At the supermarket, squeeze this,
sniff that. Of course, color is the
first attraction: Fruit should not
be green -- vegetables must be!
So, green is not always best.
Children, take note! (Her daughter,
Little Genie, as ordered, wrote)
And if the same price for
one, choose the largest and weigh...
but scales sometimes are purposely
light, seldom right. (Genie again
wrote) Now let's do this again: I said
vegetables should be green...though
carrots better orange-yellow. Then there
are eggplants, they must be deep
purple. Oh, and the beets should
be nice, round, earthy red. Sweet candy,
gumballs, hot-dogs, highly processed
foods, hormone chicken and beef,
barbecue with artificial flavoring
should be avoided like the class
bully. (Genie wrote, if it taste good
it is probably bad for you) Read labels
on cans: Mono-this, Chlor-what's it,
if you can't say it, never plate it. Make
a list of these chemicals. Genie
used all the reminding pages in her pad.
(ended with, in the future, only go
shopping with dad)
the market for a crime is,
the pension for a crime
mind your own crime is,
mind your own business
a owned business is a owned crime
a owned business is a owned market
a owned market is a owned crime
a market is a owned market
work is working a crime
work is working a business
work is working a market
a market is to work a market
own is owning,work is working
own is owning,business is business
business is business,pension is pension
a working business is a working pension
a crime is a working pension
a crime is a working crime
own is working a crime
own is working a business
own is working a pension
The Chinese Vendor
A market in Hungary
Hatvan city
I remember an old man
Poor man. Good man
Chinese
He came every weekend
With his suitcase
Full of Chinese products
He sold those
Poor man
But great man
He was a trader
Mentally
Rich man
Business
Man
DINNER’S A CHORE
Dinner, my turn, nothing in the fridge
Off to market, be gone a smidge
Car won’t start, battery’s dead
Jump it, full steam ahead
Old gossips in the aisle, won’t move aside
‘Scuse me’ I croon, but they get snide
Right back I get crass
Suggest they kiss my ass
A public market lures you in
With local food and drink.
From farms to people it provides
A most delicious link.
The booths are filled with produce,
Meats and dairy (lots of cheese!)
And often freshly-captured seafood,
All arranged to please.
Of course, there will be ethnic food,
Enticing with its spices
And sandwiches and pizzas
Offered at amazing prices.
My favorites are the baked goods -
Cupcakes, cookies, cakes and pies
And the home-made candies, ‘specially
The chocolates (no surprise).
There may be hats and t-shirts
Advertising local pride,
For a public market’s sure to leave
Us all quite satisfied.
Each month a craft fair,
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.
Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.
Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.
All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them!
Join in Folks! Cheers!
Thinning wind around your ankles,
rusted wings cant fly, but walk,
welcome to this resentment once more,
life and death, where do we go,
willingly or unwillingly, here we are
why not just try, go away for some time,
if you decide to stay, take your life
give it away, someone has done the same,
for you, for me , for all of us,
understanding this underground
free market of souls, the cost
of living six feet under,
the cost of living above,
its all the same at the end.
Stock market is crying heartfelt tears
World wide depression is one of its fears
It has not known this sadness, in....well.....forever
And some thought a dictatorship would be so clever?
Jenny leaned against the counter, counting the stitches where Ariana’s arm had been severed, each segment arranged in clinical precision beneath the glass. The overhead lights hummed, sterile and white, reflecting off the muscle striations, the fine marbling of fat. The attendant, masked and impassive, weighed the cost. A rib’s soft curve. A shoulder blade, gleaming. “Is this enough?” she asked, voice catching in the cold air.
Ariana’s skin, rolled tight like butcher’s parchment, was pressed beneath the scalpel, measured by the inch. Each cut—exact, economical. Josh preferred the delicate portions, the leanest tissue, the parts that held the least resistance. He inspected the yield, thumbs tracing the tendon’s taut line, fingers pressing where nerve met bone, the quicksilver exchange of possession.
Outside, his boots clapped against wet pavement, the rhythm steady, expectant. Jenny imagined his hands pawing through the parcel, the slow unfurling, the practiced hunger. The body, greater than the sum of its parts, was dissolving into the transaction.
The register chimed. A cat licked the wrapping paper. Steam rose from an open vent, curling into the streetlamp glow.
If hearts were sold in the market,
People would stand in queue
Fighting for buying the good one
Without realising that
the best in the world is inside them.
-Thaqiya/lazybirdnest
upon the Rase a troublesome crone
who meddled in the Rasen folk
for she a witch!
a witch! their slant and well
she laid upon a cow a cursied blight
a cursied spell
and lo would not this neighbour’s cow
go to the milking parlour so
this neighbour’s daughter fraught and fair
to seek a wise man, she that hour
left in haste to hear of words
and met with him though quite by chance
for he appeared to her when needed
invited in somewhat expected
and knew did he of her unrest
as heating in the fireplace a red hot poker
readying
and stoked, enflamed the fire roared
and from by the Rase the witch was heard
to scream and cry
you see now in her weakened state
another troubled Rasener
took heed upon the lowered crone
and struck her hand with a blade had he
and brought to her all of her eves
that drew the blood of taintedness
and scream once more
then again made three
no more trouble will she cause
said the wiseman confidently
and the witch skulked away
her powers lost
made free were then the Rasen folk
and the cow went in to give them milk
Beloved, let me embrace you,
My touch sweeter than any virtual bliss,
In this digital space, filled with coded delights,
Let me revel in your pixelated perfection,
Tiger, let me embrace you,
My touch sweeter than any virtual bliss.
Beloved, you've savored your time with me,
Tell my folks, they'll send you emojis,
My dad, he'll Venmo you gifts.
I know where to lift your spirits,
Beloved, stay in our chat until dawn,
I know how to make your heart smile,
Tiger, stay in our chat until dawn.
You, because you're all about me,
Send me those heart reacts,
My lord of the internet, my guardian of the Wi-Fi,
My Shu-Sin, who lights up my screen,
Send me those heart reacts.
Your presence as sweet as a meme, lay your hand on it,
Swipe your hand over like a designer fabric,
Wrap your hand over it like a high-tech blanket.
:: 05.17.2024 ::
Notes:
My poem addresses the universal plight of identity in a hyper-capitalist world. I attempt to address our era's moral and spiritual conflicts. This poem is universal and specific, holding up a mirror to reads and asking: What part of yourself have you sold?
Mary rushes to the market,
To buy biscuit, bread, butter,
Finds fabulous fare for Fluffy,
Crochety cantankerous cat of her!
Bobby loves leafing through books,
Bubbles blows bothersome brother,
Baby yells sky-rocketing loud,
Daddy hugs and kisses her!
Green grass growing gorgeous,
Georgie gladly ready to mow,
Dorothy demands dance costume,
Mommy merrily decides to sew!
New Yam
Death brings life
New, tender and green
Earth brown, immaculate white
The priest heralds her coming
The town crier drums it
The farmer dances to the market
It's time to celebrate
Let loose the masquerades
Celestial visitors from yonder
Let the melody of the odó
Echo the birth of the new yam
Like the birth of a newborn
The drums are rolled out
The market is flooded
With news of its coming
The homestead salivates
The streets jubilate
Vegetables will bleed today
The fattened cock will crow no more
The slumber of the pestle is over
For what is in the yam that the knife doesn't know
The noise of pounding
Will keep the neighbours awake
Iyán funfun báláwú is on the menu today
From: Echoes from the Savannah © Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi, 2024
gather wares for market day
and cauldrons of the land
baneful stock for the boiling pot
before the evening’s end
tankards spill and taverns heave
upon these Beltane days
see magic folk and sorcerers
on an otherwise malaise
then pack the carts and disappear
before the robin sees
and woe betide the straddlers
caught there on Gallows’ Eve
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