No pease porridge for me if you please
neither hot nor cold
especially not if what's in the pot
is nine days old
for when in Parma Palermo or Pisa
(no pottage slop)
I'm predisposed and have the propensity
to pour a potent potable
(pink plonk)
and prefer to partake of a piece of pepperoni pizza
with pancetta pomodoro peperoncini
porcini plus a peck of pecorino on the top
even the penchant for a piccante prosciutto panini
or pass me a plate of penne puttanesca
with the proclivity for a platter of pinoli pesto
possibly pasta with parmesan
and I'm pleased to wine and dine al fresco
Oh, just be my guest, I pray
Come to my humble home, I say
I am eager to serve you, please
Everything from pottage to cheese.
A full-course dinner, no ifs or buts
The entire gamut – soup to nuts!
Cooking from nose-to-tail dishes
Granting all your gourmet wishes.
Dress for the occasion, head to toe
Come hungry, oh, you’ll love it so,
From crabs, caviar, champagne to cake ...
So, is it Tom, Terri, Jasmine or Jake?
It’s Christmas day
Hip hip hooray
With festive cheer
And our family here
The feast begins
Amidst all our grins
Crackers pulled, mottos read
Fancy hats upon each head
With turkey eaten
We’ll not be beaten
Enter the flaming pud
Which looks so good
But whence it came?
This pudding of fame
‘Twas a Roman cook
Where first we look
Making pottage of meat and veg
Placing in readiness on a window ledge
By the fourteenth century frumenty it became
Meat with fruit, wine and spices, it was not the same
This soupy dish was a fasting meal
A preparation for Christmas was the deal
With added eggs, breadcrumbs and fruit it changed once more
Plum pudding lasted until banned under Puritan law
The arrival of King George, the ‘Pudding King’
Got the outlawed pud back in the swing
For his royal feast he did declare
Plum pudding would be the dessert fayre
By Victorian days the meat had gone
Enter the Christmas pud known by everyone
Merry Christmas!
Picture # 4 used as inspiration
At our lakeside cottage where we have pottage at night
When autumn comes and russet mums' blossoms daze
Go to bed early, nothing to dread and wake by sun's light
As the sun sets there's no regrets just joy at summer's end
Fall wears her gown, her trees a crown as sun sends angular rays
All of those glorious colors and arboreous reflections seem to blend
Upon the lake beside our cottage , no place we've tried above it does rise
Our golden lab lying asleep, as nights slowly creep upon days
We peacefully rest, and feel so blessed as sleep softly creeps with surprise
Gaelic: it was my mother's native tongue,
and her grandmother’s elder tongue.
Grandfather was a Romani gypsy,
horses naturally understood his voice.
My lips follow English,
a tangled language with too many roots,
tuberosities awkwardly clumped together,
like hard and lumpy potato soup -
a dish My Irish mother made
with an inattentive gusto...
her pink tongue licking the corners of her mouth,
as she slopped the part-cooked pottage out
into thick porcelain bowls.
She had quite forgotten her mother tongue,
or how to respect the potato,
and its historical significance to all in exile.
My own tongue was young and tender,
and too hungry to care. Already I instinctively knew
how to take my lumps.
Automated Daily Warning
Satellite Sentinel One-Niner-Three
Geo synchronous orbit
Pacific-Med-Atlantic contiguous sea
Sunspot activity forecast
Will deplete Ozone layer more
Than level originally forecast
On our bulletin before
Sunblocker max level needed
Forecast UVstrong clear skies
Max density protection recommended
For exposed human eyes
Contaminate Pollution level rising
From spontaneous vegetation blaze
Need for respirator mask is expected
Requirement for at least four more days
Tsunami warning
From expected Polar melt
All station warning
On designated high risk belt
Currently extending
Roughly Pole to shifting Pole
This is your automated daily warning
Global Health Service Control
Sponsored by the makers
Of Sommulus Happy Pills
Working relentlessly
To add perspective to your ills
This bulletin will repeat hourly
With regular up dates
Courtesy Sommulus Happy Pills
Your reliable Mood Help Mates
It’s Christmas day
Hip hip hooray
With festive cheer
And our family here
The feast begins
Amidst all our grins
Crackers pulled, mottos read
Fancy hats upon each head
With turkey eaten
We’ll not be beaten
Enter the flaming pud
Which looks so good
But whence it came?
