Long Home baked Poems
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As cave-dweller O man, thou wert crudest,
Ere civilized and a bit social made,
In a painstaking long march to the crest,
Evolving— a seed of creed mutated,
Ye struggled long before brought home baked bread,
As weeds lose out ere mutate in maze
Of labyrinthine lanes darker than dread,
From chaos were created newer ways.
No growth hast grown that would not get modest,
Undeterred, no head hath moved nigh ahead,
All progress in time tends to pause post-haste,
As brightest rainbows fizzle out to fade—
The nature of Nature none can evade,
Nature unfolds in long phase, not in days,
To vales turn top peaks that were once jaded,
Creation as comes in chaotic ways.
In eons human hope kissed vales and crest,
Surviving in cosmic womb, never dead,
Suffering birth pain quite un-manifest,
Remember, yon of that tall mountain head
Lies your fond dream. Do walk on, go ahead,
Not just on peaks, hope lives in vales, at base,
In journey too to enjoy, never dread,
A way forward comes from chaotic ways.
Envoi
Keep climbing, if hope be the only aid,
Inhale hope in every breath, don’t just gaze,
At rope’s end, O hang on by just hope-led,
For, from chaos are built morrow’s fairways.
____________________________________
Musings | 03.02.2011 | Hope
Poet’s note: Heart, it seems, lives on the edge of hope. The brooding head hesitates, delves into new depths, meanders, groping for a way out. Seeing the way much of the world is moving today, one tends to indulge in melancholic thoughts. Has man lost all hopes? I don't know but hope, it’s not so. Civilization, I suspect, is an inverted bell-shaped curve. Things get worse before they get better. Read also my ‘Hope: A bird wordless that sings', a ballade.
Motive:
jealousy twisted into a desire for power,
Systems built from broken trust,
Superiority sourced by those who exude it,
Blood spilled from the hands of those who are black
Empires built from false prophecy
Lies cultivated from the weeds of projected self-hatred
Motive - the white man to appear as the superior race
Alibi:
The fragility of whiteness,
The acidic tears of the white woman,
The weaponisation of power by the white man,
The homemade, home-baked stereotypes - to divide
Propaganda pieced together with the glue of prejudiced policies -
Weaving deceit to narrate harmful ideologies of blackness
The portrayal of victimhood, for the picture of white innocence,
The abuse of power, to abuse black people
Alibi - racial killings masquerading as self-defence
The defence rests
Prosecutors sweat
The judge, blinded by bias
The jurors , all white
The verdict:
Not guilty -
By reason of fear of colour
Acquitted
Now freedom awaits -
For the white man, now he can do it again
Talk to me now...of day break
Of questing light
The sky
Salted with clouds
crimson with a spectrum of a rainbow at dawn
or
peppered with grey and raindrops
Sugared all
with the seeds of a new day
The question lies ahead
eventually we all must leave
I'm tired
Tired of mossy hills
Tired of rainbows
Spare me your rocks with they're glistening gentle
subtle hues
Spare me your mud brown here
red there
Spare me your ponds
your lily pads
Let me get over your lovely hidden pathways
you weeping willows
Oh please spare me!!!
Let me forget the walkways that stretch out so far
weathered wood and seagrass bound
that far out over the sands bring me
closer and closer
to your wild undulating blue so grey green blue sea
Don't dare me to love the sea anymore
That vast grasping calling tumultuous sea
Let me forget fine golf course grass yards
Forget me flowers
Forget me seeds
Forget me pine needle soft forest floors
and absolutely forsake me tall golden grasses that dip
and yaw in breezes
Forget me English gardens with archways
and ancient swings
with fancies and curiosity
Forget Me All fish ponds and lilypads
Let me forget the taste of oysters
Let me forget caviar on crackers with sour cream
Let me forget the taste of a fantastically season steak
hot dogs and home baked bread
Oh forbid me to remember the smell of a Christmas tree
and apples fresh from the orchards
Or peaches..plums and tomatoes hot from sun
Forbid me to want to water a flower again
Prevent me want to hear the sound of my footfalls
on cobbled paths
Beseech me never to think of salted air
Forbidden to me
to remember
what it was to kiss your lips
caress your every inch of silk
Swim in water
Dive and dip and flip
Never
to fly again when watching a bird
Resent and resist in me
the coo of my morning dove
on the day before her children leave her nest
I will not feel it again...I will not long for it if it is forgotten
I'll be ready to die then
Deny me all I love
Make me blind and mute and helpless and feeble first
That when I die
I die as I came
A stranger
wide eyed and awed
to the glory of life hereafter
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
I reminisce, I miss.... The smell of fresh home baked cookies, today they come from a box of stale goodies. Please and thank you, now very seldom heard. When kids were kids just having fun, not tied to a computer so they cannot run. Life was work hard with simple things, like flowers you would bring. The days of old are long gone, never to return. The ones I loved, the ones that loved me are all gone. I reminisce, I miss....
Date Written: 3/17/2021
3/19/2021 Poem of the Day
"And"
1 Place
I REMINSSE I MISSContest Judged: 4/13/2021
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
The delicious odor of home-baked bread
instantly takes me to mum's kitchen door,
I'm in heaven, though not a word is said.
Kneading the dough, she'd punch it down once more,
calling for three risings, she'd give it four.
