"marinade" poems - Hello Poetry

In My Salad Days Salad Days **Wikipedia: Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.** ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Salad Hints of tints of golden pear skins, combine with ruby'd cranberries each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men, each wrinkle, a life's recording. All are mates for the marcona almonds nestling, playing hide n' go seeking tween silk sheeted leaves of butter lettuce. All dressed to the nines, underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire marinade. Coated, bathed, loved, protected by a vinegar of balsams, aged grape must, pressed, a lovely, desirable color, a brown and bronzed rust, pressed, then left, to easy rest for oh so many years, like I do, easy resting, when you feed me in My Salad Days. The Days Though it was a life, decades destructed Millenniums of de minimus, Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell, Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of Next Year and Jerusalem, Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting. Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine Purposely Spilled, By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth, To example, to symbolize that Messiness in life, Is O.K. The Salad Days Salad served with irony generous, When beard greyed and scraggly, White speckled, wisps of sea salt, All my youthful greenery, long wilted. Yet the words herein writ are my Afikomen, my just dessert, My victory song of Hallelujah Just before we eat, celebrating My Feast of Ascension, marking a Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of My Salad Days. It was only when I was resurrected as two bodies, A pair of cuffed links coupled, In My Salad Days, With the taste of freedom, A first-born infant survivor, Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen. When words fell from smiling lips, and Rain and tears flew upwards, and Each and every breath was an Amen.

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Aug 15, 2013

Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

In My Salad Days

In My Salad Days Salad Days **Wikipedia: Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.** ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Salad Hints of tints of golden pear skins, combine with ruby'd cranberries each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men, each wrinkle, a life's recording. All are mates for the marcona almonds nestling, playing hide n' go seeking tween silk sheeted leaves of butter lettuce. All dressed to the nines, underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire marinade. Coated, bathed, loved, protected by a vinegar of balsams, aged grape must, pressed, a lovely, desirable color, a brown and bronzed rust, pressed, then left, to easy rest for oh so many years, like I do, easy resting, when you feed me in My Salad Days. The Days Though it was a life, decades destructed Millenniums of de minimus, Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell, Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of Next Year and Jerusalem, Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting. Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine Purposely Spilled, By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth, To example, to symbolize that Messiness in life, Is O.K. The Salad Days Salad served with irony generous, When beard greyed and scraggly, White speckled, wisps of sea salt, All my youthful greenery, long wilted. Yet the words herein writ are my Afikomen, my just dessert, My victory song of Hallelujah Just before we eat, celebrating My Feast of Ascension, marking a Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of My Salad Days. It was only when I was resurrected as two bodies, A pair of cuffed links coupled, In My Salad Days, With the taste of freedom, A first-born infant survivor, Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen. When words fell from smiling lips, and Rain and tears flew upwards, and Each and every breath was an Amen.