The Taste Of Strawberry
I am not sure if every one of my family is entirely pround of what and how I am.
My grandmother turned 101 years old the other day.
I am the nearest one to visit her.
Last week I brought some fresh strawberries to her.
It was a beautiful day.
She happened to tell me the most special thing I had ever heard.
'Even if someone great in Japan came bearing these berries to eat together, they wouldn't be as tasty as these.'
I had never felt myself important to somebody else.
I will never forget the taste of berries in 2012.
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Strawberries dipped in Chocolate;
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries are young,
These berries are alone like a canyon,
They long for a candy-coated companion.
My eyes creep over to the kitchen counter-top,
As my jaw takes a deep drop,
A jar of luscious milk chocolates waiting for me,
And then I thought of a wonderful idea, strawberries dipped in
Chocolate served with tea!
I take out pure, creamy butter along with an effulgent, silver saucepan,
And pour some two-percent milk out of its can.
Then out of the Hershey’s, I take seven precise pieces,
And save the rest of the delicacies for my mamma’s nieces.
The chocolaty mixture bubbles like lava in a volcano,
As I try a spoonful the taste is bursting like a tornado,
I take one of the blood red berries,
And dip it in the mixture that is as heavenly as a bunch of cherries.
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries aren’t young,
And as I pull out another berry from my pocket,
I realize that I have fallen in love with strawberries dipped in chocolate.
poem by Michelle Melnicky
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Appearances
I hated them when I was four years old,
The bright pink berries on the pepper tree.
And now they seem quite beautiful to me.
My tower of dreams when I was four years old
Was such a tree. Its branches hid me well,
Although I so disliked the berries' smell.
I had my dreams when I was four years old . . .
But groundling now, who once could mount in air,
I judge the high-swung bright pink berries, fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Berries! ! ! ! !
Mulberries
On a visit to granny in the Doon valley
It was March, the old tree full of Mulberries.
Red, purple teasing from far, ran with cane basket.
Picked one, ate some while the birds created a racket.
Strawberries
Strawberri es in white boxes, one atop other
The hawker sat on his knees, said go no further.
I protest too expensive, not for the masses.
Rich eat raw, make a tart or with cream in glasses.
Wild Berries
On way back from school at noon, attack wild berries.
Are for free and so yummy, home a lot we carry.
We laugh and shriek as our skirts get stuck in thorns,
Satiated, come back home, with berries, skirt torn
Written in ancient japanese form Sitigotyo
06.04.09
Mamta Agarwal
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Forest Of Berries
The forest expected it, the woods create,
A storm has arrived with the leaves;
Wind blew and created, the leaves turned,
Bellies adjusted to the food.
What were berries? The berry is wonderful,
For the strawberry is the best.
A forest of leaves crazes me, as no other,
Never in too many lives does it create.
Tomorrow it lies with leaves and more,
The best berries are for me, the law;
When are you expected to dance?
The hour is near when the berries are present.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Bottled Joy
The sounds of children laughing,
The fresh smell after rain,
The new buds in the Springtime,
The clatter of a train,
The buzzing of the bees
As they pollinate the flowers,
The ticking of the clock
As it counts away the hours,
The taste of Summer berries,
The smell of fresh-baked bread,
The memories of days gone by,
The pillows on my bed.
So many joys I'd bottle up
And keep them close to hand
To open when I'm feeling blue -
Oh! Wouldn't that be grand?
poem by Dawn Ferrett
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The Barberry-Bush
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit
Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red,
Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,
And thou mayst find e'en there a homely bread;
Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide,
Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring;
And straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side,
Their ripened branches to your hand they bring;
I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,
That then I gave such name, and thought it true;
But now I know that other fruit as sour,
Grows on what now thou callst Me and You;
Yet wilt thou wait the autumn that I see,
Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
poem by Jones Very
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Hutch
of her arms, this was her sin:
where the wood berries bin
of forest was new and full,
she crept out by its tall
posts, those wooden legs,
and heard the sound of wild pigs.
calling and did not wait nor care.
