"collard" poems
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * *
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Do you see the way she looks at me
As she asks what I'd like to eat
I'm not sure of what to say to her
But was that just a wink?
I'm not the only one standing here
That m'lady wines and dines
Yet another school year
In the Cafeteria line
You know she had me with the hair net
Matching the color of her eyes
The **** way she slops spaghetti
On the plate next to my fries
There's really not a lot
A young school boy can do
As I dream about her from breakfast to lunch
In one continuous drool
She's the Cafeteria lady
Not to keen on her collard greens
But she does serve up a mess of mean
Nachos and young school boy dreams
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
I tried to tickle my vegan fancy
With bushels of quinoa and kale,
I was told no meat or dairy
Was the healthy Holy Grail.
But I was sad and hungry
With every burger I declined,
See me toss away my salad bowl,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.
I filled my fridge with veggies,
Bean sprouts and legumes,
But I dreamt of pancetta
And links of sausage to consume.
Breakfast was plain yogurt
Lunch was collard greens,
Snacks were roasted edamame,
**** they’re just soy beans.
I was getting much too skinny,
My ribs were protruding,
I became short-tempered,
And was dark and brooding.
I covered all the mirrors,
I looked so pale and pasty,
All day I would salivate,
Craving something hot and tasty.
My vegan days are over
Enjoying pork chops, ham and bacon
I thought veggies were the answer,
But it seems I was mistaken.
Feel free to live off plants,
If you are so inclined,
But I’m firing up the grill,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Paul Masson.
Hot sauce.
Colgate - old and stale
as puke.
Grease.
Newports.
Former head.
Recovery.
Country dirt.
Pecans.
Cotton.
A black fist held high.
Hope that one day
he'll be able to fit his ex-wives
into a nice,
cordial sentence.
Love.
Real love.
Man love.
Type love that kicks *** when it has to.
Sears cologne,
OG ****
Some Christianity,
but not a lot,
not nauseating
and obnoxious,
more like
quiet
and
almost not there.
More Masson.
More Newports.
Gold fillings;
the Midas Touch
on his tongue;
the ability
to blind you
in the glow of his breath.
Rotten *****
Real rotten.
Rotted to viral nostalgia
because it tastes
like ****
and makes him lick the roof
of his mouth
to get that smell
out,
just to make
room
for it
again.
Chitlins.
Obama's saliva.
Collard greens
with all the vinegar
and red pepper
in Satan's *******
Herman Cain's armpits.
Fear
for
me.
Love
for
me.
Power.
Former riverboat
porter.
The smell of rich white men
that talked about
*******
while he stood
stoically.
Strength
like
you've never
smelled before.
Human.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
I tried kale once I suppose it is like medicine if it tastes bad it must be good for you I am not swayed by that logic.
I don't know much about kale
could they make of it an ale?
I'd consider drinking that
crushed into liquid inside a big vat.
I'd give it a shot, maybe two
if I didn't puke when I was through
can it be any worse than hair tonic?
wouldn't that be a bit ironic?
Other veggies I love to hate
seldom make it to my plate
I taste them with a finger
then let them alone to linger.
Like chock boy and collard greens
I leave them to my putrid dreams
untouched unloved uneaten
even when they may be sweeten.
That's my take on kale
I'm still hardy and I'm still hale
take it i you must
but the others I don't trust.
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC
Don't get offended, because of my choice of meat. I love my chicken and turkey; I see you love pig feet.
Don't get offended, because of my choice of meat. I love my beef and fish; I notice pork is the meat you eat.
Don't get offended, because of my choice of meat. I intend to live a long life, resisting temptations to cheat.
Don't get offended, because of my choice of meat. I eat chicken hot dogs, while relaxing in my home.
I notice you eat collard greens with a plate filled with neck bones.
Your meat, my meat.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Mud bug Stew, Black beans and rice
Collard greens and fat back boiled up Nice
Nothing like a Bowl of Fila Gumbo
Boozoo Chavez play the Crawfish mombo
Blind drunk Betting, and Letting Dollars go
And he blew it all on horses and Ho's
Boozoo got a taste of Cold Cash And Cadillacs
Clifton Chenier in Lake Charles too
Snook right past ole drunk Boozoo
His accordian tunes Ripped right By
Boozoo Chavez who did not Know
How Clifton Chenier became
The KING of ZYDECO
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
She loved his work calloused hands,
the way he tipped his hat to strangers,
and his rain-soaked kisses.
She hated sweet tea,
collard greens,
and the word, 'Y'all.'
