Food Lament Poems | Examples
These Food Lament poems are examples of Lament poems about Food. These are the best examples of Lament Food poems written by international poets.
I am sunk deep
in the dark of this day,
peer out of a hollow
that holds the tribe's history
drawn in ochre on a rock wall.
Outside is a numb, frozen world
that yields little food. Animals
are scarce and I am kept alive
by stealth and making most
of the meager offerings that
fall to my spear.
I hate being here,
imprisoned in a poem, placed
in this icy wasteland of prehistory,
cold, abandoned in a pocket of time
by a poet sitting in a warm room
in the twenty-first century.
Note.
Winter Solstice will occur
on the the twenty first of June
for us southern hemisphere
tribes.
Can't an addiction ever be good
~ not when it's surrounded by food
Cathy’s Lament
I shop because I have to
I bake because it's tradition
I wrap the presents
Put up the lights
And the stress of it all
Keeps me up every night.
I clean the house till it sparkles and shines
Cook for days and buy plenty of wine
Shop for a tree making sure that it's right
And the stress of it all keeps me up every night.
The cards are all sent did I forget anyone
The tree is up the ornaments hung
The lights are on but they aren’t very bright
And the stress of it all keeps me up every night.
The stockings need hanging the door needs a wreath
The cats’ on the counter the dogs’ underneath
The gifts have been wrapped and are hid out of sight
And the stress of it all keeps me up every night.
The day finally comes we all gather here
The presents are opened all in good cheer
The food has been eaten the wine didn’t last
We fondly remember our Christmases past
The children all napping their eyes closed tight
And the stress of it all will be gone by tonight
Cathy Strackbein
12/17/14
Alas! I'm just a roly-poly me.
When I was birthed, in dirt they had to dig!
More slender and chik I'd prefer to be.
But here I am - so common, round and big.
When I was birthed, in dirt they had to dig!
Trimmed in French style, I want to be a fry.
But here I am - so common, round and big.
I wish to be flavored and savored. Sigh!
Trimmed in French style, I want to be a fry.
More slender and chik I'd prefer to be.
I wish to be flavored and savored. Sigh!
Alas! I'm just a roly-poly me.
July 30, 2021 (based on picture number 3)
For Eve Roper's Pantoum Rhyme 1 Poetry Contest
By Howmanysyllables.com, Style has one syllable.
I am lamenting
Christmas meaning
oh, where has it gone
it is lost
it seems to be all about gifts
instead of the baby
born
to Mary
and to Joseph
in a stable on straw
under a sparkling star
it seems to me
to have become a party
of bright colors
and blinking lights
of gift giving and food
but this baby born would die for our sins
nailed to a cross
until dead
and it seems to have been forgotten
that's my lament
______________________________
November 18, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Christmas Lament in Verse
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1199-337-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for FGI Blog Series 7 - Lament
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
vikings seldom washed
buried shark + surstromming breath
indians not pleased
Time and time again,
I grab a lonely pen.
Searching my mind,
For the words to find,
A way to make a rhyme.
To create that perfect line;
That puts a smile on a face;
Takes someone to a better place;
Gives a person food for thought;
Questions what they’ve been taught;
A poet never knows,
If that which they compose,
Will be judged as mundane prose.
So, best to just speak your mind.
Worry not what others find,
To be unworthy verse, or worse!
They fail to even criticize;
Simply pay it no never mind;
For in the end, a lonely pen,
Will always be a poet’s friend.
The guilt, the betrayal I felt, her body lying there as I knelt
I poisoned her, I poisoned her food and she took it and fed her brood
She had done nothing to me, she was doing what nature had taught her
I poisoned her and she poisoned her family, like lambs to the slaughter
And the sorrow and the regret cascaded through my soul
As I placed her down into the freshly dug hole
I first saw her as she scuttled from behind a rock to sniff some fallen bird bread
She was not very big for a Rat, I over reacted, now she is dead
Fleas, decease, came the cries from deep down in my soul
She looked so small and defenceless now as she lay in that hole
Too close to my home and it cost her dearly
Man playing judge and jury
I told myself, I could never do that again
I keep thinking, was she in pain
She was just a small female Rat and a mother
Lord I hope she did not suffer
The Dandelions Lament
Here I stand all alone, see how I have grown
Though if I am seen gardeners usually moan
I am just a yellow dandelion, that’s my name
Gardeners like to dig me up, it is all their aim
But yet am I not just a ray of lovely sunshine
With lovely bright colours looking ever so fine
But alas - just what is my forever eternal sin?
