Summer Tomatoes – A Love Poem

For day 10 of Nanonano at Real Toads. The floor is open for all poems as this is open link day at the Toads.  Unprompted!!!!

copyright kanzensakura

Summer Tomato: A Love Poem
I’m not talking about those
mushy wannabe red globulous things
in plastic trays in the pro-duce section of the store –
I’m talkin’ ’bout tomatoes born
and raised in the heat of the summer sun,
sassy summer tomatoes full of juice,
so tangy and sassy that before
you can stick your fork into a slice
lying innocently upon a plate,
one of those bad boy slices
jumps up and slaps you across the face –
Twice.
No, not talkin’ ‘bout those demure sweet things,
those tame ‘maters with bland flavor –
I am talkin’ ’bout those full fledged
in your face, deep red, full of bite,
impertinent summer tomatoes.
And we all know the best ones comes
from the gardens of your mama,
your grandmama, a neighbor, your own backyard –
all kinds of ‘maters:
Rutgers, Better Boy, Homestead –
unpretentious no apologies ‘maters –
none of those trendy browngreenpurple ‘maters,
but warm from the sun – skin smooth and tight
Sayin’ to you –
Stroke me, hold me, bite me –
Slice me onto the plate,
Summer to-may-toes – The feisty street punk of tomatoes –
no sweet mushy debutante,
no dry flavorless academic,
no all on the outside nothing on the inside
tomato hypocrite…
The Real Summer Tomato:
‘tween my fingers and my thumb,
Watch out belly – here.it.comes.

Real Toads Tuesday Platform: Country Burial

This is posted for Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Country Burial
A Cairn –
Placing a few rocks one on top of the other,
dug from the hard red clay.
My mother’s ashes reside here,
in the country cemetery
nestled in her mother’s grave.
I drove the several hours down to Bahama
(buh-hay-muh)
to the Mount Moriah Church –
where most of our ancestors lay.
The first one laid to rest was my
great-times-many grandmother –
buried with her infant son on her breast.
Since 1790. A long time.
My mother is the most recent.
I dug the hole,
wrestling with the drought hard ground
rusty red…the blood of the soil
makes good tomatoes, my great-grandfather said.
I poured her ashes into the hole
and filled it back with the chunks of dirt.
then all the rocks that I dug out
I placed in a pile.
I left my mother’s ashes there.
But I brought some of the soil back with me –
in a shoebox along with some rocks.
And the tomatoes grown in that red soil!
So tangy they jump off the plate and slap you
across the face before you can stick a fork in ‘em –
no passive sweet tomatoes grown in this dirt.
Mama would be pleased.

Poetics: Muse Mixology

Today De (the lovely and talented WhimsyGizmo) is our prompter for Poetics. We are to use in 33 words or less(hopefully):…”today I’d like us to mix our muses up a bit by throwing some pub and drinking terms in the blender:
shaken,stirred, rum, vesper, name your poison, drown your sorrows, sour, whiskey, last call, etc. etc. etc.
Ah, but here’s the kicker: try to use these words in ways that have nothing to do with the bar scene, alcohol, or drinking. Use as many as you like; pour your poem as tall, short or neat as you like, and come back for another round. And if none of these words or phrases speak to you, go prohibition on us: write anything you want. Just make it short enough to fit on a cocktail napkin. (Keep it at 33 words or less.)” Alas! I went over the 33 words.

Summer Day
Grand Marnier sunrise,
Grenadine sunset,
Laphroaig night.
And flowing from the bottled day
a perfect Southern Comfort
kind of day – I pull a summer tomato
from the vine and take a bite.
Oh glorious Bloody Mary!
I laugh up into the sky
drunk with joy.

tree to produce stand nectarines

summer heirloom tomatoes – copyright Kanzensakura 2010 – 3010

Summer Tomato – Love Poem

Summer Tomato:
I’m not talking about those
Mushy wannabe red globulous things
In plastic trays in the pro-duce section of the store –
I’m talkin’ ’bout tomatoes born
And raised in the heat of the summer sun,
Sassy summer tomatoes full of juice,
So tangy and sassy that before
You can stick your fork into a slice
Lying innocently upon a plate,
One of those bad boy slices
Jumps up and slaps you across the face –
Twice.
No, not talkin’ ‘bout those demure sweet things,
Those tame ‘maters with bland flavor –
I am talkin’ bout those full fledged
In your face, deep red, full of bite,
impertinent summer tomatoes
And we all know the best ones comes
From the gardens of your mama,
Your grandmama, a neighbor, your own backyard
Or from a basket in the back of some sorry looking
Pickup truck parked on the side of the road –
“Fresh Vegs – Cheap!”
The bed filled with sweet sticky pearl kerneled corn
and all sizes of ‘maters: Rutgers, Better Boy, Homestead –
none of those trendy purplebrownromagrape ‘maters,
unpretentious no apologies ‘maters,
or still moist from dew butterbeans,
Begging you to open them and strip out the beans
Into a bowl – plopplopplop
And those toe-may-toes…
Warm from the sun – skin smooth and tight
Sayin’ to you –
Stroke me, hold me, bite me –
Slice me on the plate with those cooked butterbeans
And corn and let me join my juices with theirs –
Spoon me up, sop me up with warm golden cornbread…
And swallow down with sweet iced tea –
Summer tomatoes – The feisty street punk of tomatoes –
No sweet mushy debutante,
No dry flavorless academic,
No all on the outside nothing on the inside
Vegetable hypocrite…
The Real Summer Tomato:
‘tween my fingers and my thumb,
Watch out belly – here.it.comes.

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