Best Pumpernickel Poems
This tale is about Pickle Onion Percy
Who is besotted with a little cocktail pickle called Tracy Tickle
Many hours are spent together chatting and laughing
On a warm soft fresh slice of rye pumpernickel
Now, Percy is known for being somewhat fickle
He is poor and only possesses a nickel
He is the target of Asparagus and Gherkin… who take the mickle
Who harass and bully him …. As tears down Percys face do trickle
Truth is , Gherkin and Asparagus also fancy the sweet Tracy Tickle
Though she thinks they are bullies and so very mean
Both tall ,weird and lumpy looking
And horrible shades of green
Tracy Tickle only has eyes for Percy Pickle
Asparagus and Gherkin actually make her feel quite sickle
Percy is sweet, funny and kind
Tracy desperately wants to become Mrs Pickle!
It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, orange Gourd.....
known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a "Majority Call"...
This is “ my “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention "MY" name, everyone gives a cheer !!!
So without further adieu ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and receive the first slice....
I AM A COUCH POTATO
By Roy Merritt
I am a couch potato, but not russet, red or white
I’m the kind of potato that sits up late at night
And I watch the TV shows the shows I really dig
And sit there in my chair and eat just like a pig
I eat hot dogs and burgers and sometimes even fries
And though we are related none of them ever cries
The only problem I see the problem with this place
Is how I might get more food to shove down in my face
And how I might get it to come right near to me
For its in my refrigerator some distance from me you see
And I know if it could hear me it would no doubt balk
If I dared to ask it to get up from there and walk
Bring me some bologna with mustard spread on bread
Bring me milk and cookies I need to be quickly fed
And get me lots of sodas the sweetest ones the best
The ones that keep you up you never need to rest
And please tell the potty I’ll need it really soon
I’ll no doubt need it morning, night, and noon
So don’t stay in the restroom come near to me as well
But stay far away enough so I can avoid the smell
A few feet should do it and I won’t much have to try
While I eat my pumpernickel and my chocolate apple pie
And no doubt my big belly will turn me into a grouch
As I sit here and eat content upon my couch
Yes I sit here eating sealing my certain doom
While I should be out and playing I’m in my living room
I should be out and running or playing with a bat
Instead of sitting here and getting really fat
So take a fool’s advice heed my greatest fear
For I know if I keep this up I won’t have many years
I’ll be like most potatoes then whenever they are found
I’ll be a couch potato buried beneath the ground
And should they dig me up I’ll be a terrible sight
And certainly something that would spoil your appetite
And certainly something that would spoil your appetite
Surely something to spoil your appetite
Hark!
Peanut butter and
Miracle Whip collide in coitus
between two slabs of pumpernickel.
Disgusting eugenics!
Kookaburras
are found in Australia,
they are not pretty birds
with a lovely call,
but racous enough
to mistake it
for laughter, or even screams of amusement.
Kookaburras
love to ride kangaroos,
and sometimes
they hang on their tails,
so they make them run faster than tigers...
to scare the Tasmanian wolves away
resting on sun-dried hummocks of fresh excavations.
Kookaburras
scorn puling children,
the ones who are spoiled
enough to get what they want
by not eating pumpernickel,
but demand white bread...
watch the hungry kookaburras devour everything!
I pity those who can’t eat bread
But opt for gluten-free instead
For sourdough with hardened crust
And slathered butter is a must.
A bagel topped with lots of seeds
Is all a body really needs
Or onion rolls that softly squish
To complement most any dish.
A loaf of rye with caraway
Or garlic knots can make my day
And pumpernickel, deeply brown,
Has never ever let me down.
A fresh-baked challah, ripped apart,
Then dipped in sauce – be still, my heart!
Focaccia’s another treat
That must be sad to never eat.
I could go on and on, you know,
Expounding on the joys of dough.
For me, the truth is absolute –
There really is no substitute!
They bake the bagels fresh in Fairway*
In the public eye.
I rarely pay attention
Even when I'm passing by.
The pumpernickel bin was bare, though;
Nothing else would do.
I asked the baker rolling dough
If, possibly, he knew...
When there would be another batch.
He checked and told me - wait!
In just 3 minutes they'll be done.
Though I was running late...
I followed his advice and yes,
Within 3 minutes' time,
I filled a bag with bagels
That were worthy of a rhyme.
*local supermarket
Whole wheat and pita.
French, white, rye, and tortilla.
And pumpernickel.