That I end up being dug up and put in the bin
Look at me here, sat in the middle of the lawn
Our petals close at night but back every morn
considered good, back in the good olden days
Used as medicines, food & even in magic ways
But alas our greed for water, curse us forever
Now we are slain, for just being ever so clever
If we offend you why not just stick us in a pot
Save you digging us up within the garden plot
That I can shine just for you - nature intended
Instead of left in the rubbish bin - all lamented
Indiana Shaw . . . : (
The drip is connected to my right arm
It works, as they say, just like a charm
I'm delirious with joy, must be morphine
Here comes the best nurse you've ever seen
My knee was connected to my thigh, they say
My back once connected to my spine, but nay
No more, they're disjointed now, I feel good
My legs, if I have any, are sticks of wood
The bedpan gives chills up and down my skin
Turn my head , let loose, it feels like a sin
Reruns on TV, watch the news ten times
No peace in the world, nothing but crimes
My ankles are swollen, I got a new cast
When can I get out, I'm having a blast (not)
The food is amazing, the soup is split pee
I call the grim reaper, " come rescue me"
Pressing the button, does this even work
Singing loud to a chorus, I wish I could twirk
I'm so gonna sleep now, have the wildest dreams
'bout my skeleton dancing alone with moonbeams
My stay on the fifth floor is finally done
Wheel me outside, I need to sit in the sun
Only one final thing is left here to say:
My much kneeded vacation, wasted away
To her kin Catherine was I in flesh married
To my young beloved Mary was my soul wed
Too long that eve at my play we all three tarried
And all of six hours later was my soulmate dead.
In my aching arms where now lifeless she did lay
Catherine calmly the obsequies did prepare
Where I did but reflect in grief upon that play
"Is She My Wife?" which thought I found so hard to bear.
From her rich dark tresses I plucked a precious lock
To be ever after kept, held close to my breast
Her ring on my finger her death struggled to mock
While oft in my sad heart her spirit I addressed.
Without her who was so young,beautiful and good
The magic of family began soon to fade
Her memory my mind nourished better than food
The fine weeds did I cherish of my once fair maid.
My broken heart in my empty life for her will sigh
But Catherine sadly less and less means to me
Whene'er death comes,with my Mary I'll surely lie
And from my earthbound wife will I be ever free.
The Lament
We followed where they went.
We cried to them on occasion.
They were guides, intelligent hunters
and companions.
We would sing by our fires
and they, by moonlight.
We were curious of them,
and they of us,
each optimistic of the other.
Food grew scarce for us,
scarcer still for them.
Strangers were taking,
stealing and wasting.
We all wasted away,
us and they.
When the wolves went silent
we followed where they went.
9/18/16
STRANGER AT THE DOOR
‘ Sinner’s lament’
There was a knocking on my door
And a stranger with dark piercing eyes
Familiar to my mind asked entrance
Yet I could not name him.
I gave him food and shelter
He sat at my table
And no words did he speak
Until we sat before the fire.
He talked into the early hours
Speaking of secret things
I thought that only I did know
Dark deeds shameful to the soul.
Taking my hand at dawn
He led me out into the twilight
Then I knew him to be Death
Come to take my soul to Hell.
Colin Ian Jeffery
I
have
only just
realised the
word FAT looks
like someone took a
bite out of the word EAT
Last Chance,
I passed through you many times and remember you.
You sit on the Colorado Prairie east of Denver at the intersection of two, two lane highways.
In the 1880's you were a stop along the great Texas Montana Cattle Trail.
You really came into your own as a child of the post war Forty's and Fifty's automobile boom.
The say you once were a lively little town made up of gas stations, motels, cafes, a general store, two churches and several homes.
Word has it, you got your name because you were the last chance for travelers to get gas,
food and lodging on their long treks to Denver and Kansas.
In summer, travelers picked cold Cokes, Pepsis and Grape NeHi's out of your gas stations' iced filled soda chests.
In winter, hot steaming coffee flowed from the silver urns of your cafes.
It was Fords, Plymouths, and Chevrolets that created you,
and it was Interstate Highway 70 that bypassed and doomed you
to whither and slowly die.
A prairie fire in 2012 caused by the sparks of a tire blowout finished you off.
Today you are a ghost town of burnt out hulks, abandoned buildings
and distant memoires.
Oh, Last Chance.
The stories you could tell.