Best Starch Poems
My verse has been chosen as Poem of the Month at Sherborne Abbey!
The curious offerings of sacristans
Are given in obscure humility
The symbol of the cupping of the hands
Enshrines the essence of this mystery
The dawn unlocked; the turning of a key
The mystic world behind the little door
The mourning weepers, watching, silently
The quiet foot upon uneven floor
The layered shadowed centuries; the pass
Of long dead worshippers before the throne
Slow shifts of coloured pools of stains of glass
Soft drift of latticed light on pillar stone
The empty candle, thirsting for new oil
Unscrewed and filled, screwed up again and lit
The hidden corners, carved by masons’ toil
In which a wary flickered flame may flit
The covering, uncovering; each fold
Of linen and of altar cloth an art
Within the starch of white, on marble cold
The space to hold His living, beating heart
Here, understated wafers wait in line
For blessing, as an unblessed congregation
Here silver, water, light, and red wine shine
Anticipating sacred consecration
Here eye, and hand, and mind, seek symmetry
In objects placed, in psychic ebbs and flows
Seek that perfection only God can see
In right angle and scented mystic rose
When all are done and gone, her hands will shake
The fragments of His flesh on holy ground
Shed drops upon the earth its thirst to slake
Pour water through the light without a sound
When all are gone, all blessed with wine and bread
There, in the East, where better men have trod
She kneels and presses to the step her head
And, lost in awe, she speaks these words to God
I am that ancient soul you always knew
A part of you, from when time first began
The I am that I am, the that in you
That serves thee, as I will, while still I can
I come to you as Christian, Muslim, Jew
Agnostic, Gnostic, Druid, Angel, Man
The cupping of my hands I give to you
The curious offering of a sacristan
© Gail Foster 2016
Categories:
starch, blessing, god, mystery, psychological,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
Life greeted Death
with an epoch
from the depths of dusk
with a dawn,
the sun rose lucid
with it's soft spotted infant rose
now awake,
hanging heavily harnessed
in the steaming swaying sky,
the sun's aura
lit the sands of the silent Sahara
liked an aged ocean of butterscotch beauty,
and the starch strung clouds
maneuvored like vanilla lace
avalanching outward
kissing the hips of the woven horizon,
my sight probed to ponder
the powdered blue glow
of the desperate distance,
where the shadows
of the dune's palms
insult the posture
of the ivory sanctuary
that sat balanced for sake of Bethlahem,
I sat megerly meditating,
watching the subtle creases
in the Meditterraniean Sea absorb the sliced brass shingles
that weave the waters wealthy,
as the morning properly transcended Westward
manipulating nature's maturity
by rambling roughly to the seas
for wandering waves of bolted blooms of blue
for the twinkle of a jewel
which sits on a stool as a star
as far as North,
soon the violet velocity of night
approached the set,
electrifying the ending day,
and the Sister of the Sun
landed on the sky's chest
like a sheild on a knight,
as I listened lightly
the Moon politely announced,that evening is back to stack
the black symphony -
J.A.B.
Categories:
starch, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
No greasy treats from chippie van;
I have my starch now au, gratin
with blasted, deconstructed bass,
petits pois, served; in Demi tasse.
No pint of best down at the pub
I drink with chums now at the club;
Prosecco, or a Chardonay
depending on the time of day.
No picking up the kids from school;
done by Au pair now; as a rule;
she turns up in our four by four
dressed top to toe in old Dior
No visits to the Home Depot
I have ten craftsmen now in tow;
who add things at my beck and call
to my enormous stately hall.
No need to visit family;
They all now want to come see me,
drink all my wine, then use the pool;
methinks they take me for some fool!
There's nothing left that I can buy;
so why, you ask, that big old sigh?
I have new friends, but here's the rub;
I miss my mates down at the pub.
Yes, being rich is such a bore!
Categories:
starch, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Prince Harry and wife's new son is named Arch
He was born in May instead of in March
He looks kind of cute
In his new white suit
I guess Meghan went easy on the starch
Categories:
starch, baby, clothes, fashion,
Form:
Limerick
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.
Categories:
starch, food, friendship, loss, memory,
Form:
Elegy
Packed with starch, protein
Provided for many
People called 'earth apple'
Placed at gold value once
Potassium rich veg
Peruvian produce
Peel, slice, fry and enjoy
Categories:
starch, food,
Form:
Pleiades
It’s a mother-in-law’s right, her prerogative
To ‘drop in’ on her son almost any time,
But a mother-in-law should always be prepared
For almost anything she may find.
