"canning" poems
Ever felt like you had the one
for you, and
you just let her duck out?
See, I got this girl.
See, I had this girl.
See, this girl really ****** me,
see?
This girl was an island girl.
This girl ****** in torrents.
Argued in cannonball barrages.
And hugged like a linebacker.
Those island girls are thick:
all thighs,
all ***
all fire
like the volcanoes we all come from
and forget to remember.
But they remember.
And they live it.
See, this island girl, was a bigger, thicker one,
and I could throw her around any way I wanted.
And she liked it,
and I liked it,
and,
I'm telling you,
this island girl could take an ass-canning whooping
like nobody.
I mean, I'd make sure her ****** became
a bruised rose
and she felt it.
But,to talk about love,
the *** was a good thing,
but she could argue,
and I think I like that
more than I'm beginning to realize.
Just like a short poem on a ***** day.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
Day breaks on Doubletop Mountain, shadowing villages below.
Three-thousand eight hundred feet tall, it captures the eye!
And standing at attention there in front of me, a battalion of Sugar Maples in full…. Fall…. Regalia!
Cascading tones of Crimsons, Burgundy, scarlet reds and Golden Hue.
Gazing over Dunk Hill as farmer’s plow fields, turn again for fertility,
There are only brief streams of life giving sunlight, and now the sky turns to a pale grey.
Me, well I live for this time of year….enjoying the evening autumn constellations,
Or Moms dining table adorned with Indian corn and blackberry canes!
Bessie's Margaretville home begins the fall ritual of canning and drying.
Breaking out winter clothes…as she proclaims "no whites after Labor Day"!
The last bit of warmth now dwells just behind the Catskill’s Harvest Moon,
And the V of geese honk their good-byes to the summer sun.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
My mom used to grind tomatoes every October
for canning with this metal monster that kept it's mouth
clenched on the edge of our kitchen table
for weeks at a time. I used to climb up the stools
just to barely crank the tail around and around,
watching the vegetable guts spill into a cauldron.
She would give me a mini Krackle bar
if I could count all of the jars to at least ten,
their gold rims like little crowns that she would carefully
twist over their heads, the reflection from the setting sun
bouncing off my Kindergarten cheeks. My dad,
pretending to be a cartoon character behind her back
as I covered my mouth in secret laughter. I can't prove it,
but I bet she smiled as she rolled her eyes, pretending
not to be totally in love with a forty year old man
who's heart was as young as his daughter. Now,
she can't even stir Campbell's soup without crying.
The sound of the crank is only like the sound of the car
as they tore apart it's skeleton just to find my dad's baseball cap
stuck in the glass of the windshield. So instead,
now ten years later, I tuck pictures in places
I know she won't look, say prayers when she's gone to sleep,
and pull the curtain over the jars
of the homemade spaghetti sauce in the cellar.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Fried green beens
Whirl of the machines
Flashing lights
Squeals of delight
Games to win prizes
Drinks in all sizes
Pig and cow judging
Old friends hugging
Bands in the grandstand
Fried pickles at foodstand
Gator bites and gyros
Rides tossing to and fro
Cotton candy
Salt water taffy
Beer tents
Free events
Pies, canning and art
Contest to take part
Many concessionaire
Great old fashion state fair
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
I sit here
drinking six bag Bengal Spice tea
listening to Pandora
while my brother eats his breakfast behind me.
The song changes and I recognize it,
a little too well;
One Saturday at the Sequim food bank,
the only week he ever had me man the meat freezer
and not the bread room or dairy room.
I had to sneeze
So I took the back hallway
to stand among the shelves of toilet paper and soap.
She was taking a load out front-
soap and cans from the canning room.
She was singing this song
didn't see me standing on the other side of that shelf.
She had been the reason I started volunteering here,
or half the reason;
I wanted to volunteer and do something fulfilling
but I also wanted to learn her name.
This is one of the only times in my life
where I acted on impulse-
I started singing too,
my deep bass and her soprano creating a melody
that makes me want to skip this song
because it isn't the same.
But I listen to remember her reaction-
instead of walking away, stopping or sighing-
she kept singing, laughing just a little bit
letting me hear the smile on her lips.
She finished grabbing what she needed
and walked away, still laughing
still smiling as she walked into the hallway
(which was the only lit place back here)
and kept singing, even as she sat back at the front desk.
I returned to my position a minute later-
15 feet from her.
