Long Vittles Poems
Long Vittles Poems. Below are the most popular long Vittles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vittles poems by poem length and keyword.
Standing on the avenue under a light, all dressed
up with blood red lips like a piece of braciola
covered in attradtive colored wrappings.
Customers with bright new polished
shopping carts move slowly
looking, wondering
whether the price
is right.
How much will it take to buy that piece of tender
meat they wonder. The street lamp looks
down with the eye of an auctioneer
inspecting the merchandise.
Patrons stop their carts and
hearing the price, they
leave without
buying.
A client with a red shiny cart stops and buys a
young piece of flesh and quickly slides it
by his side. Police with their dull
carts, stroll by watching the line of
customers not wanting to bother
them, for they too have tasted
the fresh vittles from the
corner market.
Wish we were just married.
My trusting head upon your shoulder.
When we had so terribly little,
Yet.... so very much.
And we seemed to have beeen
blessed with the magic touch,
That made us to the world far,
far bolder!
Watching the spiritual fog,lift the
San Francisco sun each dawn.
Like a deer, wakes each morning,
to feed her dear, precious fawn.
Really, few precious vittles to eat.
Nontheless,we walked to Nortn Beach,
To be with other poets for a Mocha treat.
The San Francisco streets welcomed us.
Those dewy, foggy nights, did embrace
embrace us…thus!
~Dedication~
1/29/2024
On our 65th wedding anniversary.
To my writer/husband, who died at forty.
~~~~
1/24/2024
My New Years resolution is not to make any more New Years resolutions!
I've made 'em in the past but they died on the craggy shoals of the Aleutians!
I'd swear to ease up on the vittles but I caught those scales lyin' to me.
I tried to curb my cussin' by usin' terms like gosh, darn and golly gee!
I resolved to be more courteous to other drivers and not flex my middle digit,
And be more patient with my kids when they wanted to squirm and fidget!
I vowed to take my dentist's advice and floss my choppers each and every day.
I flossed religiously but lost my religion leavin' my teeth prone to decay!
I promised myself that I'd exercise regularly in order to keep fit and trim,
But preferred lollin' in my LazyBoy with a beer sans goin' to the gym!
'Tis obvious when it comes to keepin' resolutions I ain't got much fortitude,
So I reckon I'll take my chances and not lock-in on any inane platitude!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
the joyous partner the microwave
it has become my chef
alas not quite my mother's hand
but for its swiftness of foot
there is no other
yes i survive on the TV dinner
oh dear Lord i have shown my age
frozen until my vittles need calling
it is a world of the chophouse
from a hashery where most dine
no fuss, just plain celerity needed
those exquisite tastes, hidden within
lucious noodles and sauces
from white to red
and should that become a disaster
there is always ketchup
Siracha, Hot Mustard, Orange, Honey
it is almost endless for Asia
the frozen dinner section sublime
those long rows packaged and waiting
almost a walk in the Lourve of paintings
as you ogle those reflections in frosted doors
i become a child on Christmas morning
Master Chef in TV Dinnerland
the trick is in the additions
a tad of salsa, or perhaps sour cream
of course scads of butter on taters
A1 or H57 sauce on the meatloaf, or Salisbury
in the vegetable department a loverly
chopped, ready-to-go medley
of onion, celery, and carrot
jalapenos, green chilis, olives
come already in cans chopped
simply sprinkle on at last minute
but the greatest joy held in my heart
is when i place the holy offering
i would never eat, retrieved from garbage
into that loverly microwave
always upon a microwave-safe plate
gently affixing an impediment to door
wait for that loverly moment
when that pesky fly enters to dine
slam the door in most haste
hit that 3-minute button
nothing more civilized than well done
then wait for that pure joy
when the whistling, whirling stop
light goes off, and the wonderful
ding, ding, ding of a job well done
let the philosophers and theologians
go on, and on about revenge
but i vote it is best when microwaved
loverly i say
OKC 7/01
She's up in the morning
two hours before dawn
has done most of her chores
before the lights come on
Already milked the cows
and gathered up the eggs
even put liniment
on the horse’s sore legs
Bacon and eggs are cooked
the biscuits are baked brown
the gravy has been stirred
and the plates laid down
Once the pans are empty
the last bread's been buttered
the men tack their horses
while she clears the clutter
Now a fifty mile drive
just to get to the store
to pick up the supplies
they have been waiting for
Time to fry the chicken
and put beef in the beans
cause stomachs on the ranch
are never full it seems
After serving the meal
and cleaning up the mess
she'll ride out to the range
and work beside the rest
She has to be able
to ride fence, rope and brand
just as good as any
of those other hired hands
When the day is over
tired and hungry as hell
the men wash up and get
set for the supper bell
She'll be in the kitchen
cooking vittles again
Cause work for a ranch wife
never comes to an end
Driving along
What's that I smell
The daily delight
Of the latest roadkill
From raccoons to possums
In this flattened cuisine
As vultures take lunches
On this finest of dining
Call us the critter getters
Crossing over our paths
Taking them out
As they scurry this way and that
From Bambi to Thumper
And all their forest friends
It does make you wonder
Who you'll run into next
We'll even take out the curious
Who wander on
To that portion of blacktop
To see what's going on
From teetotaling turtles
To slithering snakes
There's not a creature out there
That we won't pancake
So check out the roadkill
If there's still twitch after the thump
Hurry in back
And toss it into the trunk
Because down in the South
There ain't no one can say
That any of us country folk
Let a thing go to waste
Below the Mason Dixon line
If it's fresh enough
We'll take it home ya'll
And have it for lunch
As long as it's fried
There ain't a thing
With cheese grits on the side
That we won't eat
Should perchance someday Hallmark is seeking struggling bards,
To concoct witty verse for their annual Thanksgiving cards,
I think that I should like to summarily submit,
The following mots for their consideration, TO WIT:
(1) Savor the oyster dressing, giblet gravy and thigh,
The sweet pertaters, green bean casserole and punkin pie.
Hope you have a goodly supply of sodium bicarbonate,
To counter the wrenching effects of all that grub you ate!
(2) To Grandma's house, hordes of kith and kin will repair,
For delicious vittles, (if Grandpa ever ends his interminable prayer!)
May naught but love and fellowship dwell amongst you there,
As His bountiful harvest each of you cheerfully share!
(3) The Thanksgiving meal is over, the guys watch teams battle,
While women sit about the table engaged in idle prattle!
Mom's thoughts are elsewhere on how to deal with leftover turkey.
She's a genius at creating stews and soups, even turkey jerky!
(4) A Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!
Relish this time together and have a ball!
And may all with thankful hearts ever lift,
Thanks to Him, the Giver of all good gifts!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The year was 1832 when she slipped out the pub back door
It was stormy and cold as she walked out far across the English Moor
She stood at the edge of a craggy cliff as waves slammed rocks below
Her hooded cape flapped wildly as the wind began to blow
The fury of the rain and wind pummeled her tiny frame
She wondered if they'd miss her or even knew her name
For she was just a tavern maid who sometimes shared her bed
But what she earned just barely left enough to keep her fed
The sailers stopped at the Rose and Crown for whiskey, vittles and more
Then slung their bags and left the pub to sail for distant shores
Although it did not show just yet, she feared she was with child
And some of them who'd bedded her, made her feel defiled
She saw no future for herself nor means to raise a child
Then softly cried forgive me lord and bid the world goodby
fast as a blitzen comet,
this dashing prancer
contra dancer
(i.e. Rudolph nary hoof) didst zip
with cupid ditty toward his vixen wife,
who loosed a suppressed yip
asper one discovering remains of the day
from the donner
(newt the majority) party whip
ping her olive drab camouflage attire,
as if she hapt to be a vip
endlessly congratulating herself
(and bow wowing her ego) bing awarded
the housekeeping seal of approval,
and expected me to tip
her gore gee us Martha Stewart déclassé
snoop doggy dog rendition
as she did slip
agilely (with broom and dustpan in hand) rip
peat head lee uttering
an apropos Mary Poppins quip
booting muck can clear across to Compton
(wherever that might be) pip
pin like a cat on a hot tin roof,
where no cure existed to nip
in the bud at this stage,
and rid thine beloved Narberth bride,
who caught a bout clean destine
feverish frenzy to make house beautiful,
oblivious to beseeching despair,
sans this husband who cried
plaintively imploring divine intervention,
lest extreme heroic measures
need be taken, thus guide
me asap before her blistered hands
rubbed red as tender (vittles) raw hide,
which could find her catatonic, doggone
ill eagle lee flying a boot
like a bat out of hell, and stupefied
hence, this urgent message typed out in a huff
for less severe invasive
experimental treatment truly tried
on this, that, or some other missus so and so
.....please pardon this abrupt end,
plus initial idea wide
lee differing from my initial intent won
during how to write an elegy to mister son
describing, how aye felt enervated with run
hills of beaming solar rays, oh how none
synthetic drug to bathe,
enhance, suffuse away mon
day moody blues,
and now...gotta tend tummy hun!
Woke up this morning and made you some breakfast.
You didn’t want it, this I could tell.
You walked to the stove and started to smell it,
turned up your nose, and said, "what the hell!"
It's just humble fare like my grandma Edna
used to prepare out west on the plains.
She always swore it was better than dyin'
from the throes of severe hunger pangs.
I know you’re a cowboy from your hat and your buckle
and the way you hang your thumbs from your belt,
but seeing your face all green makes me chuckle
from cowboy vittles that you only smelt
My darling I believed you were the real thing
a genuine cattle hand through and through,
but now I'll have to go back to the saloon
to find another who'll eat possum stew.
11/19/2018