Long Tomatoes Poems
Long Tomatoes Poems. Below are the most popular long Tomatoes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tomatoes poems by poem length and keyword.
Growing up in Podunk Missouri,
meant that we had the freedom to roam.
Up and down rivers and wooded hills,
those places that we called home.
Picked berries, peaches, plums, and cherries,
and at least the ones that didn’t fill our bellies.
Mom would turn them into some mighty fine,
pies, cookies, canned juices and jellies.
Morel mushrooms in the frying pan,
could find them after a soft spring rain.
Serve with fried Catfish rolled in cornmeal,
and tomatoes, ‘taters, and onions.
Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and possums,
our blue tick was ready and able.
With the help of a marksman’s keen eyes,
it was easy to fill the supper table.
We built hideouts from leaves, weeds, and twigs,
out beneath a weeping willow’s green.
We laid with our backs against soft grass ,
wishing on each falling star we’d seen.
The screeches and hoots of a night owl,
watching us capture fireflies in jars.
The call of goatsuckers and whippoorwills,
filled our summer nights beneath the stars.
Wildflowers covered all the ditches,
that ran down our dusty gravel road.
Wood-post fences cradled new-born calves,
or protected crops that had just been sowed.
Some nights we ate around a campfire,
had no white tablecloth with frilly lace.
Beggar’s lice clinging tight to our jeans,
and red mosquito whelps on our face.
Soles of shoeless feet tough as leathe,r
as up and down those hills we would climb.
Moving deeper into life’s adventure,
we tried to outrun the passing time.
Those joyous years there in the woodlands,
before the future took us away.
Left me with many fond memories,
of that happy childhood yesterday.
Special drink
All frothy green and pink
Only cost ten dollars
Cheap don't you think
Three or four a day if I had my way
Can someone drive me to the store
I just need one more
Momma said, "What's in this drink?
Does it have something special?
It sure does stink!"
Oh its very special
Nothing but goodies inside
Momma said, "Can you make one for me?"
Oh sure
Let me see what you have that's fresh and alive
Spinach and tomatoes
Rye and beets
Pickles and kale
Should be in the drink
Grind in the blender
Till bubbly and tender
Makes a wonderful drink
You will remember
Momma said," You can have that drink.
Don't forget to clean out the sink!"
She fooled me again
When will it end
Now I have to make my own special drink
It's not the same
I even have to make it for friends
Each summer,
When the temperatures soared,
It was time for Nana's soup.
Soup in the summer?
You might wonder.
Yes, soup in the summer—
Her special soup from the garden,
The very garden where we grew the vegetables.
Nana's soup was special,
A meal we always made together.
We began in the garden,
Choosing only the finest vegetables
For the bubbling pot.
It was time to harvest
Everything her recipe required.
We shelled the peas by hand
And snapped the beans.
Tomatoes roasted
Until they were just right.
When we made Nana's special soup,
We weren't just making supper.
We were making memories
To last a lifetime,
Memories that warmed our hearts
Long after the soup was gone.
mountains tumble
across the horizon
twisting the last splinters
of warmth
through heavy hanging
gray soup
listless lifeless
endless sigh
dogs roll over
mown grass
clinking ice
gentle laughter
fluttering chimes
cool breeze
sweet pungent earth
enlivens lungs
ocean cracks
spills sheets
steams stainless barbeque
sizzles fire pit
douses tiki torches
lettuce, tomatoes, chips
condiments
march back inside
under the eaves
gulping rare air
until it freezes
behind the window
white pellets pelt
big red umbrella
guarding the feast
burgers melting cheese
buns toasting
in formation
lining the grate
storm sweeps over
collective gasp
tables towel off
wet dogs play
music marries
dinner mirth
dancing flames
lick black velvet
Friday swells
into sleep-in Saturday
while weaver weaves
another day
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles – 3-14-25 Dedicated to my Grandmother Pickel and her famous pickles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles
Forgotten in a tapestry of shadows
Woven in long twilights and long rows
Of blue cheeses, tomatoes, daisies and flying salmon
Shelves, birthing dust bunnies,
Give up the last jar of her pickles
Sealed in clear mason glass
Still smelling of dill and garlic and her hands.
Her handiwork still looks
As fresh as crisp cucumbers
Gathered in fields wearing sunflower bonnets
And the scent of new earth readied
To grow round again
With new seeds
Not to forget the children she gave into angel’s hands.
Brought into the light, her love shimmers
Through the artistry of her hands
A rhapsody, sealed and sung across decades,
Plays as I ladle jam and new pickles into her jars,
Savoring my harvest with gorgonzola on toast
And raspberry sherbet on a waffle cone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1895: the year it first stood,
a sentinel of walnut and dust,
North Rogers Street humming beneath its porch~
first with hooves, then pistons, now electric cars.
Granddad signed his name on a blank promise,
ink bleeding into faith.
Plumbing crawled indoors like a shy animal.
A garage yawned open.
The roof—oh, the roof~
stretched its spine against decades of hail.
