Tinned Poems

the illusion

The illusion 

In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint 
made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like 
that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines
 in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce
The Mesen who owned the factories had created this 
park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons. 
The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts 
during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work
A  boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae
The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated.
The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time 
had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal  
When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea
 A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood.
No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.

Tinned Fish

A little fish in a little coffin
i find my self indulging so often
burried in a sludge of oil and viniger
so much flavour packed into this small cylinder
i love the fishes in the ocean
but fishies in tinneis bring me such emotion
i love you tinned fish 
and thats devotion

the grocer dreamer

The Grocer and Dreamer

The local grocer calls his shop
The best supermarket in town
Although his shop is small
He has big dreams, sells jam
tinned beans, bananas, lemon
and chocolate cakes
He also sells local wine made
on a plot, run by his brother
In the morning, he has fresh 
From a bakery that has few
Customers as it sells real bread
That is not packed in plastic 
A big supermarket nearby
Will open soon
Our grocer, harassed by health
Inspectors every week sold 
The shop to the new supermarket
They promptly closed his shop
The grocer who had big dreams
Bought a van and sells groceries  
In the countryside

Masqueraders

Masqueraders
The YTC & Praise

Disguised in their ways
They came gnawing
At the peace of my heart
Leaving nothing
But a charade of turmoil... 

Imposters to my mind
Masked in garbs of shame
My scars reopened
Howling in pain
The guiltless look of a murderer... 

Concealed emotions
I yearn to reveal
The ugliness of their rubble
Every bit of their words
Disgusts my spirit...

They tinned the chance
Of another
Locked away the road
To my heart
For another
For peace I now love
For peace I now live...

sardines in olive oil

Sardines in olive oil

A shop in Lisbon exclusively sold sardines
 this interested me since my Norwegian mother
had worked at a factory selling tinned sardines
I asked if they had sardines from other country
they didn't but told me in tinned bacalao they 
cod fish came from Norway
I noticed sardines in olive oil with the year the tin
was made, began from 1905 to 2024
but the years from 1930 to 1943 were missing 
I asked why, but no one knew, I think no one had
noticed the gap
The staff at the shop, when I told them about
my mother was charmed and gave me a couple
of sardine tins from 1944

Mother Zamia Tree

A lot of really big trees had died to make that desk. His mother had probably gnawed them down, used her nails to saw the boards, and finished the decorative cutwork with her tongue.
Jennifer Crusie


My mom kept a patch of zamia trees,
          freeze brook zigzagged and zinged,
      zesty zephyr's laid cape from breeze,
                    zap zander tinned.

She accomplished zoning using a zax,
          she led my zest and dream,
      I can't cool off, I can't relax,
                    zealous esteem. 

She shields me from rain and zenithal wind,
          she kept zeal to be strong,
      by lead and zaniness of mind,
                    zigs right from wrong.

1St Place Contest Winner


21-December-2022

Constance La France Zip, Zig, Zag, Zing form
Rhyme pattern: abab, cdcd, efef 
syllable pattern: 10, 6, 8, 4 in each stanza

I'M Having a Fart Attack

My cousin’s just earned his degree
He majored in fartology
Now he can impart
What foods make me fart
He’s obsessed by scatology


I confessed that beans give me wind
(It matters not if fresh or tinned)
And onions and sprouts
In any amounts
cause farting that I can’t  rescind


The wind I produce is quite drastic 
as medics say my colon’s spastic
my poor tummy swells
I release foul smells
I’m thankful my waistband ‘s  elastic

FICTIONAL POEM FOR FART-TASTIC CONTEST

Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke

09/15/21

The Groceryshop

The grocery/ wineshop 

Once when he lived in Faro (Portugal) and walking about
he came across a grocer shop that was new in 1950.
As window display a packet of washing powder, fossilized
the name of the powder was Blenda, of the same type
 his mother had used and tinned sardines.
He entered and was gripped by the sadness of the shop.
It was bigger than he had thought, barrels of wine, and in 
a dark corner, old men sat drinking in silence.
So, it was an unofficial wine shop, a hiding place
for the aged who had resigned to their fate of elderliness.
He had a glass of red wine served by a woman older than the shop.
The wine was surprisingly good. He had another drink 
and joined the men in the corner.

Brisk Cold Winds of October

The threshing floor divides the brisk cold winds
and too gentle zephyr of mortality.
I choose the rose-red blush where death rescinds.

My mind reels with the thrill of whiteout blinds
buffeted by green field sentimentality.
The threshing floor divides the brisk cold winds.

Exciting the throng, leather football winds.
Gruff padded players gift us vitality.
I choose the rose-red blush where death rescinds.

To feel so alive in sweaters, not thinned,
bouncing along in haywagon of normality.
The threshing floor divides the brisk cold winds.

Pumpkin and apple pies, corn, all else tinned.
Harvest festivals of cordiality.
I choose the rose-red blush where death rescinds.