I can never resist that fresh-baked smell,
just one whiff and once more, I'm a small boy,
there's no smell like it; I could always tell.
It's forever linked to a time of joy,
a nostalgic quirk, memories employ.
The instant its unique aromas waft
up my nostrils, with that heavenly scent,
I envision my mum's hugs, firm yet soft.
Going to the bakery's an event
that brings back flashes of mom's French accent.
(English- Quintain)
2/18/2018
For lunch today my wife said,
husband, why don’t we eat out.
I said, Honey in these Covid times,
that’s not what I’m about.
You just sit back and rest your feet,
and let me worry about our lunch.
I have the perfect meal in mind,
you’re sure to love it, that’s my hunch.
So I pulled a pound of bacon from the fridge,
slapped it onto my heated griddle.
As soon as it hit the pan it started splattering,
I did a little dance to the sound of the sizzle.
I took a fresh from-the-garden tomato,
sliced it thick (the perfect way).
Toasted two slices of home-baked bread,
and covered them with mayonnaise.
Added just a shake of salt to it,
topped that with a crisp lettuce leaf.
Four slices of brown (but not crunchy) bacon,
makes a sandwich that goes beyond belief.
Once it was all stacked together,
I sliced it at an angle from bottom to top.
Add some BBQ Lays potato chips,
and a glass of ice-cold soda pop.
If you’ve never had one before,
there’s nothing better to satisfy your taste.
Fix up a good ole classic BLT sandwich,
trust me, there’ll be nothing left to waste.
Some say the best part of it all,
and I agree with them I must say.
Your house will smell all bacon-ey,
for the rest of the day.
The Loss
Dream time, lazy and long, is over
It lasted a generation
But real life
Came and stole the colors
Home-baked bread, no more
Everything is easy, shop-bought
and taste of the average.
I know of a woman who stole
Flowers for her son’s coffin
It stood there in the snow
Grave diggers on strike.
But a bouquet doesn’t
Mind, know why they are needed
Rootless and decaying anyway
So let the mother be, she didn’t
Do anything wrong, just rearranged
Flowers bought in a shop for a grave
They had too many for her son’s
Whose no flora in the world could hide
Hide a mother’s grief
I scribbled quickly
As they wrote their final exam
Little notes of appreciation
A special individualized message
Thanking each student
For having been in my class
And for bringing me joy
Reminding each one
Of the potential that lies within
For each is a remarkable individual
A personalized message
Of encouragement
And a shared Bible verse
Psalm 37: 4
This was a special class
Made up of pastors
A journalist
An architect
Adults from different walks of life
Some married
Others single
Some shy
Others bold
All wanting to become
Better writers
What an amazing group
My French came in handy
With my students from Algeria
How I loved their French accent
As they tried to pronounce
The bothersome words in English
Leaving a never ending smile on my lips
After they spent an hour writing
I made them pause
To have home baked brownies
I’d made from scratch
Along with a soft drink
A time to relax…
Refreshed
They continued on their essays
And I decorated each note
With stickers
“Great Work”
“Way to Go”
“Excellent”
“You are a Star”
And for the women
Lots of hearts!
I love hearts
They decorate my office
Pillows
Key rings
Earrings
And now
My little notes
Which came straight from my heart
Each one got to exchange the finished essay
For a handwritten note from the teacher
I said with a sheepish grin
“These stickers are not because you are a child….
But…because I am!
I am a child at heart!"
That brought smiles
And a hug from
The journalist from Brazil
“I’m going to cry,” she said.
As she gave me a bear hug
My heart sang
They had learned to love writing
What greater joy could be mine?
The Brazilian journalist
Met me in church last Sabbath,
Gave me another warm hug and said,
“Teacher, thank you for the note
You inspired me to do my best.”
And what she couldn’t articulate well
Sparkled in her eyes
And danced in her hand motions
Silly little stickers
Simple little words
A whole lot of love
Love for my students
EVERYONE needs some encouragement
Everyone needs to know
That inside the heart resides
A wealth of beauty longing to be expressed
A piece of the soul that longs to live forever
In the written word
I thank God I’m a teacher
After all,
I’m in good company
For, the GREATEST Teacher of all time
Jesus Christ
Is my mentor!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Simple were my tastes as a Hoosier country boy.
I'd heard of the fancy grub enjoyed by the hoi polloi,
But what set my youthful taste buds aquiver instead,
Was a helpin' of Mom's home-baked ham and gravy bread!
How I hated gettin' out of bed on a frosty winter's dawn,
Tryin' to awake, strugglin' to put my red flannels on.
Ah! But the aroma from the kitchen meant I was to be fed,
A servin' of Mom's fried pertaters and gravy bread!
On the Hoosier farm there were mornin' chores to be done,
Milkin' cows and sloppin' hogs, neither of which was fun.
But just thinkin' about breakfast and the treat that lay ahead,
Knowin' Mom was fryin' eggs and fixin' gravy bread!
In the service when the bugler blew a rousin' reveille,
I knew that powered milk and eggs in the mess awaited me!
Oh! How I yearned for Mom's zesty blackberry spread,
And a heapin' plate of bacon and scrumptious gravy bread!
I've traveled o'er this globe and sampled fancy fare,
But I've yet to find anything that will ever compare,
To risin' from my slumber and seein' the board spread,
With good old country fare, especially that tasty gravy bread!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)