The leaves wept in her hair
as she sank to a pit of needles
and twisted out the ivyless
gate, where the wood berries bin
was full and a pig came in.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Death of a family
Drinking and fighting.
Fighting and drinking.
When does it ever end?
What ever happened to the word 'Family'?
Does it exist any more?
Mother against daughter.
Daughter against Mother.
How can you hate your own blood?
When the Matriarch of our
family died, the beautiful rug
that was our family unraveled with
her. Now, I feel as if the family
rug has unraveled down to me.
I am now left to mourn the tragic
death of my great grandmother and
my family. Is there anybody out
there who can save me from this
ocean of despair?
poem by Jamal Brown
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Your Family Can Not Be That Big
How large is my family?
Is that what you asked me?
'Yes.
I heard it was big.'
Well...
I will say this and I know you will think I exaggerate.
And this is just my father's side.
IF I had the ambition to visit each one of my relatives,
Everyday for the next five years...
I still would offend someone who heard I was doing this.
Because I was not able to do it to satisfy a visit to everyone.
'Your family can not be that big.'
And my mother's family is larger than my father's.
That's why I feel I am blessed to live alone.
And be able to stay away from all that drama.
I would not get a thing done if I made promises to them,
With intentions to attempt to keep them.
'A few don't speak to me now,
Because they believe I'm stand-offish.
They have no idea...
That I am the one trying to get things done,
With beliefs that the coast is clear.
Without me stopping to hear about who did what to who...
And where have I been and what have I been doing,
Since the last time they saw me attempting to escape.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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New England Mind
My mind matches this understand land.
Outdoors the pencilled tree, the wind-carved drift,
Indoors the constant fire, the careful thrift
Are facts that I accept and understand.
I have brought in red berries and green boughs-
Berries of black alder, boughs of pine.
They and the sunlight on them, both are mine.
I need no florist flowers in my house.
Having lived here the years that are my best,
I call it home. I am content to stay.
I have no bird's desire to fly away.
I envy neither north, east, south, nor west.
My outer world and inner make a pair.
But would the two be always of a kind?
Another latitude, another mind?
Or would I be New England anywhere?
poem by Robert Francis
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Sunday Dinner
Sunday Dinner
It was on an impulse I went to visit
my brothers' a fine Sunday noon,
No answer, but the door was open
I walked in food on the table, still
warm. Mary Celeste, I thought and
served myself.
Their garden looked enchanting
bushes full of red berries, I turned
on the water sprinklers and left;
heard a scream, thought it came
from their neighbour's garden and
took no notice.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Sodger's Lassie
A'the toun is to the doun
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Ab's gane, Rab's gane,
Aggie's gane, Maggie's gane,
A' the toun is to the doun,
An's left the house to wae and me.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Sodger Tam, he cam an' cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie;
Still I went, an' still I bent,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Berries high, an' berries low,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Tam maun come where berries grow,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Never ance I looked at Tam,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Weel I kent him when he cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Baith our faces to the groun',
Puin' o' the blaeberrie,
Tam cam near without a soun',
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wow! but we were near, I ween,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
A' the air was warm between,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Could a lassie think o' ill,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries e'en grow where they will,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Berries here, an' berries there,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I was ware,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Wha wad fash wi' ane anither
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries whiles will grow thegither,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I could speer,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Hech! that folk sud come sae near,
A' to pu' a blaeberrie!
While I grat and chid forbye,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Doun we sat-I ken na why-
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
A' amang the blaeberrie!
Sidelong Tam he cam an' cam
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Wha could tell he meant na fair?
Weel I ken I chid him sair,
But that day we gaed na mair
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Doun amang the blaeberrie!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Obedient to natures laws
Obedient to nature’s laws.
