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Bob Sterry Jul 2014
Shucking peas on the back steps
Maureen and I watch her Mum,
My Aunt Grace,
Arguing with Aunt Edna
In the kitchen
The narrow kitchen
Of number 84 Truro Road
As they whip a Sunday lunch into shape
A test match drones on the radio
The aroma of mint on new spuds teases.
It’s a modest roast
Served in the tiny parlor
To nine of us!
Eating elbow to elbow
With yellow handled knives and forks
Down to the bare porcelain
Waiting for the apple pie
with Libby’s.
That crust, with sugar sprinkles
Is a lifetime goal for me!
Inspired by Seamus Heaney's poem about watching his mother peel potatoes, and written for the 90th Birthday of my Aunt Grace, who represents her name so well. Test match means a five day cricket match, probably against Australia. Libby's is a brand of sweetened condensed milk. A treat in the fifties when cream was a luxury.
Terry Collett Dec 2012
As a kid
you used to watch
your mother

shucking peas
over the kitchen sink
and see the skill

her fingers
and thumb had
of clearing out

the peas into a bowl
with a single move
and you asked her

for one of the shucks
to chew
and she said

shucks?
you want a shuck?
yes please

you said
and she gave you one
from her hand

and you chewed
the juices out
and let it move

around your mouth
like that old tobacco
the cowboys had

in the black
and white films
your father

had taken you to see
and then you swallowed
and asked for more

and your mother obliged
with a raised brow
and a continued

moving out of peas
from the shuck
with nimble thumb

and fingers’ grip
as another green shuck
sat upon your lip

cowboy style
and your mother
with a shake of head

smiled and carried
on her work
of pushing out peas

from the pod
as you walked off
into the cowboy sunset

thinking of the Wild West
with no thought
of Boothill or God.
Sam Bowden Dec 2018
Shucking oysters is a dangerous task.
Only skilled, determined hands may apply.
Why so dangerous a task you ask?
Well, let’s see?
There’s the salt, the grit, the unforgiving need...
the slips, the stabs, the you and the me.
Our boats rock along a forlorn sea.

Sitting on the dock of my mind,
the sun's rays slap me sober,
as it refuses to set for seven hundred thousand nights...

Patiently present in the moment, I am, totally attuned to the task at hand.

She's anything but simple,
this complexly succulent woman I've stumbled upon,
Unearthed I have, with my bare hands.
Rugged exterior, jagged edges,
a clear warning for all to see.
But a gorgeous glory awaits the determined, the brave, the patient,
I have faith...

I have faith in such a glory beyond legend,
in such beauty beyond reason.
Just because something feels like a miracle,
doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
For if jade kissed a pearl as it slipped into the sea,
it still wouldn't rival her beauty.

We are a meeting of minds that could unfurl for all time.
As she lines her eyes in paint,
and stains her lips like crimson art.
She's always ready for war,
launching a thousand ships in my heart.

Like the Greek Odysseus,
I've sailed upon contentment's shore,
sipping your wine and eating your grapes,
now I only want more.
Eros, the bittersweetness, is clawing at my door.
I want to live with you in the gap,
between consumption and desire,
between winter's ice and between summer's fire.

Unknowingly I have,
peeled the wall paper from her frame,
where ancient tapestries shown from beneath,
a secret no man could keep.
The scars cut deep into the fabric,
marks of carelessness in love.
The family ties that tear,
the tears of lovers once here,
now there.

Warmth gives way to wind,
and fire gives way to need.
She pulls me close,
then pushes me back,
rocking along a forlorn sea.

And like the sea,
she breathes life into me.
A great roiling tempest of the heart,
with a fury that blows reason from the mind.

Tame, tame, squeeze...    l e t   g o.
Give it...       t i m e.

Still though,
questions fray at the edges of her mind,
and yet,
with the passage of time,
the sea will settle,
the tide will recede.
I have faith in love.
And faith in me.   

Sure footed I am, even as we,
not yet a "we",
dodging rain drops,
dashing through the city,
hand-in-hand, we don't slip.
I think thoughts, but bite my lip.

And while I sip, I think;
“She's anything but simple,
this dandelion seed,
floating in the wind.
Walls up, head down,
a determined doctor,
a surgeon steeled for the journey,
thawing beneath me she is...”

“The most beautiful immigrant I've ever seen;
On the platform of her mind,
she longs for a home, leagues from her homeland,
while I scratch at the dirt of my own.
Do I belong here?
Does she? Do we?
Where is home? Security? Acceptance? Belonging?
Who knows what the futures holds?
Allahu alam, not you or me.”

Uncertain of answers,
is this a mirage or a dream?
I can’t know for sure,
So I take heart in the Unseen.

I crack the oyster open,
and swallow it inside.
I sip life's ambrosia,
and breathe in the sky.

I'll crack The Pearl of Persia,
one kiss at a time.
An ode to patience in love.
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful

alienation, expulsion, ostracization
     from body politick
     if member of society resistant,
     indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
     (across the figurative board)
     intolerance opposing ethos,
     asper unspoken social graces extant

(albeit manifested amidst diverse
     livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
     oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas

     automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
     to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
     challenging precepts via rave and/or rant

thus when born into whatever culture,
     steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
     til ivy blue in the face,
     or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
     brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost

hence creative pursuits one direction
     can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
     with perceived restrictive parameters
     and cuss like a sailor
     with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
     With The Stars), or

choosing subterfuge viz
     writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
     daemons spring to life, when computer code
     following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler

(case in point - myself, hoot
     ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
     greater reason to rage
against the machine before
     turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
     with equal pay, cuz a working wage

aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
     if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
     of this pooch iz gaseous
     boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
     with other nerdy mutts.
Raymond Johnson Jan 2014
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

maybe it's related to the fact that there is no more history on the history channel

and the only thing the discovery channel wants to investigate
is the depth of our bank accounts

the word 'integrity' has become archaic. obsolete. unnecessary, simply, because nobody has any anymore.

whatever happened to learning for the sake of learning?

who was the sick greedy ******* who decided that it was okay to charge money for knowledge?

our youth are being put into ******* for the knowledge necessary to survive in this society

of inequality.

in the 21st century slaves toil away in classroom as well as coal mines.

and those who dare to resist the path of post-modern peonage laid before them are doomed to a life of minimum wage mundanity or constant criminal risk.

there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.

i too have become a slave. and a large portion of those who read this message have as well.

our souls signed away at the dotted line, sealed within great paper phylacteries adorned with the sinister sigils of Sallie Mae.

the chains of our debt will never let go of us. even upon death our progeny will have to hoist our burdens on their shoulders.

and for those of you who know not of our *******, i bid you welcome, like a Brother greater than I once said:

"welcome to the united snakes, land of the thief, and home of the slave. the grand imperial guard, where the dollar is sacred and power is god."

if your total net worth rests below a cool few million i suggest you stay away.

silly me. silly me, silly me, silly me. after all this country was built on generation after generation of genocide, **** and fraud, codified into the laws we hold so tight and so high, how naive was i to even expect civil discourse and equality from a naturally sinister state?

cloaked in the fog of pure ignorance we the people paradoxically bear the weight of our fraudulent federal government on our backs while simultaneously parasitically depend upon it.

parapets and gaudy domiciles all built with the blood sweat and tears of the disenfranchised. soft music composed of the screams of children dying from predator drone hellfire missiles lilts through the hallways.

news flash: the illuminati and the reptilian overlords are not trying to control your mind.

this is not about pineal gland calcification and third eyes but about the systematic disenfranchisement and subjugation of every man woman and child in this unfortunate nation.

they impose harsh sentences on small time drug crimes and outsource our only sources of economic stability.
left with no upward mobility, we then resort to any means necessary to simply survive.

