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Best Suppertime Poems

Sailing the Seas In a Pecan Tree

The wind billows out from the seat of his britches
With determined blue eyes, skinned knuckles and knees
he climbs up the rails nailed from old cedar pieces
to the uppermost yoke of an old pecan tree

He is Captain on board, in pretend salty breezes
From his perch in the bird's nest, the world's in his view
A small town boy, who has never seen oceans
sails a fantasy vessel, where his wishes come true

The tall cornstalks stand duty, in the weedy-field waters
He breaks off a branch and a sword fight ensues..
He says "Tally Ho...Land Ahoy!!" to his crew
Dogs are barking below.  He must shout out a warning
"There are sharks all around, so his shipmates must heed!"

He is Master Commander, the ruler of nations
He dreams of adventure from his loft in the tree
As he watches the clouds sail across a blue sea
Till his mother calls him in, for his suppertime leave
          
                              ~
               Well, little boys grow, and a childhood will fade
               The leaf of the pecan, no longer holds shade 
               Now a stump of the tree, is all that is left
               Yet the memory still thrives, so deep in his breast

               When the weight of the world comes tumbling down
               He visits this place with the stump in the ground
               The rings wrap around him, to take him aboard
               To a ship from his childhood, a place he adored
               
               Tonight he will sleep in a bed of contentment
               From his bunk he will dream he is sailing the seas
               Tomorrow he'll climb up the steps to his vessel
               Tomorrow he'll be where the eagles fly free....


...........................................................................................................

adventureoldrhyme

Pasta

My mother was an excellent cook, not fancy but home cooking,
                  Our kitchen was always full of delicious and mouth watering smells;
We kids had our favourites, of course, and it was spaghetti and meatballs,
         The succulent aromas drifted and floated throughout the house.

Even to this day when I eat this dish I feel the love of my family,
                   It was not just the handmade pasta or the thick sweet sauce;
Or the delectable meatballs with parmesan cheese all over the top,
        And how we mopped up the bowl with a piece of Italian bread.

It was the whole scene, now memory, the vision of togetherness,
                 Such a simple dish of pasta and sauce is still a bowl of comfort;
Always a family night favourite, so robust and sweet, and flavourful,
        And around the table we talked of life and things that mattered.

I found my mother's recipe diary in her belongings after her death,
                It is full of meals of my childhood and a lot involved pasta;
Alphabet soup, macaroni and cheese, ravioli, lasagna and fettuccini,
         Recipes for long and short shapes, tubes, twisted and flat pasta.

Now that diary is my treasure, it takes me back to the kitchen,
                Where mother and father taught me about morals and ethics;
While I helped with the pasta and holding hands at suppertime,
         We thanked the Lord for the food before us and for our family.

But today, I still love pasta and I follow mother's recipe almost,
                Except for ethical reasons I make mine vegetarian, still good;
The pasta with a sauce of tomatoes, basil, oregano and garlic,
        So yummy and scrumptious, it gives me that feel-good feeling.

_______________________
September 9, 2015

Didactic Verse



For the contest, Didactic Food, sponsor, Tammy Reams

First Place

childhoodfamilyfeelingsfoodmemorydidactic

Two Old Red Tractors, Both Are Broken Down

Two Old Red Tractors, Both Are Broken Down

Two old red tractors, both are broken down
on a small dusty farm, outskirts of town.
Dawn comes early, no time to sleep in bed
rooster crows call out, work, work, work instead!

Dad rose early, I hear a tractor start
shows me his ethics, I must take to heart.
I rise to eat, coffee, bacon and eggs
we work hard to live, here nobody begs!

This farm, it damn sure does not run itself
nor just give us food, on the pantry shelf.
Meeting morn's brisk air, I wake even more
I start work, seems a never ending chore!

Sun setting, more work still needs to be done
suppertime, tomorrow we have more fun!

Robert J. Lindley, 5-04-2018
Sonnet, ( Farm work, seems to never all get done)


Note- Written this morn, inspired by a suggestion in a comment by Wayne Kingston, one he made on my recent haiku titled,  Seen and Scenes.....

endurancefamilyfarmhearthopesonnet

Little Shop of Horrors - Suppertime

[Gershon recently likened (tongue in cheek) my line
‘My lunch is you’ to some classic movie lines. This
inspired verse one.
Jan recently described a dental dilemma which inspired
me to add a few more verses.]
             ________________


It isn’t ‘To be or not to be’
And it isn’t ‘Not a drop for me’
My favourite line I’ve ever heard 
Is from a film: fun but absurd
As said by a plant who just wants his tea
‘The guy sure looks like plant food to me’

The line is to Seymour who’s lacking in lovers 
His true love is Audrey: but she is another’s
He’s been promised riches and romance so sweet
So long as he provides some fresh human meat
It’s how the plant grows so what could he do
That blood craving plant is called Audrey... two

Along comes a dentist who’s mind is askew
His hobby is making things painful for you
His girl is the girl of our hero’s desire
he treats her so bad as to raise Seymour’s ire
Who turns to the plant and he has to agree
‘The guy sure looks like plant food to me’

anti bullyinghorrorrhyme

Cold nights and tree lights taught him to forget home.
He’s mellow tonight though, no telling what goes unknown.
He packs light and steps heavy and taps his fading flashlight and I bet he’s a lefty.
Duracell down spiral connects with flesh on even time, a metronome of alkaline.
Ill forever remember this snowless December and he’ll certainly forget me.
Still I sway with the music still he keeps it rock steady.

As he rolls down my street and through the night (like I roll through my week)
All that exists is the moon, that man… and me.
Ain’t it somethin’, what life brings when you start listenin’ to the quiet things?

Plastic sacks like gift-wrap, thrice reused, revalued glass
Rides passenger beside wrinkled paper grocery bags
Holding sugar coated soda cans,
Hanging from the rubber handle and his hands were full of gravel.
They grow more fragile as he travels.

And this overanalyzed poet’s delight
Does just that just as the moon tells of midnight.
The crude acoustic music moved right through the tulips, ricocheted off red bricks, treble clefs start riots.

It jukes a tune, almost a salute, not unlike the Lousiana blues, up your spine it always winds up finding the light that burns inside, even from somewhere deep in the bayou at suppertime.
A profound lyric, when you hear it slides the skin from your bones and you fall to the dirt, like ivory stones.

He's hard to get a good look at, and feared like a black alley cat;
his con-man disappearing act is long like the years you cant get back.
The words that i don’t hear his lips say are shouted aloud by his ribcage.
The nickels he bent over backwarrds fo never got easy to take.

This slow going rolling stone grew old with his folded up road map
the only thing that he had when the rain was too bad.

This landed him on a fortunate sweet spot,
an unfound tin can jackpot in the same spot you hadnt yet thought,
the start of the last stop of the things we bought and dinners we got.
His belly goes empty when everything rots.

darkimageryjourneylostmoonrhyme

The Dungarvon Whooper

Deep within the forest span 
Where trees block out the sun, 
Where loggers chop the days away 
And work is never done; 
Where monster moose patrol the pines, 
And hawks soar through the sky, 
You'll never hear a worse sound than 
Dungarvon Whooper's cry. 

The winter snow lay deep and cold. 
It made the rabbits shiver. 
Long icicles hung from the trees 
Along Dungarvon River. 
A jolly camp cook fed the men 
The best fare in the county. 
He never let them go without 
The best of nature's bounty. 

He kept his fortune in a belt 
He strapped around his middle. 
He never ever took it off, 
Not even when he piddled. 
An Irish boss devised a plan, 
A lumberjack named Ryan, 
Who lured the cook into the woods 
For deer meat he'd be fryin'. 

The logging crew was working hard, 
Their saws and axes ringing. 
Dungarvon River swept along 
And muffled all their singing. 
They didn't hear the one lone shot 
That came from Ryan's rifle. 
They didn't see the young cook fall, 
His life not worth a trifle. 

For that split second, time stood still. 
Blue spruce and tamarack 
Ceased needled whispers up above 
The greedy maniac. 
Old Ryan took the money belt, 
And scraped away the snow. 
He hacked through forest's frozen earth 
To shallow grave below. 

Supposed to be a hunting trip, 
The thief returned alone. 
He told the men a tale so tall. 
A bear had crunched cook's bones. 
At once search parties were sent out 
But ne'er a trace was found, 
For it was snowing heavily 
And covered tracks and mound. 

At sundown, they all heard the screams 
Around the logging camp. 
They knew it was the missing cook 
Who blew out every lamp. 
They felt his breath upon their necks 
As every candle flickered. 
The only peace that they could find 
Was in their pints of liquor. 

The terrifying screeches seared 
Each night at suppertime. 
When Ryan disappeared one day, 
The loggers sensed a crime. 
They worked in fear till early spring, 
Their heads in fitful stupor. 
With bloodshot eyes and trembling hands 
They left Dungarvon's Whooper.

betrayalsnowsoundviolencewindrhyme

Snow Day Memories

Do you remember the thrill of excitement you felt when waking up and finding out it was a snow day?

You were impatient for breakfast to be over, so that you could gear up in your snow suit & head outside to play in the wondrous winter wonderland.

All of the neighborhood kids would be out and there would be a terrific snowball fight (with snowballs flying from one side of the street to the other), sledding down the local hill, making snow forts and snow angels.

Sometimes you would end up in a competition with other neighborhood kids to see who could build the coolest snowman.

After a couple of hours being outdoors in the frigid cold, you would be feeling the cold right through your many layers of clothing & felt tuckered out from playing in the snow.

Then it would be time to head indoors: for a hot bath, some cozy pajamas and lunch. 

Your snowsuit and mittens would be hanging up to dry somewhere in the kitchen. You couldn’t wait for a nice cup of hot cocoa, after your bath. 

Lunch would be a snow day tradition of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. 

After lunch, you would get all snuggled up on the couch to watch a movie or read. 

Then, you might play board games with your siblings / friends before suppertime. All the while, watching the snowflakes fall silently down outside the window.

funholidaysnowfree verse

Little Hands

Little hands, folded, praying suppertime grace,
Little hands, laughing, caressing my face
Little hands, gluing, covered in paste
Little hands, sticky, fixing a vase
Little hands, strumming, trying to play bass
Little hands, playing, giving butterfly chase
Little hands, toddling, trying to keep pace
Little hands, trusting, in big hands encased
Little hands, running, winning a race
Little hands, dancing, dressed up in lace
Little hands, dreaming, in a far-away place

Little hands, loving, time can not erase
Little hands, little hands, I adore you, my ace
Little hands, oh little hands, you’re my heart’s sweet embrace

childhooddevotionfamilychildrenhappinessmonorhyme

Best Suppertime Poems

Sailing the Seas In a Pecan Tree

Cereal Killer

Resurrection

Pasta

Don'T Be Afraid, Little Ones

Two Old Red Tractors, Both Are Broken Down

The Beat of Life Goes On

Stupid Rhyme

A Big Bowl of Things

Old Age Is Not For Me

Little Shop of Horrors - Suppertime

Hopeless Nomadic Part 2

The Dungarvon Whooper

Snow Day Memories

Little Hands

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