enchiladas
Whole Wheat Bread
He comments Beuys’ art
they hang to his dentalia
in slimy appearance
menus on wrapping paper
then
note the mental thing
yes, yes, he said so,
and where are the nuts
the crackers, the slow food
crisscross
crosscriss
a cookie with my coffee
still harvests thoughts
wrong war thoughts
so wrong during the war
November sun
warms a sanitary finger
and goldfish in my hand
hidden under fallen leaves
in brown memories
alma
Explanation
Joseph Beuys is a controversial artist, one of his
works is called 'food for thought'. I saw this at
the museum of psychiatry when I guided some folks;
theme of the exposition was "lost in memory".
Next to the museum is the garden where 3 of my
sculptural works can be visited. We did so.
pizza and beer, hot summer breezes
marinara flavor, and melted cheeses
sourdough knows how to navigate my soul
pizza pie is my food goddess idol
soft with a hint of warmth, freshness absorbed
one bite and oh lord, a believer is born
out the oven, 510 degrees, cut on the stone
save a piece, foodie lovin, just me at home
i will eat this till none, newcastle havin fun
watch a setting sun, shadows start to run
things i live for, pleasures that keep me awake
refreshing brews, and a homemade pizza to bake
Sauce drips from your chin
To scold you would be a sin….
Marinara grin
Tortellini stuffed with cheese and spinach
Divine when coated with Alfredo cheese sauce
But not with some kind of beefy gravy finish
When those shells are cooked just tender
Light and delicate easily cut with a simple fork
Coated with Alfredo I completely surrender
Sometimes when stuffed with three cheeses
Topped with Marinara of such beautiful color
My eyes, tongue, and tastebuds it pleases
It is even better when the family visits
And on that day I have stuffed Tortellini
Stuffed pastas that really have their merits
Olives
I like olives - so smooth and round,
wrinkled or puckered, by the pound,
from the deli or in a jar,
savory flavours, the best by far.
Firm and juicy, large or small,
ripe or salty, I like them all.
Stuffed with garlic, pimento slice,
those saucy tongues are pretty nice.
I like them as a tapenade.
On salad or pizza, they make me glad.
I like them ripe, I like them green,
sliced in marinara, petite or Queen.
Sprinkled on nachos, straight from the shelf,
green, black or purple, all by them self.
I eat them slowly, one at a time.
Or chomped on in pairs is equally fine.
Alfonso, Mission, Manzanilla,
Beldi, Gordal, Cerignola
Amfissa too and Kalamata,
Castelvetrano, and Taggiasca.
Dry cured, salt cured, soaked in brine,
to me they all are just - sublime.
Written 2017
'I'm Crushing On You'
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Spaghetti Marinara,
Penne Carbonara,
Pizza Contadino,
Pane Vino,
Espresso O Capuccino
Parmeggiano Reggiano,
Pepperoncino Napolitano,
Basilico Romano,
Olive di San Damiano.
Baci Perugini,
Deliziosi Torroncini,
Cannoli Siciliani,
Tanti Auguri
ITALIANI!
Charma
Derek
Will you be able to bear it?
First weekend in May
And who the Yankees will play,
Bringing slugging Louisville woods
Tigers score if they could.
In the Bronx
Bombers get what they want.
While springtime proposes
A tradition featuring red roses.
In Kentucky, a Derby is always held.
Stories these four legged athletes do tell.
As three-year Olds
Being very bold
In weather no longer cold
Hanging in their stalls
Standing tall
Waiting for publicity and post time calls
Dreaming of a Seabiscuit run
When the mile dirt something is done
Everybody will be wondering who actually won.
Cheering having fun.
Applauding the one
Off to the winner circle celebrating in the warm bluegrass sun.
On the first
Your Marlins will have the thirst.
Using those bats
To physically challenge the politically hosted Nats
Retired Pinstripe General German American King George watching from heaven.
Monitoring the two-dollar betting
While conversing with Mr. Ruth
Getting the Highlander truth
And Mr. Martin will still stir the marinara sauce.
Screaming and yelling, “yeah yeah you are the boss.”
All this is summer entertaining.
Purpose is relaxing so who is complaining.
Good luck playing Donnie ball.
Fielding a civil warrior army whose names are not on any military memorial wall.
Instead, their remembrance could be in a record book.
Noticed if a fan decided to look.
As I end this seventh inning stretch
I do hear Cracker Jacks do make a nice afternoon mouthwatering catch.