Short Hocks Poems

would be star
hocks his guitar
needs ticket home...

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Pot ready,
for ham hocks,
beans, onions,
carrots,
now place corn
bread in oven,
let the feast,
    begin.

wrote 9-4-08...

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Rattling  hocks
And that mane flowing free
Stirrups adangle 
You danced around me
Wrapped up in reins
And enraptured it's true
It was a cinch I'd be saddled with you...

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Get i right or
don't do it at all
stand straight up
bounce back when you fall
keep your eyes on the 
prize
go for what you know
regcogize your
obstacles
let everyone know
Twelve hocks
thre gallons of broth
some potatoes
4 large cabbages
mans
that some good eating!...

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marmalade ham  hocks roasting in a pan
smells of it wafting through the kitchen
landing in the living room
tantalizing me

salivating glands
eager appetite
anticipating hot buttered rolls
with greasy tops
and lavish baked potatoes with all the trimmings

Dinner’s ready!...

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(a Four-verse Cinquain)

Parched
red roses
bow their heads
in pain filled surrender,
finished.

Faded
holly hocks
give up hope,
too sad to care,
colorless.

Wilted 
sweet peas
loose their talons,
shrivel, curl in sorrow,
die.

Healthy 
white pine
sucks up moisture
and grants no mercy,
thrives....

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Beside the old house 
on the northern side,
where Granny's flowers
did abide,

Red roses flourished,
orange Poppies too,
and tall Holly Hocks
of crimson grew.

Dahlias, Iris,
Snap Dragons of blue,
plus beautiful Asters 
covered in dew.

Great hues of color
with greenery fine,
I'll always remember 
those blossoms divine....

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Blackeyes and turnip greens on New Year's day.
   That's what we should eat, or so they say.
With pork chops or ham hocks glazed with honey.
   Eating all this is supposed to bring you money.
     
This is tradition in the South where I live,
   to eat such a meal, but this secret I give.
If you're eating this meal to gain riches untold.
   Then my friend I'll confess, while waiting you'll grow old!


For Russell Sivey's Good Luck Meal contest...

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August sun,
Leaves smell of heat,
You can hear the holly hocks turn to seed.
The pile of trimmed twigs snap as they dry.

Sister paints the cross pieces
The top of the board
The flat
And the underside

I come behind and paint the broad, flat boards
With long strokes up and down,
Back and forth.
Paint drips on my hand.

Hair tied back in kerchiefs,
Hot,
Sweaty,
The paint smells hot as the sun dries it.

Huckleberry Finn’s fence,
But Daddy had girls....

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When you're a sheep and feel unwell, it's also often true
When dipped into your medicine, you come up feeling blue
Blue from your woolly noggin-lid, down to your woolly socks
And inside from your woolly brain, down to your woolly hocks

So when you are a poorly sheep, and feel in poorly form
You're gonna feel off-colour, 'cos off-colour is the norm
And both insides and outsides are tinged with shades of blue
There's only one thing left to say, and that will be, "Poor Ewe!"...

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