"pecans" poems
Like I loved coffee,
that's how I loved you.
Like the first cigarette of the day.
Or like a Beatles song
blasted on the radio
during a road trip
to nowhere in particular.
Like each slice of coffee cake,
cinnamon and pecans
delicately, deliciously curled
into every little streusel.
Like spring,
when the snow melts into water
and runs, rushes
past yellow-colored, polka-dotted rain boots
on a sun-soaked afternoon.
I loved you like I love you;
simply, completely,
without frills and without doubt.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
A moment sweet
like a strawberry kiss
between the luscious lips
of early sunshine and
damp blades of grass
Goodbye winter,
I whisper to the wind
not a powerful gust
but just a honey sweet breeze;
a gift from upcoming Spring
Pecans falling from my tree
like a rain of fall leaves,
fluttering softly to the ground;
happy to have survived
this years mild mannered winter
So I gather them up
like a squirrel on Christmas Day;
not just the buttery nuts,
but the kiss also
from the luscious lips of sunshine
and the damp blades of grass
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Once I saw a monkey man,
driving down my street in his monkey van,
kids tried to run away,
but monkey ran,
he brought the children to his monkey land.
If they got out of line,
with monkey man,
they'd get a slap,
from the back of his hand.
The favorite nut of monkey man,
was the pecan,
he loved pecans,
the monkey man,
he eats as manys as he cans.
Unlimited lifespan,
has the monkey man,
currently lives in Iran.
Likes to read comics,
batman,
superman,
while getting,
a monkey tan.
Been around,
since the caveman,
had the monkey man.
Used to be a doorman,
had monkey man.
Wanted to be an anchorman,
but there was a monkey ban.
Not a woman.
Not a man.
M o n k e y M a n .
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 8:47 PM 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
Oh come hither to me
My sweetest honey roasted peanut lips
Your almonds I will nibble
You won't be able now to sleep
Let me crack your perfect pecans
I will walnut you away
I will **** away your cashews
Lick all the salt away
I will ****** all your Brazil nuts
They are most precious I must say .
Yes I have gone completely nutty
What more could I say .
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Hi.
My name's Blair and
I'll be your instructor tonight.
Defensive driving with a class full of
Deviants.
Even the instructor had
Five Tickets
His first year and a half in San Antonio.
But, hey! We get an insurance discount.
Sometimes people get to the front
And they're not sure if
They're supposed to have a book.
What book?
You still have time before class--
Get those donuts!
Do I have the right book?
Everybody needs a pen--
If you have a fairy pen, that won't do.
Today we're going to learn about driving techniques...
Don't worry.
No matter how far off track I get,
We still get done early.
What's the real policy on pecans?
I was wondering
If you could cut the jet noise
Between, oh...about 5.30, sixish?
Split-second decisions
Spot the hazards
You're driving along 1604
And the speed limit changes to
Fifty
Overnight.
Where were the warning signs?
Is this the book?
How hard is it to drive your car if you're not in the driver's seat?
Did anybody get the donuts?
Where's the pizza he was talking about?
Why isn't he in the driver's seat?
Why am I?
Out of hundreds of architects,
Why did Newsweek ask
A nearby park resident?
Your jury isn't attorneys.
No, it's people.
Your punishment isn't
The Red Square.
No, it's--
CUT THE JETS!
WHAT BOOK IS HE TALKING ABOUT?
I WANTED PEPPERONI.
List common signs of an impaired driver.
First, he's not in the driver's seat...
Sometimes people get to the front...
Of donuts and pizza
And they're not sure
Which one should I choose?
If they're supposed to have a book.
No matter how far off track I get,
There isn't a policy for pecans.
We still get done early.
You can't stop the jets from flying.
The jury isn't attorneys.
Drive within the speed limits and
The jury is people.
Pay attention to your driving.
I found the book!
All right--class is over;
I'll see you on Thursday.
I thought we were going to have pizza.
I'll bring donuts...next time.
I was wondering...
How hard is it to steer
Your car if
You're
Not in the driver's seat...?
~Christa Elise Cannon.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 7:51 PM 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
Mona.
Lisa.
Lee-ah
nardo
how do
YOU know
my mom.
I remember having
pizza
with ya the other night,
we watched
the "Da Vinci Code"
after we had that fight,
about Montauk
hotdog tripe flavored ice cream.
Even the audience
doesn't think that's yummy!
You taught,
me how to knit
chocolate and wish
upon the sun.
Did you mom?
Am I your son?
I'd prefer pecon pie.
No-body likes
pecans in my family.
Did Leo
like legumes ?
******
I may always
be cursed
with writing words
that make reference to obscure
astrology.
