under southern skies
chitlins fry corn pones cooking
then molasses pie
trees still drip from rain
summer breeze wanders on by
man in moon smiling
guitar and a uke
play songs we all try to sing
warbles in the night
watching the stars fly
little ones sleep on blankets
too happy to cry
pleasant can't get much better
night whispers its surrender
May 10, 2023
for "Haiku Sonnet Poetry Contest"
by Joanna Daniel
When I feel lonely and I can write naught,
I sit down and I just begin to write…
Tea-water I’ve put on boils in the pot
And I can’t ‘get there’, not really… not quite…
And so, I fill the air with empty words,
Reflecting all the emptiness I feel.
I really do not think that I am bored…
Sometimes I endlessly watch endless reels
Of tripe – sometimes the tripe is really good!
I’ll never eat an okra or chitlins
Those never seemed to me, to be my food
But I like chicharrones, and wheat-middlings
This weary tale must now come to an end,
Your grace, I beg, for making your ears bend!
I've spoke of the Pork Rind
And my love for it's crunch
Now I must give due credit
To whom I'm having for lunch
The Pig or the "Porkster"
In my circle he's fondly called
But to all the outsiders
He is simply known as the Hog
He comes in many flavors
Bacon, Chitlins, or Ham
There's even an air of mystery
In the can known as Spam
He's at all the major holidays
The guys a Rock Star
Those sweet on him call him Honey Ham
Oh.....you know who you are
Why he's even in China
Where the Royal Family has succumbed
I hear the Emperor's pet name for him is
Pork Egg Foo Young
Well I could go on for days
Talking about that little feller
But could you please pass the Mustard
......preferably the Yeller
Each to His Own Taste
By Elton Camp
For eating raw meat I surely don’t care
But I have some friends who order it rare
There are some who simply adore pate
I refuse to eat food produced that way
To many, sushi is a gourmet’s delight
But I can hardly abide it within my sight
Way over in China, it’s dogs that they eat
And some greedily devour chicken feet
Some folks taste runs to eating of veal
I find a cow’s little calf too hard to steal
Others, over chitlins, will just have a fit
I can’t eat something that smells like ****
Pickled hog feet I often see in the store
That’s another that I absolutely abhor
The meat market sells pig’s tails & ears
That I’d vomit, such fare bring on fears
And I hear there are people who eat rat
And even skin and cook a fleabag cat
“Each to his own taste,” the man did vow
As he tenderly kissed his old milk cow
Ya'll want to com'fer supper?
Yep we's having greens, fat back,
tators, chitlins, peppa sauce,
pickled peaches and cairn
muffins. I seez ya when ya gets he-a.
Bye now ya he-a.
Tell ya maw Iz said hey.
Chil'in don't gets ya britches durty in the red clay.
Com' a runnin when comp'ny gets hea, chillins
and warsh tha grit of ya, 'fore I dust your britches good.
By Dars Ann
submitted in the dialect contest
dialect of the southern states, USA
I grew up in Georgia and we have red clay,
tall short leaf pines, great oaks and plenty of old knotty pine barns in the landscapes.
(This is a fictional poem)
Last year George Bush was visiting my best friend.
I brought his friendship with the president to an end.
My buddy cooked dinner and he served chitlins.
I puked all over the president when I learned that I was eating pig intestines.
The president took off his suit to have it cleaned and he was mad.
That was the only suit he had.
The only other thing in the house that would fit him was a pink dress.
If you're wondering if it made Bush look like a sissy, the answer is yes.
I took a picture of him and gave it to the press.
It was put in papers all over the country and people laughed at Bush when they
saw him in that dress.
Bush was so furious that he swore never to return to this state.
The republicans wanted to shoot me but the democrats thought it was great.
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