Best Stoves Poems
A nation of peace,a nation of pride
A nation that's spread far and wide.
A nation of hope,a nation of joy,
Thats free for all, man,women ,girl and boy.
A nation to give,a nation to take
A nation filled with reggae,socca,calypso and rake and scrape.
A nation of colors; black,gold,aqua....sometimes called blue
can be seen everywhere above land and under sea too.
A nation of democracy and old english style,but things sure have changed if you
look up our file.
From outside rock stoves,to TV,radio,computers and wi-fi connectivity.........
I'd say that a long way from July 10 1973.
An nation filled with hospitality,love and history,
Arawaks,Caribs and American Indians are the basis of our nationality.
A nation where Tourism is number one, because of the Bounty of sand sea and sun.
Yes,a nation of Youth,sports ,culture,uniqueness and island fashion trends,
Like native Androsia our own local blend......and straw work and junkanoo,the list has no end.
This nation of beauty,splendor and self defense ;yes its celebarting its own INDEPENDENCE.
Water wives live sheltered lives
Amongst the coves where pirates rove
Daily catch is makers match
Where red hot stoves hide fresh baked loaves
Water men are thick and thin
So often strove where shipmates hove
Water child is often wild
The treasure trove where pirates roved
19Mar14
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
I came from a place of bean pots and tea pots
I love my trusty three-decade old crock pot
One holer, two holer, three holer, four
Another kind of pot, if your keeping score
Clay pots and tin pots not related to pot shots
Pot belly stoves found in old country stores
Soup pots, flower pots and pot holes galore
Cast iron, copper, stainless and Teflon
All make great pots and I could go on
Now there’s another pot staining our land
The stench of it all my nose can’t stand
It’s worse than a poop pot and I’m not a fan
Poetry Knows
Where poet goes
when poet needs
A line of prose
Which word comes best
on top of rest
before its born
in womb of next
Where uncooked prose
in little groves
sits in wait
by little stoves
Poetry screams
in pains of birth
For now as words
it now has worth
it likes
it would
it rather be
before its time
not known to me
Where life songs sing in melody
and pollinate the what will be
"Incense Infuses Autumn Air"
aromatic incense infuses
brisk winds billow golden leaves dance
sweet potato pie baking
scent of chestnuts roasting
marshmallows graze flame
Autumn cupcakes
chilly breeze
delights
air.
air
inhales
pumpkin bread
wood burning stoves
charms harvest in bloom
kissed by frosty breathing
smells haunting Autumn decor
as Angels dust atmosphere sweet
intoxicate petals crisp cool air
fragrant aroma swells hearth and home
infiltrates with candied apples
cinnamon spice tempts Autumn
holly berry laces
trees with cider chips
inhale crepe musk
as Heaven
feeds Earth
air.
air
caress
breathtaking
pleasant twirl glows
sunshine warms odors
cascading Autumn air
vibrant view invigorates
senses accelerate enjoy
harmony exists to honor God.
*For Russell Sivey's Up In Autumn Air Contest.
*Written by: Linda-Marie The "Sweetheart" of P.S.
*Oct. 14, 2012.
Aspen, ponderosa pine, blue spruce
pink glacier-cut rock, scree, ravens
gray jay, peregrine falcon, hawk.
We climb to 11,000 feet in three days,
camp at Lawn Lake for three days. Alpine
tundra. Elk, bighorn sheep, marmot.
Tileston Meadows, ticks in grass,
rock face of Mummy Mountain.
Binoculars show pink cracks in gray rock.
Stoke gas stoves, play cards.
Boil water, set up tarps, lay out
sleeping bags, hang bear bag.
Watch crescent moon slice into
Fairchild Mountain. Moonlight
makes a mosque of the rocks.
Yellow aspen splash in dark green
spruce and pine. Gullies where streams
slash during spring snowmelt.
One rock, feather or flower worth
more than money. Need no wallet,
keys. Just clothes for fur.
All day climb toward saddle to see
what's on other side. One hawk floating
among bare peaks and over valleys.
Wind at 13,000 feet
turns to sleet. Turn back from peak,
take boulders two at a time down.
Winter moves into mountains.
Then we fly from Denver to New York
where it's still summer.
I have seen Millennia in
and now its twenty fifty
I somehow made my century
rejoycing with my family.
It has passed it seems
in the mere eye blink.
Now I remeninsce
held close in loving arms
Festivity floods the senses
stores groaning with toys.
Butchers laden with meat
people scurrying hither and thither.
Shop fronts all lit up
with flashing decorations.
Children's eyes on beanstalks
wish lists growing bigger.
Fridges crammed to the brim
with tempting tasty treats.
Good will for neighbours
as carol singers carousol.
Mothers sweating over stoves
as Dad mixes up eggnog.
Presents colourfully wrapped
adorn Christmas trees feet.
At end of day, happy faces
and a few groaning bellys,
people falling into bed
T'is all done for another year
written 12/12 /2010
contest Christmas past, present or future
THE AWAKENING
It was midnight that I laid still
and breath had filtered down
An open book - a nagging fly
will wait for me until
bestirred at morning’s knock
when stoves excite a brew
and housewives stir a door
toward sunrise bursting through -
to heaven like a broom
sweeping eyelids like a fan
and chattel and dust balls
like billiards across the room -
that wake the inner chambers
of my brain i separate stalls
that conjure up my daily tasks
within these slumbered walls
Yesterday, I happened upon a quaint, old-time country store.
I felt I was reliving my youth as I trod its squeaky wooden floor!
The sights and smells were familiar when I entered the door.
Memories flooded my soul as I gazed upon those things of yore!