The last remaining berries glow
On frosted branches white as snow.
A meagre source of sustenance.
Which gives small birds a fighting chance.
Of surviving until the spring.
Returns to renew everything.
The few who manage to survive.
The hardy ones will live and thrive.
Compete for mates with whom to breed
Spring will provide their every need
They will build nest and raise their brood.
Instinctively they know they should.
The last remaining berries fed
The hardiest the rest are dead.
Saturday,21 January 2012
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Who wanders all the moors will taste all the berries.
The Tree Of Scarlet Berries
The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.
poem by Amy Lowell
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0028 Emily Dickinson Considers Her Breasts
White silk gown – Sunday silk – yet
daily donned – tight-cuffed –
cool hands – folded - warm lap -
milk-white - under orange vest – and -
bearing – or to bear? –
two Legacies - from You, Sire –
this simple pair accompanying me -
twin-mirrored –
two poems yet to be read –
two words yet to be said –
to stimulate – a man -
circumferencing – unwritten future – to know – perhaps - which? -
kiss of need? as kid of goat –
little lips - innocent of teeth - tugged
as pulled red berry? Cherries fit
such little mouths. Or -
kiss of love? milk-white skin
brushed first – moustache – then
body’s delirious shudder –
ecstatic contract!
two red berries – red-plucked –
this first?
Will there be a morning - mooring –
you as sunrise -
after wild and feathered night,
bondage as play - so sweet?
Or – are these berries – to grow parched?
A rose - cease to bloom - before the flower taken -
autumn berries - heavy-hanging –
dropping – unmilked – unmouthed -
love put away - put in a drawer,
hiding brave face in hand?
I thus eventual – be –
awaiting further chance
of eternity?
You cannot put a fire out –
you love me – you are sure -
but – which is it, sir?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Grandma's Treasure Box
Each of us
when we reached 14
would make the Visit to
Grandmothers house
to see what was inside
her Treasure Box;
the Family Treasure Box
where each year
one of us
got to see
what she had
hidden there..
My Dad had been;
my older brother
had been
and now it was my turn
to see that part of
Family History.
No one who'd seen
could talk of it.
No one could reveal to anyone
what was in Grandma's secret box.
No one did.
No one would risk
Grandmother's upset.
She lived beneath
the 'L' in Chicago
refusing to move
and they built
the tracks
right over her house;
each time one passed
it rocked her house
like rolling thunder;
Varoom, clacky clack
another one
going by.
Stubborn was not the word
for Grandmother.
She still wrote letters
30 years later
to every Mayor
complaining about the
tracks and the trains
saying she wanted them torn down.
Every month a letter.
Grandmother never
gave up;
never forgot;
fierce in her loves
fierce about her neighborhood
fierce about things which displeasured her
fierce about family
fierce about everything.
I sat with her,
apron on:
she served me pie.
'Sonny' she said
now you at the age
where you need to
learn grown-up things.
Like your Dad and brother
your turn now come
to see what drives
this family;
our family heirloom so to speak.
You'll see now.
As you grow up
you hear people talking about it
but we are the only family that
has it in our treasure box.
Lot's want it
but we the only one's
that has it.
She walked me up her tiny
narrow stair case to the attic
my head spinning,
wondering what it could be.
What did we have in our family
that the whole world wanted?
The treasure box was small;
a faded gold color
with a hand-carved lid
covered by Grandma's
liver-spotted hand
which shook in the dim
light.
She shifted the box,
opening it with a tiny key
smiling faintly
her eyes moistening
as a sliver of sunlight
reflected into the opening box
and I could just begin to
see what was inside.
'There it is'
she said
'What is it? ' I said,
staring at a piece of cloth;
satin sheen
with a lace border.
'Every since your great
grandmother got
it has been the luck of this family
and so people's all over the
world hear about but
we the only one's who got it.
'What is it?
Your great great grandmother's;
cut from her mother's wedding dress
and from that day
this families' luck changed.
I looked at her eyes
looking for an answer there.
'Grandma what is it?
You heard of the Silver Lining'
Yes, I said.
Well this family has the only one.
It is the Silver Lining from your great, great,
grandmothers wedding dress.
Grandma had it
and she believed it had saved our family
all these years.
'I took it out when
your mother had her cancer
and she got better
and it took away her pain.
I took it out when your younger brother
had his accident, and he lived.
I took it out when your grandfather went to war
and he came home safe.
I take it out when ever this family needs things.
It is our Silver Lining.
Now you must never speak
or tell what is in the treasure box
or it will break the spell.
I never did to this day
Today I have the Treasure Box
waiting for my child
to have a chance to see.
Grandma's gone
leaving behind her Silver Lining
for the rest of us.
And on some days
I do take it out
when things look
like they might go bad.
Just for luck.
Everyone
is always
looking for a Silver Lining
and some luck.
All the Grandmothers
gave us ours.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Do I Love to Eat?
Do I love to eat?
Well,
I will put it more like this...
My grandmother Clara,
And my grandfather Charles...
Blessed all of their children.
And each one is no stranger to the kitchen.
On rare and special occasions...
A few of us may be seen dining out.
And IF we owned a family restaurant,
Many of us would go broke...
Before paid customers tasted a thing.
Do I love to eat?
I love to cook!
And when my family has gatherings...
Looking good is not all we offer.
Being both biased and proud,
I am grateful to be related to these folks.
And I say that to be heard when speaking outloud.
Do I love to eat?
Just as much as I love the quality of my life.
I would like to think of my experience as a treat.
Than something to feel guilty about.
When my sisters bake,
And my aunts, uncles and cousins make...
Anything that melts with each taste,
I'm never forced to put into my mouth.
I try to silence the wonderment,
That eventually slips out.
Do I love to eat?
Well...
It is the resting between varieties,
I most dislike when teased!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wouldn't It Be Great
Wouldn't it be great,
To speculate with accuracy...
How someone else should be,
And they were exactly...
How we perceived them.
And we were rumor mill free.
Wouldn't it be great?
Wouldn't it be great,
To have a flavor to taste?
And that flavored tasted,
Was exactly the one craved.
How about this one?
Would it be great,
If those were created...
For the deeds they did.
And have those who knew it,
Not try to throw someone under a bus.
Wouldn't it be great,
If people awakened to appreciate others?
Instead of defaming the slander.
Or pick their names to cuss.
Wouldn't it be great if it 'was' about an 'us'...
And not about distrust, deceit,
Or the feeding of selfish greed.
Wouldn't it be greed if we did not believe,
We were entitled with these as needs.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Grandmother Would Drive
My grandmother could make a biscuit taste like steak.
And she did everything from 'scratch'.
Including making her own soap too.
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
My grandmother would drive,
And have an entire conversation...
Without looking at the road!
I had heard rumors of this...
But to witness it,
Was right out of Six Flags.
Or Disney World.
Don't ask me how she did this.
I was too busy trying to keep myself alive.
That 'imaginary' brake on the passenger side,
Of my grandmother's car...
Had worn a hole through the carpeted car floor.
And my grandmother never got a speeding ticket either.
She turned to me and asked why I had the door handle,
In my hand when speeding along the highway.
I did not realize I had pulled the handle from the door.
She frightened the 'hell' out of me.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash? ~
'I didn't think I had to THEN, grandma.
But driving with you has proved me wrong.
I think I've got to throw up too! '
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
She said she didn't need to wait,
For my grandfather to take her anywhere...
She wanted to go.
And rarely did I see my grandmother,
Using the rearview mirror.
Or...
Keep her eyes on the road.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.
I'm serious.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash?
You slowing me. You slowing me down. Geeesssshhh.
Precious Lord...hmmm hmmm...Lead me...hmmm.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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