My apologies to his
groupies who think he's
the best ******* art-east
since slice bread.
But how would it
feel to had some dude who
painted your mom
and it was
the big-gust
most successful
commercial success
through out
time?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Biscuit and sorghum syrup happy faces with Georgia peach butter and blackberry muffins , childhood favorites that tickle the palette !
For a bag of Fall persimmons , a handful of roasted pecans I would gladly cross the Alcovy River naked as a jaybird !
Rutabagas , turnips and cracklin cornbread would be my staple of choice if marooned on an island , a Frosty Root beer and mothers egg custard !
Peach ice cream and scuppernong jelly , fig preserves and tomato gravy !
Columbus grits and Claxton fruitcake , Vidalia onion rings , Elijay apples !
In my next life I relish the very thought of becoming a Cardinal , turned loose in a muscadine arbor ! The most heart stopping , meanest scarecrow ever made would be no match for a wise old crow in a watermelon patch ! Mockingbird busy in a old plum tree , a honeybee in a clover field as far as the eye can see !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Split oak kindling , honey roasted pecans and eggnog .Walnuts , gingerbread and fruit baskets .. Horehound and butterscotch candy... Egg Custard , hot black coffee and homemade vanilla milkshakes...German chocolate cake and divinity ...Thanksgiving and Christmas are wonderful times indeed !...
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
I met an Eskimo heading South
Asked him what that was all about
He told me to cool my heels
He'd had enough of frozen meals
Passing through the Northern states
Spent a day in Bangor Maine
Got out of there post haste
Before the cold froze his blubber brain
From there headed down to Tupelo
But Mississippi was still to cold
Spotted a bit of roadside trash
Where he found a Florida map
Made his way down to the warmth
Florida and bought a farm
Now grows pecans whale big in size
Where he puts them into pies
Set up a country roadside stand
Oranges and fresh pecans
RC Cola and Eskimo moon pies
Right along the ocean side
When he's not picking nuts from the trees
In the sunny heated down South breeze
Sporting the best in bronze tans
It's good to be an Eskimo Floridian
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
i never would write until the night fell
you laugh at me from the light
and every smear of honesty
betrays me
and you stand a thousand stories tall
but i have to leave my shoes
in the door way
the stars arent your eyes any more
they are only the fire
the flame that scorches my rib cage
its as though i payed a mask maker
if everything was in its right place
my reflection wouldnt seemed so skewed
remember
a lemon is a fruit
with every car parked aside the avenue
all lanes free
you can run
lumber
in the turn lane
beneath the big sign
that changes colors
that blinds you with its fascism
with its charges against you
that youre given ninety to life for
***** and beanie weenies
a cats purr
pecans
the writings of a mystic
purrs
and the mask maker
and a sneeze
then love
to stretch out
to cuddle up
to fail at cartwheels
we cant loose
i hear you cheese over the phone
every single hormone
cresting and waining
here i am
the mind of the eye
or vica verse
if you cant
then i will
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
Combination of
Corn syrup, eggs, vanilla
butter and pecans
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
I’ve stepped out of the car
and into this familiar scene
hundreds of times.
Only the details change.
I no longer bike down the hill,
past the pecan trees,
and throw white rocks
into the stream.
I don’t race through pastures
along the thin paths
whittled into the earth
by the hooves of the herd.
I gave up trying to beat
nails into wooden rejects,
making thingamajigs
and doohickeys.
I used to criticize the stiff pews
and cringe at the red crushed velvet.
I diverted my eyes
from the forty tithing members.
Now all the bikes are broken
and the pecans withered away.
The stream has dried up
and the rocks are *****
I no longer want to run
and the paths are faded.
The cattle have been sold
and the pastures overgrown.
I only use hammer and nail
to make practical things,
and even those
are not really worth making.
I sit and accept the message,
upright and alert.
I shake the hands of the congregation
and look them in the eye.
Only the details change.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
*I crave divinity fudge during the holiday
period with roasted pecans and butterscotch
pudding
Crisp morning walks with smoked hickory
wisp , wool mittens and horehound whips
Picture perfect pinecones that crackle with
the sweep of the breeze , Ethiopian coffee
with brie and cherry danish 'neath mistletoe
topped hardwood trees* ...
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Feeling like syrup,
Stretched over so many feet,
Little holes present,
Stays together,
Holy Feat.
Lacking the security of a plait,
with violation of pecans,
Pastry slammed flat
By a siren call beacon.
Useless and stale,
Sickly and game,
Fermented and Pale,
Repugant the same,
A shelf life to fail.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
A warped neck on a Fender Strat , a broken bottle of Johnnie Walker Black . Torn felt on a mahogany billiard table , catfish fillets scorched on the fire , rendered inedible ..