So, Mother Cready dropped in unannounced;
But as she approached her son’s front door,
Suddenly it opened. “Ta Da! Do you like my happy dress?”
His young wife stood there in her ‘all in all’…nothing more.
“Oh, my word!” Mother Cready exclaimed with surprise.
“Why are you naked? Are you insane?”
Just as surprised, the young wife pulled her inside.
“Please, Mother Cready…if you’ll just let me explain.
You see, when Mac has had a rough day,
When he’s been under a lot of stress,
Sometimes I meet him at the door
With a smile and a kiss in my happy dress.
It always relaxes him and makes him happy,
Then he makes me very happy too.
It works for Mac and me, Mother Cready;
Maybe it would work for you.”
“We’re too old for such.” scoffed Mother Cready.
“Perhaps if we were young like the two of you.”
But, on her way home, she decided
She was definitely going to try it too.
So, she bathed and put on some nice perfume,
Fixed her make-up and her hair.
She was thinking some very sexy thoughts,
But she had to hurry…no time to spare.
She heard her husband’s car in the driveway;
And as he approached their front door,
She threw it open. “Ta Da! Do you like my happy dress?"
She stood there in her ‘all in all’…nothing more.
She saw a little grimace cross his face,
But that was not the worst.
Then he said, “I appreciate your happy dress, my dear;
But maybe you should have ironed it first.”
ALTERNATE LAST VERSE
“Well…your ‘happy dress’ could use some ironing;
But my birthday suit could use some starch.”
He kissed her. “Bet you and I can work it out.”;
And off to bed they marched.
Categories:
starch, age, angst, body, caregiving,
Form:
Rhyme
Reaching for my favorite shirt and the iron-warming
Starched and ironed, complete with those creases that cut
It was made for me and handsome.
And you and your brown eyes and irony when angry
Irony and starched and those same creases
Our joy, crushed yet alive and waiting
And the fabric of those brown eyes
They are frayed with holes and still, I starch and iron
Maybe if looked deeply you can see me and the creases
The scar is from that knife wound I gave you
You are proud of the stitching, and your head held high
I feel sad when I see the sutures on your chest
You wear them like a pair of worn slippers
They hurt the eye, but they keep your feet warm
Categories:
starch, dedication, me, wife,
Form:
Free verse
We think them plentiful, like jumping shrimp and tiny crabs:
These mak hung, these chilies, the base for padaek.
The mouth waters with even a mention.
Every heart of Laos knows it well.
Cross oceans and mountains, battlefield and basement,
Oz or Kyrgyzstan, Modesto or Nashville, Phoenix or Pakse.
Meet anyone who can say sabaidee or a word of passa lao.
Even if they don’t remember their history or family,
How to nop or how to fon, or the secrets to singing a good mor lum
We still become one again with as little as a dish.
Our bellies fill like an ancient queen, a saint of Laos,
Our heroines and heroes, our elders and children,
The clever beauties and the dreaming scholars.
Pounding away until it’s so hot you sweat,
A mix of sweet and salt, starch and bite
What poet, what priest,
What politician, what legend can truly compete or compare?
We sing of the fine dok champa, but our people also sleep
With memories of mak hung, a smile, a tongue afire.
Categories:
starch, food, international,
Form:
Free verse
spawned in the summer of 1853
these sliced succulent deep fried wonders
resulted from the demands of a complaining customer
whose ******** led our man, a one,
mr. george crum
to do his best to satisfy the putz in question by
replacing the humdrum n’ waterlogged n’ sodden,
slithery,
pommes de terre
with
his
new
&
improved
(as thin as could possibly be imagined),
drenched in salt,
deep fried & sizzling,
immaculate conception.
and as you can imagine, mr. cornelius vanderbilt
(said unruly customer),
whom mr. crum felt would most assuredly send back the creation he just made,
again,
for his money back,
instead
had something of an ****** of the taste buds!
and so these
“saratoga chips”
came to be the next big thing---
satisfying lovers of starch, grease & salt, everywhere.
it didn’t take long for word to get to canada where they buried them things in
dill pickle,
ketchup,
jalapeño & cheddar,
salt n’ pepper,
roast chicken---or to
austria where they soak em’ in garlic, bulgaria, where paprika is the taste of the day—
& colombia boasts
mayonesa y limón,
egypt popularized the kebob & stuffed vine leave essence of zest,
you got oregano chips in greece
you got the overwhelming majority chomping down the tayto’s in ireland
whereas in
russia
it is caviar, crab and
shashlik
which make the people salivate.
regardless of where you are or what you are doing
you can get some kind of potato chip
yes,
you can suck down that sodium & grease
mmmmmmmm
i
myself
am currently in something of a sour cream n’ onion phase---
and i must say
i praise the day
that crum went back in the
kitchen
&
angrily
whipped up a batch of
yummyness
for
vandy
to
suck
down---
commencing
la revolución de patatas fritas.
