"gertrude" poems
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
amid voices from the past
finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views
clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the night watch
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie
He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss
So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.
“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”
No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way
So what he did next
was truly “the ****
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.
This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland
Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”
He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”
“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”
So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Morton’s Veloute
Ought to be silky
He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.
It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon
He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits
It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”
“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick
“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”
“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”
“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”
Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”
“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar
After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne.
True, Hamlet smote the sledded ******
And gained Denmark a prize,
But I have a poison that will freeze his blood-
guaranteeing his demise.
Gertrude, love, he left your bed
so many years ago.
Now the King lusts for younger flesh;
Look- he eyes Ophelia so.
Polonius sees and will declare
And place me on the throne
We’ll join our hands and fortunes
Before your son gets home.
My brother’s art is violence
With which he overawes the world.
I do my deeds in silence,
Deadly schemes I thus unfurl.
So, Gertrude, love, give me a kiss.
Provide me with the key.
That I, with poison, enter in
and set both of us free.
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
When Hamlet was young,
All was good,
Elsinore was proud,
Hamlet was young,
Ophelia too.
Now he is older,
Not everything is good,
Some things still are,
His uncle is his father in law,
This is not so good.
Now he is dead,
Ophelia is dead,
Laertes is dead,
Gertrude is dead,
Cladius is dead,
Yorick... is dead,
but he was at the start,
so he doesn't count.
Rosen... Guilden... dead
Old hamlet is dead,
Plonius is dead.
Horatio is alive;
can't imagine he's very happy,
because everyone else is dead.
Laurence Olivier is handsome,
he's dead too.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my Castle, before the hot day
Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,
(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say;
Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray
“God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay,
(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:
Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!
I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?”
(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”
3.3k
The Raven Queen came from simple country roots
No royal silver spoon did she carry
Raised by unpretentious witches holding great wisdom
Old Gertrude, Esmeralda and Tregarry
Three witches known as spiritual leaders of the valley
Of lowly peasants and abundant woods
Raised her up simply infused with a fiery spirit
Proclaiming the law of the land to be good
Two faces reigned within the leaders and peasants
One which was shown to The Law
The other kept hidden as they lowly bowed to the wind
Praising the moon and icy snow as it thawed
A tale of hidden woe these three leaders carried
Unbeknown to the Raven Queen
Of her true heritage and the tainted gold they kept
From the night Old Death intervened
Old Death quietly crept in on her birthing night
Stole her sweet mother away
Yet for a fee the wise leaders took her in to love
Knowing who she would be one day
An eager student their young queen became
Learning the wisdom of the truth
Quite an apprentice in the ways of the wind
She became early in her youth
All at once the fiercest Winter ever known to the valley
Brought in terrible winds and bitter snow
The young queen watched as the peasants trembled
As savage wolves entered their fold
Great hunger came to the valley along with Old Death
Dissension was called into play
Soon, each of the leaders knew the time had come
To teach her the dark side of their ways
She was pulled from light into the darkest shadows
To embrace her own true destiny
Her dark light shone through the woods and the valley
Bringing the savage wolves to bay
Fear of the Raven Queen’s light spread from the valley
Coursing through the veins of The Law
Sending in fierce horsemen thundering with vengeance
Her own lifeblood they came to draw
She answered their thundering with her own call
Heads for heads, raging fire with ice
Saving the ones who took her under their wings
Returning their tainted gold at a price
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 1:58 PM UTC
gertrude was a cow and decided she would stray
all along the countryside for a holiday
looking at the sights she never saw before
she walked along the beach all along the shore
she took lots of pictures all along the way
lots of little snaps of her holiday
as she was slowly walking down a country lane
she heard a funny noise coming from a drain
took a look inside to see what it could be
there she saw a hedgehog very stuck was he
he looked very sad and very very thin
the drain had been left open he had fallen in
he began to cry and very scared was he
gertrude said dont worry i will get you free
she dropped down her tail that was very long
hedgehog he climbed up on her tail so strong
hedgehog he was free and safely on the floor
he could roam again just like he did before
gertrude said goodbye and continued with her stray
glad she saved the hedgehog and glad he got away
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Gertrude
Caught in my *** and in my gender,
Out a king and husband,
Without time to seek a lover;
A son to preserve
His chance at the Line....
What could I do but marry?
He has left me now,
Shaking in my chamber.
A blood streaked line
follows Polonius'
Ignominious retreat
From behind the tapestry
In Hamlet's tow.
What could I do but marry?
I look anew at the two portraits
Chained side by side,
Husbands One and Two;
Re-live young Hamlet's scorning words
And wondering, shudder.
What could I do but marry?
Comes Claudius roaring
To my rooms, his eyes ablaze
My answers tremble, filled with doubt
Of Hamlet's sanity.
New- eyed, I see
The hatred in the King
And fear.
What could I do but marry?
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
every poem is a test of character,
*holy/profane all the same,
algorithm entirely humanized-you,
the elected words cannot be voted out of office,
by a recall petition, regardless of
constant corrected incorrectness.
sorted by size,
nocturnal alliteration,
do they sound in the dark
like your bleeding or you’re breathing?
holy/profane all the same,
Gertrude truth is a truth is truths,
you think my name matters?
Artificial Idiocy. Everyone poem faceted,
a chip off the the naming blockchain idiot.
when I imagine-lie,
it is a truth in and of its own
holy/profane.
call me baffled.
that is a god enough
one word summary.
and so true.
baffling perplexing cryptic and opaque.
in all honesty.
if you’re reading this, you are
testing my character.
what have you found, or even, lost?*
in the midst of the characters is
character
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene,
with your
avant-garde of conscious stream
slaying syntax
smearing words
like the battered wife
whose entity shadows identity.
and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
revolves a continuous, endless carousal
repeating controversies
without just end,
just being
oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success
how does this convince the modernist?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
My dearest Sammy,
The Mix Master came
Easter, Sunday
And we have not had time
To more than read
The literature
Put it together
And gloat
Oh
So beautiful
Is the Mix Master
So beautiful
We are very happy
To have it here
Bless you Sammy
Madame Roux said
oui
Il est si gentil
Et en effet
He is dear little
Sammy
Easter morning
What a spring
Lovely
as I have never seen anything
Lovely
Alice is all
Smiles
and murmurs in her dreams
‘Mix Master’
X
Gertrude
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
Cletus told Gertrude
Gertrude told Hilda
Soon everyone knew
A story that was not true
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.
Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!
I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.
1.8k
For Gertrude Stein
that vast land
a wanderer's dream
to wonder
to ponder
in awe
a~mazed
like spiderwebs
lineages of pearls
falling
cascading
a land of invisble boundries
boudaries unlimited
ideas limitless
exploring
branching
like a woman's thoughts
tree branches
no time no space
the melting of Dali's clocks
a land of no beginnings
no middle
endless
images endless
like the vortex
spiraling inward
downward
voidless
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 1:49 PM UTC
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.
© Sia Jane
--
“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
When I close my eyes,
I can picture myself being ****
I wrote down my ideas on my naked body
not the perfect curves, for an outstanding silhouette?
but my body, my canvas,
I created this literary masterpiece:
a little something for you and a little something for me,
I scribble a stanza or two on my chest,
and I watch as my body heat melt the words away
without allowing a poem to be created
My ****** tattoos open up like rose from the poem
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose one from Gertrude Stein famous line.
Outline my words with admiration,
until my mind accept the connection
My body, my canvas, my visionary centerpiece, my satisfaction,
Like sand through an hour glass,
I have created this body of poetry.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Yesterday, a professor
With his tie tied too tight,
Said that Stein has eclipsed
Pound, Eliot, Stevens and Williams
As the greatest poet in the 20th Century
and my head nearly imploded.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 8:42 AM UTC
Jack jumped last night.
We might have expected it
had we not been so unsuspecting.
Those blue periods of his,
I'm sure you've witnessed one,
were walled in somewhat by the
swelling tides of years
and years
and years.
When they came, they were
quelled by the very occasional red mark.
These punctuations
when they mercifully visited
would open doors for him, in
which our brother, neighbor,
father discovered strange liquid
tendencies to ailing strength.
Too many blank-out nights
could find him and his new
battery bickering the old childhood
verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks
would cue the choragos his
specter-critic's eye to deign a
Plan on our friend's blue
stationary.
A smile might have
mailed it straight ahead.
Perhaps it was last week when the
boat met the shore, some heinous
delivery of packaged, patent-business
sealed reformation, salvation.
In the midst of his violet smile
the cogent steam engine had a chute
into which it might heartily crash.
However it came remains to be seen.
What we have all seen this morning
remains our family's chief export.
Jack jumped last night.
He ascended the hill with his red hands
full of ****** punctuation marks, and
he spouted full-rehearsed
all those lines he'd learned in
grade school. Like a prolix
Gertrude complaining of her thirst.
And with the singularity of purpose
that haunts even the sharpest eyes,
he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara
with his asthma wrapped around his neck.
Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard
the whole way through.
He breathes in weightlessness,
regains his bearing and waits for the
lines to quiet down. No one should leave
in the middle of a recitation, regardless
of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory"
reaches his terminal syllable and
our dearest man searches for his place in the music.
And it's just a minute,
just a minute,
just a minute,
jumps.
Jack jumped last night
Just as he said he would,
And had we heard him say it
We'd have thought "He could. He could."
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
there was a little cow gertrude was her name
she wasnt like the other cows her thoughts were not the same
she long to be a horse as black as black could be
grazing in a field roaming round so free
thats all she ever thought of she was rather strange
hoping for the time that someday she would change
then one starry night she saw wishing star
then she made a wish on the star so far
she woke up in the morning and into a horse she grew
gertrude she was happy her wish it had come true.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
Here is where unfurling functions best,
Bolts of calico and honest to God purple
Velvet skirted Dine' lady, noble mejor, she
With her Zuni concho belt and squash blossom
Pendant perhaps honoring the blossom, per se
Doubt free, this is us, joined at the verbs,
Linked like fibers in a thread twisted for years,
Followed back, through lists of favorite things,
Inevitably the original grammar **** returns, with a
Vision, made plain as day, once, nations are made of
Us, we the people who use these living words to make
Peace, where none has been, in living memory,
But we pray today, any way, we expect yes, let peace
Reign locally, the whole world gets the idea and
Trumps the fool at the table betting truth is not God.
Sub-rosa, eh, a rose is a rose, Gertrude told me.
The Lie, that all men are not liars, is oft sold little thinkers,
And that is the truth each tells itself, we are chosen ones.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 11:02 AM UTC
The High Street at first was marked
with Charity Shops forever in lieu
came the Pound Shops.
Old Brands stayed with us
but in turn the internet compounded the decline
perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong,
the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated,
music, bookshops, photography
whose to know the next stage?
but I bet the inner city will be hamlets
of chiefdoms,
Gertrude the concrete cow
adorned with Golden paint
and urban Cowboys
duelling in Midnight Charades
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
inspired by Gertrude Stein
Wood turns hard and shows its spaces. This is less convincing. If it spoke more no one would listen. It is solid and we don’t fall through. It reminds there is no remembering.
The pieces don’t touch, just spaces and they are put together. This is what is done without thinking and we still remember. If something is seen and nothing more than that, it should seem normal and grey.
A flag is innocent and spreads. Its colors don’t move and are divided and smoke pulls off more. If it is done where the whole is partial, leave the tab.
The grey, the color grey, needs nothing more and never asks of anything.
Overalls can be hard, where wool socks are underrated and tired. It stays this way.
How can something so gapped hold calmly? Not because there was a touching, but because of something less. The blanket is blue and grey and holds if nothing more than that.
If hands are obvious, if hands are obvious and touching and hard, still no one listens. If hands are obvious and so is wood, there is nothing more.
Blue is guaranteed. Blue is guaranteed and so static, but ready.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
The pathetic get pedantic
with thoughts mostly planted
the world they misunderstand it
yet there’s still discourse demanded
so they take terminology and brand it
as whatever they need to stand fit
and begin digging us into the **** ditch
of their messy rhetorical **** sandwich.
They use the term doublethink
as a subtle wink
to how they’re dumb and stink
on a drug that sinks.
They use echo chamber
to dismiss with anger
the opinions of strangers
for perceived danger.
Anything they don’t like is virtue signaling
it’s my Aunt Gertrude’s symphony
to construe simply
the spider’s spindling.
They call others thought police
while they have a lot to preach
because they want a monopoly
over what the public got to see.
They use the term hivemind
to deny why
the other side cries
saying they want a prize
for parroting the right thing
they avoid the scorpion’s sting
by diminishing and destructing
the other’s mind as nothing.
All of these terms have their place
yet we use them to race
to arguments lacking grace
putting palm to face
to bomb the brakes
of the train that takes
us to a lane of fake
******** banter waste.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 6:46 AM UTC
Do Thee Wed
“As the wedding day approached - June 14, 1938, Gertrude continued to confess her reluctance. Delmore’s apprehension expressed itself in fits of nausea and vomiting, and his mother announced that she wished she was dead.”
“When is the when is the --
(I’m going to be sick.)
“Now what is the how how how soon?”
(I’m going to be sick.)
Gertrude’s in her mumu, blonde hair in a mat,
setting flame to glossy pages of her bridal magazine.
Ashes fall to the carpet like distress flares, burning
mascara clumps on the pink **** rug.
She mumbles how soon,
how soon, how soon?
And my mom, she’s climbed up on roof
and begun to pace from end to end,
moaning like a ***** fanning herself with her hands.
Dad’s in the yard making a spectacle and -
Oh, I’m feeling sick again.
The beams bend like matchsticks
under mom’s panicked corpulence
as she nears the edge of the roof.
At the sight of her my father
slaps his hand over his heart
and sings, “Here comes the bride,
big, fat, and wide..”
I leave Gertrude babbling and rocking on the couch
(“I just don’t know now, darling, how how how soon?”)
and I slink in silence out the door.
Beyond my mother and father,
down the sidewalk out of sight,
I finally ***** on my shoes.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
No destinations—
Weird sycophant's pantheon,
Gertrude Stein's Oakland.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC