Best Stews Poems
Anchored by its feet hangs the carcass
Butcher removes brisket and strings it
Chuck steak diced for stews and pies
Dark well matured silverside rests
Entrails give the dogs a royal feast
Flank minced for spaghetti bolognese
Gullet chopped into stock pot simmers
Hanging meat swings as the butcher works
Icy still from the blast chiller
Juicy steaks thickly cut are parcelled up
Kebabs skewered, placed on display
Loin of beef neatly lined up
Minced steak patties for burgers
Neck used in both stock pot and stew
Offal set aside for pate and pies
Perfectly roasted beef ready to carve
Quick flash fry of rib eye seals in juices
Rump not too trimmed dribbles on grill
Sirloin anointed by a king sizzling
Tongue gently braised in gravy or stock
Utensils casting shadows on the wall
Venison from red deer's makes tasty things
Wing rib rubbed with hot spices waits
Xhosa cattle graze in pastures green
Yellowed meats set aside for soup
Zibeline hides scrapped and cured, nailed up
8/27/2015
contest Any Poem written in August
For Timothy Lee, the Best of Me
Since our first night, I have dreaded the last,
thus my passion tightly fashioned clasp.
You are my one safe harbor, my refuge,
my cure for stress overload and pressed blues.
No matter any day’s shatter and stews,
at night I am consoled right beside you
where your skin soothes me secure again
and our wrapped limbs re-thread joy’s ends.
Some tomorrow’s sorrowful horizon
scripts our final intermixed, heart snuggle.
I cannot help but hope that it is me
who first dies and avoids solitude's struggles.
Our bed of blessed satisfaction defined,
would uncover woe for the rest of time.
Come the end of nights molding with you,
comes the end of our love's active value.
He grabs her wrists to keep her fists
From beating his still chest.
But she withstands and pulls his hands
To rest on her shrill breast.
He pulls her near to hide her tears
And kiss her pallid face.
But then he leaves her soul bereaved
And flees their secret place.
She runs– runs– runs
To the center of the town
And weeps into the well.
Dawn disguises
Steam that rises
From the tears that swell.
Her throat is dry, and with a sigh,
She lowers the small pail
To take a drink before she thinks
Once more of his betrayal.
The water burns, her stomach churns,
While she sinks to the ground.
As liquid spills, she lies quite still,
And makes no other sound.
No one– one– one
At the center of the town
Sees her behind the well.
They take their share
Without a care
And use it where they dwell.
The water is distributed
Throughout the humming town.
It’s used to brew rich soups and stews
And tea to wash them down.
The illness spreads as all are fed,
Obtuse in their last feast.
Decay begins from deep within
As poison is released.
The sun– sun– sun
Lights the center of the town,
Casts shadows on the well.
Their brows are moist
And not one voice
Can break the silent spell.
The sun subsides when he decides
To return to their place.
When he arrives, the moon shines high
And lights the river’s haze.
He ventures down toward the town,
To roam its quiet streets.
But as he nears, it becomes clear
Nobody truly sleeps.
He runs– runs– runs
To the center of the town
And finds her by the well.
Won’t touch her face,
But for the trace
Of tears he cannot quell.
Oh hot pepper how you call to me, I stare at you with anxiety, I love you so but you torture me, but yet I eat you despite of me. Your heat glows red like a devil inside of me, poking and prodding, tempting me, challenging, promises of fire inside of me. Your skin so beautiful, so perfectly red, I cook you, I blend you, in chocolate or stews, let it be said OMG I so love you. Then the heat sets in and all I can say, is god dear lord when will the pain go away. I break into a sweat, my cheeks go flush, holy ring of fire I must stop. Like a moth drawn to light I cannot resist like a dog to a smell, like a zombie in the midst, I take a bite, the taste so sweet, eyes tear up, smile big and wide, ring of fire, 911 imminent inside. oh hot pepper how I love thee, glorious torture, you are one with me…Poetry by Dean
shorts,white socks
sandals and panama-
winter-white legs
no wind,blue skies
dozing in a deckchair-
my afternoon tea stews
hottest day of summer
flying ants on high-
a swallows' drive by
summer-days ever-lasting
memories so tender-tasting
The skillet hung near the old wood-burning kitchen stove.
Aside from her family, Mom considered it a special trove.
With that blackened old pan she prepared delicious repasts,
That in my judicious opinion will ne'er be surpassed!
Ah, just to recall the tasty grub stewed up in that old skillet!
How it tingled my taste buds just sliding down my gullet!
The chicken, steaks and chops in that old pan she did fry,
Evoked oohs and aahs and many a contented sigh!
She liberally dolloped lard in the pan 'til she had it just right,
Then concocted stews, soups and fried taters for our delight!
Mom was never concerned about such things as saturated fat,
Or life-threatening cholesterol and such things as that!
I suppose medicos today would have a conniption fit,
If they knew of the dietary sins my Mom did commit.
She must've done something right - her spouse lived past ninety-four.
Her kids outlived the odds, each reaching four score years or more!
Self-anointed wizards deem cast iron skillets detrimental to our health,
But I think they're just peddling new fads to add to their wealth!
My dear spouse uses her old iron skillet most every day.
I feel fit as a banjo regardless of what so-called experts may say!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The lake is a tsimmes; boats, babies, and fish bob in white wakes.
Ah but, the sandy shoal, the small fish nest beneath and beside the docks.
The lens of lake divides but why chose when both are a joy?
Squeals of delight hang humid air steams the Sunday sunbathers.
Barbecues char hotdogs and burgers ladies strap-stripped, barelegged.
Coconut oil on skin or grilled meat wafts both are joyous smells.
Bob Marley on the breeze teens necking on the boulders, hot.
The roar of powerful engines or the driving pump of nubile hips.
Catch the colors, eye the scene you sit reading with a smile.
First Published in Pithy Pages For Erudite Readers Summer 2014
My wife can't cook as well as my mother.
When cooking a meal, there is no other.
With roasts, stews, or spaghetti sauce,
in the kitchen, my mother is the boss.
I married a girl like the one that married dear old dad.
I still love my wife, and her cooking isn't that bad.
Inspired by another member's poem.
My favorite dining place in town is a place called La Baguette.
'Tis a quaint French café and I haven't found its equal yet.
They serve the most scrumptious French onion soup west of Gay Paree,
And it is slurped by discriminating snobs as well as we bourgeoisie!
They serve other grub such as baguettes and burgundy beef stews,
Escargot, pate, salad maison and an assortment of cheese fondues.
And Monday through Friday they ladle bowls of soup du jour,
But each and every day they serve French onion soup for sure!
Eating French onion soup is a challenge and requires a bit of skill,
Especially, dealing with the stringy cheese in that delectable swill.
The glob of provolone clings like a boa constrictor to my spoon,
And dangles from my noble chin making me look somewhat like a goon!
De mal en pis (just when my dilemma has gone from bad to worse),
Faire bonne mine (to put a good face on matters) I tend to curse.
To save face, next time I'll ask the waiter, "S'il vous plait (if you please),
I'll have a bowl of your French onion soup sans that stringy cheese!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt,USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
family, nature, word play,
RABBIT DENS!
Rabbit dens dug deep
Hides the family inside
From red fox entry!
RABBIT STEW POT
Rabbits foot luck charm
From unlucky rabbit kills
As he stews in pot!
I owe you, Cadbury iris of mine eyes
From age to age you watched me aged
Grace reminds, I'd see naught sans you gracing me
Yet; two more eyes I possess, there's two of spirituality.
Yes, I've grown from fire and ice, hurricanes, and sad groans
They say, one day I just simmered; seemed more settled
I who rose like dulcet scented rose in spring time
When time served stews with parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
My whole life I spent waiting; feeling trapped inside dark hole
See, I lived near the Sea, but could not behold its quiet beauty
At seventeen, one knight sought my hands, I smelled freedom that night
As my spirit soared; but he was dismissed... my heart felt sore with pain.
Dear to me was he. "You have eyes like a female deer." he said
But mine eyes now sparkle like a rock... black girls also rock!
*
Contest Sponsor: John Hamilton
Contest Name: "Wordplay Extravaganza"
Date: 4/14/16
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't chase a mouse,
but if you put me out,
perhaps I'd choose to go and search about
for flowers I could snip with small white teeth
to carry home to you inside my mouth.
My mission then complete,
adoringly I'd greet you with a mew
and blooms strewn at your feet.
I think I might like that.
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't want to eat
kitty stews in cans or livered meat.
I think instead I'd use my feline eyes to plead-
entreating you to feed me from your plate,
and then when you had your fill,
perhaps you'd leave me ice cream
melted and unfinished from your bowl.
I wouldn't hesitate
to lick your fingers clean appreciatively.
Yes, I think I might like that.
If I could be a cat, I wouldn't want to sleep
alone and curled around some ball of yarn.
I'd leap onto your bed instead (I wouldn't make a peep)
and nestle in the cradle of your arm.
And if you reached to stroke my fur,
I'd place my paws upon your chest charmingly
and warmly start to purr.
If I could be a cat, I think I might like that.
(an oldie that I wanted to show again, and I add this little
Valentine Haiku on the bottom just for you, PD):
the trinity of
Linda, Irma, and PD. . . .
get BIG hugs from ME
I've got a dish of killifish
I wish to eat that silly fish
Baked, or fried in peanut oil
Roasted, dried, or let to boil.
Make me a star-gazy pie
Take me to the Catfish Fry
Lead me to the China Sea
Feed me hermit crabs and brie.
Help me out with rainbow trout
Salt and thyme and wedge of lime
Filet of sole, or snapper red,
Served up whole, or just the head.
Meals of eels caught on reels
You're the star with caviar
Butter clams served with yams
Can't say no to salmon roe.
Tuna eyes baked in pies
Oh so daring pickled herring
In the lurch for snails and perch
Ring the bells for cockle shells.
Canned sardines on toast with greens
Sturgeon, sprat, and stuff like that
Grouper, pike, that's what I like
Smelt and bream that make me dream.
Cajun shrimp for my new pimp
Lutefisk and lobster bisque
Flying squid and yellowfin
Silver carp and capelin.
Give to me a plate of oyster
Eat them raw, that way they're moister
Tilapia and tiger prawn
Eat them 'til my hunger's gone.
Hake or krill would be a thrill
Bass and shad will make me glad
Tasty crappie makes happy
Give a nod to Greenland cod
Oo! I'd like a northern pike
Barramundi served on Sunday
Grouper, alligator gar,
Halibut or no cigar.
Amberjack atop hardtack
Pan-fried kipper for the skipper
Mackerel, tasty as hell,
Lox and mullet down the gullet.
Kokanee or marlin blue
Arowana, bowfin too
Bring to me your soups and stews
Sing for me the dogfish blues.
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
I'm longing for warm eel pie,
tis' a squirming delight to the eye,
me wife she eschews,
eel pie and eel stews,
and eats only fried eel on rye!