'the world is your oyster.' they say. and they conveniently fail to mention the fine print which emphatically states that you may only possess the oyster shucking knife if you are white, male, and upper middle class.

this is not about checking privilege and white guilt. this is about the way that this ****** up world works. about the sinister cogs turning behind the scenes.

and if you dare raise your voice in resistance you'll find yourself staring at cinderblock walls, spools of barbed wire, reinforced steel bars, and armed guards for the rest of your sad life. your enclosed inmate existence making the coffers of the prison-industrial complex even deeper.

some say we should raise our fists instead and fight. and i say to them good luck fight the world's most technologically advanced military in its own home territory. Guerilla warfare and armed millitias stand about as good of a chance and gorillas armed with sticks and stones when the enemy possesses satellites that can see your face from orbit.

and i hope you don't mine being despised by the public of the modern world when you're slapped in the face with that dreadful catch-all term that is 'terrorist'.

but we can't just sit here and let the vines of greed asphyxiate our vitality away.

so herein lies the eternal question that i pose to you:

what are we to do?
this is my first attempt at a slam poem
Martin Narrod  Aug 2015
Untitled
Martin Narrod Aug 2015
Luke warm bath verse. Can your fingers live on my thumb peninsula forever I hope. You groom me and I'll dump the water over your head. Sit in front of me, I like the way it feels when it pokes your back awkwardly. It's weird to me, only your toes wrinkle. I can be the hot towel and kisses on your eyelids. The morphine calls my veins, while you don't call my name. Ours was unlike anyones. It still is to me and the trailing cries of women who I tried to **** my heart out of your hands. Like shucking emptiness from already emptied containers. I'm living for the day I feel your hands on my face again. Again.
WoodsWanderer May 2016
Hey you
You with the crinkling eyes and the dancing laugh
with the arms that ensare my waist to throw me against
pure emerald mountain sides dripping with late spring rains
the shucking of pine bark to twirl wooden towers down lilting slopes
and the gangly limbs reaching towards the sky
in an attempt to capture the clouds
for the sole reason of dancing through their
fluffiness
you with the pure soul and poise fit enough for the queen
if only you were anatomically different
you would rule this world better than she
honesty running through your laughing veins
as you summit mountain after mountain
pure glacial eyes darting to capture mine
mischievious depths speaking of hidden love
I know you
so well.
Even though our friendship has been
2 months 30 days long
I know you better than I know myself
My best best friend you called me
as true as these wild trilliums we run past in an attempt to throw
the other into the lake
the fires which serve as a competitive twinkle in your eyes
we are so free.
You who contains the most pure soul
pure intentions I have ever come across
You are so loved
You are so perfect in your innocence
In the wise notes held in your fingertips
you provide wings to leap with.
I know there are waves trapped in your veins
calling for your brilliant smile.
I know when your head rests against my chest
it is with the innocence of a child
You are my best friend
My comrade in arms
My birch gatherer.
and this love spreading through my limbs
for your tired head and tumbling curls
is hard to ignore.
I know you are being called away
a bright future awaits
a familial expectation to fufill
I'm just here to tell you I will be waiting
In these mountains, these peaks
roaming annd laughing and dancing
waiting for the day my best friend realizes
his happiness is more important than others expectations
and I will be here
as free as when you first found me
ready for our adventures to begin
Come fly with me.
The anticipation is heavy within me,
Clouding my every thought
I feel light headed as you
Shut off the flow of life
Around me as nothing else matters,
I can savor the hesitation
Between the airlock
Of our lips,
And then it's a vertical wrestle
Across the floor
Shucking off clothes
And then we stop,
That millimeter
Space between
The contact
Of our bodies,
I can almost feel
Your delicate suggestion
Of hairs rise like static,
Electrifying
The first beads of sweat
As our skins graze
Like the first seconds of an ice cube
When barely you acknowledge its temperature,
The first sip of summer's cool lemonade;
Or is it the very finest of wines,
That's no longer here nor there
As I cling onto your body
Pleasurable friction,
Solid yet malleable
Against the bed trestle
And every other strong surface,
I feel the smoothness of you
Against the rough callousness of my hands,
And I feel I could never let go,
No questions words or thinking,
Just heart, need, and want
And crave, and hunger
Salt lick,
I want to deplete you of air
And replace it all with passion;
Sweet, our bodies shivering
Like crack fiends,
No athlete could keep up
In this heat feel
The slightest caress of a breeze...
APAD13 003 - © okpoet
L A Rice  Aug 2010
Bivalve
L A Rice Aug 2010
In 1973,
My father used a favorite shucking knife,
Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft,
To pry open rocklike oysters.

