"portobello" poems
My sister dreams of flying tortoises,
cockatoos and parrots flapping in a
perfect randomness. She watches
from the porch of her cabin on the lake,
strangely grown into a manor, and recalls
the promise of someone soon returning from
a time on the water. The tortoises make her think
of portobello mushroom caps, frayed and black
against the stainless blue. She wonders what this means,
this tumbling opulence, this message in the night that my sister dreams.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
A warm glow radiates through the bones
that are usually filled with aches and groans
as I pass my place of birth.
The street screams my name by day
and whispers it softly when light has gone away
smell the air, smell the warmth rising from the earth.
The street entertainers of Portobello road
the cool saxophone, the sweet notes blown
the sound of a thousand footsteps.
The jugglers, magicians and the market stands
balancing, conjuring and selling their brands
the warm breeze scatter their scent.
Watch out for vagabonds and confidence tricks
souvenir shops serving countless tourists
the sound of a thousand tills ringing.
Eat in any language, speak in any tongue
dream of hustle and bustle and days long gone
still you can hear the street singing.
From Pembridge Road to Westbourne Grove
these streets tell me that I am home
they call me, repel me, thrill and destroy me.
This land that did bear me keeps willing me back
to walk it's streets and follow it's tracks
this land is the place I must be...
If I die, think only this of me,
through every pane of glass, behind every windowsill
there will always be a place called Notting Hill.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 9:24 AM UTC
we amble down, the hill,
to the waterside markets.
i find it so quaint,
that our town has a green
beside it's river, running.
grass manicured and lush,
presently filled with little town of tents,
and open marquee stalls
that sell, all manner
of things,
plate sized portobello mushrooms,
olive tappenade,
great bunches of happy faced flowers,
cupcakes of scrumptious, more and more-ish flavours.
home made cordials.
jewellery, and cushions and
carved wooden bread boxes.
all spread out for us to see.
ant and owls made from old
silver spoons..... bonsia trees, fresh herbs, jamon
and piccalilli, tropical fruits
in smoothies, icecreams and salads
and over, under the age old
morton bay fig
face painters, wooden geegaws and thingymagigs
painted in bright carnival colours.......
what a way,
wonderful and sublime,
to while away,
a lazy sunday morning..
we amble back up the hill
with bags of edible treasures
an silver owl named boo....
a child tiger hybrid and a spinning clown....
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
He looked down at his swollen feet
His ***** bedding, his rocky pillows
His out door rest room
While the rich ate Portobello mushrooms
Simmer in brown gravy.
They pulled up alongside his box fence
The tinted window rolled down a hand
Reaches out “keep the change they mumble”
The taste of a poor man‘s grave
Is a fair exchange
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;
of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.
You weren't the poetic one.
You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
the girl with the Scottish accent
the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
the mother of three, the loser of one
the stern face of discipline
the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
the grandmother of three boys
the ageless face of beauty
the one I remember best
You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Portobello mushrooms, I use them all the time
No matter how topped they always taste just fine
From cream cheese and crab to chicken fajita
No matter what you just want to eat ‘em
Philly beef cheesesteak, they’ve also been topped
So many possibilities, I’ll never stop
Bleu cheese and steak makes a hell of a filling
Portobello themed restaurant, I’d make a killing
Chicken Alfredo, or coconut shrimp
How about spinach artichoke dip
Turkey and dressing or how about pulled pork
You’d want to eat those with your fingers or fork
Taco, or nacho, or enchilada
How it gets better, I got zip, zilch, and nada
Or I don’t know how about spinach frittata
You could go Greek, lamb, feta, and Kalamata
Mediterranean, flavored quinoa or couscous
So many options, man just turn me loose
Lemon pepper, scallops, or Oyster Rockefeller
Or Chicken Rice saffron, it would be yeller
At this point, I feel like Bubba from Forrest Gump
Going on about toppings, oh well over the ****
Buffalo Chicken or Asparagus turkey parm
Just about anything you can get at the farm
Goes great on a mushroom I think you can see
Most people wouldn’t, but, hey they’re just not me
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
Portobello mushrooms washed and gilled
sprinkle salt and pepper and a little dill
slice a chicken breast, into strips that are thin
bell peppers and onions, go on the grill with them
Chile powder, cumin and garlic, minced
against these flavors, there is really no defense
mental trip to Mexico, dining on the street
relive vacation through smells, isn't that neat
Sauté until the chicken is just cooked through
put this on the 'shroom, in a pan with a little brew
on the top sprinkle a large amount of cheese
cheddar, or mont'y jack, whatever kind you please
Pop this in the oven at 350 degrees
ten minutes, the smell will begin to tease
you will know its done, when the cheese is golden brown
put it on a plate, pour a margarita, and chow down.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC