No soul left
The butter tin empty
White bread crumbles
The dust feeds me well.
Tents, and tents
Rows of lost dreams
White picket fence
Gone, and gone.
We know it's too late
A sky of swampy marshes
Rain from the acid
My flag drapes over me, cold.
We are children, grandparents
We are mothers and fathers
We are lost in diamond dirt.
My flag loves me with it's stars
When I die under the bloody stripes
When I am born under its navy Eye.
Hush, the bleak night is awake
Hush, this milk is all I have
Hush, they cannot hear you.
A galaxy of pearls, dancing above
But they are not for you and I.
In her sixties now Gladys dreaded the cold,
She travelled to the beach trying to be bold,
She went because it might be fun, she was told.
Gladys said she would not swim she was far too old.
There were gentle ladies with dark glasses on,
They were telling rowdy children to begone,
The sand was warm and the glorious Sun shone,
Gladys sat there like a sad queen on her throne.
Mountains around gave views that went forever,
The sky was light blue a sign of good weather,
The children throw sand failing to be clever,
But Gladys said no she would not swim ever.
Near the river people had cake and white bread,
They had beef and pork, “hurrah” the children said,
Some drank wine and sang when they were all fed,
Gladys said no she would rather go to bed.
Gladys was left quite alone on her cane chair,
She began talking to the warm midday air,
I should swim in the sea but I do not dare,
My grey hair would get wet but I would not care.
For the longest time she stared at the wild sea,
Wondering why she was so afraid to be,
Was her life long enough for validity?
Some come to the beach to cocoon and be free,
Others come to escape their life’s misery.
We wanted to break bread
that was pure, clean, pristine,
stark white and wholesome,
with a crisp, but soft,
light brown crust.
The field was prepared with
thrice washed and cleaned machinery,
and spread with N, P, K fertilizer
applied overhead.
The soils was filtered to remove
all weeds, sticks and stones,
stubble and rubble,
so it was homogeneous,
with a uniform grain size,
The wheat seed was a proven,
ancient old world genotype,
with its genome still intact.
The seed was milled to remove
all traces of wheat germ and bran,
then twice bleached to stark white.
The dough was leavened with soda
and baked well-timed,
in a clean fan-draft oven,
at just the right temperature,
for just the right time.
Behold! There we have it!
Our pure white bread,
wholesome and perfect,
in every way, that we break
for breakfast at break of day.
An ask of mine needs urgent sating
I don’t mean to blashpeme or be rude
But when God was done and dusted creating
And he looked and saw that “it was good”
What was he looking at?
Were his eyes glued to the Andes
As the little mountains popped up like warts
Or was it trained on the Ganges
As it snaked its way through the flats
Did his breath flutter at the Siberian mirror
(I know, I know he doesn’t need the air)
Did he find the aye-aye queerer
Than the way we all find it here
Maybe it was the American cays
Strung on like beads of gems and pearls
Or the Himalayas defiant in the breeze
That whipped itself in maelstrom swirls
Or was it the terrestrial layout
Brown meat between white bread
And vegetables, like a chef’s takeout
Hamburger with the perfect spread
Was it just one point, or was it the other
Or volcanic glory, of Etna and Kea
Please, anyone, come help out a brother
I mean look at the Andaman Sea
One secret wish; to truly see
And understand just as he could
What he saw, that unbridled natural beauty
And cry out too “Damn! It is good!”
he sits in front of us with his family
nice touch but then it is evident from
his long pig face
that there; has been some foul play
the sweet woman welcomes us before
proceedings with a monologue of length
i stare at the seat in front of me
cake wasted and my wife brings a Coca Cola
the bloke is the first to applaud
the introduction with idiotic enthusiasm
and his son notices and they high-five
i should have brought nunchucks
the second half is boring
white bread stuff
my son is asleep
yawntastic
never move your eyebrows when talking
Queen looks like The Dead,
No served loved Brown Bread.
With bread again lives
Starts again to breathe,
Her best at work gives,
Not with anger seethes…
Queen becomes True Head
From tasted Brown Bread
Starts guiding a spiv:
“From Poor Rice stones sieve!”
For ‘Brown’ not ‘White Bread’
‘Dark’ not like ‘Bright Red’
Queen as much for bed;
Die she would instead,
When aches fight ones head
Or blue eyes dark red,
Good rest to health give:
Sleep that makes one live…
For Brown Bread and Bed,
She’d like angels tread!
“I saw Santa last night,” the tot said.
“He is BIG, and his suit is bright red,
like the robe Mama wore!”
Mama silently swore,
“No more sweets, high-cal foods, or white bread!”
used howmanysyllables.com
November 15, 2022
entered in the Fun Holiday Limerick Poetry Contest Placed 2nd
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
She has the ‘screws’.
Her hips are 'creaky'
her leg is 'playing up.’
I yell into her good ear.
"Nice Morning Freda!"
"Gout." She says,
still following a conversation in her head.
"I don't even drink!"
I know this is a stretch
for I am her secret `pusher'.
"I'm going out later, can I get you anything?"
She looks directly at me at last.
She has been studying the obituaries
in the local paper.
"Isn't it terrible?"
"Yes Freda it is."
We never discuss specifics,
agreeing tacitly
that most things are `terrible.’
"Just the usual"
I make a note to buy,
sliced white bread.
Laughing Cow cheese spreads (original flavor).
Bologna sausage (which she calls Baloney).
"Little Debbie" Frosted Fudge cakes
and a bottle of sweet sherry.
Her list of wants is not far from mine,
except for the sherry,
I like to think my list is a little more refined,
and I have long since broke-up
with 'Little Debbie'.
It was constipation, you know
All of the bananas she ate were alarming
Then a bit of cheese, brought her to her knees
All the little faces she made were so charming
It was constipation, you know
Eating all that sugar and fast food will do that
And too much white bread, brings it to a head
It got to the point, she was ready to chew fat
It was constipation, I know
I was staying with her and that’s all she fed me
Drinking all that cow, played a part and how
Now I guess we both better lay off that red meat!
Heed the words I’ve said, we are both half dead
and now constipation lies ahead
To the tune of ‘Fascination” by Nat King Cole
artisan bread sliced
I baked on a stone
in a oven medium
on a warm summer day
placed on a stoneware platter white
on a table of butcher block
with the condiments I’d need
to prepare my noon feast
from the deli bought
baloney fresh as can be
on a platter laid out
slices fresh and round
to complement these
from the grocery I got
a tin of bright red
with Ritz crackers filled
with a butter knife spread
mayo pure and white
mustard nice and brown
tart as I like
round slices I did spread
upon the white bread
and covered them all
with crackers mirroring them
rebellion did raise
it’s little ugly head
and swiss slices square
on them I did spread
a second bread slice
to top it all off
to complete my noon feast
now ready to eat
Hailed through the ages as the staff of life,
It takes many forms in each town and fief.
There's white bread and brown bread, biscuits and scones,
And hoe cakes and muffins, crescents and corn pone.
When setting a table with china replete,
Without buns or rolls it's just not complete.
The main dish is scrumptious, the side dish is fine,
But the meal is a bust without bread of some kind;
And when a young man is seeking a wife,
If she can't make a biscuit there's gonna be strife;
So when it's all finished and all's done and said,
Please pass the biscuits it ain't supper 'thout bread.
Witch Shelby is adorable, so smart and sweet.
Dressed like a square and light on her feet.
She’s friendly and funny and knows how to tweet.
You have to meet her today, Mr. Warlock G. Pete.
Do not serve her white bread, she only eats wheat.
Marvel at her knowledge, her education complete.
You will find her flying around on Halloween Street.
I think as a couple you cannot be beat!
Hot Dog Cold Milk
Dead Hog White Silk
Hand Soap Prune juice
It floats Poop truce
Hot Tea Scan Can
Please Me Thanks Mam
Old Sponge White Bread
Such Grunge Looks Dead
My Sink Warm Bun
Cold Drink Tongue Fun
Red Stove Cold Meat
Food Cove Mouth Treat
My second nor first attempt at FOOTLES Please Soupmail me for errors, and will do.
Very rude to correct in open comments. Your appreciation and help is so
appreciated
Capitalization...Poet's Choice....Pangie xx
She has the 'screws'.
Her hips gripe,
her leg is 'playing up.’
I yell into her good ear.
"Nice Morning Freda!"
"Gout." She says,
still following a conversation in her head.
"I don't even drink!"
I know this is a stretch
for I am her secret `pusher'.
"I'm going out later, can I get you anything?"
She looks directly at me at last.
She has been studying the obituaries
in the local paper.
"Isn't it terrible?"
"Yes Freda it is."
We never discuss specifics,
agreeing tacitly
that most things are `terrible.’
"Just the usual"
I make a note to buy,
sliced white bread.
Laughing Cow cheese spreads (original flavor).
Bologna sausage (which she calls Baloney).
"Little Debbie" Frosted Fudge cakes
and a bottle of sweet sherry.
Her list of wants is not far from mine,
except for the sherry,
and I have recently broken up
with 'Little Debbie'.
At the supermarket, screws and gripes
jab my bones.
I limp down aisle three
ignoring a picture
of a smirking 'Little Debbie.’
Cooking comes very naturally to me
Why I can boil water and even pour tea
Ask me to toss salad and, whoosh--one, two, three
Your basic veggies, topped with beer nuts and provolone cheeze*
Now heating up a hotdog is right up my alley
or two-day-old leftovers; I don't dilly-dally
Sometimes, I confess, I might burn the toast
but I've never ever forgotten to unfreeze the roast**
I know you're in awe of what I've told you so far
Sweet Baby James Taylor's immortalized it on guitar***
So I'll leave you with this incredible, amazing feat:
On our honeymoon, I prepared the very first meal in our Motel 6 suite
~Canned tuna, swimming in mayonnaise, on white bread -- What a treat!
__________________________________________________________
Chef's tips:
*The aged kind, that really smells
**Well, ok, I did forget this one time...golly, gee
***Not really. Ha, ha: Just pulling your leg
July 22, 2019
Cornucopia Cooking Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Sub Categories
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.