They packed up and moved to the South.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
1. The Ugly Coupling of the blue sousaphone suckling
Buffalo Buffalo
didn't know the blue mouth piece widget
was no inspired milk spigot
soaked with Mr. Creosote
in Vomit'n beer laden banana bins
weewoo weewoo the maniac is behind you
(its funny how when i'm feeling particularly uninspired my poems always come out like this....)
chuckling happily listening to singing nonsense
with headphones on
9 beats, repeated triplets, phrases
spoken in a mumbling rhythm
(....just jumbled references, slant rhymes and free associations)
dreams of peace in the middle east
as eyes turn upward to see a collard shirt and mohawk looking back
"my god what have you done"
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
I sit where I could get a fresh breathand somehow escape the smells of collard greens, fried chicken, man-n-cheese, and Momma’s 7-up pound cake.Sunday dinners were never going to be the same and Daddy’s to blame.Pot-bellied Pastor McKenzie sneezed in the same rag that he was wiping his sweaty face with. Auntie Lena brushing pasthim to avoid his sermon on ‘cleansing your soul’ putting the carnation bouquets on the dining table.Momma leaning on her callused elbows, which ain’t ableto take too much more stress. Brandy and Brittney flipped through channels fighting over the best pillow on the couch.My uncle Jo rambling on about this sweating he does in the south.Nobody even noticed the things that were coming out of Daddy’s mouth. “Sorry baby. Daddy’s so sorry,” on repeat like my Alicia Keys CDthat Kayla scratched last year in the same car Daddy wrecked. I played it in the living room, hoping to bring her back.Her frizz free hair was all that I was jealous of. Her clothes were cuter than mine and one size too big. Her humor rubbed off on me and is the reason I’m a kidder. Time to eat, but I can’t breathe.Kayla could never again help with dinner.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
The word ****
Is something kids should never have to learn
You should never have to know what is means
To be pushed down and have them forced upon you
Its nothing youth should know
Its nothing kids should know
Its nothing anyone should know
Its just a four letter word
Turned into a world of horror
Where the word *****
Gets thrown around at the wrong times
How did I ever bring this hell upon myself
When the clothes I was wearing were baggy
The shirt I had was collard
My pants were long, no holes
How did I scream out
“Take my innocence
Its okay I’m thirteen today”
Because I didn’t,
And if I do recall
I said the word “no”
So how does that give you the right to say
“Oh boys will be boys”
*He was no boy
He was almost twenty*
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
The mist in the collard greens
is moving like an old woman
in dusty lingerie making sparks
with a *** where it lays tired
and the moon looks right odd
like an albino hawk in a dead
tree - branches of solemnity
and worn out blue guitar strings -
while that old locomotive
of darkness blows its steam
through my back porch screen.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
A sullen , blue eagle sentry patrols stone fruit orchards
Black and tan beagles braying for the hunt filled morning
Orange Alabama horizons , China goose down caught , drifting south
Collard pods rattle white -washed homesteads , pollen entombs tiny towns with ragweed ferocity , cattail gardens and fog induced rainbows ...
Dove mourn blackberry winter , dew washed back roads drift quietly into lake country ....
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
THE GRAND DESIGN
Esoteric Alchemy ~ To make of One Form into Many.
To See beyond the Surface Structure,
and shift its Shape
from the Ordinary into Extraordinary...
~Can’t We just Design parallel Surfaces,
without intercepting Asymptotes?
…how about with Tangent Tangerines,
or in Earthening Collard Greens?
What if I swirled into You
upon a slinky Sinusoidal Serpentine Dream…
You could slither Me up with a taste
of Your Raspberry Vanilla Eye Scream…
We should Integrate our Derivative
into the Summed Square total of its Parts…
~alas, Enter para~Plasmotic inter-Dementia,
Sparkling quarks on Celestial Utopia…
Why are there Words??
~Cause its Words that Confuse…
All of Transmission is otherwise Smooth
Why not decide when We try to Communicate,
to Assess how We Address, so the Words can Cooperate?
Cause it seems to Appear Larger in Scope,
if Viewed from up Here,
If Not for the Invent of Words did Elope,
the Fruit of War,
In the Mist ~ Disappear…
€ΘΛζΔӁλλΠΣΩΘЙΔΨΠӁζҨ
MY PROPOSAL FOR WORLD PEACE
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Cant hold her
Cant touch her
Cant see her
But love conquers all
And I Love Her
Cant have her
Cant feel her
Cant taste her
But love conquers all
And I Love Her
Cant breath her
Cant live her
Cant smell her
But love conquers all
And I Love Her
Cant show her the affection she wants, at least not here.
Cant whisper those sweat nothings into her ear, at least not here.
Cant tell her how I feel by word of mouth, at least not here.
Oh how things would be different if she were my slave.
Her *** cherry red from the cane cause I cant touch her. Her mouth gagged so I cant hear her. Tied around her waist shes bound, can not move but off of ground.
Oh if she were my slave, bowed before me at my feet she'd kneel, keeps her on an even keel. Tied her ankles hand and feet for my pleasure she would meat. A cat of nine tails should do just fine, shell never forget that she was mine.