In ten weeks of volunteering there
that was the most we ever spoke to each other
and I wouldn't wish it any other way.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
no let up from the scorching bat
the flogging is a bit too thick
where the fielder gets laid out flat
due to its fervent canning stick
the flogging is a bit too thick
we've been struck by the boiling heat
due to its fervent canning stick
every day this is on the beat
we've been struck by the boiling heat
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
every day this is on the beat
which drains our energetic pit
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
due to its fervent canning stick
which drains our energetic pit
the flogging is a bit too thick
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC
Or when the door opens
are they just like
Whoa!
This is awesome!
Every
Single
Time
Not like they have to do
long range plannin'
Rotate the crops
Or put up for Winter
They have us
for that
'sif they smelled the danger
in big brains
Growled
Backed away
This
I think
they thought
Is it
the pinnacle
Let those big gangly
doofuses
Grow 'em
They're suckers
for a nuzzle
an' let'm touch u
Wah-woofin'-lah
free food
Don't think they ever imagined
At the beginning
They'd have us farming, canning
and Manufacturing
Gazillions
o' fuzzy wuzzys
to chew
on
Have us training to Ph.D.
In case they get an owie
prolly didn't anticipate
satellite collars though
Cats dominate the internet
Dogs the medical Market
My poetry
could use their marketing prowess
They even have us raising money
to take better care of more of them
You've seen
those sad commercials
As I prepare their dinner before my own
I realize
They've us
instead of reason
**** reason
Bark
******
Bark
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, that’s what they say any way.
Thinking back to my days as a child, I remember my grandmother’s house and the times I spent there with my brother. I remember so many things about those days. My grandmother had lost her husband before I was born, and had replaced him with a bottle of bourbon. The bottle was in every memory I had of that place, like a picture on the wall or a specific piece of furniture and she was always cooking something or canning something for people who never visited. Her life seemed so sad at times, but what stood out were her eyes. To me they always seemed like looking through the broken windows of an old ramshackle home and watching children laugh and play on the ***** living room floor.
They say that they eyes are the windows to the soul, that’s what they say any way.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
constantly
corrupting
correcting
correctness
combining
comparing
contrasting
canning
catastrophe
creating cages
claustrophobia
can't control
can't counter
can't contest
can't clean
can't cry,
can cry
cancel culture.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 2:53 AM UTC
Swept off her feet my dream has fallen
When a glimpse of my assurance seem to fade away
Curses derail her destination
Hovering with no place of rest
Untamed are her desires as she drifts away
To a forbidden refuge
Canning courtesy compliments
Her pretentious smile...
Fills me with despair
As I view her ascending to a place unknown
Fragments of my once subtle hope scatter in all directions
Oh what do you do? What to do?
When she has left
What do you do with her promises?
When she is lost
Her once tender comfort
A Sleepless hollow that swallows my hope whole
Refute takes her breath away
Confusion rises at dawn
Unfounded, unwanted...
Help me undreamed...
Will I ever be redeemed?
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
This woman I know had a fox that lived in her root cellar. She'd knock on the door to let it know she was going to enter, and the fox would vacate temporarily to allow her time to store or remove canning jars. She ceased to leave her root vegetables down there, as they would nearly always become part the fox's nesting material. The fox had raised several litters in that cellar and my friend was always certain never to bother her distinguished guest while she had pups. The root cellar was under the house which was built half off a cliff and was cattywampus. It had lots of cracks in the siding and in places was missing planks altogether. This allowed mice easy access, and since my lady friend was such a fine cook, there were hoards. This served the fox well, who would keep at least the underside of the rickety cabin free of vermin. My friend could never keep a cat because of the fox naturally, though she did try to employ several. They would never stay. I had always tried to make repairs on the cabin, much to my friend's chagrin. Seemed she had an aversion to any change she didn't instigate herself, and was quite particular about not having any modern materials come her way. Any suggestion of modern convenience and you'd be read the riot act. She liked things, "organic," and her whole lifestyle, with the exception cheap cigarettes and tequila, exuded such.