A marvelous , precision tractor engine seized from loss of oil , a bumper crop of peaches killed by frost ..
An empty bottle of malt vinegar , wind blown lovely cherry pipe tobacco lost forever ..
Red ripe homegrown tomatoes shredded by hail , soft shelled pecans dropped in the well ..
First snowflakes of Winter melted on warm city streets , green grass left to die beneath a cloth sheet ..
Concord grapes dried on the vine , watermelon picked before it's time ..
Homemade biscuits burnt in the oven , true love within reach left undiscovered ..
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
After Abie falls asleep I drive home
and leave him in the car long enough
to take the groceries in, then
come back out and carry him
upstairs--noticing, as I lay him
down on his bed, that somewhere
along the way he's lost his pacifier.
This is serious. It could be
anywhere. And he needs it.
I remind myself to look later,
to retrace my steps from his
bedroom door, back down
the stairs and outside to the car.
I go to the kitchen and begin putting
groceries away. The spice rack falls
off the wall. A partially open jar
of cayenne pepper spills into a bowl
of shelled pecans. As I throw
the pecans away, I stop at
the kitchen window and look out
and there, lying on the black
asphalt tongue of the driveway,
I see Abie's pacifier... Small...
Pale... Soft... Like a newborn ear.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
Our reflections on a brass doorknob .
A skeleton key would slowly turn each tumbler ..
Dusty pinewood flooring , antique trinkets ..
Propane space heaters and fresh coffee balm private , erstwhile collective memories . A matriarchs kitchen , well water aroma and cross stitched towels , her flour tinged cotton apron , cast iron skillets and brass tea kettle with porcelain service ushers spirited times of conviviality over a simple oak dining room table ..
Hand made breakfast nook curtains , the majesty of tall Water Oaks
with foraging bantam hens and roosters ..
Dirt roads would tell of visitors long before they ever arrived ,
fishing for shell crackers at the old bridge with cane poles and and dough ***** , leftovers from cat head biscuits at breakfast ...
Pecans and crabapples fed young anglers on shady Summer afternoons . Feeding tall grass to black angus and hereford cattle through barbed wire fence , collecting afternoon eggs and walking the furrows at Dusk ,
days I'll never forget ..
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
My back is stiff, my eyes are heavy
Sitting under live oak branches, waiting for the rain
Pecans litter the ground, their shells hard & matte
Yet the core is rotten, the shells deception
I watch your calloused hands, blistered & raw
A face drawn tight with every rasping breath
Telling stories through wine-stained lips
Of open country, trails that lead to nowhere
My heartache disguised behind a smile
Sounds of wet wood catching in the open fire
Add another log, to see us through this hour
Tell me another story, father..
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
Allure of allspice , cinnamon and vanilla fills her culinary workshop , warm oven and sweet memories of pumpkin , sweet potato pies , oatmeal cookies , divinity on Christmas Eve , roasted pecans , ambrosia and fig butter. Children , grandchildren licking frosting bowls , sharing stories , learning the time honored craft of baking , tradition and bonding of family , close friend and neighbor . Scent of Winter , frosted windows , smell of burning oak , sweet gum , smoke rising into low cloud cover from distant homes on this cold afternoon , bathed in glow of fireplace , Mothers book of recipes in hand , assuring , comforting , stoking fire in my very soul . May this day last forever ......
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Can you keep a secret?
I haven't told a soul,
You're the only one who'll
know
-
Stop thinking for a moment,
Imagine A grey, humid sky,
Dry, brown grass,
Welted, pale red roses,
Brown, lonely petals accompany
the dry dirt around the stem,
Leaves being blown softly by
the chilly wind,
Dry, cracked pecans fall
toward the browned grass.
-
No squirrels,
No rabbits,
No birds,
No signs of mammels,
Only me
-
Imagine a train,
But a train of thoughts
Rushing through my mind-
Engraving itself in fine
calligraphy across the darkness
of my mind,
My thoughts telling what
to do,
Never ending.
-
But she whispers,
"It doesn't matter, nobody can see
you, only me."
I turn to her,
My bestfriend,
Would you like to meet her?
Come-
This is Razor-
Razor Blade
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Let life be about good hot coffee with an English muffin .
Paddle boat rides and endless Summers ..
Cherokee Red Pop and ******* Jacks , playful baby goats and Sugar Smacks ..
Christmas mornings and roasted pecans , John Wayne movies and cowboy songs ..
Falling stars and evenings on the lake , whipped cream topping on strawberry short cake ..
Cool well water and fried pies , the blackbirds that etch the tangerine sky ..
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC