Borscht Poems | Examples

Bought Me a Russian Horse

    I traveled to Russia, bought me a horse
    When we got home, I had buyer’s remorse
       What would I feed it
       What does a horse eat
    Horse ordered vodka with beet borscht, of course

Mother Said

Mother said, "In the depths of your plight,"
"Face the storms, even when you’re not right,"
Though life’s breadth may stretch wide and tight,
Hold onto dreams, let them shine bright.

She spoke of a world with borscht and more,
Of paths where the warmth is hard to restore,
Face the false and the depths you deplore,
Keep your heart steady, as you explore.

In moments of struggle, her words are a guide,
Through the troubles, where doubts often bide,
Her strength in your heart, let it reside,
Her wisdom, your light, with you as your stride.

Mother Said

Mother said to carry Dad's little green luggage,
Godzilla my foe, I can do a step not a hundred,
Mother said to put in you--that, it's all bronzed,
Ugh, zip-phew Godzilla you stink your breadth.
Godz I gotta look for Dad Mom I ain't no angel.
Godz I told Mother that I heard the car engine. 
Mom prayed for the car using holy oil, via olive.
It needs that. It'll start with a tad of that liquid.
Mother said Dad knows. He'd already glimpsed
it'll drive that bobbing--pistons Mom--amongst
other something, than cars. Like? Stew borscht
Mom says. I say that's not Russian. Mad, whilst
it'll be Mother's last words said, Russia's worlds
are rightfully theirs, and we own ours. Traipsed
not, glory ste..get-MA, PA, joy go I-run anxious.

Poetry Soup

A bowl of borscht, split pea, or vasale' sublime
Add a cup of apt metaphor and a pinch of fine rhyme
Stir in a dash of passion and a pinch of zeal for flavor
Poetry Soup Voila' a scrumptious dish you shall savor!

Border Town: 20 Seconds Small Talk

*Z - Zelensky
*P - Putin


Z - "I've signed mines."
P - "Mines as well."
Z - "Then shall we."

P - "To our dinners."
Z - "Hope it's not Borscht."
P - "Could be, Dim Sum."
Z - "Mayhaps, Sushi"

P - "How was your dinner?"
Z - "The hot water need ..."
P - "... More salt, I agree."
Z - "Oh, you've washed your hands."
P - "Of the whole matter."

Food 4 Got

Putin has his butt in a sling
His Korean Smartphone won't ring
Bombs bursting in air
Is Kim Jong-un's fare
Borscht and Kimchee gassed Xi Jinping?

Purple Pansies

Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.

                                  Carl Sandburg


PURPLE PANSIES

A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.

Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.

Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.

Fresh fairyland apogee 
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.

6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest

used Rhymezone and HMS

Russian Wolfhound

Putin beat his old wolfhound so bad
Just for looking tired or scared or sad!
So the pooch smashed his best vodkas,
ate his borscht, blinzas and latkas
Then howled: Cri-me-a-River Vlad!

Nostrovia!
translation: Let's get drunk!

Brunhilda's Sweet Smile

Brunhilda married a fellow named Horst
For their first meal, she treats Horst to some borscht
  She serves him with sweetest smile
  But Horst cries, "This stuff is vile!"
Then keels over ~ should have filed for divorce

Listening To Russian Poetry

The odor of turnips,
of seasoned cabbage water - borscht
flushed through musing kidneys.

Listening to Zhukovsky, Vysotsky, Tyutchev,
not comprehending a word of it.
Working my way backward
through an alphabet that echoes
proto-Slavic roots and chugs.
Muses that are a gloved slap of love,
an aching tooth,
a fondness for black-ice
words that gnaw wet socks and fingertips.
Suspicions wriggle like long dead Popes –
the smell of tobacco and damp sheets.
A dusting of earth shaken from chilled rhizomes.

Words simmer like sleeping Cossacks.
Whiffs of green water, grain, and potato,
the anguish of bruised beets.

A poetry that peels onion,
a crop used
in the pickling of cucumbers,
and other forever preserved romances.

Not Your Grandma's Borscht

dead borscht-belt
  comedian...lost
     appetite

Danker the Jobber

"Sumthang" Hunny Part and Jinggle Dheeze
Wore masks and stood behind manager
"Big Beefy" Borscht, silent saying nothing
He introduced the as Sight and Sound
Identifying the by there boots.
In the introduction Danker Dinker Donk
Interupted walking in saying
"Ya'll don't like me" "Ya'll don't like me"
He said it seven times and seven
Times they ignored him, then the
Lights flickered and when they
Came back on Dewlittle was the only one standing
And Even Kelp Seaworthy was lying on the floor.
Flux Diakkin came out voweling revenge against both factions
Saying my daddy built this company with integrity
Involved. With respect to decentsy, ya'll mocking this man's legacy "

Nineseventeenpm In Chicago

nineseventeenPM on a winter's night asleep
 wolf wind's a-whistlin' and a-howlin'
   reaching under every blanket, every sheet
     grasping shivering victims in dread's keep

Late spring or early summer, nineseventeenPM
  resplendent sunlight's finally dimmed and darkened
    though moments ago 'twas still radiant out west
      time to head on in from porch or stoop
        pre-midnight snack awaits, old-fashioned
          homemade beet-borscht soup

nineseventeenPM in mid-Fall, Jack Frost's on the vine
  of pumpkins large and small, candlelit smiles
    greeting passersby … friendly faces masking
      haunting sense that old man winter lurks nearby

nineseventeenPM in Chicago 
  Fore shadow of terror, or benign:
    Evening's waning quickly now
      ~ Mark each hour's chime

Kremlin Gremlins

About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
*“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”*
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
Soused on *Stoli,* reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing 
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many 
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats, 
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm *détente* between us.

Sid Caesar

He was born in Yonkers, just north of New York City.
This man grew up to be funny and witty.
While working in a luncheonette owned by his family,
with the art of patois, Sid displayed proficiency.

As a funny comedian, he made his presence felt.
Sid got his start in upstate New York in the Borscht Belt.
As a saxophonist, his first job was at the Vacationland.
He became an influential member of the hotel’s band.

With the late Imogene Coca, he was a television pioneer.
On Broadway and in movies, Sid would also appear.
However, alcohol and barbiturates nearly destroyed his career.
A recovery brought him back into entertainment’s sphere.

Over the years, many awards and recognitions came his way.
At the age of ninety-one, Sid Caesar passed away.

RIP Sid Caesar
(1922-2014)

I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and variety.com for information
I obtained to write this poem.

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