One day, county officials came and put a red tag on her house. This meant the home was not in accordance with sanitation laws, on account there was no septic, just an old outhouse down the hill past the garden. Being that my friend had little to no income really, her "lifestyle," was in sudden jeopardy of being uprooted. Some kindly folks pulled together to be certain our friend did not lose her home. She got a new indoor toilet, a septic tank, and some siding to keep the mice out. Never once did she use that toilet, always kept the outhouse. The fox left on account the mice population dwindled. My friend keeps her root cellar well stocked now and whenever I visit, we laugh about that fox and enjoy some fine pickled snap beans. Change isn't always easy, but living easy is sometimes worth a few changes.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
you were walking through the dunes
of slow doom and a dark spasm. you sat with your back to the far lit -
so as to never strain an eyelid at the tapestry
you could not fathom.
striking out again, your head's down where the clouds smelt golden eggs
that never cool.
they burn like you burn
when you burn.
and that's
when you notice the words,
pouring from an incandescent
into the vitriolic grog
of a dark Anubis; pruning the brute fruit
from a stray vine.
canning the flesh in mason jars
as if possessed
back to Life.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
black widow
on my table
inside of an
old-fashioned
canning jar
what have I
really rescued?
the hand from
the bite, or the
spider from being
squished apart?
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Hey pear tree ! I planted you myself over twenty years ago . You were a gift from a friend . When you were five years old you began to fruit , we loved this time of the year so much ! Canning pears and making pear butter for biscuits . I have great memories with my two girls thanks to you ! You were getting taller each year , and eventually I was unable to reach your fruit . My girls have since left and I can see that you have a family of your own surrounding you ! After another twenty years it has occurred to me that we both face the path of time . Your children , not unlike my own , have grown tall , even taller than their parent , blocking the sun and causing you and I to wither and break . To be alone ,to feel insignificant at times . We are very much alike indeed !
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
roundabout poem (another poem, another day)
<>
the notion punches into my mouth when
chilling , deleting and wasting time pro=ductively
(professionally ducking responsibilities)
with no home to go to, but to write with purposeful
meandering, in a roundabout manner,
on a Saturday, luxury~leisurely in bed with runs
for asiago bagels and blue mountain coffee,
and wondering why you would read this, and
losing my debate internal & and infernal if
this is worth my time, nonetheless the urging
is only purging by clicking clacking on a keyboard,
inviting you to join me under my cozy
floral coverlet, and to enjoy my pastoral view,
of water, women and why not, a trilogy of
factorials *(or is it factorals? permutations or combinations) another poem, another day)*
panoramic bleeding view unceasingly changing,
reflecting god’s mood swings or an atheist’s humbuggery)
and women lies beside me, guilty pleasure, mine or hers😉, becoming part, a parcel upon the land/waterscape/escape, with sun rays invisible yet blindingly make me glinting and squinting,
and wet grass, dripping trees, and going round and round, so
stray thots evolving/revolving and thus
this roundabout poem deserves a decent burial,
so I thank it, thank you, thank her, and the sky
and the glisten of a wet drenched everything,
a Saturday~Sabbath on which a poem was delivered
from me within, in a cesarean eruption,
my child blessed, sent to you with gratitude,
a much underrated emotion, but which occupies
me frequently when your days go dimmer,
and the
mind is sharply focused/used on about
what is value,
valuable, and what shall be valued on this damp
rainfall rainfull wordfull wonderful momentary
escapery into being together with…you, silly!
writ pre-noon,
Saturday~Sabbath,
(*on S.I., by the Sound’s calming waters
where the poems fall from trees on a glider
of wet leaves, or fly by on a modest mph breeze,
looking for human sense to grab aholt of for
canning and preservation…come see for yourself….*)
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC
I admire your canning ability to gain my full attention. I can sense your desire to ****** me by your hypmatizing glare, your come hither look is flattering, but I must warn you to be aware.
As some things in life may not be as they appear. For through your eyes my appearance is that of a pure lady with *** appeal , as my silken dress is pressed to fit every curve just right , with a slit running up it stopping mid thigh. Just enough room for an imagination to run wild. My top folded delicately enough you can see perfect cleavage, just enough of my tanned breast to leave you wanting more. Making my way through the crouded party to the balcony overlooking the beautiful ocean. Standing alone with my eyes closed listening as the waves crash in, I feel a presence behind me and your hot breath against my skin, the chill bumps run across me, I almost lost control, your body so tight against me I can feel the beats of your heart.
The sensation of Sparks begin to ignite as you gently run your finger up the slit of my dress, teasing my lace ******* pulling them to the side. I could feel myself throbbing as my wetness surrounded your finger as you slid it inside me. My knees growing week with every move you made. I leaned into you and whispered softly in your ear, I've given you fair warning things aren't always as they seem but you continue to toy with me you don't know what you are about to unleash. With a quaint little smirk he added a finger his thumb up against my **** you are bringing me to my explosion of pure ecstacy.