Golden streams from a silver plain
Watering ruby ans emerald grain
Flowing past ivory cities
And amethyst clouds of rain
Yes, that's what goes on inside my brain
Blue and yellow splashes on red
Swirling across the blackened led
A flat cold mirror of refraction
Fluffy cake and diamond bread
Oh, that's what goes on inside my head
Strawberry and pumpernickel rind
Melon and faces; tomorrow behind
Turnabout is not faux passe
Songs and dances pickled and fried
'Cause that's what goes on inside my mind
Bows and eggs all tied in knots
Kittens and mountains planted in pots
Ramps up to the deepest dungeons
Fluffy snakes and rabid robots
Yeah, that's what goes on inside my thoughts
©Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
I fell asleep in a bread box
filled with musty, fusty rocks
rye and wheat
whole-grained loaves
pumpernickel
from the village stoves
once hot;
now cold
the Baker's life untold.
When a writer lacks
verbs and nouns
he's the victim of
writer's block.
His mind may house
too many consonants,
too few vowels.
Without vowels,
his consonants congeal
and become a mass.
The result is
verbal constipation.
The only cure,
some doctors say,
is a very big
vowel movement,
larger than a loaf
of pumpernickel
or a Seinfeld
marble rye.
Some writers,
desperate for
a very big
vowel movement,
try dynamite.
Not good.
Other writers tout
Agent Orange,
Monsanto's legacy
in Vietnam
dropped off
half a century ago.
But Agent Orange
is not the answer
for writer's block.
It melts a writer
slowly and melts
as well
generations of
his descendants
as it has for years
In Vietnam where
the great-grandchildren
of innocent farmers
whose crops
were sprayed
with Agent Orange
are born deformed.
They are the new lepers
from Monsanto,
not from Molokai.
On the streets
the children startle tourists
from Boston and New York
who are munching on
delightful spring rolls
dipped in lovely sauces
at outdoor cafe tables
under big umbrellas
that ward off
the burning
noonday sun.
Donal Mahoney
I'm so bored with winter
Waiting for the thaw
That I spread mayonnaise on the ceiling
And Parkay on the walls
Chicken salad on the chandelier
Tuna on the couch
A sprinkle of some bacon bits
Straight out of the pouch
Grape jelly on the door jams
Peanut butter in the locks
We'll have them eating out of our hands
Like a Canadian Mayor smoking rock
(but only when he's drunk)
Pickle relish in the picture frames
Nutella smeared into the floor
A half a pound of hard salami
Nailed onto the door
A call down to the bakery
Order up some pumpernickel
Slap it on the outside
With the house fixins in the middle
Here you have our special
What you taste you'll soon find out
Welcome to Mike & Savannah's
Famous Sandwich House
Night Light
The last visitor before I sleep
is always the old priest
puffing up the stairs to my door,
a wine cask under each arm,
a loaf of pumpernickel in his teeth.
He’s always too late to give the last rites,
and even though I’m usually dead by then,
it falls to me to console him.
So I say, “Father, Father,
you don’t have to hurry.
Faith is no longer a klieg.
It’s a night light left burning all day,
and its bulb is hissing.”
Donal Mahoney
first appeared in print in
Commonweal Magazine
475 Riverside Drive, Room 405
New York, NY 10115
November 6, 2009
I went out sailing on Sandwich Sea
With my motley crew of make beliefs
In a boat of pumpernickel with masts of cheese
Mustarding our courage in a spreadable breeze
We watched peanut butter jelly fish swimming by
Along with a school of tuna fish on rye
But it was the salmon egg salad that caught my eye
When a storm of salt and pepper rained from the sky
Waves of mayonnaise tossed us to and fro
Thinking we might sink in our breaded boat
Saved by a 12 inch sub that surfaced on that note
Helping the boys and me to stay afloat
As they lettuce out of danger and set us free
No one spreading joy was happier than me
With my motley crew of misfit make beliefs
Sailing the high cheese out on Sandwich Sea
The sign read, "Just a nickel
for every party pickle
to buy some pumpernickel."
The wait in line did trickle.
For tasty party nibble-
place bread upon the griddle.
For sure, they did not quibble-
was their fun time to giggle!
"Come one and all, don't twiddle
let's eat, dance by the fiddle
played to a funny riddle-
and swing to pickle-wriggle!"
Now, that was worth a nickel
for every party pickle!
Food choice was firm, not fickle-
enjoyed the pumpernickel!
August 21, 2022
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