Best Vittles Poems
Wish we were just married.
My trusting head upon your shoulder.
When we had so terribly little,
Yet.... so very much.
And we seemed to have beeen
blessed with the magic touch,
That made us to the world far,
far bolder!
Watching the spiritual fog,lift the
San Francisco sun each dawn.
Like a deer, wakes each morning,
to feed her dear, precious fawn.
Really, few precious vittles to eat.
Nontheless,we walked to Nortn Beach,
To be with other poets for a Mocha treat.
The San Francisco streets welcomed us.
Those dewy, foggy nights, did embrace
embrace us…thus!
~Dedication~
1/29/2024
On our 65th wedding anniversary.
To my writer/husband, who died at forty.
~~~~
1/24/2024
Categories:
vittles, anniversary, dedication, emotions, husband,
Form:
Rhyme
My New Years resolution is not to make any more New Years resolutions!
I've made 'em in the past but they died on the craggy shoals of the Aleutians!
I'd swear to ease up on the vittles but I caught those scales lyin' to me.
I tried to curb my cussin' by usin' terms like gosh, darn and golly gee!
I resolved to be more courteous to other drivers and not flex my middle digit,
And be more patient with my kids when they wanted to squirm and fidget!
I vowed to take my dentist's advice and floss my choppers each and every day.
I flossed religiously but lost my religion leavin' my teeth prone to decay!
I promised myself that I'd exercise regularly in order to keep fit and trim,
But preferred lollin' in my LazyBoy with a beer sans goin' to the gym!
'Tis obvious when it comes to keepin' resolutions I ain't got much fortitude,
So I reckon I'll take my chances and not lock-in on any inane platitude!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
vittles, humorous, new year, new
Form:
Rhyme
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Categories:
vittles, angst, confusion, death, depression,
Form:
Blank verse
Muffins, Doritos and Cheetos, Oh My! (A Bulimic’s Tale)
There is a hole in her core she must sate.
So, she drives to the grocery store before it’s too late.
She steers the cart in search of junk food.
She spots a case of cupcakes that can ease her mood.
Powdered donuts on a shelf she can reach.
Next, she chooses Bottled sodas, she packs up five each.
Muffins, Doritos, Cheetos, Funyuns and Snickers she will par-take.
She must not forget about the Little Debbie snack cakes.
Once the cashier starts scanning her vittles,
She starts to feel a tingly rush form in her middle.
She pays her fee then rushes to her vehicle parked afar
Then unloads the groceries on the passenger seat of the car.
As she sits behind her steering wheel.
She appraises her edible saviors, then makes her appeal
She starts with the Snickers shoving them down her throat,
The empty void inside her fills as she lets out a choke.
The Funyuns and muffins are next on her seat.
She devours them in seconds, puffing up her cheeks.
Doritos, Cheetos and snack cakes are inhaled like oxygen,
She is slightly starting to feel whole again.
The cupcakes are the last morsels of her stock
She washes them down with the soda she bought.
When the food is gone she observes the food wrappers in her space.
She glances in the rear view mirror but fails to recognize her face.
Powdered sugar and Cheeto dust crusting around her lips,
A sob escapes her chest as sanity begins to slip.
There is one more mission she must forgo
Opening her car door, she shoves a finger down her throat.
Vomit is released from her belly’s lair.
Stomach acid and bile sting the night air.
She appraises the regurgitation splattered on the concrete.
Then senses the empty void is gone, her task is complete.
Categories:
vittles, dark,
Form:
Rhyme
Leapin' lizards up in dem’ gizzards, something we call the creepy crawl. And her womb spew forth blasphemy, and her lips uttered deceit. Black alters in Bone orchards. Praise hell syndicate burn down this town and everyone in it. Red lights…, blood lust. Ambrosia, with her hair so fare. Clearly obvious why the gods chose her. Devourer of subtleties... Tenderest of vittles. I know at night your bones up and come to life causing mischief. All monkey minds in devil times, chatter chatter, screechhhh... All lost, no hope. And then there was you. Burn down the temple and sing. Eyes bare witness to the rise of her. Dance to the rhythms of a free will symphony. Bleed from thyn eyes,... I don't mind. Bliss bliss and heaven. Your absence is the bane of my existence.
Categories:
vittles, howl, i love you,
Form:
Ballad
The year was 1832 when she slipped out the pub back door
It was stormy and cold as she walked out far across the English Moor
She stood at the edge of a craggy cliff as waves slammed rocks below
Her hooded cape flapped wildly as the wind began to blow
The fury of the rain and wind pummeled her tiny frame
She wondered if they'd miss her or even knew her name
For she was just a tavern maid who sometimes shared her bed
But what she earned just barely left enough to keep her fed
The sailers stopped at the Rose and Crown for whiskey, vittles and more
Then slung their bags and left the pub to sail for distant shores
Although it did not show just yet, she feared she was with child
And some of them who'd bedded her, made her feel defiled
She saw no future for herself nor means to raise a child
Then softly cried forgive me lord and bid the world goodby
Categories:
vittles, death, emotions, fear, health,
Form:
Rhyme
Buster ,Sparkle ,Newbie ,Speedy
and then there’s Pixie our smallest kitty,
One ,two ,three and four and five,
they‘re so frisky, so alive.
Sparkle is my number one,
14 years old and so much fun.
Purrs and snuggles on my shoulder,
she ‘s getting slow and somewhat older.
She meows for water from the sink,
I turn it on, for her to drink.
Speedy is my number two,
proud and handsome, I tell you!
He prances like a little pony,
And you know what? That’s no baloney .
He guards the others from above,
and sometimes gives a little shove.
Newbie is my number three,
chubby, plump, as one can be.
Always cleaning, always licking,
he tries to run but his paws keep sticking.
He keeps on searching for a hand,
to scratch under his collar band.
Buster is my number four,
always eating, more and more.
Loves to snack on lots of munchies,
tender vittles and some crunchies.
Begging, pleating, day and nights.
“:Give me crunchies, or I’ll bite”!
Pixie is my number 5,
She jumps, rolls over, takes a dive.
Up my back, onto my shoulder,
hoping I would grab and hold her.
Then she jumps to catch a fly,
She’s four months old, my sweetie pie.
Buster, Sparkle, Newbie, Speedy,
and there’s Pixie our smallest kitty.
Five, four, three and two and one,
I love my kitty cats, they’re so much fun.
Categories:
vittles, animals, children, funny, pets,
Form:
Light Verse
Here I hang permanently latched to this coat peg
while fumbling though my mind what I did wrong.
Oh please release me I constantly meow and beg
but to no avail no one heeds my lonely cat song,
so I may be hanging freely my lifelong.
As I now recall, I went on a mouse strike
I refused to eat the gray furry critter.
Packed my vittles and headed off on my bike
until I was retrieved by my little sitter,
so now I hang here like a piece of litter.
For punishment she dressed me in overhauls and shirt
and hung me on this hook for my timeout.
I loathe being clothed, I am glad it is not a skirt
it would be quite airy no doubt,
so I will hang here and quietly pout.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Aug. 3, 2011
Fourth Place Winner ~ "Hangin' in there" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
Aug. 29, 2011
Categories:
vittles, me,
Form:
Quintain (English)
We're the class of sweet '16! We're not tender vittles... we're Skittles! We're shooting Starbursts, reaching for the Milky Way. We aren't always Nerds-- we can be Airheads, too! :) We're on top of the world, even if we get the occasional Snickers! We may have to Crunch down on time once in a while, but you don't have to be the Three Musketeers to have Mounds of fun and Almond Joy! We do get the Snickers sometimes, huh?
*snicker
Categories:
vittles, candy,
Form:
Free verse
At cockcrow, I head down to the river, forsaking my little log cabin situated in the dense forest till dusk, which was strongly built by my endemic hands. I have no compulsion for rods and hooks, no bait. I have my ways. I be sincerely unwanted at the riverside. Others be fearful of my gruff, contemptible guise and demeanour. Fearful that I'd snipe their catch or peck their lunch. Incomprehensible! Hence, I descend the forested hill on which I dwell in the purpose of pilfering the village of food.
I plead the inhabitants for at least a bantam amount of vittles but it is nearabout in vain. All individuals barring an altruistic gardener be scornful towards me. He understands my plight as well as harking what myself alleges. He feeds me his residual edibles. It's his generosity that keeps me alive.
When I be passing the villagers shun me and ensconce me from their young'uns. When I be nigh to them I be able to hear mutterings under breath:
"Undesirable,"
"Accursed tramp,"
and an occasional"Eavesdropper!"
That's what they entitle me but I possess a name. I did not merely crawl up out of the loam and come into existence. I did not start off as an abominable creature spawned on the riverbed (some consider I presently be just that). I be correctly known as Grey, I be named Heron Grey.
By Sean Martin-Byrne
Categories:
vittles, character, discrimination, garden, river,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
A slight mist of fog is caught in the act of being by the light of the early morning
sun. Sometime during the dark of night it crept along from whence it came to the base of
the hundreds of cabbage palms spread out over the acreage of the brown grassy pastures across the county road where we reside. It slowly lifts
and dissipates as the earth turns her face to the ancient sun.
The new morn shows the Spanish moss dripping from grandfather Oaks and any other
trees close enough to share their hanging tattered ponchos of silvery moss.
This new light of 1/o1/11 reveals a faded blue sky with wisps of Cirrus clouds
forming above our little pond. Turtles raise their heads from the protection of their
shells to watch the flock of Sand hill Cranes flying to their planned feeding destinations
for this glorious day. A family of three land by the big pond across the road and begin
their long legged, leisurely patient hunt for the present day’s vittles. The rest of the
flock separates and all call to each other from different locations as they settle in for
the day as if to let each family know where they are and to reinforce that though they are
separated by distance: they are still of one flock and together.
This evening of 1/o1/11 these huge majestic birds will call each other back together
with loud raucous voices into one flock and parade back over and around our little house,
palms, palmettos and pastures in a grand and glorious flight, announcing their strength of
togetherness with the triumphant sounds of their staccato bugling for all of nature to
stand in awe of. And as part of this nature: I do. And it lifts me in faith, hope and
wonder of God and His creation.
Let this little message be our bugle call to you all. Happy New Year everyone, from
your fellow Humans in the natural wonderland of Okeechobee, Florida. God bless us all!
Categories:
vittles, familygod, family, light, family,
Form:
Free verse
'Tis a merry company gathered about the fire
Comfortably warm, at their tables they dine
Under the spell of a beautiful lyre
In the great hall, under the castle spire
Enjoying immensely their vittles and wine
'Tis a merry company gathered about the fire
Chatting with ease as the torches burn higher
Bathed in the scent of the burning of pine
Under the spell of a beautiful lyre
Their laughter is ready, and wit does not tire
It only grows greater at hours after nine
'Tis a merry company gathered about the fire
Flick and the dart of the shadows inspire
Tales, ere the dawn of the even's decline
Under the spell of a beautiful lyre
Their thoughts and their words, do we dare to inquire?
Perhaps if we could there were riches to mine
'Tis a merry company gathered about the fire
Under the spell of a beautiful lyre
Categories:
vittles, food, happy, music, people,
Form:
Villanelle
Is it any wonder that on a recruit's first day of service he is befuddled?
From day one he's told to do things by the numbers and his brain is muddled!
From the moment he stepped off the bus, mean ol' sergeants began to yell!
Sergeants, it seemed, were born to make life for raw recruits a living 'ell!
He was herded to the barbershop where he was shorn of all his hair!
He was as bald as a billiard ball, but the barbers didn't seem to care!
Next on his rite of passage was to strip bare as the day he was delivered,
To be poked, prodded and given shots as he moved along and shivered!
Sergeants double-timed him to the quartermaster to be issued all his gear,
Still smarting from all those shots he'd just received in his arms and rear!
He drew a gun, socks, drawers, uniforms and a couple of pairs of boots,
Then the sergeants taught him close order drill and how to make salutes!
The next stop was at the mess hall where cooks concocted dubious fare,
Mysterious vittles that in no way with his mom's cooking would compare!
He was double-timed to his barracks where he was assigned a sagging cot.
Along with fifty snoring and snorting troops, this was to be his hapless lot!
He aspired to be a fighter pilot but the tests he couldn't comprehend,
So he was assigned to the good ol' ground pounding infantry in the end!
At the sound of "Taps" he felt mighty blue as he collapsed on his bunk.
He was disillusioned with the whole affair and was in a dreadful funk!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
vittles, funny, day, day,
Form:
Rhyme
'Tis said that the first Thanksgiving feast was celebrated in sixteen twenty-one.
'Twas the Pilgrims' first bountiful harvest so they decided to have some fun!
(That was the genesis of church potlucks that are popular to this very day,
And the origin of that American addiction, the all-you-can-stuff-ten-buck buffet!)
They invited Indian friends but with wary eye kept their blunderbusses handy,
In case the guests and their squaws might become sozzled with too much brandy!
The Injuns brought canoes full of maize, deer and fishes from Cape Cod Bay.
(Puritan ladies shyly tittered at the breechcloths worn by braves on that day!)
The Pilgrims had diligently tilled God's good earth to grow vittles for the feast,
And prowled forest and waterway on the hunt for fowl and four-footed beast!
Tables groaned with grub - the menu would've done the Waldorf-Astoria proud.
There was little talk 'cept for an occasional "pass the salt" from that ravenous crowd!
There were apple, peach and punkin pies and heaps of smoked and roasted turkey.
Also, fiery brandy, cider, barbequed beef, lima beans and piles of venison jerky!
Succotash, sweet pertaters, peas and turnips were heaped on pewter plates.
Gluttonous souls were heard to groan and appeared to be in desperate straits!
Missing was the dreaded green bean casserole that hadn't been concocted yet,
Since Campbell's mushroom soup, an essential ingredient, they could not get!
'Twas on that notable day that the strutting and hapless turkey made its debut!
(Oft I've mused - did the Palefaces and the Redskins play a football game too?)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
vittles, funny, holiday, thanksgiving,
Form:
Rhyme
My two Brothers-In-Law came to my house every day and ate all of my food.
And they kicked my butt when I told them that eating my vittles was rude.
Even though they'd beat me up, I chewed them out and I kept getting louder and louder.
They were eating me out of house and home, those morons even ate my baking powder.
But I got an idea and decided to try it.
I decided to go on an all sushi diet.
The first time that I bought some sushi, I got a visit from my Brothers-In-Law.
They stopped coming over because all I had to eat was fish that was raw.
They were bigger and tougher than me but the sight of raw fish made them sick.
I haven't seen them in over six months, my plan worked, the sushi did the trick.
My wife had to clean up her brothers mess when they tossed their cookies on the floor.
My wife hates having to eat sushi but at least I don't have to see her brothers anymore.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Categories:
vittles, food, funny,
Form:
Rhyme