Categories:
starch, life
Form:
Free verse
Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
Categories:
starch, mountains,
Form:
Free verse
i prepared a simple supper
but with great love i cooked
that main meat of refined wheat
durum semolina, traded as rotini
an Italian pasta to go with beef, a grace
from a Canadian cow grazed in prairie grass,
spiced with herbs from the hunted tropics:
ginger, garlic, turmeric, and coriander
powdered, with red pepper powder
and red pepper crushed, black pepper
(also powdered), added to the onion
chopped, fennel, fenugreek, and cumin
(all seeds), and the magical mustard,
adding leaves chopped: basil, chives
and parsley, with garam masala, a Bharat
special, sprinkled with hardly a pinch of salt
before adding the slow-cooked African beans
and Mexican sauce: chopped and crushed tomato,
and boiled potato, after being sautéed
in the US canola oil to enhance the taste
of minerals and more already in my pan:
folate, iron, niacin, riboflavin, and thiamine
already mixed in carbohydrate, the main
with Chinese additives: citric, soy, and seasonings
unlisted; likewise the two sealed cans
that curtailed my sprinkling salt for supper
came with corn starch, sugar, more spices
and blackstrap molasses, and a poetic muse
Categories:
starch, adventure, care, caregiving, community,
Form:
Free verse
Oh dear friend of mine
I need to tell you about me and my wine
It always goes down so smooth
All of my cares it does soothe
Then when I go home
To my frig I do roam
Inside another bottle of wine does set
So needless to say another glass I get
Then my eyes starch to blurling
Ants my worchs starch to slurching
Jist wunch I tellch waach agret friegs zha ares
Angs jist menbers thizisg way i donst goes ta bars
Categories:
starch, confusion, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
Two-Fifty-Four
©2012 C. Brent Cloyd
I bought a new scale at the Wal-Mart store.
Made it secure and level on the floor.
I took a breath, then stepped on.
The digits I saw made me moan.
Surely, I do not weigh two-fifty-four!
Let’s balance the scale, then I’ll try once more.
Adjusted proper, they’ll give the right score.
This time the scales will behave.
I stepped on, tried to be brave.
But with a grin they said “two-fifty-four”.
I would like to throw these scales out the door.
Wish they were lying, but I can’t ignore.
I’ve gobbled many things sweet
And chewed on too much red meat.
My expanding poundage is “two-fifty-four”.
My belly is huge, my chin is galore.
Need to lose it, but process is a chore.
Need diet low in fat and starch.
So my stomach will not arch.
Hope to be smaller than “two-fifty-four”.
Would a brisk walk cause my health to restore?
Would losing blubber help me not to snore?
Let’s get started. Soon I say!
Well - after the holiday!
Cause my clothes don’t fit at “two-fifty-four”.
Categories:
starch, food, funny, holiday, home,
Form:
Limerick
My drapes are drawn tight,
in the morning of our afternoon,
after the fall – beyond the light
of a silent evening spent.
Dusk spits a new shine
upon the facets of my mood ring
and sunrise alarms me again.
Fish hooks evenly lure my smile
into place - when bated breaths
are baited by an anticipated gentry -
and the inverted frown I wear
stretches undetected
when performing
index-fingered handstands
for the empty allured.
Such a celebration am I.
A firecracker when we kiss.
"The sun sets in his eyes...
succulent, cabbage-red and resplendent…”
Clichéd stammering; dulled
as you turn your softly curved frame
into a prisoner's unresolved sensitivities.
Nonetheless...the innocent know -
His touch is real. Feathered, soft -
even when the entranced cripple is sobbing.
Roman candles sparkle
within a distant vagabond’s eyes.
Starch him!
Savor the moment!
He'll voluntarily burst forth -
and everything you'd want from
a strayed waif's aorta will be
auctioned back...
and eventually sold.
Like ruby-hued vegetables.
Like drawn drapes.
Like morning…
when biting your pillow case
neatly grinds waking into the laughable...
…and a forgotten sunrise
toasts the unremembered misfit
as an invisible champagne cork - pops!
Categories:
starch, introspection, life, love,
Form:
Free verse