Oh the punishment would be swift, she would know that Master was miffed. Kiss my boots, she doesn't deserve the reward, her cries for release strike the wrong cord. Spank her more she's not getting it right, they'd hear her scream, long into the night.
Alas I digress, my slave she is not, but that does not mean my heart she's not caught. Collard her I have yet to do, but she will ware mine before we are through. I loved her now, Ill love her till death, for she is the one who took my last breath.
She will give freely to me, her body mind and sole to do with as I see.
Ill be her Master strong and firm, gentle and loving ill watch her squirm. She might not ware my collar around, but I know she will before I go in the ground.
Cant hold her
Cant touch her
Cant see her
Cant have her
Cant feel her
Cant taste her
Cant breath her
Cant live her
Cant smell her
Though I am not her Master, she is torturing me while she can.
Though she is not my slave, I'm her one and only, I'm her man.
Though I am paralyzed to do nothing for now, this will all change I hope some how...
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
Turkey, stuffing
Mac and cheese
Ziti, mussels
collard greens
Cran sauce, ham hocks
Candied yams
Brisket, corn bread
Sizzling lamb
Stuffed shells, Sausage
Yellow rice
Chicken, mash potatoes
Pumpkin pies
All the food I had on my plate
Blessed and thankful that I ate
Knowing others don't have the same
But we shared, the needy came
Ate with us as own our kin
There was where new friendships begin
Giving back makes all feel good
Serving to our neighborhood
In our home, you're invited in
We pass the plate with you as kin
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
When I think of soul food…
I don’t think of my great grandmother’s collard greens,
Or her delicious black eyed peas…
But instead of the black eyes that the slave masters gave the rebels…
Whose blood lines lead to me…
When I think of culture and song….
I do not think of our young black girls throwin’ it back in a circle…
Or black thirteen year olds contemplating whether or not they should wear that extra tight thong…
When I think of our women …
I remember the hard workers and the change makers…
Not the club hoppers and the rain makers….
I don’t know what you remember about our history…
But what I remember…?
I remember the long nights and the rainy days…
The colored only signs and the church hymns that were meant to break these chains…
As I recall..
All of our ancestors bleed their blood…
And shed their tears…
Took the wrongness…
And the noise that the cat of nine tails upon their back they did hear …
So that for us later generations...
The world would be a much better place…
So my question to you is why are we increasing the negative pace?!?!
One step forward and three steps back….
I don’t know about you…
But my grandfather told me we should be one as a pack…
Unbound from our chains…
UNIFIED AND BLACK!!!
I know you have more fight in you than that!!!
Come on and show the world what you’ve got…
Because the world doesn’t go round ’cause of underage youth’s highs on ***
Our men locked up in jail…
All because of the “suspicious” things they do
And the socially Darwinised stereotype that our race is going to fail…
I am here to influence my generation…
So how hard are we going to fight for our emancipation?!?!
Let’s stop the domino affect…
And start a new…
Because how far our race goes up or down…?
It’s all up to you….
Please review!!!
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
I’ll look up and see a wasp
Or a bee, hunting around,
Ready to die.
Collaborations simplified in rivers abreast
Oh, the shores of Lethe are so delightful
With their ash marked eyes and solitude beggars
Potted plants of desiree, coal jutted shouts cross
Blanket crowds shoved in a bruised corner
With a madman screaming something about
Lasting generation and forced collaration.
See the basket cases? Claimed they were
From the devil, Dee did, muttering about kingdoms
and collard greens
With her stuffed, shrunk coat waddling round the
same Dickey’s, a corner from Westboro Baptist.
And kitty corner from the statues no one’s taking down
Cause Mr.White said nah son, that’s not right
As he bombed Bethel Baptist one more time.
And these shores are so delightful, don’t you see?
Harpooned sticks and scarecrows, oh sorry,
I meant social expectations, but who cares anyway?
Wondering why we all say “i want to die’,
Have you looked at the government mandating
People inhuman, or the money situation,
Should be on the news, but
No we here at Fox and CNN don’t believe that’s important.
Say, I don’t think we should have Onion headlines
On the New York Times.
So we say ‘i want to die’ and the Gazette tells us
it’s those **** video games again
or maybe it’s the stigma and lack of empathy from
The Powerful.
And you hear on the street,
“Weed’s ending this country,”
Sorry, I wanted a break from all this god **** noise
From a country pulling apart at the beaten seams
Of another unwritten book.
Anger, you’ll say, irrational, I’ll add,
But pointing at the statue in the park
And you wonder why all those wasps
And bees we look down on, the gerbils and
Hamsters
That we never pull a punch on
Why they escape through the way they know how,
Why, wouldn’t you too? But that’d require empathy, sir,
And apparently you lack more than morals, sir.
