The Poetry Marathon

2022 – hour 9

SPAM

I laugh uproariously at the amusing song

by Cheryl Wheeler, about the cruise ship

that got stranded out at sea, and

all they had to eat for a couple of weeks

was pop tarts and spam, airlifted from the mainland.

No one, from the most accomplished chef in a French cafe,

to the short-order cook in the greasy spoon, could make

a fine meal out of those ingredients. Not enough bechemel

sauce in all of France to dress up that awful can-shaped

substance. Yet when we were young, starving on a

cold-water farm in the Ozarks, spam was the great luxury.

We all waited, stair steps from four to twenty, eager for our slice,

browned around the edges from the skillet, and delicious.

Christmas at Grandma’s (Hour 9)

I sit with legs spread wide

a piece of chicken in one hand

a spoon to shove rice and stew into my mouth in the other

 

All the Christmases in my lifetime

none comes close to the ones spent with grandma in the ancient city of Benin

 

The Christmas stew always hits different

curry powder is replaced with fresh curry leaves for better flavour

chicken spices are thrown out, many cocks go to the slaughter before dawn

 

It is a season of joy

every room fills up with voices that sat on the other ends of phones all year long

 

Not missing the bustle and noise that comes with Lagos life

we awaken on Christmas morning to grandma’s humming and dancing

we hum along to the rhythm

pausing to steal a piece of chicken or two from the kitchen

 

the cake sits at the top of a fridge

too far for the children to reach

it is to be consumed under supervision by an adult

or all of them

 

when we tire out of playing around the kitchen we go for the fridge

hoisting one another up in turns to take chin-chin and skim icing off the cake

 

By afternoon we have the house upside down

no corner is pitied in our hide and seek game

Grandma shoos us to bed

and under duvets we plan our next adventure outside the door of the room

 

Evening brings another feast

ice cream flows and sauced chicken is served on plates with salads

we cry for the Christmas rice and stew

it is gone and would only return the year after

that gives us another reason to look forward to the next Christmas at Grandma’s

Dumplings

 

Johnny cake mix, triggers a memory

Of the way we were

Yes, let’s make a meal

Dumplings conjure memories of

Childhood days, Back home

Fridays my favorite

No traditional meals

Fried dumplings and saltedcod

Every child back then, lived for this day

No rice, no vegetables

Momma made them from scratch

She would roll the dough, butter, salt and stuff

In the hot oil they’d go

Coming out crispy

Hot, soft inside

As teeth connect they sink into the soft buttery

Inside, as the oohs and aaahs

Signal, enjoyment of this deliciousness

Made some today in a Marathon frame of mind

Transported back to those days

Of pure joy!!

Hour 9 – Kit Kat

Hour 9 – Kit Kat

 

I always wondered why the man

with the camera would stand

in various weather conditions.

 

It wasn’t until he sat down

out come the Pandas on roller-skates

then I put two and two together

 

To not hear pandas on roller-skates

either his hearing was bad or a really noisy eater.

It’s a hilarious advert though.

 

So, when you’re at the zoo

leave the camera on then

have a break, have your Kit Kat too!

 

 

Achaar (Pickle)

There’s rarely an Indian
who will not rave about the ‘achaar’
their Dadi or Nani made.
They may also tell you of the strict rules
to making of that ‘achaar’
lest it get spoiled!
Recipes were passed down
from mother-in-law to daughter-in-law
Come summertime, raw green mangoes
kilos at a time
would leave the home smelling like a green paradise
and then Dadi or Nani depending on which set of grandparents
you were visiting that summer
would call for her special mix of spices
Fennel, fenugreek, nigela, mustard, turmeric
salt and chilli powder red and feiry!
The colours all a riot on a large platter
A pouring of a hot golden glaze of mustard oil
and everyone’s salivary glands would go into a frenzy
at the aroma announcing to the neighbourhood
It was ‘achaar’ day at our home!
Those jars with white muslin-covered mouths
would rest for days under strong sunlight
deepening the flavour and developing character!
Such a character and flavour that was
that it’s been 40 years since Nani’s gone,
but my salivary glands still go into a frenzy
at the mere thought of Nani’s ‘achaar’!

Hour 9

‏Not everyone will clap for you,

when it’s time for an applause,

Not everyone will reach out a hand when you fall,

Not everyone will acknowledge you,

Too many will overlook, or scroll on by,

Not everyone will pray For you,

Plenty is praying against you,

But, once you find that someone or two,

That will champion you,

Hold fast don’t let go,

And don’t forget to be reciprocal.

Sweets, Hour Nine

Sweets

I was a rambler as a child in the summer,
outside dawn to dusk with a sandwich and a book,
maybe a friend or two, a thistledown seed on the wind.

If nothing sweet was in the house, no candy or cookies around,
I would take from the cupboard a packet or two of winter’s
leftover cocoa mix on my meandering travels.

When the need for sweets would hit, I’d tear off a corner,
lick a finger, and coat it in sweet brown crystals
until the packet was empty, bonus points if it had mini marshmallows.

If even old cocoa wasn’t available, a friend and I would raid our homes
and pool loose change to buy nickel candy at the local IGA,
an ice cream or two if we were particularly lucky.

Looking at my grandson’s cocoa in the kitchen pantry, I realize
what an idyllic childhood my parents gave me, what trust they bestowed,
merely by allowing me the freedom to be alone.

9 Potato Chip Memory

I remember the 5 gallon ice cream buckets
and jumbo sized Lays potato chips
that were supposed to be hidden in our deep freezer.

My dad came into the den when I was watching TV with
my boyfriend at the time
and brought the bag of potato chips
he had found.

The potato chips crumbs landed on his shirt
as he tried to eat too many too quickly
feeding a spiritual hunger

Looking back, I feel bad.
He hungered for something he didn’t have
and couldn’t find
in a bag of potato chips.

At the time,
I was an embarrassed 14 yr old
whose boyfriend was trying not to laugh.

My dad didn’t seem to have a clue
about his actions or the reaction he received.
And I’m a little grateful for this

(Hour 09) 06.30-07.30am. TEXT PROMPT: kitchen cupboard memory

tinned soup

Sunday nights long ago
when mum had passed out

would make my own tea
canned soup & toast soldiers

heat soup in pan on stove
lightly toast bread buttergold

tomato was my favourite
diluted with a little milk

soldiers dunked in the mug
till soggy & exquisitely moosh

tonight straight from the tin
cold & without buttered toast

— i’m struggling to recall its appeal

Moms (Hour 9)

 

 

Moms

 

Moms cook up a storm

is just how it is.

 

Kids can play while

she does her biz.

 

Dad works in the office

fixes teeth like a whiz.

 

She mixes up batters.

I lick what gets splattered

on the phone she loves chatter.

I eat, run and then scatter.

 

Elaborate meals she often made

I hated coming in from where I played

Street ball is where I wished I stayed

but changed my mind with her marinade

which was worthy of a motorcade.

 

Many years and events have come and gone

Colleen’s in the kitchen and loves to cook

a favorite companion, her cooking books

and the meals she makes won’t be mistook

they are labors of love as if from mom’s guidebook.