Granny arrived with four shrieking shadows
who grew into echoes in the walls.
My mother’s laughter still lives
in the crack between floorboards,
her childhood a fossil trapped in varnish.
We came later—cousins, brothers~
tracking mud like a second skin.
The house tolerated us,
let us carve our initials
into its patience.
I know the smell of Granny’s perfume
better than my own breath.
Granddad’s slippers whispered
shhh-shhh across the planks,
a lullaby in Morse code.
Dusk on the porch swing:
Missouri spilled its sun like persimmon jam.
Trees dissolved into charcoal smudges.
Then—magic~
the lightning bugs arrived,
trading secrets in flickers.
Granddad called them living embers.
I called them proof.
Inside, the walls hoarded snapshots:
birthdays, Christmases, a thousand untold mornings.
The table’s oak face grew wrinkles,
each scar a story.
Gingerbread men drowned in cocoa,
their vanilla eyes wide with surrender.
Summers brought gardens:
tomatoes fat as fists,
cucumbers crisp as lies.
Granny’s hands, knuckled and sure,
picked them clean for jars of sweetness.
Now the house wears its age
like a favorite coat—threadbare, but still warm.
I press my palm to its siding,
feel the pulse of a thousand suppers,
a hundred storms.
Time won’t rewind.
But here’s the alchemy:
memory is a door
that swings both ways.
Home isn’t just where you sleep.
It’s where you wake up
again
and again
and again.
Accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/this_old_house--the_place_we_called_home_13650
12 Pitas
4 # of ground lamb
1 tablespoon of cumin
1 T cayenne
1?4 teaspoon of cinnamon
2 T of chopped fresh ginger
5 Tablespoons of garlic
1/4 cup of lime juice
2 teaspoons of fish stock
2 Tablespoons of Vinegar
3 Tablespoons of Pomegranate juice
3/4 cups of crushed gingersnaps
3/4 cup of mozzarella cheese
1 cup of diced onions
1 Tablespoon of Sesame seed oil
3 Tablespoons of sundried tomatoes minced
3 Tablespoons of chopped parsey
1 egg yolk
mix well and stuff Pitas.
grill or bake
flipping on the grill.
Dipping suce
2 grated cucembers peeled
2 T lemon juice
1 cup of nonfat yogurt
1 Tablespoon of crushed Garlic
1 Tablespoons of Honey
1 Tablespoon of fishstock
1 T of dillweed
Mix and Dipp!
Don't just eat that do something
How long have we warned you?
How long have you ignored?
How long will we be side tracked?
We know who the culprits are,
There's no shame in their game.
We can call out their names,
They are not hiding; the disregard is blatant.
They can stop the one, they can stop the two.
The masses must rise, and organize
Before we are too weak to rebel.
This is not a quick sale.
We have been investing in this for a long time.
Keep thinking there's someone watching the barn.
F.D.A., C.I.a., FBI - H.A.A.R.P. “nope”:
They are not on your side
They are frenemies.
"enemies with a smile"
“you think they care about round-up”.?
Or genetically engineered foods, do you?
Think they care about serving you" bovine cows",
Or chickens grown in six weeks with no beaks,
Do you? ...
Do you think they care about?
Confiscating your seeds?
Do you think the food you eat has nutrition?
And the confiscated seeds- were confiscated
With good intentions, do you?
How long before or children inherit more diseases
To please the greed of the pharmacies?
Do you want to watch them suffer?
While they heave, and can hardly breath.?
You can only for so long make this be about color,
Class, or race, as you turn away your face.
How long have we warned you?
The corn the tomatoes the oranges
The trees the grass the water
The fruit the veggies the air...?
Do you care - do you?
Stand up now
Write, call, speak, fight...
By any means necessary and...
"don't just eat that"....
” do something”!!!
Copyright © vicki acquah year posted 2013
Today I was cooking, cutting up tomatoes, my husband called me while mashing potatoes
"Hurry to the bedroom, they are playing a song, that has made me think of you all my life long"
Busy as I was, I was curious to see, what song made him think of me.
Down the hall, opening the door, my husband started dancing with me on the bedroom floor
The melody surrounded us like a cocoon, safe within his arms lost in the tune
"I have waited for you all my life" were the words of the song
We danced in that moment so long
A moment that brought tears to my eyes, My husband asked, "Why do you cry?"
"This moment, a gift you made mine, is a precious moment in time."
Back to the kitchen to do my chores, Treasuring a moment I will remember forever more.
The sun is bright in the clear morning sky
but brings little warmth as the solstice
is tomorrow and the photoperiod
decreases with each day.
A light frost yesterday and the eggplants
are not looking good but the tomatoes
seem okay and we will have chard,
kale and carrots well into autumn,
although the fall spinach never
set in and I must remember
to get a bushel of Romas
from the Farmer’s
Market to freeze
for the winter.
While in the city, the second wave
of the plague is rising and we
fear for our children but
they are younger and
God willing, we will
all be together for
Thanksgiving.