Long Rhubarb Poems
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MIGHT THIS PLEASE SIR?
4 CUPS OF STRAWBERRIES
1 CUP OF THINLY SLICED RHUBARB
2 CUPS OF STRAWBERRY CHAMPAGNE
1 & 1/2 CUP OF WATERMELON CHAMPAGNE
3 CUPS OF SUGAR
1/4 CUP OF LEMON JUICE = 2 TABLESPOONS OF CORNSTARCH
5 TABLESPOONS OF CHOPPED MINT
MAKE A SYRUP WITH SUGAR ADD CHAMPAGNE (BOTH)
ALLOW TO SIMMER UNTIL THE MIXTURE THICKENS.
ADD LEMON JUICE AND MINT
WHEN MIXTURE IS THICKENED ADD STRAWBERRIES AND RHUBARB
ALLOW TO COOL.
IN A SWALLOW OVAL SHAPED DISH OR A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE
ADD A FEW SLICES OF POUND CAKE
TOP WITH STRAWBERRIES AND RHUBARB AND TOP WITH WHIPPED CREAM
SERVE WITH SOME CHAMPAGNE AND ENJOY!
Just down the gravel road a piece is an old-time country store.
On its saggin' shelves are things you won't find much anymore.
Ladies in bright calico barter with Mr. Draper their eggs and butter,
As they visit neighbors on Saturday nights amid the piles of clutter!
Menfolk lounge on benches in front of the store to discuss the price of hogs,
Argue the merits of John Deere tractors and who has the finest huntin' dogs.
The kids were given fifty-cents and shooed off to the movin' pitcher show.
Later they'll meet at Bruce's Deli Shoppe for ice cream and cups o' joe!
Shoppin' carts or computers ain't used in the store owned by Mr. Draper.
He grabs things off the shelf and totes the bill on scraps of butcher's paper.
Snoozin' nigh the glowin' potbelly stove is Spooks, Mr. Draper's hound.
His inscrutable cat, Wilbur, sprawls upon a barrel of pickles a-sleepin' sound!
Ah, the variety of interestin' stuff available in his store is so replete.
Fels Naptha, Oxydol and Lifebuoy soaps as well as pickled pigs feet,
Wrigley's, Black Jack, Beamans and Clove chewin' gums are on the shelf,
Plus Clark, Power House and Walnetto candies to satisfy yourself!
Farmers keep his bins stocked with fresh roastin' ears and sweet potaters,
Rutabagas, green onions, rhubarb and luscious beefsteak tomaters.
If you can tolerate squeaky floors and Mr. Draper's old-fashioned ways,
Drop by and savor the nostalgic ambience of his store one of these days!
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Just Down The Road" Contest
NOUVELLE CUISINE
Nouvelle cuisine the waiter said, as he served the food to me
Where’s the rest I asked him, as I’d earlier skipped my tea
Tiny bits of something on a massive bloody dish
I tried to woo my girlfriend by pretending I was swish
You can pick the restaurant, was my very first mistake
I thought she’d pick our local for some scampi or a steak
Instead she chose Pierre’s, which was going to be steep
I’d heard the food was lovely though the prices made you weep
I gazed upon the menu, which was written out in French
And scanned along the prices, which made my buttocks clench
To refrain from looking stupid, I ordered some red wine
We requisitioned dinner and prepared ourselves to dine
A puny bowl of soup arrived, we felt a touch irate
We had to eat it quickly or it could evaporate
The main course had potato which was hidden by some meat
Five al-dente vegetables, all stacked up nice and neat
A de-constructed rhubarb tart, that’s what they served us next
Though why they took it all apart has left us kinda vexed
We left a tip and paid the bill…a pretty hefty fee
Then dandered into town and we got a KFC
A place I know so well, I could never get lost.
These back roads and highways a thousand times I've crossed.
I walk them in my dreams, sometimes I even fly!
The joy of being home, the sorrow of goodbye.
I could never feel this way about stone! Wooden beams and timbre will never make a home.
It's my Momma and my Daddy, my kin and all my friends…it's the people that I love, I make my home with them.
It's the scent of fresh pine needles carpeting the ground,
The gurgle of the creek out back, I can still hear that sound.
It's the way when I wake up, I know just where I am…if home for you is love, you can always go home again.
Home is grandma's rhubarb pie, though she can't make it anymore. But she gave the recipe to me and now, honey it's yours. Daddy can no longer play and sing the songs we grew up on, but I remember every word and I'm passing them along.
No, I could never feel this way about stone! Wooden beams and timbre will never make a home.
It's my Momma and my Daddy, my kin and all my friends…it's the people that I love, I make my home with them.
It's the scent of fresh pine needles carpeting the ground,
The gurgle of the creek out back, I can still hear that sound.
It's the way when I wake up, I know just where I am…if home for you is love, you can always go home again.
Yea, “Country Roads will take me home to the place I belong”…cause if home for you is love…you can always go home again.
Mm, fresh firm pears so succulent and ripe
Oozing sweetened juices from nature's delight
Peeled cored and sliced into delectable quarters
This recipe is now under starting orders
To this mix I add some freshly halved strawberries
Finely diced rhubarb with a dash of merry sherry
Some butter, sugar with a splash of lime zest
The proof's in the pudding with my dessert quest
With a sprinkling of cinnamon the best from Saigon
I roll out the puff pastry, on and on and on
My ingredients are topped of with ground vanilla beans
Cooked by this Scottish King for his English Queen
The icing on the cake could be whipped or ice cream
On a hot afternoon with my blond, mm our dream
A unicorn travels through the wheat fields and lays its dreams on pillows of poppies,
In your fragrance of wind, as clover crowns itself in bloom,
Over the evening horizon, see, stars were falling,
And in a handkerchief, I knot the embroidery of the storm.
Under my feet, dust grows, and lightning passes through me,
The wind moves among the shadows, caressing itself.
My summer, you who were ephemeral and now delay yourself,
Septembers will come again just as butterflies arrive on flowers.
I don’t see how time flees if my eyes are blind,
Nor how amber flows through the clock, hidden beneath the rhubarb,
Under foreign rains, water suffocates in the abyss,
And crowded seconds walk their fingers through the fords.
From a clock falls a shadow trembling towards the horizon,
I no longer know if I have died or am a bird of salt,
The moment between butterflies sometimes seems a chasm wounding words,
Other times a field of mallows that is silent and deceives you.
On a child, time paints the dew of golden steps,
I gather the swallows from the grass, fleeing from summers that fly away.
My car was in the shop so I rode the bus
Sat next to my ex girlfriend without a fuss
Didn't think she would talk to me
But she yakked so my ears wanted to bleed
Didn't know your cat Fluffy died
Didn't know your boyfriends parole was denied
Didn't know your mother is moving in again
Didn't know it hurts to force a grin
Didn't know you lost some weight
Didn't know on a bus there's no escape
Didn't know there's an election soon
Didn't know tonight is a full moon
Didn't know your aunt married number nine
Didn't know your credit card was declined
Didn't know you lost your rhubarb pie recipe
Didn't know you would still talk to me
Didn't know your brother married him
Didn't know you always cheated at gin
Didn't know why I avoid the bus
Didn't know so much about us
The bus stopped and I got off
She wanted my number but I had to cough
She waved bye and yelled call my phone
I said sorry left mine at home
Finally I was walking free
Hailed down a yellow taxi
What did in her did I see
Could she still like me
Didn't know I would see you
Didn't know what I would do
Didn't know I was finally over you
Didn't know but your still so cute
Didn't know I would see you
Didn't know what I would do
Didn't know I was finally over you
Didn't know but your still so cute
There's something going on around here, something special.
Something's being tossed in the bowl- (sort of speak). Something that to my likes, tastes and smells as good as any cheery pie, apple strudel, or creme filled pastry. I suppose it's in the air, or, in the soup, if I may say. I sense a great deal of trust, honor and friendship. I trust my gut and soul, for it is soothed and full of warmth. I get the feeling that it is not only I that feels this way. Let us continue to reap the rewards together for in which this community so much has to offer. But it is the "love" that embraces my heart every time I read a comment, poem, or story written by my fellow poets and poetesses. Yes indeed, there's something going on around here. Something that's addicting...and I'm addicted! I promise- to be just another ingredient that adds a little taste to this already very flavorful mixture of sweetness and seasonings from around the globe. Do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb? "Not if it's in cans" my dad used to say". So, I will continue to add my rhubarb- can or not.
I hope it appeases you all...
Sincerely,
PS member
From within the frost frozen bare boarded shed
with its loosely hung zee braced door agape,
the spring light peeked.
Warming the woodsheds King pine planks,
toasting the ten penny nails,
popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height.
Door slamming dashes barefoot
through the obstacle course of cord, tinder, rake and hoe,
to the semi attached outhouse.
Drawers half down, butt bitten by March’s wind,
the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base.
Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890,
the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind;
as do I when an updraft attempts to speed dry my bottom.
I make a half-assed mad dash to the kitchen door.
Half way there I stop awestruck
at the gapping door to the kitchen garden.
Raspberry red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks,
warmed by the sheltered spring sun set my mouth to drool.
So stands, a waylaid girl child in transit.
I am lured in by the smell of lemon muffins, so tall
the blueberry scones are calling me to the back wall
Oh, my goodness, are those Italian cookies homemade?
I enter the bright bakery wondering why they don’t pull the shade
The sun is pouring in, lighting up the day in fast order
Grinning big time is the proprietor, old Mrs. McCorder
We are making two homemade soups for lunch, she tells me
And you’d best come back for apricot pie, it will be ready at three!
No one has to pull my hair to get me to buy my fill
My sacks are so full they threaten to over-spill
I leave with rhubarb pie and three kinds of homemade bread
I’ll be back at three, I holler, to Mrs. McCorder’s sweet head.