This pudding of fame
‘Twas a Roman cook
Where first we look
Making pottage of meat and veg
Placing in readiness on a window ledge
By the fourteenth century frumenty it became
Meat with fruit, wine and spices, it was not the same
This soupy dish was a fasting meal
A preparation for Christmas was the deal
With added eggs, breadcrumbs and fruit it changed once more
Plum pudding lasted until banned under Puritan law
The arrival of King George, the ‘Pudding King’
Got the outlawed pud back in the swing
For his royal feast he did declare
Plum pudding would be the dessert fayre
By Victorian days the meat had gone
Enter the Christmas pud known by everyone
Merry Christmas!
~~~
A seasonal frame of mind led to this!
AMASOWONMWAN
At arm's, I am but your brethren,
Ne pas comrade
Pour food, most have sold
Their Honors for gold
Others, a pot of pottage
The tree only bends to the wind
Because it doesn't know how to do otherwise
Ainsi be wise, precautions taken
Births no aftermaths
You are not your father's son
Lest, you wear the family's emblem
Upright;
Off white greyish, ripen with time
Solely relying on faith
Hoping for the best,
Yet ignoring all good
Seeing nothing right with better.
Amasowonmwan
Strangers shan't lay a curse on you,
Nor take your portion
A few know your real names?
Iten edo
Even the gods forbid that a father bury a son
But then also
The child is the father of the man
Alright?
The darker the skin colour
The deeper the roots,
For sour sweet tastes the truth
Like rumor, solid liquid smells it flavour
Symbolisms of our ancestral struggle.
Fear what you know
Not the unknown,
All these and more
Are reasons why people drown
At ovia river.
ghops
Mornings are littered
with gnawed husks,
charred mouse-tails.
March is burning its strew.
The limbless
braid a thawing earth
into knotty threads.
On wet lines flannel shirts
poach in a warming smaze.
while gust-hogs
still attack the hedgerows.
In coddled kitchens
muggy boiled cabbages
envelope
a pottage of sky.
Stubby snuffles
herald undertows
of new marrow.
April paddles in
with wet crumbs
and buttercups.
Hunting lips of rage shoot like a barrage
these sounds put on the run, a nearby witch
the victim’s now in need of bandage
covering the whole body stitch after stitch
everything near cracks, even the table
and all sense of opposition just die
try to calm her if you are able
if not satisfied, nothing she can buy
the louder she gets as the more she’s old
then her views rust to stay rigid and tight
junk of her patience, she’s already sold
as emotions run fast and out of sight
her internal heat burns any pottage
run from crazy mama, the new adage.
STAY OR GO yes or no?
An offshore island we remain,
whether we stay or go..
But our history we need now
to declaim.. and say No!
Truly enfranchised for only a
few decades,now cheaply given
away for a pottage of gold...
all without our say so..
Sacrificed on politicians' ego trips.
We, the people,the everyday man..
back to square one of a century ago..
Disenfranchised again,ruled by a few..
part of another illusory 'grande ideale'.
Our kin so recently fought to win the war
..but we so easily gave away the peace..
Time again,for the English common man
to say No,to regain our release...
Time for this undemocratic 'Union' to cease..
Time for us to depart,we do not 'belong'
It's time to move on..
put once more 'our enfranchised horse'before
'our' cart.
The 'global village' is now here.. a larger
stage on which England,on its own,
with much to give..can play a full part.
You may hear me recite my PS poetry on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
Oh, America,
my beloved America.
The world owns your soul,
and chortles as catastrophe comes.
Bartered was your legacy,
for riotous living,
and pottage no longer gratifies
your innards cravings.
Terrorist lambaste your innocent,
and spread false doctrines.
Fear and anxiety hold you captive,
casting foreboding shadows o'er your land.
As a mongrel wallowing in its vomit,
so it is, you and your sin.
Having no vision of signet ring and fatted calf,
your robe now drapes a self righteous frame.
Has the line in the sand been crossed?
While your flag still flies, the eagle soars,
and your Statue of Liberty stands erect,
return unto the father.
Oh America,
my beloved America,
God loves thee more than I.
Pottage of lentil and bread
Thank you Lord I’m fed
With wheat, barley and flour
Filled my cup this hour
Overflows with grace
Bless this taste
Yes!
~~~~~~~
Place among 273 Semi-Finalist
Total of 1034 Entries
Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest
March 6, 2008
~~~~~~~
To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
when I heard
you was gonna
represent Tom
at the trial
and share the widow’s homelier pottage
bowed ‘til your bonnet brushed the floor
far below you saw the bricks on the floor
mostly these are seen as food labels
stooped and raised your knees,
because of laziness
the dust of the city
backward down your back so thin
like ducks.
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
(This poem was created using snippets from other poems.)
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.