Old Poems about Food

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Don Schaeffer
Posts: 538
Joined: Mon Jun 27, 2005 12:07 am
Location: Huntington, NY

Old Poems about Food

Postby Don Schaeffer » Tue May 24, 2016 1:42 pm


She doesn't talk to me
about romance,
and bottles of wine.

When I do her cooking, I tell her
all good things
begin with an onion.
I just diced one
and now I start.

Celery, green pepper,
corn, cabbage, chick peas, I love these
with cubed baked potato.
I toss in a little sugar to carmelize.

This is common food, food of the hand
we can all understand it, like the
simple commandments from the breath of God.

I stand at the frying pan
on a translucent bridge
over a trans-
substantial ravine.

Food Parade Supermart

The large
man underdressed for November
booms at the uniformed
kneeling guy who pushes
chocolate bars on the shelf.
The lady glides, slimly with
forward pressed jaw and
questions in her eyes. I
rush down the aisle,
by the anti-organized children
and duty-bound citizens with
wealth converted into protein,
and worried-looking men.
An array of
cloth color contains bodies.
No music
only machines confidently
stating their instructions.


It came to life
on tv, the pullet yelling
out the virtues of fried chicken.

Gazelles and zebra,
bowing at the feet
of their lion king

say, death is better than disorder.
Holding out napes
the food calls the eaters.

Hannah's First Solid Food

Until now, the angel nourished herself
purely on what she carried in the
insulated kit that bore her here,
only encased in sterile glass or
suckled directly from the source
like a celestial fountain.

But today,
one-hundred-and-eighty days
from her deliverence,
she suffered to taste
terrestrial fruit. The
aches of the world
entered her body over
her eager tongue.

Now she is
fully mortal.

I Can No Longer Feed You My Love

The nurse cringes
when I move up beside you
using your old wheelchair as a seat
and you lay in half recline.
I put the food
into your mouth
to bring back to me
the house that you have slipped from
just months ago.

As I reproduce
a warm vestige
of what we had
just over
the thinnest wall of weeks
it stuffs your lungs.
I can no longer
feed you my love.


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