Look, there’s Dee, getting her collard greens
In her stuffy, shrunken jacket,
Round the corner from Dickey’s and cracked roads with
littered breezes blowing past cars open windows, honking and
brazen calls.
Welcome to the Lethe shores,
Don’t worry, you won’t remember a thing,
Slipped a bit of Liquid X in your alcohol.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
I see a collard shirt,
but I feel sweat stains.
I push my glasses up on my nose
when they fall to the tip,
and take my glasses off
when it rains.
It pains me
when I see another
human being just the same.
One who spits their toothpaste,
and watches it spin
down the drain.
One who
puts too much thought
into texts
they never send,
and ones who talk
all night long
with no one on the other end.
A friend told me
that I look like
a man who
rarely speaks,
and I told him
Id rather not,
and broke
my silent streak.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
it's a fact in the course of things,
like iodine in dried seaweed.
men in nicely pressed collard
shirts pick up their kids from school,
watching a lover clip their toe nails.
it's a fact in the course of things,
the sparrows building their nest
the city reeks of dust and
mouths agape we breathe in
the ashes of effigies.
text not sent,
calls not made,
faith in the faithless.
it's a fact in the course of things,
like a stone ground to dust by
a waterfall,
I am too ground to dust
by the column of air
which holds up the sky.
a drifter in malaysia smokes a
cigarette he found on the ground.
the dead girl ************ on video.
right in the palm of your hand
the world is made or broken in
your intestines,
it's a fact in the course of things,
your lost thoughts pool in a
pit somewhere until it's full,
and then you can swim across.
I'll never have children.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
She hates mushrooms
says they smell like dirt
and grow on **** and darkness
She hates green beans
because her thumbs still ache
from seven summers
snapping tips
She hates kale
because she don't wanna
chew for days
and her jaw clicks
She loves onions and garlic
the baseline
of everything going right
She loves the sweeter cabbages
melted down in bacon fat
topped with snap peas and walnuts
She'll cook for anybody
willing to listen
to her sizzling grease
She'll caramelize your mind
question every savory intention
every bitter herb in your teeth
salt every wound till it sweats
and goes limp in the pan
She travels with her tongue
her pantry her passport:
cumin, coriander, cinnamon,
cilantro and cardamom
in simmering stews of goat
and collard greens.
Her knife has a keen edge
and she cracks the joints of dead birds
like splitting cheap bamboo chopsticks.
Her eyes go wide and silent
at the range
and when the burners fire
the whole world gathers and waits.
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 12:27 PM UTC
After all these many carnivore years
You can call it guilt or you can call it fear
I've made up my mind to decide
I'm going vegan this November time
So I broke down hard and read some books
Heard some tapes on what it took
From veggies steamed to veggies raw
From beans of green to yellow squash
As my nightly dreams were all filled with meat
I pushed back hard with collard greens
But still had no clue of what to do
With a turkey substitute
And that is when a friend came in
Who Tofu's the line at turkey time
So I read more books and heard more tapes
On Tofu fried, boiled, broiled, and baked
Opening up my kitchen to fine cuisine
Minus the best part...that being meat
As I promised myself I can make this work
My Tofurkey would be the finest in edible art
I had bought my Tofu by the pound
Lucky for me it is pliable
As I stretched and pulled and pulled and stretched
Until I had something that looked like a head
With my artistic abilities seriously in doubt
I'm pretty sure what I conjured was the head of a cow
So I pulled and stretched and stretched and pulled
No ones going to call me an abstract fool
As I bring to boil the "Rodin" juices in me
And baste at my skills repeatedly
Where I come up with a turkey, giblets and all
And just for good measure I gobble a turkey call
Of course cooking the thing is another road and
I sadly lost Tofurkey 1, 2, and 3 in the explosion
When 4 hit the score I invited my friends
Whose friendship with them will take time to mend
Just because a turkey looks like a turkey, don't mean that it is
I'm now learning all this while I clean up the mess
As forks went to the mouths at the very same time
So did the retching along with the crying
But in a month they'll forget this entire sordid ordeal
When they get the invites for my Christmas holiday meal
With my time in the books and tapes I will spend
Looking forward to Christmas and a delicious soy bean ham
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * * *
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 10:46 AM UTC
Give me stars and bars and collard greens,
sweet lemonade and simple things,
Stevie Ray Vaughn and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Texas brisket and beans for dinner.
Deep fried okra, and cornbread,
Black Diamond melons on a flatbed,
don’t be stupid, but if you start,
we’ll just say, “well bless your heart.”
Always fixin’ to go do something,
usually fishing, or maybe hunting,
running ‘round our stomping grounds,
never know what can be found.
Jack and coke or Coors Light Beer
copper still, dripping out clear,
fried catfish on Saturday,
in the barn for a roll in the hay.
George Strait sings out The Chair,
while we enjoy fresh country air,
sitting on the truck tailgate,
holding her hand and feeling great.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC