"shucking" poems
Shucking peas on the back steps
Maureen and I watch her Mum,
My Aunt Grace,
Arguing with Aunt Edna
In the kitchen
The narrow kitchen
Of number 84 Truro Road
As they whip a Sunday lunch into shape
A test match drones on the radio
The aroma of mint on new spuds teases.
It’s a modest roast
Served in the tiny parlor
To nine of us!
Eating elbow to elbow
With yellow handled knives and forks
Down to the bare porcelain
Waiting for the apple pie
with Libby’s.
That crust, with sugar sprinkles
Is a lifetime goal for me!
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
Those of you who sleep at nite,
Maybe unaware of the riff raff
Of poets who, two if by night,
Riff each other All Night Long,
Trade barbarous compliments,
Hipping and dipping, jiving & shucking
(Yes I am outdatedly old, yes I know)
Slipping in scepters of sly verse,
Interspersed with an occasional curse,
Riposte and repost each other,
Always seeking a word edgewise,
Or the last word
(Even better)
Whipping, sticking and licking
Each other's poems
With jabs of kind words,
&
That seldom are heard,
In fact a never-land rule,
A contemptuous thread,
And it's off with your head,
And you gotta be there,
To believe,
But its ok, sleep well,
And leave the S(word) play
To those who live and die
By the coda
Only the young-at-heart-poets
never get olda,
So there!
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
As a kid
you used to watch
your mother
shucking peas
over the kitchen sink
and see the skill
her fingers
and thumb had
of clearing out
the peas into a bowl
with a single move
and you asked her
for one of the shucks
to chew
and she said
shucks?
you want a shuck?
yes please
you said
and she gave you one
from her hand
and you chewed
the juices out
and let it move
around your mouth
like that old tobacco
the cowboys had
in the black
and white films
your father
had taken you to see
and then you swallowed
and asked for more
and your mother obliged
with a raised brow
and a continued
moving out of peas
from the shuck
with nimble thumb
and fingers’ grip
as another green shuck
sat upon your lip
cowboy style
and your mother
with a shake of head
smiled and carried
on her work
of pushing out peas
from the pod
as you walked off
into the cowboy sunset
thinking of the Wild West
with no thought
of Boothill or God.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
Luke warm bath verse. Can your fingers live on my thumb peninsula forever I hope. You groom me and I'll dump the water over your head. Sit in front of me, I like the way it feels when it pokes your back awkwardly. It's weird to me, only your toes wrinkle. I can be the hot towel and kisses on your eyelids. The morphine calls my veins, while you don't call my name. Ours was unlike anyones. It still is to me and the trailing cries of women who I tried to **** my heart out of your hands. Like shucking emptiness from already emptied containers. I'm living for the day I feel your hands on my face again. Again.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Hey you
You with the crinkling eyes and the dancing laugh
with the arms that ensare my waist to throw me against
pure emerald mountain sides dripping with late spring rains
the shucking of pine bark to twirl wooden towers down lilting slopes
and the gangly limbs reaching towards the sky
in an attempt to capture the clouds
for the sole reason of dancing through their
fluffiness
you with the pure soul and poise fit enough for the queen
if only you were anatomically different
you would rule this world better than she
honesty running through your laughing veins
as you summit mountain after mountain
pure glacial eyes darting to capture mine
mischievious depths speaking of hidden love
I know you
so well.
Even though our friendship has been
2 months 30 days long
I know you better than I know myself
My best best friend you called me
as true as these wild trilliums we run past in an attempt to throw
the other into the lake
the fires which serve as a competitive twinkle in your eyes
we are so free.
You who contains the most pure soul
pure intentions I have ever come across
You are so loved
You are so perfect in your innocence
In the wise notes held in your fingertips
you provide wings to leap with.
I know there are waves trapped in your veins
calling for your brilliant smile.
I know when your head rests against my chest
it is with the innocence of a child
You are my best friend
My comrade in arms
My birch gatherer.
and this love spreading through my limbs
for your tired head and tumbling curls
is hard to ignore.
I know you are being called away
a bright future awaits
a familial expectation to fufill
I'm just here to tell you I will be waiting
In these mountains, these peaks
roaming annd laughing and dancing
waiting for the day my best friend realizes
his happiness is more important than others expectations
and I will be here
as free as when you first found me
ready for our adventures to begin
Come fly with me.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
The anticipation is heavy within me,
Clouding my every thought
I feel light headed as you
Shut off the flow of life
Around me as nothing else matters,
I can savor the hesitation
Between the airlock
Of our lips,
And then it's a vertical wrestle
Across the floor
Shucking off clothes
And then we stop,
That millimeter
Space between
The contact
Of our bodies,
I can almost feel
Your delicate suggestion
Of hairs rise like static,
Electrifying
The first beads of sweat
As our skins graze
Like the first seconds of an ice cube
When barely you acknowledge its temperature,
The first sip of summer's cool lemonade;
Or is it the very finest of wines,
That's no longer here nor there
As I cling onto your body
Pleasurable friction,
Solid yet malleable
Against the bed trestle
And every other strong surface,
I feel the smoothness of you
Against the rough callousness of my hands,
And I feel I could never let go,
No questions words or thinking,
Just heart, need, and want
And crave, and hunger
Salt lick,
I want to deplete you of air
And replace it all with passion;
Sweet, our bodies shivering
Like crack fiends,
No athlete could keep up
In this heat feel
The slightest caress of a breeze...
APAD13 003 - © okpoet
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Swiping itches
Sticky fingers
Yields those smells we love
To touch it, thrills
You mean business
Steady shucking,
Harvests tingles starting from these toes
**** junk, to the nostrils
Smells like rock ‘n roll
Fuzzy nothings
Sweeping softness
Inside wet with joy
Excited aces, jack of clovers
Licks the spades in throes
Something wilder
Up above us
Shivers chilled with awe
Insight betwixt our interstices
This mouth cleaving chills below
Always ready
Never settling
Redolent God-like muse
This music is something
To be messed with
Together we watch our show
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
In 1973,
My father used a favorite shucking knife,
Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft,
To pry open rocklike oysters.
He passed them to us, his heirs
To the iced tea spoons, the fondue ***
The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker,
And we would first check them for pearls
And then hold them, like religion,
Above our mouths,
Tip our heads back,
And let them slide over our tongues.
Yesterday, at Little Pond,
As March thawed the glassthin ice,
I startled at the cracking,
Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC
Once pink now tawny wallpaper peels inside a closet, ballerina
dreams shucking off like husk. Little cartooned princesses cling.
Last holders-on from a 1950's design scheme with all good
intention, twirling memories glueyness is backed seemingly
to astound or perhaps dishearten. In "the boy's room," you
find in the closet an equally petrified, yet opposite motif papered.
It's animated baseball. I remember how quotes such as, "Never
let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game,"
did don those walls back in the day. I think it was Babe Ruth
attributed to that one. He and I were supposed to have shared
the same birthday, but I must confess, it stopped right there.
Eventually, that was all figured out, and I have no lamented
grievances for what parent's wishes were for their children's
would-be assigned roles. It was and is still popular to choose
decided decors as such. Who is to know how Bobby may envy
tiny dancers chosen for his sister's room or how Sue might prefer
basketball or even hockey? Even more politically correct
consciousness is a confusing choice. Who gets the dinosaurs
and who gets the daisies? In any case, no one papers the
closets anymore. So, when the time comes for cleaning out
old spaces and memories, future grudges might be less frequent.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
they came around
this early morn,
asking for you
they always do,
check in regular,
especial in the now
disharmonious waking times,
ever since you checked out
a different path,
your own,
wanted a kitchen
with no His aprons,
where you were
chief chef,
braising simmering, shucking
of your own choosing,
and the cooking accessories
were yours, initialed,
so you stated
in your
'so short, so long' note,^
a trifling amuse-bouche,
for me to consume,
for you,
to be amused by...
so long,
now soloing,
duo thing wasn't working,
two sopranos,
in one kitchen
trying to out
high note each other,
a creatively strange way to say
I love you but,
I am Top Chef
thus is the human way,
to err for what we want,
to err for what we had,
err for what we now need
and the long and the short of it,
long for...
the smell of your voice,
the song of thy fresh creations,
wafting, enticing and now
in hind-sighting,
mesmerizing me awake from
loving bed to contested kitchen
now I only sing and cook professionally
which is another word for mechanically
the voice,
thine cooking smells,
cinnamon and cardamon
that resided in our skins,
check in,
looking for refreshment,
have none to offer....
ever since,
we were
so short, so long...
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
I was fourteen that summer
We only spent a week together
And it may have only been a week
But God you made my knees weak
And I remember the moment I first saw you
So tall and slender, with those big brown eyes
You sat down next to me on the those front steps
And now every time I see those steps
I still think of you
I was shucking corn when you offered to help
Your southern drawl was so enticing
I handed you an ear, and your hand graced mine
God your touch took my breath away
You told me you liked my shirt
It doesn't fit me anymore, but I keep it anyway
I remember that night around the bomb fire
When I pointed out the small dipper
You looked over at me with those big brown eyes
You told me I was like the small dipper
I'm still not really sure what you meant by that
But it sounded romantic, and I smiled
The day you left I didn't move
Knowing that my whirl wind romance
Had run its course
I saw you one year later
But all I could offer was a meek hello
I wanted to say more
But then you were gone
And I was left wondering
I wonder what you thought of me
If you were as anamored by me
As I was by you
If I made your heart smile and your ears sing
As you did mine
If for that one week
You were as in love with me
As I was with you
It's been five years
But my thoughts still come back to you
I wonder what's become of you
I wonder if you're in love
I wonder if you're happy
I wonder what could have been
I heard you live in Germany now
How's the weather there?
Anyway,
Thanks for that one week
And thanks for the music suggestions
You were right,
The Rolling Stones are awesome
P.S, you made an excellent bocce ball partner.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Knowing how you were taken off guard
By spinning eyes and fast **** of my head
No wonder you burst giggles buffaloing
And how could one help, but to slyly smirk red
Caught in your allure, devil may wander
Bounced instant shakeup of total ricochet
You felt it too, and I knew this of you
Counterrevolution comes hither what may
Pausing to pull me in, slant of ellipses
Pheromones explode, ocular orbs have eclipses
Trekking wrecking of satellites in flight
Cross governing communications trip the light
Fantastic are we, as we pretend to deceive
By shucking it off as mere passing fancy
Neither taking a number and this I bereave
How I’d love to take chancy, you my fiancée
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous
boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
Out of sight out of mind
I haven't look in the mirror in months
The Sayers of the sooth sensed
I'm selfish and the truth is
I've been thinking about myself to myself
and how to be a selfless influence
So I cut to the chase with multiple contusions
Lead.....ink.......bled
Through my art-array it's hard to say
Freedom of speech?
Well... Well I'm well aware that my where with all
is on borrowed days
So I had to e·val·u·ate
And I came to this conclusion
Stand my ground no matter what
To create a movement
Every one follows the leader and what ever he's doing
Caught in the race in confounded amusement
Some ones open the gate escape
from the labyrinth of illusions
Shucking and jiving showing and proving? No
I come from the bottom I'm showing improvement.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
We stand at a funeral, hand in hand,
under a sky bleeding glorious light.
The year is dying but we are
here to remember. To celebrate and to cherish.
To laugh and sob, reverently, as one.
We stand circular around a cavernous well,
and in this well, we place bouquets of memories.
There is a door rattling off its hinges. Daffodils picked in a hurry.
A boy, a girl, and two hands finding each other
in the darkness of
a cheap movie theater.
There’s a dying woman telling her sister to
read her favorite book to her one last time
******* it. Two boys shucking off
clothes and leaping into the ocean, shouting
and gasping as the frigid waves lick
their bug-bitten calves. A gun held
to someone’s temple,
ruthless. Desperate mouths
meeting in a train station. An I Love You
written on
torn notebook paper and passed
across the aisle. An endlessness of
January snow.
There are fists on jaws
and pennies dropped into fountains
and meals that taste of loss.
Little girls
standing hopefully
in front of their mirrors, looking for
evidence of approaching
womanhood. Hangovers and weddings.
The stunned pause
after a kiss. Old men in
baseball caps joking at diners.
A boy stepping numbly into the
path of a freight train. Things said
at three in the morning and regretted
long after. Snapped pencil lead.
A scraped elbow. Soup on a
misty night. Want.
This is what we have left.
When the earth turns, as it always does,
this will be the past.
When the earth turns, it will carry us
into a new year
and we will burn, hats in hand,
for what was.
But when the earth turns, all will be fresh and flagrant,
naked and breath catching.
All will be ours.
We stand together between death and dawn. We wait.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
*A few clouds drift lazily across a pure blue sky
and a scorching sun sends sleeping dogs in search
of shaded bed-spaces somewhere under the trees.
Washing long dried hangs limp on the garden lines
waiting to be taken in by mothers who are sitting in
the cool indoors shucking peas into a bowl.
The local tradesmen have been and gone, having
delivered their orders of milk bread and groceries all
is now quiet in our sleepy midday Hampshire home.
The dusty lane that goes through the village is only
a bike ride down to the creek, saddle bags crammed
with sandwiches towels and swimming trunks.
The afternoon´s are spent swinging from a rope which
had been tied high in a tree over hanging the creek
letting go and splashing into the cool clear water below.
The excited screams and laughter ring out loudly across
golden fields of corn throughout the long hot summer,
a million miles and fifty-five years from where I am now*.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
help me if you can, cuz salutary
hans solo impossible missions
fall short asper this mwm to break free,
thus Siam game for heroic measures to wrest
sill loose, gnome hatter
remaining time on Earth
strong arm gull lancing tactics
aye need to vest
from perverted imps stranglehold
upon healthy existence
will resort to extreme thine body electric
(serves as kool aid base sic acid) test
hosting ocd (analogous to a
suckling leech happy fiend)
disallowing this mwm
(similar to Sir Issac Newton) begs to take a rest
nurses nourishment feeding off host
(thyself) linkedin, sans sybaritic symbiotic,
excising unhealthy sycophantic relationship
long term ultimate quest
shucking loose obsessive pest
compulsive disorder moocher
drilled deep into psyche tub billed a nest
which bred a hardy crop that messed
up with my enjoying life tooth ha max,
viz parasitic, opportunistic,
narcissistic fealty must stop lest
asphyxiation undermines ability to jest
as if deadly poison
this chap (as a kid) accidentally did ingest
hence this attempt at plaintive pleading
for mental health professional
took hum at my be hest
a much more welcome guest
versus nemesis grounded rivaling mount Everest
that tis all i write unloading off my chest
an agile, fertile, and nimble sprite
who already out best
this scrivener, now completed poem
confiding bugaboo aye attest.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
Shucking ten bushels of corn would've given Socrates philosophic insights far beyond what we currently have record of ...
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Prince: truly a self-produced man;
“Purple Rain”—simply a masterpiece.
Sail smoothly sweet Prince.
May you find yourself on the
Big Stage, shucking & jiving
For Love & Honor of God:
“That’s entertainment!"
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
There is no comfort
Like a Corona with lime
Shucking corn outside
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Eight days in a farm house beside the beach.
Thin walls can’t mute
The promise of navy blue one-piece.
Shucking oysters on bicycles to the beach,
joy starts as a trickle.
A gleam of happiness laying in plain sight.
I only have to stoop to retrieve it.
Yet touching it, I become golden.
Midas' curse is my promise.
Pleasure, at first skin deep, is transmuted by passion
Into a physical joy. Joy I won’t grasp
For fear it is fleeting.
Let go. Fall back. Land in its clouds. Eat the lotus
and retch
A blue dress with red eyes crying.
No shelter. I won’t eat lotus.
Jul 13, 2020
Jul 13, 2020 at 12:02 PM UTC