A glowing pot-bellied stove provided an inviting place to sit and chat.
Upon a barrel of cheese snoozed an inscrutable tabby cat.
Old-timers were playing checkers hunkered over a pickle barrel.
'Mongst the clutter of merchandise you browsed at your peril!
Suspended from rafters were horse collars, lanterns and milking pails.
Boots, overalls and cured hams were hung with ten-penny nails.
Silverware and pocket watches were displayed in sturdy oak cases,
And others held buttons, thread, needles and rolls of fancy laces.
There were boxes of cigars, Mail Pouch tobacco and various tools,
Straw hats, aprons, bonnets, corsets and rolls of colorful tulles.
Stacked on shelves were galluses, overshoes and boys' caps,
Crockery, umbrellas, mantel clocks and several muskrat traps.
One wall was lined with churns, cream separators and kerosene stoves.
Wafting about the place was the pleasing scent of cinnamon and cloves.
There were bins of onions, taters, carrots and fresh roasting ears.
I sat by the stove a spell to absorb the flavor of yesteryears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The sword of hunger
snips the squeak
of the intestine,
which is like a cry
of a new born baby,
from my stomach.
Chop! Chop!
All chefs!
To cook! To cook!
You must go!
Cutlery jumps,
stoves burn,
veggies fear.
I open the cupboard
with the strength
of an elephant
as I inspected
what will be on the menu,
and flipped the recipe book
like a pastor
who just lost his verse.
Young Raymond worked the bakery
was up 'bout ten to three.
Just eighteen, still in high school he
had dreams of flying free.
He worked as hard as most grown men
then walked to school and slept.
Took all his wages home to Mom
who thanked him as she wept.
His forte's were science and math
in those he could engage.
Yet beneath all his knowledge was
a silent, anxious rage.
He dreamed, "I'll be an astronaut,"
but worked the fierce hot stoves.
"Impossible to soar," he'd think
while baking bread in loaves.
Young Raymond lost his childhood by
the time he reached sixteen.
Quiet brilliant in mathematics he
soon knew bread as his dean.
Scattered among the loaves of bread,
the flour, water, yeast,
he lost that precious dream-hope and
became an aged beast.
One fine May day in Physics class
with windows opened wide,
most students lolling at their desk,
our Raymond jumped and died.
His skull was broken on the sidewalk
entrance to our school.
Striding across the room's wood floor
he dove into a pool
of warm spring air as he took flight
toward impending death.
We gasped and ran toward the bay
while holding back our breath.
Some of us thought he'd stand upright
until we saw the blood.
Our teacher pressed the intercom
he'd shuddered at the thud.
Somewhere inside that bright young mind
with dreams of soaring high,
the walls of Raymond's world caved in
and left him asking why?
Not old enough to be a man
yet lost to days of youth,
his brilliant mind found no escape
he couldn't cipher truth.
Epilogue
While deputies worked at the scene
we all departed school.
With camera, tape, and clipboard they
applied fact-finding tools.
Yet none could reason why he jumped
and in May chose to die.
His teacher and the Sheriff would
return to find out why.
A physics book lay on his desk
a paper on the leaves.
Mathematically he'd worked it out,
two grown men were bereaved.
He knew the precise distance from
the window to the walk.
His pen the feet per second for
his keen mind to meet shock.
He'd chosen one three story flight
over stacks and rowd of bread,
abandoning the ovens that
had given him deep dread.
I think of him on fine May days
rich with ambrosial air.
I hope that Raymond soars the skies
and sees his world as fair.
Losing Raymond
In Praise of Modern Technology
By Elton Camp
When a fellow has been around lots of days
It’s the good old times he’s expected to praise
Sure, in some ways, better days I have seen
I’d love the strength and energy of sixteen
A world without air conditioning—not for me
And digital television I really like to see
Also, central heat I am very glad did replace
Smoky stoves and wood-burning fireplace
Having a telephone with me that is mine
Is so far better than the old eight-party line
To drive a car that is dependable and quiet
Sure beats the old ones that seldom ran right
Endless information my computer displays
There was nothing like it in the good old days
Some wallow in nostalgia all that they can
Don’t expect to hear it from this old man
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
This new age technology
Have me confuse I must confess
Cause while I spending more money
Everything else is getting less
I will give you some example
Hope you don’t get depress
But if I’m telling the truth
Just answer and tell me yes
Our telephones now
Are all wire wireless
And them new stoves
Now are completely fireless
A woman in Trinidad washing cloths
On the tree she throws her dress
I ask her why not use a line
She say she going wireless
Google making new cars now
That is driverless
And you just press a button to start
Its is also keyless
They even changing fast food also
To make them completely fatless
So you can eat all you want
While your wallet become cashless
A woman in Malaysia
Have to children who are jobless
And she quarrelling with her husband
Because them wives today are fearless
So while the cost of living rising
Our value become less
The world is in recession
Those leaders are directionless
Today you see young couples
Some of them cheat so heartless
Because to them relationships
Are completely meaningless
Some today have bad attitudes
And live life so careless
And when you tell them good morning
They say mind your own business
My friend the romantic dude
With then women he has success
But if he don’t marry one
Then he will be living wifeless
The fees in universities are expensive
While education are become valueless
And everywhere in the world today
You will meet people who are manner less
A man buys his wife a perfume
They call it timeless
Then he trying to lose some weight
so he drink is completely sugarless
My girlfriend gives me lunch in a bowl
It was completely soup less
Them ask me if my belly full
Saying today we going foodless
So I tell her yes darling
It was so delicious
Because if I hurt her feeling
She might leave me loveless
Yes the 21 st century
Has everything is getting less
But still am and optimist
And will keep my hope endless