There was no holding back as I released my sweetness his hardness was like steel, you have released the freak in me as we make our way on the beach , ripping clothes off left and right I knelt down in front of him as he placed himself in my hot wet mouth my eyes piercing up at him as he pulled the back of my hair, I pushed him over as I mounted him and gave him one hell of a ride. As we finished both more than pleasured , still on top I look down and say do you understand now my warning to you as you turned a **** lady into a complete freak in bed.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
Have you ever made a loaf of bread?
It is a labor intensive, time consuming endeavor
First you must mix the ingredients,
You have to work the dough,
You must let the bread rise,
Then you must bake it until done
Now this bread must be used within a day
Because it does not preservatives
Why do we toast bread for Breakfast?
The bread made the night before was dry
Mom spent time at home making bread
While she was doing this she cleaned
She collected the eggs for breakfast
She milked the cow, goats
She weeded the garden, selected supper
She did the laundry by hand
Hanging the clothes to dry in the sun
Meanwhile she watched and taught the children
Then it was time for supper
She would collect the fall harvest
Canning the harvest to last through the winter
In the winter she would get up early to start the fire
Making breakfast and lunch for the kids
Sewing and mending clothes, blankets
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Today is such a beautiful day
I'm lining my pockets with leftovers
So all the bits and pieces I save
Can be enjoyed for later
Once I get the day back home
And lay it out on the table
I'll take canning jars and put it all in
Each one with a different label
I'll label one "The Perfect Sunshine"
Another "The Right Amount Of Clouds"
I'll put "The Cool Breeze and Birds Song" both together
They'll mix well when I let them out
I'll add the laughter of the children
Cheerfully in their play
The fragrance of flowers in the fields
To my jars of beautiful day
There's no need to put a date on them
A day like this could never go bad
Perhaps I will add a special note
Open...for the best day you've ever had
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
What, Wednesday?
no way,
surely
we had one last week.
I'm going to complain
not sure who to
but
that's what I'm going
to do.
Actually
I'm already on the jubilee
five fifteen
and I've never seen such
a motley crew
except on
' Captain Pugwash'
and they were just
cartoon characters.
It's cold
because it's nothing
without a mention of
the weather.
West Ham
like boiled ham
but
not as tasty.
And it's her again
woman with the candy floss hair
I'm wondering how it stays in place
she looks as if she doesn't care.
Canning Town
a bit uppity
needs a
dressing down
but
the vinyl man gets on
records under his arm
I want to say,
your day has gone
but
I don't.
North Greenwich,
not the American village
but close enough.
Lots more get on,
the tube moves on
I stay seated.
Canary Wharf,
do canaries tweet?
I'll find out on Twitter
later.
Canada water
not quite Canada
but the water
is nearly there.
People off,
maybe going canoeing
or going to work
I presume
which leaves me room
to stretch my legs.
I'd have to stretch my imagination
to imagine the next station,
yes it's,
Bermondsey
a wait and see place
south of the river.
Onwards
with John's words.
Next bridge
is London Bridge,
we're
getting ready to cross over,
no!
not the great divide
just the Thames
Southwark?
never heard of it
although we stop for
a bit
to let people off.
Waterloo
under the clock
at two
at three
at four the policeman
says,
what are you waiting for?
I move along.
Westminster, a
den of thieves
a lot of chaos
I'm still
here.
Green park
greener now we've
had rain
and the next stop
is
Bond Street
I'm
nearly at work,
what, again?
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 1:26 AM UTC
Friday on the Jubilee
no Central line?
no
not for me.
Heading West into the den
of bogeymen.
This tube train's quite deserted
I blurted out in glee
but
no one here that heard it
only
me.
Canning Town
two stops down
ghostly
in this light
she
might get on
but
no
I'm still alone and
off we go.
I could get used to this
kiss
the Central line
goodbye
but wait
North Geeenwich and
the hordes arrive
all going to their
six to five
( they tried nine to five
but it didn't pay the rent)
I might alight at Waterloo
or Bond Street
who can tell
it's so nice to
get a morning seat
and sit down for a
spell.
It's full now
heaving at the seams
and
my dreams of solitude
are gone
same faces going different places
and
more suitcases
nutcases
and in case you forget
I'm still to get to the den.
I can't decide,
Waterloo
or ride it through for
three more stops to
Bond Street and those
fancy shops
which
by the way open earlier
on a Friday
or maybe not.
A Roman contribution
Nero and hot coffee
good for the
constitution
or
so they say
but
on Friday they'll say
anything to get your
blood pumping.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC