Long Dining table Poems
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When growing up, we had our seats
Around the dining table.
We knew where everyone belonged –
We didn’t need a label.
Within the car, the rules applied;
The window seat was mine.
The youngest got the middle seat –
He’d dare not try to whine.
As an adult, I’m still the same –
I like the seat I’ve picked;
In classrooms, lunchrooms, or the car –
Usurpers I evict.
Some people just don’t understand.
They think I’m dictatorial,
When really, it’s within my genes
To be quite territorial.
We all have quirks, and one of mine
Is choosing where I sit.
It’s juvenile and just a tad
Obnoxious, I admit.
But since it means a lot to me
Most people seem to yield,
Perhaps enjoying someone else’s
Craziness revealed!
A former Oiler once said
Staying out of debt
Give up being a bum
Fill up my son
Call yourself a titan
And go do some fighting
Years then passed
While pumping gas
This entrepreneur realized
There has been one too many lies
Staring down the Giant model making Ford
Letting out a Lion’s roar
“I am a Texan
It is time I start checking
I wear the red, white and blue
What are you going to do?”
Later on a lone star
Was sitting outside in the car
Having DC red skin
Due to the twins
They do not look alike
And someone gave one a mike
Keeping an eyeball on them
Waiting for the word ‘when’
After the family meal
It was the deal
A lone star imprinted on center stage
Relieving everyone from the dining table cage
There was a plan to capture the scalp
From the lone star who was knocked out
“How dare the twins
In all their wins
Not look the same
Playing their game fore fortune and fame”
Mumbled the lone star in a dream
Allowing everyone in the room to scream
“What a hairy situation this was
But we all know being a lone star you needed the buzz”
As the moon started to rise
And sun disappeared from the sky
Death was flying in the air
When the steel curtain decided to open the stage affair
Edgar had his reason to use his de Penn
While having one last left over dessert in the den
Giving all his heart to the night time entertaining start
Understanding the pendulum in the pit was made of metal
And issues had to be settled
This left old Edgar a reason to mettle
Before putting some more in his cryptic kettle
Since the Texan lone star twins were no longer there
It was time a poet writes a scare
Acting like a crow
This drunken Poe
Without a mate
And a date
He started tweeting
Keeping the holiay season pulse beating
“Day of thanks is almost done
And festive time has come
Gothic autumn classics
Have turned their leaves over to shopping plastics
But it is not what you give
It is how you live
I will give it now over to Mr. Dickens
Whose words are still ticken
Go forth in artistic ways
We will all pray
When the Saints play
In the French Quarter on Christmas Day”
I was born an old soul, a step out of time,
And antiques or just old things come to me;
Vintage clothing and jewelry are a passion,
I love to wander the antique shops.
A fancy cup with a small chip does not bother me,
A welcome addition to my window ledge;
The dust and cobwebs in the depths of the shops,
Enthrall me to poke around in boxes.
Each old item whatever it may be is a treasure,
These old things take me back in time;
Back to an era that I feel is where I really belong,
I love to turn back the pages of time.
I like to set my dining table with mismatched dishes,
Found in junk and antique shops, all different;
Beautiful colors and designs, hand painted flowers,
A little crack does not change the beauty.
_______________________________
April 12, 2014
Poetry/Verse/Turning Back Time
Copyright Protected, ID 04-557-403-12
All Rights Reserved, 2014, Constance La France
I cooked food and waited for my husband and son
They had gone out
I never eat my meal before serving my family
Feeling hungry I ate few biscuits
They were not enough to fill my stomach
Tired, I lay down in bed
When they came, they woke me up for lunch
I couldn't walk, felt lifeless
Totally drained of all energy
I slowly walked and sat on dining table chair
Food on my plate, tears rolled down my eyes
Just few morsels of food was all I wanted
Wiping tears of joy, I started eating
After eating I became normal.
That moment I vowed to God
I will never crib over anything
I get food whenever hungry
I have no right to complain.
Each day try to feed as many as possible
Pangs of hunger are hard to bear
Poor are expected to work hungry stomach before they get paid
Such a situation should never come in anyone's life!
23rd February 2021
Walking downstairs; I see particles of light,
Shimmering in my dark brown long hair.
The light of stars is so bright that it
Envelopes all the darkness into light.
Sauntering there; I am made aware,
By the crispy clear voice of my dad saying,
“Come over there!” I stare looking at his short
Grey hair illuminating a silhouette of bright light.
Dressed all in white, standing.
A long wooden dining table is next to him.
That’s where my aunt and uncle are seated side by side.
My father then extends his tan brownish colored hand,
Offering me a golden colored round Ladoo.
I take it and eat the Ladoo with fervor.
Chomping away nothing flavorful and salivating,
As my surroundings change to pitch black with holding
Nothing but air.
In spite of viewers and hearers discretion,
One might wonder and say,
"Fashion is growing from top to down,
Excuse my knowledge under tension,
All because the wardrobe is put in section,
Anytime the morning sun rise,
It shakes the room,
And it even seems so right,
Perhaps many years ago I made a choice for a moon,
"In the early eighteenth century, you weren't in the game",
An old person's rule,
"But just make this century your platform,
Since a Prehistoric man will let you be wild to conform,
Men and women fought for their own dominance,
No nutritional food on a furnished dining table,
Our source of power was the eyes of an unknown rebel,
Adam and Eve clothed in leaves,
Who admonished them of peace?
What inspired their beefs?
Can I guess their mode of reasoning?
Of course,success crowned their fears,
They weren't pioneers,
Subsequently,when the moon sets in,
"Fashion grows from down to top in a generation setup to fail" .
My Santa sack was filled with poop
To many this news ain’t a scoop
I’ve perfected the art
How to write about fart
I've posted about them on soup
I’ll divulge about Aunty Mable
who eats sprouts whenever she’s able
she made some sprout soup -
a vile manky gloop
then farted at the dining table
She eats sprouts for breakfast and tea
Foul gas builds up copiously
Before she lets rip
She undoes her zip
Her flatulence is legendary
The stench of foul farts Uncle’s hating
Aunt Mable he’s daily berating
With the build-up of gas
that’s expelled from her a ss
their duvet’s always levitating
Inspired by a friend who is always bursting with blueberry goodness
01/08/22
Call it a requiem, dirge or elegy,
Lament, funeral song of eulogy,
On failing, dying light and last hurrah,
Maybe the last polite vah vah!
Once, a focal point of a family,
A device that brought it close together,
That not ere long a radio used to be,
Family fulcrum, pivot or tether!
Ere, youngsters were hooked to open-air games,
Later on replaced by digital ones
That made the able-bodied walking lames,
Each hooked on to a personal brand of funs.
Time was when the centre of gravity
Was food and frolics on a dining table,
That the Idiot Box had usurped; pity
That meal was munched with the fair served on cable!
One would recall, when ads for condoms came,
When sanitary naps ads became bold
In front of whole family, shorn of shame,
Children looked down on food plates, feeling cold.
Later on when times changed, unlike the old,
Children would look like: we-know-it-all-cool,
You were the prime piece of estate to hold,
You made, TV, an incredible pull.
The changing times then took a giant’s stride
When entertainment was no more social,
But more and more individual, personal,
You no more were, well, a newly-wed bride.
No doubt you too tried to be somewhat smart,
Yet, failed to compete with PCs and phones
That grew smarter, closer to users’ heart,
What can be done when changing times change tunes?
Today you’re far from your olden glory,
You try your hard to imitate smart phones,
Follow trodden treads, eyes tired and bleary,
O social outcast that house-corners owns!
Just one tap ah varied channels to change,
Enlarge a visual, or volume in mind,
One can command things of a varied range,
Alas, future does not seem to you so kind.
O pale shadow of your olden grandeur,
You no more are than a mere magnifier.
__________________________________________
Requiem |01.11.2021| elegy
Poet’s note: It may still be rather too early, but good old Idiot Box is on the way out. Here’s a requiem, maybe writ rather too early.
My Favourite Leaf
When someone mentions leaves, I always think of fall,
It precedes winter’s introduction, a slow rambling crawl
Visualizing the leaves of burnt orange and crimson red,
Inspiring excitement for the celebrations that lie ahead.
While most people think that the maple leaf is the prettiest of all,
Together these leaves display horizons, a brillant, colour sprawl,
But the leaf I love most is slid into my dining table to add length,
Means my family will sit all together again, our eternal strength.
Written October 3, 2011
By Lee Ramage
For Carol Brown’s contest
Leaves, Leaves, Leaves
Won 2nd place
*** A DAISY TALE ***
A single, wild, tiny daisy
Less than a thumbnail in size, swaying side to side
In the slight, burning whiffs of a summer’s breeze,
Growing out from next to the house,
From the corner where the front and side
gray, stone walls of the house meet.
She climbs her way on out fron beneath a thick, brambly
Weed-Bush that is quite hell-bent on strangling
Any beauty growing in its proximity, and between
Whose many snappy twigs, the wild daisy had grown, sprouting
Her skinny stem up from the gravelly dirt, to rise, threading
Through the Weed Bush’s many twig limbs, until she cleared
Out above it, to be now taller than the house’s front stoop, onto
Which it takes three steps to stand. And, bobbing close to
Which she now gloried — near no others of her kind — alone —
With only five leaves sticking out from her stem
And showing off her golden center, smaller
Than the nail of a newborn baby’s pinky finger; leaves and flower angled
To face the sun: their light…her direction, in that moment,
Noon-centered overhead in the cerelean blue, July sky. Tiny, stalwart
Wild daisy, without fragrance (except perhaps to bees);
With her several minute white petals, sized
Like the absolute tips of toothpicks. The eptome of dainty.
Delicate, delightful. Perfect for a child’s braided
Daisy chain, if only there were more there of her;
Or a lovely pick for a dining table bouquet centerpiece
If only she were very, very much larger…Still,
She’d reached her fated height, standing proudly straight,
Just beyond the shadows laying across the yard,
Showing the peaks of some nearby giant pines,
Who always joined with her to hum Mother Nature’s dusk lullabies
While the listening heavens smiled.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
This is a Narrative poem form, (with the daisy possibly
being a metaphor for someone you know?)
(c) sally young eslinger 6/19/2023
Thanks be to God