Done Up Poems

Zhitellshire

Phytonutrients: They
Cabbage and Turnip Greens
1 tablespoon of basil
1 tablespoon of5 cups of sliced onions
5 cups of sliced red bell pepper
10 cups of sliced cabbage (shredded)
2 cups of turnip greens
1/2 cup of garlic minced
1 can of tomatoes diced
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(carmilize in a 350 degree oven for 35 to 45 minutes)
2 cups of chopped turnips
2 cups of cubed sweet potato
5 cups of diced cubed white potatoes
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9 cups of picnic shoulder broth
2 cups of chopped picnic shoulder fat and meat equal parts
8 Italian sausage casing removed

in a very large pot add pork fat
sausage and pork,
onions, garlic,, bell pepper
let it sautee for 15 minutes.
add broth
and cook turnip greens 
at least for 60 minutes check tenderness
add potatoes cooked turnips, and cabbage cook until the cabbage is done up to 15 minutes.(store bought or home made Potsteamers#30)
reserve some of the pot liquer from the turnips and cabbage
about 3 cups- in a steamer of collender with a pot with a lid
allow to pot stickers to cook0
serve turnips and cabbage with the potstickers!

Goodnature loves that hoe too

Faster than two ducks
slick on the street or what
Wet on the Street or what
wet tires on a motor
Mothers on a motor
 the street or what
 up the come up
in up nothing hoe
in all done up
hoe says she wants to be my friend
I love that hoe too.
Help with the difference
help me understand
If there was one 
day I remember
more than others
is the day of mothers
and valentines
Battle lines, battles lost 
Battles the Boss
Battle Eccentric
I like to interprut 
I like to get into it
rubber nuts
burning rubber up the gut
the main street gets smoked up
big thrasher what are they after
the green light
At the Factor
In the Clean Night
The road is wet and Ive 
I lost my sight
I cant fight the speed
Its Heavy Baby
two tons of Gravy
Suicidal and homicidal Behavious
Hit the Gas cause
the breaks will save her x2
She aint late she,
Be there Later, riding
street in squat reliefit dont knock its a beast
It just Knocks the street

Highway Signs

The big green ones are everywhere,
next exit in half-a-mile,
they seem almost reassuring,
all done up in the same style.
Then smaller ones bordered in blue,
with promises of food to eat,
the big chains and local diners,
places to stop and take a seat,
then more such signs with the same look,
but this time it’s lodging and gas,
don’t really need a place to sleep,
though I could really use some snacks…
A small sign with a stadium
for the minor league hockey team,
there’s rumors they might move next year,
happens every decade, it seems.
And then there is a really big sign,
it stands tall in a farmer’s field,
hawking Indian casinos,
with their fantastic weekend deals.
ever so often, by exits,
I see symbols on a high pole,
visible near a mile off,
telling me here burgers and sold.
And sadly, there’s a blinking sign,
a warning to slow for road crews,
it never fails, they’re always out
when I have got something to do.

Maybe Faerie Godmothers House

No one knew where Faerie Godmother lived, but we had our suspicions.
About a lady down the road whose taffeta skirts were always squish’n.
Pearls and whistles are on her clothes and she saunters when she moves.
There was a special essence about her, she was in a faerie kind of grove.

If you saw the house, you might also peg her as a likely suspect.
Her house was done up in doily and swirls, never circumspect.
There was an ambiance about it that made you think magic was about.
I try to follow her and see what she is doing when she ventures out.

Dusk, In Winter

The sky becomes a deepened blue,
like army coats of yore,
clings to the trees atop the hills,
settles on valley floor.

The sun is gone but dim lingers
upon the rolling fields,
they seem endless done up in dark,
with secrets unrevealed.

The snow glows, just three inches deep,
reflects the rising moon,
some bits of grass still reach above,
but they’ll be buried soon.

The corn stubble is taller yet,
gives all a mottled look,
brown on white, in the morning times
it’s overrun with rooks.

A deep is picking though it now,
a yearling, and a doe,
I see its silent stride and I
wonder where it will go?

Probably to the hill just west,
beyond which is the town,
it’s rocky there, with thick forest,
a good place to bed down.

My foot crunches on crusted snow,
the winds have made their mark,
they’re predicting a storm next week,
so this is just the start.

Head home, passing the darkened barn,
with animals sleep,
I will be out in morning’s chill,
giving them hay to eat.

It’s not the nicest time to farm,
nut this job never stops,
at least the skiers will be glad
the temperature has dropped.

Do Not Look at My Petootsie

Do not look at my petootsie she said
But she was wearing tight pants not plain or red
Multitude of colors and crazy designs too
In silver, turquoise, pink, azure, green and blue

We did our best to avoid her but it was not easy
Her costume was more decorative this time than sleazy
But it was artistic done up in a really smart fashion sense way.
I thought it was best to avoid her totally on her persnickety day.

She Bejewels Everything

My pal Charlotta bejewels everything she touches and sees
She has done up sweatshirts, coats and pants to their knees
But bedazzling a pumpkin? That seems weird even to me.
I ran right over to see it though, for a peek was totally free.

