"okra" poems
Ayun,dalawang buwan na din pala ang lumipas. Pero parang taon na ang ating pinagsamahan.
Yung mga usapan na minsan pareho din natin di inasahan pero yun din ang hantungan kaya masaya din na napagpaplanuhan.
Mga pangarap na sa balang araw ay bibigyan natin ng katuparan.
Kaya sa ngayon ang sakripisyo nang pagkakahiwalay ay abay nating nilalabanan.
Ilang milya man ang ating agwat at Sierra Madre man ay nasa gitna ng ating daan hinding hindi naman natin nakakalimutan ang isat isa sa araw araw na nagdaan. Ang mundo ko ngayon ay napapalibutan ng palayan at mga simpleng mamayan ikaw naman ay nakikipagpatentero sa ka Maynilaan.
Pero alam natin na darating araw na sabay nating pagsasaluhan ang agahan na aking pinagsikapan.
Aaminin ko na may oras na gusto kitang kapiling upang hagkan lalo na kapag sa trabaho moy nahihirapan pero ganito talaga ang buhay aking mahal sadyang kelangan natin magtiis lumaban at magtulungan.
At Sa pagsapit ng araw na tayo ay iisa na at si sinag at tala ay naglalaro na sana kasama natin sila at alala ng kanilang pagkabata.
Dalawang buwan ay lumipas na at alam ko na mas mamahalin pa kita sa bawat araw buwan at taon na darating pa.
Kahit pa ayaw mo kumain ng ampalaya at okra ihihiwalay ko pag ang ulam ay pakbet akin ang lahat ng tira.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
Salo-salo ang lahat:
Nakaupo, nakadekuwatro
Sa isang mahabang bangko.
Ayos lang
Kahit medyo masikip
At nagkikiskisan ang mga siko.
Ang mesa'y nilatagan
Ng dahon ng saging.
Bawal ang maarte;
Walang mga pinggan
At iba pang kagamitan.
Nakakamay ang lahat sa pagkain
Ng maiging inihaw
Na sariwang malaman na tilapia.
Meron ding mga gulay
Na pinakuluan at nilaga:
May kangkong,
Okra, sitaw at talong.
Samahan mo pa
Ng hiniwa at tinadtad na
Pulang sibuyas at kamatis,
Na may halong bagoong
At piga ng kalamansi.
At sa wakas, ang panghimagas:
Mga gintong mangga
Na ubod ng tamis.
. . . . .
Napapasarap
Ang pinakasimpleng handa
Samahan lang ng kuwentuhang
Nagpapasaya at nagpapatawa
At siyempre kung salo-salo
Ang buong pamilya.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
*'Twould do any young person well to step into the muddy boots of a farmer for a spell . *** a field the whole day through , milk an ornery goat , pick a row of okra or two ..
Clean a hog pen , run the dogs at the crack of Dawn , build baskets and set tomato plants in the hot Georgia Sun ..
Pick your meal in the morning and eat it at dinner , cut firewood in the dead of Winter . It would most assuredly do a teenager well , yes it would*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
RiFF RaFF pullin' up with five ace-cards.
Maybe five jokers, your ***** playin' strip poker.
I'm outside eating fried okra, with Oprah.
Diamonds on my piece and chain, looking like Mufasa.
Look like Lion King, drive a Sebring.
Fifty thousand dollas, bought myself a wedding-ring.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Wait for the door by the pillar
because she’ll be back again,
with an arm around her neck
to keep her warm against cold
eyes looking down, from the surrounding guys from around the bar.
Every jackpot ever, was won in their hearts that night
in that shadow of time that they called light.
Single girls will always be watched,
and those girls with a man attached
will always seem unmatched in the eyes of the lonesome.
I waited by the door and joined in with her stride,
a pace set with vigour and pride.
Did I speak?
No, never spoke up, just let it carried on
until it lit and flared up.
When that match hit okra runway slip
everything comfortable flipped and switched
into a cushion of stone that now dismantles backs,
blisters fingers and causes calluses that stop and linger.
Hate myself?
Increasingly.
Personification was me, to her
and to me, she was just that.
I should really get in contact,
and apologise.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
Grandma’s old straw hat
rides low on her brow.
When hilling potatoes,
sweat rings the brim.
Twine provides a strap.
Sometimes, when a gust
tumbles past tomatoes
and green onions,
a calloused hand
pushes the hat back
to feel deliverance
from summer rays.
The brim shades a spot
two-feet wide over
thick-skinned Half Runners,
caresses long weepy
leaves of corn when she
brushes past, edges tattered
by forty years of okra stalk
shaving flesh and straw.
Ice water renews
her will under hat and sun;
as winds feign,
wrinkled fingers hold
fast to its lip, beating
hot air cool around a weary face.
When crickets serenade,
the hat becomes a bucket
for the day’s last peppers.
Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets;
the gate swings wide.
