Best Puddings Poems
The feeling of happiness, I see in your smile
Wonder what the secret is, what is her name
How long have you felt this, is it for real
Don't get hurt boy, look loosely at this
Did it start with a look, maybe a kiss
Watch what your doing,your face is bliss
Went for a walk talked, in the light rain what bliss
Saw your reflection, echoed in a puddle, love that smile
Looked down as I looked up, stole a kiss
Known you a short time, not your full name
Just call you cariad,I know you like this
Is this far too soon, for you is it real.
I know what I'm thinking, for me it's real
Loving you as I do, is pure bliss
Am I rushing you boy, do you feel like this
When I look into you face, and see your smile
Who is it my cariad, is it my name
Please tell me, so I can seal with a kiss
We carried on walking, rain like a butterfly kiss
Fell on our heads, making you feel real
Did you whisper something, did I hear my name.
We stopped for a while, looked up to kiss
Your handsome face, it lit up with a smile
Couldn't believe, someone could affect me like this.
Stopped off to eat at a nearby cafe, not sure if he would like this
Was lovely hot food , puddings light as a hummingbirds kiss
The coffee was delicious, he gave a big smile
Said loved being with you, time will tell if its real
Had to settle for that, life I knew could be such bliss
Good night cariad, or maybe I should call you by name.
Slept well that night, dreamt I hear you calling my name
Broke into a smile when I heard this
Woke up with a start, in heavenly bliss
Was I dreaming or maybe 'twas the pillow I did kiss
Please put me out of my misery, make our love real
Say those magic words, on my face put a smile
Called you up, you voice echoed my room, I liked this
Listened for awhile your voice is sur-real, ending our call with a kiss
Heard you say you have my heart, on my face a beaming smile
Penned with stress this form is hard 04/06/2014
I will tell a funny story of a bear that's hunkydory
How 'e lives a life of comfort in a pickle on a tree
When the summer comes 'e fishes, an' 'e eats 'em off o' dishes
Till the day 'e ran in 'orror from 'is shadow on the sea
So 'e trundled of gallumphing, till 'e couldn't run for 'uffing
And 'e settled down in Puddington where honeyed puddings grow
There 'e lived a life so royal, till his dream began to spoil
For 'e longed to have a mamma bear with cubby bears in tow
'E trotted to the pickle-tree, that shady spot beside the sea
An' asked about if any knew his fav'rite childhood chum
'Is special bear at last 'e found, and knelt upon the berry-ground
An' there besought if she would be a wifey bear and mum
A mummey bear she'd gladly be, she'd mend 'is clothes and make 'is tea
And have as many fuzzy bairns as God saw fit to bless
So off they went to Pudding Town, the bear and wife, now Mrs. Brown
Which place they 'ad their little bairns, and lived in 'appiness
First place in Nursery Rhyme contest.
The neighborhood buffet boasted
fried chicken and biscuits, toasted,
creamy gravy, and smashed taters.
You can serve yourself, no waiters.
Into the long line you will strut
more than ready to fill your glut.
Bypass the green salads and soup;
run quickly, to the fried foods swoop
all you can eat for one price cheap.
Pile your plate high in one big heap.
If one plate full is not enough,
get back in line and your mouth stuff
with fried okra and sweet cornbread,
rice, beans, pasta, and liver spread.
Undo your belt a notch or two
so one more bite you can chew.
Desserts abound, cookies and cakes,
puddings, custards, tarts, and milk shakes.
Round out the meal with soft ice cream.
Maybe two cones won’t burst a seam.
You leave, with a bloated waist thick,
well-sated, and full as a tick.
Going back over the past years of St. Patrick greenish fun, and
remembering how my Irish mother sure liked that happy shamrock day.
Everything she baked for us was emerald, like sugar cookies and puddings,
even a lime green cake with silly green decorations, drinks of questionable green.
Now, I like an Irish beer in a cold glass, and do a jig- kiss me I'm Irish(but only half).
__________________________
March 16, 2016
Poetry/Acrostic/Green
Copyright Protected, ID 16-768-837-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Get Into The Spirit Of Green
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Fifth Place
Everybody’s noodle pudding’s
Baked a different way.
If you lined them up, you’d find
A real diverse display.
Mine, which is delicious,
Has two different kinds of fruit –
Orange slices from the can
And pineapple, to boot;
Sour cream, vanilla, butter,
Eggs and cottage cheese.
It disappears so fast, there’s not
A piece left I can freeze.
My friend makes hers with cream cheese,
Also pineapple and milk!
She bakes it half as long as mine
And says it’s smooth as silk.
Some recipes have raisins
And use cinnamon for spicing.
That combination, to my palate,
Isn’t that enticing.
In spite of the ingredients
That they’re concocted of,
All kugels* taste delectable
If they are made with love.
Yet every cook who makes one
Would be proud to take a test
Just to prove what she knows in her heart –
Her noodle pudding’s best!
*Yiddish for noodle puddings or other baked dishes
A priest once told me that the lump
on my hand was a ganglion,
a fortress of fat besieged by health.
At last it burst and the hand swelled
like an old man's,
shovel shaped and splayed.
It was her black pan, butcher's meat,
too many eggs; backed up
on a plate like silage.
It was her slight hands shaking,
the constant poking with a bread knife,
the endless journey to the
first biscuit from the pack;
a menace that caught our hearts
and buttered them,
teeth marks, crusty.
Moreover, tomatoes,
pulpy and bloodlet,
burnt my wicked tongue,
purged a shard of shame,
dare I eat a box full
bedraggled in juices
and spitting at the angle of a chop kept?
Caked at the start in the corner
of the pan, beached in lard,
over fried, sole fit, chewed in discontent,
longing for more
between the acceptance of juices;
hope swallowed with brittle rashers,
timbered and gathered.
It was the thought, the deed,
the plan, the wait and duty of it.
Potatoes, eschonced in the pot, sullen, strewn;
a flaky hand sliced them deftly,
washed the starch off and raked them in.
It was sausages, flame ripped,
dashed, blackened and wedged
on the barbs of the fork,
heaved in with fried bread,
salty with froth.
It was puddings,
sinewed and cut crooked,
corpuscles of grizzle
congealing the blood,
jaws working the skin like the cud.
Eggs like ignoble sea creatures,
speckled and stiff,
surviving on the rise and fall of breath,
morphing into another gender
or something to wonder,
to chew on, to mention, once.
Perhaps a bean to lubricate,
to allow a channel of liberty
but still reheated to a lump,
a thankless sweetener to a morsel,
not unlike news.
Tea, besugared and welcome,
a scald to erode stubborn detritus,
a wash to emerge from.
Between mouthfuls of talk we glided,
sometimes low to the ground
near silence, seldom
scuttling to any real height.
I suppose that was left for
pipe and ***, in the latter end,
when all offence was shut up tight
and we had regard again;
the smoke curled up
and carried our souls,
and mingled, indiscernible
and flowed away.
Peter Perkins loved tasty pumpkin, in pies, in puddings and etcetera;
Which filled their house with tempting smells, so said his wife, Elena.
Beloved Elena was a splendid cook, to which fond Peter could attest,
With hand over his crimson heart, like rouge sun dyeing in the west.
The Perkins had a bouncy pet rabbit; and they called him 'Scamper,'
Like pretty, fall leaves forever flying, in hues red, purple and amber.
Frigid days had turned fragrant, and the friendly friends came calling,
And flirtatious, warm breezes flitted, over emerald fields, sprawling.
Finite, foggy dawn had vanished, when flattering rays flooded noon;
And fave, forever family came for visits, at the onset of mellow June.
They lived in the house of sweetness, and of delicious desserts, daily,
In the times of sun glazed windows, looking out on pretty, pink daisy.
Twilight, sapphire skies glorified stars, on their scenic, sunset street;
And they took daily scent strolls, to smile at fine people they'd meet.
Nonnegligent nature was naturally beautiful, when neighbors visited,
In noiseless, green hours of dulcet notes, and pink robin, uninhibited.
'Slime' lily's long tresses were curling, awaiting silvery drops of rain;
As 'true blood' roses lay wounded, and 'spiral' aloe soothed their pain.
Peter and Elena were planning a trip abroad, their fare already paid;
When Peter suddenly reinjured his kinee, ruining the plans they made!
As the doctor advised only limited walking, a trip was unwise for him;
But, he couldn't keep Elena from her dream, based on a fateful whim!
Their tickets were nonrefundable, and he would miss his wife dearly;
But Elena would have a wonderful time, as pretty, fall leaves do, yearly.
Elena bought a curio pumpkin house. Its rosy panes seemed to smile;
And placed inside her small photo, to stay close, across distant miles.
Whenever Peter gazed at his gift, it brought smiles, rather than sighs;
Like the last gasp of vermilion sunset, afore the silver, moonlight prize!
'Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.'
Candles and nightlights flickering bright,
blackout curtains shutting out the moonlight.
Snuggle down cosy with blankets tight,
perhaps the war will end to-night.
Dripping setting from Sunday's roast,
spread so thick on Monday's toast.
Meat bones simmer on the old gas ring,
Pa's homemade soup,the 'real thing'.
Paper chains cut and glued,
beer in glass bottles brewed.
Christmas puddings with threepenny bits,
the Meccano present made to fit.
Sunday school outings upto Coombe hill,
my first ever train ride,so quite a thrill.
Walks over corn fields to the Bugle Horn,
crisps and lemonade upon their lawn.
A weekly soak in a round tin bath,
towelling off by a fire in the hearth.
A viewpoint from childhood scene,
growing up at sixteen,Beech green.
I looked forward to my school dinner
While I was at school
The teachers made us stand in a line
You see that was the school rule.
As I took my dinner plate
And walked down the line
The sight of all the lovely food
I wished it was all mine.
There was steak pie and carrots
Mashed potatoes too
The dinner lady looked at me
And said this one is for you.
I walked back to the table
With a big grin on my face
I would eat every little bit
I didn't leave no waste.
Then there was puddings
wow, wasn't that a treat
There was spotted dick and treacle tart
As much as I could eat.
The meals were free we had at school
Because Mum and Dad was poor
And if we put our hands up
We could ask for more.
Yes, all those school dinners
I remember very well
Especially those gorgeous puddings
They made my belly swell.
Jam roly poly, treacle sponge
And sticky toffee pudding head the top of my list
But apple pie, rhubarb crumble
Or a decent cheesecake are hard to resist
Banana splits, eclairs or brownies
Dumplings, nougat, cheese board or mousse
Crème brûlée. Fruit cocktail. Yoghurt
Serve it up and set me loose!
Rice pudding, Christmas pudding
Let me say it loud and clear
Summer pudding, Eve's pudding
Figgy pudding - bring it here
Cottage pudding, Diplomat pudding
Pancakes served throughout the year
Plum pudding, mango pudding
Put it on a plate and cheer
Hasty pudding, Saxon pudding
Vanilla pudding, chocolate pud
Yorkshire pudding filled with treacle
Make winter evenings warm and good
Sussex Pond pudding, sweet biscotti
Semolina (if that counts?!)
Panna cotta, profiteroles
Gâteaux. Meringues in any amount
I guess spotted dick is a bit of a worry
But to bread and butter pudding, I say "bring it on!"
I could plan on a flan, or a lardy cake
Or butter with glee my scone or scon'
Mince pies, cobblers, baklavas, strudels
Loaves and pastries - all tell a story
Even blancmange has a heritage
To match or beat our knickerbocker glory
There's fruit tarts, jam tarts, custard tarts, egg tarts
Milk tarts, cheese tarts, butter tarts too
Tarts from Manchester, Liverpool and Bakewell
French tarts, Jamaican tarts - to name but a few
Buns from Chelsea, cakes from Eccles
Wafers and muffins from all over the place
Doughnuts filled with jam or chocolate
Made to squirt on your shoulder or face
Strawberries & Cream, Eton Mess
Artic rolls and brandy snaps
Trifles should always be trifled with
If laced with sherry - it's a perfect nightcap
Sorbets leave the palate tingling
Fritters fritter your cares away
Waffles and crêpes warm the spirit
And sundaes are perfect for every day
So, whatever we may call them -
Be it puddings, sweets, desserts or afters
They taste best when shared with company
Served with a spoon, a smile and laughter
What Does Maisie Smile About?
(or A Tale of 3 Ladders)
“I wonder what Maisie smiles about,
when she stares out of her window?”asks Jane,
the new carer at St. Mary's, is curious,
about the aged figure watching the rain
Maisie is deep in her thoughts today,
“Maisie, Maisie”, her Grandpa cries,
“these ripe apples won't pick themselves you know!”
and up the long ladder her young legs rise (1st ladder)
Autumn, in the golden orchard of yesteryear,
the warm setting sun, the birds and the bees,
the grown ups, all so merry with chatter,
Maisie and friends, all playing at ease
Such happy days of Autumn sun,
of foraged blackberries and apple cake,
of sweet plum puddings and then,
apple with cheddar in the same bake
The adults, merry now, and all a dance,
the tree house ladder calls the young throng, (2nd ladder)
the boys scatter 'jacks', the girls make 'cat's cradle',
then all descend to skip in time to song
This is what I reminisce about,
and my time is far from past, you see,
I hear them, calling me, up that final ladder,
“Maisie, your young legs will soon be free!”
Not long now, as I grow so very tired,
I will shed my 'costume' of aged joints so sore,
and return again to the young girl that I really am,
and sprint up those ladder rungs once more! (3rd ladder)
Mrs Cheryl Darby 2015
Some folks like food that’s smooth to touch their lips;
which does not come in chunks or crunchy sticks.
They take their tea in leisurely small sips
or eat ice cream with lots of tiny licks.
I rarely ask for smoothies or for yogurt,
for puddings or for bland and jiggling jello.
I much prefer the entrees to dessert
and something hearty over something mellow.
To salty, crunchy foods I gravitate:
popcorn and potato chips and nachos,
and on my plate some food to masticate:
pasta, pizza, burgers, fries or tacos.
A large hot soup can soothe my appetite
if served with lots of crackers I can BITE!
For the the Screwed XII Poetry Contest of Rob Carmack
from 10/6/2013
Puddin Day
Christmas Begins
they come on a Saturday
in November, the Puddin People,
brothers, sisters, nieces arrive.
family with their arms full of parcels
sacks bulging with ingredients
and of course the maestro to orchestrate.
bags of raisins: sultana, golden
tins of spices from distant trees
grown in exotic lands,
flour white as the snow
sugar and carrots by the pounds
and an new bottle of best Brandy.
on a cold and frosted morning
we gather for another year
snow or no, our spirits are tinselled
bells tingle from the sleeping garden
we carry out a tradition formed
out of our love for Mum and the season.
Christmas pudding created each year
since the first, exploded onto the walls
and ceiling of the kitchen on Clinton street
ever since nineteen forty four.
this is our day when we
remember together.
an assembly line of merry alchemists
forms around the table in the warm kitchen
chopping, measuring, mixing and tasting
telling jokes as old as Methuselah.
laughter rises up on scents of steaming
cinnamon and nut meg
old stories, each year slightly different
depending on the teller, regale us all
with Brennan history spilling into
catch-up conversations
about kids and their lives
those dispersed to the far corners.
the pressure cooker,
one of Methuselah’s wive’s,
perks happily on the stove
its own Christmas song of
whistles and hisses
producing the sweet dessert.
the day stretches out unnoticed
by the flour daubed
some what sticky crew
popping in batter
pulling out fat round puddings
enough for everyone’s celebration.
we part in the dusk for another year
Holding close our memories like gold
and pudding of course all brown and moist
soaking in its first drizzle of Napoleon.
at Christmas dinner, no matter how far apart,
we feast on Puddin and remember.
Feather to feather on a branch, this early winter morning,
Are they planning outings for the day or of grave dangers warning?
A predator comes swooping by, a red-tailed hawk in plunder.
As of one mind they fly away, not one is pulled asunder.
These are the winter birds that stay, to face the stormy weather.
They mind the rules of Nature and no one asks why or whether.
The ice and snow, the winds that blow, they do not stop to measure.
For what could be one bird's nothing, could be another's treasure.
The springtime finds them once again, assembled in large groupings.
They know a single bird can be endangered by hawk's swoopings.
The over-powering scents of spring, assault them from the orchard.
The butterflies and bumblebees are courting in the courtyard.
The apple tree is leafing out and showing her pink buddings.
The robin is digging in the mud and making her worm puddings.
My own body is a tingle at the sounds and smells and scents.
A bunny with his ears attuned, keeps watching through the fence.
When summer comes, life has progressed. Among the leaves, nests hidden.
Many a chastened crow has learned that to rob one is forbidden.
Mama and Papa Swallow have filled the needs of their first hatch.
They're teaching them to fly now, to make room for another batch.
The summer flowers are in full bloom, each vying with another
To tell the nectar searching bees, they're better than the other.
The bright red of tall lilies and my roses of red hues
Urge me to plant my gardens with some yellows, greens and blues.
At last in fall, time to relax and talk about the summer.
That Robin's eggs refused to hatch, they agree was a real bummer.
They're gathered now, in larger groups, to leave for other places.
The birds that stay, send them away with wonder on their faces.
A riotous bloom of dahlias grow where other flowers have faded.
The last blooms of summer roses are looking quite outdated.
The snow of winter soon will come to cover up my garden,
But hardy plants will live through snow, fall gave them chance to harden.
3/15/14
~Happy Thanksgiving Day 2016~
(Free Flow Style)
We thank you God for our plentiful bounty
For all those in life we love and share
And for all the goodness we fare so well
For His loving presence that's always there
We offer the best of ourselves on this day
Our love and blessings mixed with praises and a pray
In every way and shape from the heart to display
As we sit down lavishly to eat together on this day
Table filled to the very top
With turkey puddings and goodies galore
Enjoy now a hot and fresh cup of cofee
And a piece of the sweetest pumpkin pie
Let's thank God for all our wondrous bounty
Not just today but let's do it everyday
Let's thank Him with a prayer and praises endlessly
For all the love and the life that we have.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2011
November.24.2016
So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13 (NIV)
-“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16 (NIV)
- Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer
Romans 12: 12 ( NIV )
-The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
Exodus 14: 13 ( NIV )