He passed them to us, his heirs
To the iced tea spoons, the fondue ***,
The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker,
And we would first check them for pearls

And then hold them, like religion,
Above our mouths,
Tip our heads back,
And let them slide over our tongues.

Yesterday, at Little Pond,
As March thawed the glassthin ice,
I startled at the cracking,
Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.
March 2009
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
Once pink now tawny wallpaper peels inside a closet, ballerina
dreams shucking off like husk. Little cartooned princesses cling.
Last holders-on from a 1950's design scheme with all good
intention, twirling memories glueyness is backed seemingly
to astound or perhaps dishearten. In "the boy's room," you
find in the closet an equally petrified, yet opposite motif papered.
It's animated baseball. I remember how quotes such as, "Never
let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game,"
did don those walls back in the day. I think it was Babe Ruth
attributed to that one. He and I were supposed to have shared
the same birthday, but I must confess, it stopped right there.

Eventually, that was all figured out, and I have no lamented
grievances for what parent's wishes were for their children's
would-be assigned roles. It was and is still popular to choose
decided decors as such. Who is to know how Bobby may envy
tiny dancers chosen for his sister's room or how Sue might prefer
basketball or even hockey? Even more politically correct
consciousness is a confusing choice. Who gets the dinosaurs
and who gets the daisies? In any case, no one papers the
closets anymore. So, when the time comes for cleaning out
old spaces and memories, future grudges might be less frequent.
I've been cleaning closets.
Martin Narrod Oct 2017
Swiping itches
Sticky fingers
Yields those smells we love
To touch it, thrills
You mean business
Steady shucking,
Harvests tingles starting from these toes
**** junk, to the nostrils
Smells like rock ‘n roll

Fuzzy nothings
Sweeping softness
Inside wet with joy
Excited aces, jack of clovers
Licks the spades in throes
Something wilder
Up above us
Shivers chilled with awe
Insight betwixt our interstices
This mouth cleaving chills below

Always ready
Never settling
Redolent God-like muse
This music is something
To be messed with
Together we watch our show
Left Foot Poet Jul 2014
they came around
this early morn,
asking for you
they always do,
check in regular,
especial in the now
disharmonious waking times,
ever since you checked out

a different path,
your own,
wanted a kitchen
with no His aprons,
where you were
chief chef,
braising simmering, shucking
of your own choosing,
and the cooking accessories
were yours, initialed,
so you stated

in your
'so short, so long' note,^
a trifling amuse-bouche,
for me to consume,
for you,
to be amused by...

so long,
now soloing,
duo thing wasn't working,
two sopranos,
in one kitchen
trying to out
high note each other,
a creatively strange way to say
I love you but,
I am Top Chef

thus is the human way,
to err for what we want,
to err for what we had,
err for what we now need
and the long and the short of it,
long for...

the smell of your voice,
the song of thy fresh creations,
wafting, enticing and now
in hind-sighting,
mesmerizing me awake from
loving bed to contested kitchen

now I only sing and cook professionally

which is another word for mechanically

the voice,
thine cooking smells,
cinnamon and cardamon
that resided in our skins,
check in,
looking for refreshment,
have none to offer....
ever since,
we were
so short, so long...
I loved you, I sang  for you,
I cooked us into everything,
but it was not never enough.

A short note, to say so long....
8:06am  Sunday

— The End —