Growing up with
You get what you got
You better be grateful
You weren't forgot
The South is unforgiving
The heart better be stout
If you show intelligence
You're booted out
Can't have thinkin' minds
Upsetting the cart on its way
Target children are carefully picked
For dumping what parts won't play
You can never expect care
And you better forget consideration
Your own birthday won't give you cake
But your presence is required for participation
Scarcity and sluggish movement
In the process of growing fruit
Gives every pawn a small portion
In accordance with what the person is willing to do
...for Leftovers
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-24-2026
Let me say I’m not much of a cook,
Even my husband could tell you it’s true,
For thirty-four years he shouldered that task~
Then left!
Oh, I grill the cheese sandwich quite well,
Very crisp on each side filled with Colby and ham,
Even so I prefer leftovers from Mother’s abode~
Roast beef and mash reheats
Super nice!
When he left the car door open.
There was a car after all.
And maybe the stalker whose name I can’t remember.
He raised me from a distance.
Pills don’t last.
Not like drumming sounds, and soundless grumbles.
He gave me a shiny idea and a curse so don’t shame me.
Pills last as long as leftover pizza sometimes.
Crusty.
So there was a car after all.
There is something outside the pill bottle after all.
Shared knowledge knocking and faceless.
Yes, that’s the “They Know” car.
Pills knock around in my purse and run so low.
The stalker told me something I want to remember.
Running out of space like a garage with old journals.
And the journals have journals in them to hide stuff.
When he left the car door open.
He wanted to say “I’m someone you pretended to know.”
And like slime, I smiled.
Pills don’t last.
They raised me from a distance.
And then I needed a refill.
They took the last paintbrush with nothing in mind.
Just the canvas and who else stomps in.
I have a lot of leftover blooms.
Just trampled on like they do.
The forest is when.
I have another paintbrush in mind.
And evaporate.
The last thing they would trample on.
Deflated for the last time.
I have a band aid.
Just the canvas and.
Got mangled.
I like it when.
The forest is a bank account.
Just leaves pressed against the graves.
They took it.
Trampled on.
Like leftovers.
For no reason.
Has a lot of holes.
The last paintbrush they took.
Got trampled on, mangled, evaporated.
Just like when.
The leftovers.
The 20-pound butterball turkey rests
On a table laden with condiments;
We bow our heads, reach out our hands and bless
And say grace which presupposes our content.
But as we eat, the elephant harrumphs
To lead our banter and wordplay astray,
We assert on Gaza or butterball Trump
Or some other donnybrook of the day.
Alas, the turkey is now quite slighted
And acrimony stuffs the upper hand;
Our argued points are skewed with gestured knife,
Though not a one convinced to alter stand.
Afterward, leftovers are jammed into
Vacuum bags should we choose to someday use.
And another day
has flopped down in front of you,
resting after last night's stormy
lovemaking between earth and sky -
you take your seat near where the river
whispers its secrets as it does
every morning. It shows you
its hoard of driftwood and plastic
bottles. To it, all is prized, all given
a home.
Habit has you pushing thought boats
out into the channel hoping they'll
be carried into the bay then out
to open sea, finally washing up
on the shores of someone else’s mind,
or sink mid ocean to become part
of something bigger although
you can never figure out what that is.
People pass with faces carrying
an invitation and a need to talk.
Your eyes are elsewhere, staring
through and beyond them
as if they were glass, out pass
landscapes, air, everything - to a place
that is no place, just nothingness.
Sometimes you feel as if
you are about to dissolve, not knowing
into what. The river, you're sure,
would prize the leftovers.
Advertised as an Estate Sale
Which I took to mean
Not just yard sale discards.
Here are some
Of the things you could obtain:
Aluminum baking pans
Plastic punch bowl
Four segments of track from a train set
Discolored tea-towels with embroidered edges
Christmas themed throw pillow
Velvet painting of sailing ships
Flimsy dollar-store wall mirror
Cheaply framed picture of Jesus
A used tire with "free" sign taped to it
Tupperware, a bit stained
Tiny shelf for back of toilet
Chipped bowls and plates
Mismatched spoons
Wobbly lawn chair
Book club mystery with coffee cup circle
Bread basket, slightly crushed
Half a box of staples
Cookie tin, rusty inside
Fragile teacup with handle glued back on
Melamine resin plates
VHS tapes in sun-faded boxes.
The leavings of a life
Can certainly be sad.
At the end of a meal, we take all that is left,
Wrap it up to consume the next day,
With the cycle repeating until all that food
Is devoured, but not thrown away.
Same with sewing a project – what fabric remains
When the quilt or the pillow’s complete,
Joins the remnants from previous stitchings I’ve made
So the next time, their patterns I’ll greet.
There are those who are savers and those who are not
But no matter which side you’ve embraced,
If you toss out your leftovers – fabric or food,
You have wasted what must be replaced.
There once was a gobbler named Tom,
Who thought himself quite the fowl homme,
Though hens thought him a cad,
Pilgrims thought he was rad,
Especially stuffed, roasted and basted...nom, Nom NOM!!
I swallowed hard the feelings scorned,
to finish off my plate
But filled I was in sated form
a glutton postulate
I bit off more than I could chew,
with meat still on the bone
My stomach full of fiery barbs
—leftovers unatoned
(Villanova University: January, 2020)
When hosting a holiday meal
There's always a certain appeal
To food that remains
For you've taken such pains
To prepare it, it seemed an ordeal.
But after the guests have all split
If you're honest, you'll have to admit
That your efforts have paid
Since the food that you've made
Can be eaten for days, bit by bit.
Leftovers
Don’t let Christmas come in too much of a hurry
I really can’t handle one more turkey curry
The kids now want something else for their teas
So it’s six pigs in blankets and biscuits for cheese
Faced with leftovers for the rest of the hols
Anyone want anymore sausage rolls
A nice new year snack? The family concur
I get out the turkey... its covered in fur
So now that I’ve chucked out them old turkey loins
We’ll finish the pudding that mum filled with coins
The dentist is open next week, God willing
To sort out the molar I broke on a shilling
There’s thirty one days in every December
So why is it no-one can ever remember
The night that for good luck we don’t want to miss
Can anyone tell me when twelfth night is
So the tree’s folded up and it’s back in the loft
The best China’s packed up in something that’s soft
The Holly’s chucked out which seemed a bit drastic
When you consider that most it’s plastic
Granddad’s still sat in his gold paper hat
I ask why on Earth are you still wearing that
He says he don’t like to remove it too soon
Perhaps I should tell him it’s half way through June
turkey leftovers
on bread, in soups, on last legs
and all gobbled up
11/27/2018
downing leftovers
zingless pasta microwaved
haphazardly
8/26/2018
If I could find
within my mind
a way to erase
all traces of time
Then I would start
to tear apart
words stuffed away
in mind and heart
The ones that hide
and still abide -
the pain that feeds
the hurt inside
And if I could
I surely would
leave only things
left for the good
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.