She started out spray painting the pumpkin black.
Then she cared a spider; her mother gave her no black.
She bejeweled that spider in a glamourous way, not at all mean. 
It was the most beautiful carved pumpkin I have ever seen.

The Tire Tree

I had to tell all of my friends
We ran over to look, and we were in awe
Someone had beat me in making a tire tree
It had been my dream
Now here it was, all done up,
Someone else had the same dream
The difference is, they probably did not live at home
where my parents nixed the idea of me bringing home a bunch of tires
they thwarted my artistic efforts
you could make a cotton ball tree, my friend suggested
Has she met my mother?
Our house looks like Best Homes and Garden magazine
Like no one has ever coughed or farted in it.
My mother never let me have paints.

I Played My Cards, Some For Far More Than Their Worth

I Played My Cards, Some For Far More Than Their Worth

Jasmine perfume and her long hair done up as well
She a princess beauty, with pride she would not sell
Sexy hair, fantastic smile and wonderful legs
A beauty like would make a man sit up and beg
I saw her smile and my racing mind went far off
I swore to win her hand, don't sit there and you scoff
We dance twice and it was a true Heaven on earth
I played my cards, some for far more than their worth. 

A new dawn came she and we rose from our night-bed
I had planned a breakfast meal, she was well fed
They say a truism, all good things must surely end
We romanced for four months then we became just friends
In this our dating tale a moral can be found
She was a queen beauty, I was a hungry hound

A solid truth, I was a wandering old dog
I was a young prince and she had not kiss a frog.

Robert J. Lindley, 6-10-2023
A 16 verse sonnet

Note: I look back and truly can never see what she saw in me.
As her inner and outer beauty was off the scale...

Halfway There

Told my girlfriend ‘I’m halfway there’
   She figured I was thirty-five…

After she’d done up and married me
   I told her I’ve one foot in the grave
                           ~ yet still alive

Copy Cat Marge

Marge had a new bouffant hairdo and Jen liked it 
So she ran out and had hers done up the same way
On Marge it looked elegant, timelessly classy.
On Jen not so much.
Most of us tried to ignore it. 

I wore a lettuce leaf mask to church last Sunday.
It was not a favorite, but it was dry.
Jen demanded to know where I had bought it.
She paid twenty dollars extra to have it delivered on Monday. 
The cost of the mask was only seven dollars. 


Sal attended our next lunch wearing a piece of bologna on her hat.
We oohed and ahhed telling her how inventive it was.
Jen wore bologna on her hat for the next five years, trying for the same result.
I wish this was an exaggeration
I actually toned the truth down a bit so it would be more plausible.

Ode To a Naked Woman

I found it on the internet,
done up in shades: black, white, a gray;
a photograph of a woman,
what her name is, I cannot say.

She’s not wearing a single stitch,
and casts a shadow on the ground,
her limbs arranged in such a way
that her picture won’t be taken down.

It starts with dainty, pointed toes,
long shins and slender, curving calves,
lovely thighs glisten in the light,
the kind women are jealous to have.

The hips are full and alluring,
nut obscured by a blocking knee,
in the right spot to keep us men
from seeing her Holy of Holies.

A stomach toned but somewhat soft,
hint of six-pack, but nothing more,
her arm splayed across lovely breasts
to keep us from seeing much more.

Still-wet hair trailing down her chest,
hints of shoulder swooping to neck,
a mouth that’s hanging just open
as if tempting to what comes next.

I’m sure some are now reading this,
convinced that I’m just a pervert,
yet if I did this in oil paint
you’d all call it my master-work.

Friggin’ painters have all the fun…

For Want of a Nail You Don'T Stand a Dog's Chance

Look what you have done to my shoelaces, Fluffy!
Now that's hardly a  nice thing to do.
There are things in this world, from a twig to a bone,
that are more admirably suited to chew.

I don't wish to be hypercritical, Fluffy.
You might easily have done something worse,
but there are things in this world, which,  not done up,
lead one all too soon to a hearse.

Putty In Her Hands

I am waiting for my hair to dye
Because I look like a skunk, which I think is amazing
But bothers my first and last husband.

He is clean and neat. Prissy. He likes things done up.
He likes a made bed.
Not me. 
I read that bedbugs cannot survive in an unmade bed.

While I wait I am flinging stupidity down onto pages.
I read them and I think “what am I doing?”
But my muse is encouraging me, and I am putty 
in her hands.

If my hair timing buzzer does not go off pretty soon,
you will know more about me than you ever cared to know.
And I will roll my eyes tomorrow and ask “Why?”

Colors Are Everywhere

I am a cartoonist, a painter, a clandescent poet.
I paint in neons – pinks, greens, yellows and blues.
The background is sometimes done up in purple before I know it.
I start with the skin color, making it a variety of hues.
Beige might work for others, but I use coppers, silvers and pink.
I throw in some oranges every time I do think.
For I am an artist, a painter, a poet.
Colors are everything, don’t you know it?

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