A scarecrow field stays put in our minds
filled with Halloween unreality.
The threshing floor divides the brisk cold winds
I choose the rose-red blush where death rescinds.

6/21/2020
Month of the year I like most Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mohan Chutani

Virus

VIRUS

There’s a billion ways to die and those privileged enough to focus on one.
Slow down human race, there’s nowhere to run.

A lesson to be learnt for those who believed life was successful with crisis on further land.
I see no borders and will mutate and expand.

Prepare for lock down and fight for your supplies.
Your last few weeks spent eating tinned pies.

Evoloution, devotion, wars and revoloutions
agriculture, industry, pollution and consumption

May I the invisible enemy remind you of your insignificant progress as nature shrugs her shoulders and reminds us that she is still in charge.

A Metaphor

“Only in his hometown and in his own household is a prophet without honor.” Matthew 13:57

Sometimes, when I go shopping, I meet a strange woman.
Barefoot, 
dressed only in a garland of dried flowers and an old sheet stained with bird droppings, 
with last year’s nest on the head and ecstatic glint in the eyes,
she gets up on the pallet of tinned peas
and makes a speech.
I wonder who she is.
Another one crazy goddess of Walmart?
An older Ophelia the shepherds saved and smuggled oversea to the States?
Or, maybe, she is an anthropomorphic metaphor for the knowledge obscure to mere mortals?
She seems to be upset that people can't figure out a word she says.
I understand your feelings, metaphor:
even a small knowledge seems great to the ignorant; 
the great knowledge seems to them madness.


08.11.2019
Last Year's Nests Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish

Dougal

My little westie Dougal
He's my little loon,
He really thinks he owns the place,
As he struts around the room.

He has this fake bad temper
That's such a laugh to see,
Sticking his little chest out saying
"Don't you bother me."

When it comes to Dougal's breakfast
Well, its scrambled eggs and cheese
And Dougal won't eat tinned food
"It's mince and liver please."

He's very self important,
He thinks that he's in charge,
My lovely little westie
Who thinks he's very large.

Now Dougal's very vocal, 
He really loves to bark,
He barks his head off in the car,
Then all around the park.

Dougal never backs down,
He's full of self belief,
My little westie Dougal
Who's a lion underneath.

I'm so glad I have Dougal
He fills my life with fun,
So I'll let him keep believing
That he's the number one.










Entry for
Write a Rhyme about your favorite PET, 
Living or not Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina Riddle.
4/10/2019

Abuser Bean

ABUSER BEAN

Morning beams to light addiction
Brewing needs to a daily fatigued affliction
Dark brown beans of caffeine cupped in ceramic
Without brew: seems I’ll go manic

Vapour breathing cup of fragranced mist
Beckons to needy lips in frantic caffeine list
Odours burnt, smoky and oaky teasing steady sips
Frenzy of buzzing bliss on my coffee trips

Bottled, tinned or cupped I’ll keep my stash
Never to withdraw in a buzzing crash
Never fret to fill my cup
Why wait, just Fill it up

Each time alight the kettle, another hit
Whenever I please, I’ll settle to quit
In any aching addict, a heart lies thirsting
An empty cup forever searching

-Rickus Viljoen
@Facebook: Mr Writes

Once Upon the Green Sea

Once  upon a time

I was, it seems like 100 years ago,
on an old fashion cargo ship, the carried all sorts
from potatoes, flour, machine parts, plastic flowers,
and tinned fruit, meat, and hats for the wife of the president
in Honduras. 
For some reason, there was a door in my store room
it led into a cargo hold I filled the larder till it looked
like a corner shop. My task was to keep the cost of living down, 
and the captain got a telegram from the company complimenting 
me on keeping the cost down.
When the ship birthed in some obscure port, the unloading
took a long time and there was time to go ashore
 have a bit of fun and a good steak with wine at a restaurant.
I was twenty-five and had a hell of a time, but nothing
lasts forever, the ship was sold to a Greek shipping company
and we all had to go home.

Carolina Blue and White

Carolina Blue and White
By Franklin Price
1/7/2016

Carolina blue and white,
It's such a sight to see,
Fresh fallen snow and cloudless sky,
God sent for you and me,

Tall snow covered evergreens
Above the tinned roofed house,
Where two retired seniors live,
This poet and his spouse.

Born and raised in Florida,
Not too much to seasons there.
Retired To North Carolina,
For a little mountain air.

Our house is in the foothills
Not far from Chimney Rock.
Left the hustle and the bustle,
And the cruise ships at the dock.

Acclimated to a slower life,
And the people of hills,
Who believe in God and country;
Take care of family and their bills

That's just the way we like it
'Cause that is where we're at
Don't have a huntin' dog just yet
To chase the neighbor's cat

As I turn now from my keyboard
And look out the window pane
The blue and white of Carolina
Says that's all for this refrain

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