In the shed a plow sits idle
while the straw companion
hangs from a nail.
A swig of gas in the tiller,
brim shading my brow,
sweet soil tumbles over tines,
my sweat mixes with hers
under the garden hat.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
I'm from Sister Shubert's rolls and homemade chicken and dumplings
From bowling late on Thanksgiving night to trying to be the first one to find the pickle in the Christmas tree
I'm from the smell of my mom's famous pies (pecan, chocolate peanut butter and Kentucky derby fresh from the oven)
From "Sweet Caroline" and "Oh Happy Day"
I'm from the macaroni and cheese I never realized was good
From "Dance with the cow in a patch of clover" and puzzles on Nana's steps
I'm from Rook parallel to the bathtub
From my three favorite windows in the whole house and crazy surprises in my lunchbox
I'm from reading dad's sermons over his shoulder early on Sunday mornings
From lightning bugs and fried okra to the quote board and pickle pancakes
I'm from biscuits with honey for breakfast every Saturday
From McDonald's delicious chocolate birthday cakes
I'm from ***** feet and a pitch black washcloth
And that's the only way I'd want it
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
The Broccoli on the left picked up its Spear
And stabbed the Corn on the right, right in the Ear
The Avocado Artichoked the Zucchini
Before the Pepper rang the Bell on that meanie
The Onion went to Bed on the Lettuce and cried
Afraid that the Beets on the side were all Red cause they died
The Okra came in and slimed the whole affair
While the Yams slammed and Squashed the Cauliflower
The Peas ended up with Black Eyes
Next to the Potatoes that were mashed up and fried
The Cabbage brought it all to a head
Which Steamed the Asparagus with all that was said
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
Tops out at six foot six,
long and thin,
perfect frame.
His ladies' fingers
create exceptional lift.
Has a mallow disposition.
His real name
is Abel Moschus,
but you can call him Red.
Best in a team situation;
he's the glue that holds
everyone together,
thick as thieves.
In individual competition,
though,
he wilts under high heat,
and his guts
turn to jelly.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
(For any family gathering during the holiday season)
My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas.
Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks.
And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................
Aromas that would make a king cry.....
"Salivating"
Becoming impatient
Fried chicken
Baked chicken
Becoming more impatient
Laughter....
Coming from the kitchen
Roast Beef
Mashed potatoes
Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy!
Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce
Fresh baked Acorn Squash
Okra
All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'.......
" Love! "
copyright: January 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Rosanna Roseannadanna – Peas on Earth
Hi, I'm Rosanna Roseannadanna
and I've got a complaint to make
I'm all for a good balanced meal
and all the vitamins you take
now I like my veggies
like them an awful lot
but think you should try different ones
not just the ones you got
like I'm always hearing someone say
why can't we just have Peas on Earth
I don't think that's fair at all
need other ones too to help control your girth
I mean what's wrong with yellow corn
and what about string beans too
they're chunk full of nutrients
and they taste real good in stew
you can put asparagus on a plate
cover it up with butter
even okra would be alright
do you think I stutter
I mean I just don't understand it
why is all about Peas
everywhere I go I hear
let's get down on our knees
and bow our heads in silent prayer
and make these special pleas
but I want something else
it's not just about these dam Peas
it just goes to show you
it's always something you see
people need to understand
it's not just only me
*excuse me Rosanna,
I think you have it wrong
it's Peace, Peace on Earth
they've been talkin about all along*
well then that's different
just you never mind
Peace is a real good thing
I hope it's something we find
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this? Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
From late June into September , perpetual hot weather , her bounty increasing with each passing day , harvest reluctant , painful , ,inflicting rash , whelp and sting , staple of southern cuisine , native to Mother Africa , brought by enslaved peoples at Eastern shore , across Georgia eliciting painful reminders to dark days , pod to Croaker sack , plant -to -plant and row -upon- row !.........
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
I am rambling ...
I am gambling..
A drug dealer run the streets with the hammer man
No mechanic man
But precision handling Jason Statham
The question is God do you love him or you hate him..
Hey ********* you know when you **** her ..
You **** him..
Jesus..do you understand you need him..
Like a tree first needs to be planted a seedling .
This world will show you what evil is..
A heart without God is where evil lives..
So check this .
Lyrically I perplex them
Those without class unlearned to the Holy Spirit lessons
So my word heard as a curse instead of a blessing
As the moral fabric lessens
Or fades..
My ink stains the page..
I write eternally watch this stand the rain..
Struck by lighting
My heart is still fighting
The thoughts of the lost getting saved is exciting
I ramble..
Lyrically lethal Rambo...
Strike with a knife when I run out of ammo
I meant the sword
The Word
That truth scripture..I don't blend in no camo
I have been walking for days camel.
I have been talking for days Orphan
She dumb rich why not stop working
Cause she out for that green okra
How much is enough.
Trying to carry that bag of cash through the portal of death going be tough..
Present day Pharaoh..
Heaven no Hell yes..
Cannot make it to heaven carrying this ****** flesh.
I am rambling. .
I am gambling standing on a limp..
For God ...You ever drown or swim
Dive in..
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
the blooming flower of summer has died not to be reborn until next year.soon the dark will slowly creep down from the sky like soft drifting snowflakes,farmers still tillt the silent land ever hoping for rain to kiss their thirsty crops ,the field scarecrow keeps watch in order to chase away unwelcome flying birds of prey,smells from the kitchen of bacon eggs biscuits fried ham okra home fries grits black coffee tea assult the nose like early morning cold air the sun rises slowly from its golden covers filling the earth as night steps off the stage exits left before taking its final bow
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:19 PM UTC
*Spread over warm shortbread ,
a drizzle with molasses and cornbread
On a fresh baked apple , a dabble on a **** ,
a spoonful over your corn on the cob
Hoecakes , pancakes , johnnycakes and
hushpuppies
A crawfish boil , a 'smidge in the stew , *** liquor , fresh hominy in the fridge ,
drop biscuits , catfish breading and Columbus
grits
Grandmother's frosting with a -
Mason Jar
The Old Red Rooster sleeps in PawPaw's car
Barn Owl hoot 'n holler
Two York's in the afternoon wallow
Blackberry muffins on the rack
An afternoon stitch on Uncle Joe's back
Three legged pup in a red clay ditch
Mother whipping okra with a hickory switch* .....
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 8:55 PM UTC
*Kelleytown's lowlands are steaming
from thirty second showers on the
hour , enough to settle the dust but
ne'er even close to removing this flannel
shirt protecting my hide from a Sun
way high , picking okra growing larger by
the minute fighting thick air and heat
bad enough to cook an egg outdoors on
a flat iron skillet
Wasp working the tops , 'Skeeters' down low
Pod rash running up both wrist with ten more
rows to go* ....
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
Three parts of water and oil
And one part of yellow grits
Salt and twenty minutes on the stove.
You don't have grits, throw in rice.
You don't have cornedbeef, throw in hamburguer
Or merguez mutton sausages. Or mix them both !
The secret ingredient of Scheharazade's Island Kitchen's Fire Engine is love.
She harbours in her smile
That grin of the kind of instant wild grits
Boiling for immediate bubbling,
Waters exploding from the ***
Swelling, flowing, bursting,
Simmering until the point of bliss is reached.
And from an imperceptible move in her nostrils
You can guess the bulls in her cornedbeef mew the thyme of Heaven.
Her love is the kind of consistant batter
Blessed with okra, pumpkin and goat pepper.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 3:36 AM UTC
Period homesteads line Peppercorn Road , meticulous working farms of corn , cotton and sorghum cultivars , rugged gravel drives cut into dried , red clay ditches , Charleston architecture cooling her Summer residents . Double story barns with white washed brick silos , picket fences and blue ribbon cattle .. Sturdy Pole barns shelters surrounded in shamrock clover , the clanging of cowbells as Dairy cows return from her glistening fields ... Catfish feeding frenzies over field corn and evening mayflies , gas porch lights illuminate the family garden with activity in Summer well into night , Crowder peas and Fordhook butter beans , Okra and Butter peas harvested free of Red wasp and Bumblebees as opposed to hungry mosquitos , red chiggers and Crane flies ... Silver washtubs on hot , humid nights , the instant relief of cool well water relieving the pang of harvest .. The creaky screen door and porch ceiling fans , white rockers and good books ...Mason jars filled with sweet tea , hearts filled with adventure and young eyes with sleep .. Coonhounds sing to the ever rising gold Moon .. All was well .. All was most certainly well ...
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
Some years ago, on a Monday, I met Joyce at Whitlows.
I bonded with her over bourbon and cokes.
She wore a black dress; sloping V, open back
It clung to her thigh, as though her skin
Was coated in sweets: sugar, honey, syrup.
Her face shined under the light overhead:
Denim eyes, velvet lips, an upturned nose.
She went to G.W.; read Junot; rode thoroughbreds;
Spoke Arabic; ate okra; watched Kubrick.
At the foosball table, I touched her wrist. She touched my arm.
The next day, after coitus and coffee,
I went to my car and found a ticket.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
May you never
rest in peace
In your grave
bereft of grace
Yield your worms
and decompose
All your flesh
and blood and bones
Kangkong is veggie
that grows in water
Okra is known as
the Lady Finger.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
the water in the
Clawfoot bathtub
is red and full of blood
and petals cut like knives
in the water
it’s sunny
light filters through the curtains
filters through blood draining
floral bedspread
and okra on a paper plate
cabernet
the wooden floor creaks
enter you
the dusk in the living room
bounces off walls
this is the house I built
this is forever
crumbling walls
and flames
welcome home
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC