Piggery
Diggery
Hungry,
I stuffed
I chewed,
I swallowed
Lunchtime sweets
Floury treats
Icing sweetmeats,
Burp
Sturp
Stop
The
Cup
Cakes
Categories:
floury, fun, humor,
Form: Free verse
There was a fight in the pantry
Peas and carrots were in dispute
The sugar and pepper were shaking
And the cinnamon followed suit!
The pickles deftly grabbed the flour
And threw it across the floor
A pink lady apple, slipped and fell
And was shaken, down to the core!
Peanut butter was all a flutter
In pursuit of honey to tease
Popcorn up and yelled, "They're back!"
While the green beans stepped on the peas
The man noticed first, the floury floor
To him it was not at all shady
But when the same, his young wife beheld
It furrowed the brow of the lady!
Categories:
floury, fantasy, food, humor, imagery,
Form: Quatrain
Winter reminds me of wet coats
in the hall and the smoky kitchen heat,
of large logs sizzling,
exerting their wetness on the hearth stone;
cut fresh from the garden,
they fill the flagged floor with warmth.
Each morning pale yellow ashes lie
like floury dust around the fireplace,
a brighter yellow appears in the garden,
across the street,
when the rain beats upon the ash heap.
From Perfume of the Soil. Swan Press, 1999.
Categories:
floury, family, fire, rain, winter,
Form: Free verse
fast plunging gannets
churning the sea white with spray -
mothers floury hands.
Categories:
floury, sea,
Form: Haiku
The turf fires glow reduced to ash
A million years of bog history
As I watched the glowing embers
My mind took me back
To a nearly forgotten time
When the turf ruled the hearths
And cranes swung pans over its heat
Boiling the “spuds” and baking the bread
Keeping habs hot to warm cold bums
Now and then a new piece would be added
To keep the fire burning brightly
Ensuring our stew would be cooked to perfection
And ready to fill our bellies at the table
Spuds still in their jackets, slightly cracked
Revealing the white floury potato inside
Were tipped onto a plate on the table
The steam rising with the earthy smell of spuds
Freshly dug from the garden no more than an hour ago
Onto our side plates to peel
Then topped with butter to watch it melt
And flow like lava from a volcano
As dairy from animal meets vegetable
Our taste buds are treated to
A festival of flavours on a plate
Simply superb
Categories:
floury, childhood, nostalgia,
Form: I do not know?
She wakes up before dawn. Mounts
her cardbox cubicle on the pavement
at a street corner. It is chilly and windy.
Without delay she pours cooking oil
into the aluminum container perched
on a three-legged stand under which
there are popping flames of fire.
In the yellow bowl she stirs the flour
with vigour . The fire is warming her up.
With her hands she squeezes the flour
into fist-sized lumps and drowns
them into the blistering oil .
Over a short space of time the blazing
oil turns the floury swellings into brown
round buns commonly known as magwinyas.
With her fork she pierces each baked brown
roll and shrugs it off into another vessel.
She yawns. The heat is soothing. It is coaxing.
She has to sell these chignons to eke out a living.
A single parent with four dependents. Like a thief
something sweeps her away. Siesta says sister let us go…
Her mouth is agape, there is a cascade of saliva
going down her chin , down where lies her vessel. The
sun’s rays are peeping. Her customers of school children
and factory workers halt and scream, “wow!”…and proceed.
Categories:
floury, family, parody, satire,
Form: Narrative
BEFORE the initiator’s blade I stand
Before me a circle of floury totem
On my lap and lip the future rests
Found in legend the call and tradition
And I
Must fulfill and depart
Categories:
floury, allegory,
Form: Blank verse
Mother’s Scones
In our kitchen, a pleasant noise
Mum is baking, oh joy of joys.
And while she bakes she hums along,
To Denver’s tune of ‘Annie’s song’
I take a breath, my eyes they close
A warm aroma meets my nose
I smell a smell I’ve smelt before
It fills the air from oven door
Now it’s almost time for tea
And on the table I can see
Scrumptious scones all soft and light,
With floury tops, a tempting sight.
I pick one up, it feels quite hot.
I split it open on the spot.
Add double cream and sticky jam.
Oh, what a greedy child I am.
I take a bite, it’s like a dream.
The taste of scone and jam and cream
Melt in my mouth. Delicious, sweet,
My mother’s scones no one can beat.
Categories:
floury, childhood, food
Form: Rhyme