Posts Tagged ‘agriculture’

Bagel Horror Movies

Tend to include

Serrated knives,
Chase scenes through onion fields,
And toasters rigged

Not to pop.


06 2009

do not disturb

last night i dreamt i took a stroll
among the onion flowers
the fragrant bulbs surrounded me
i walked and walked for hours
and when i stooped to touch the ground
i found instead of soil
a mix of salt and yeast and flour
with just a touch of oil
the setting sun burned fast and bright
sizzling the earth
and i slept soft on bagel beds
until the dawn’s rebirth


05 2009

Scent by Numbers

At mile marker 98
just past Route 42
I like to put the windows down
and let fresh air blow through

First I pass the rows of corn
tall and green like trees
Their smell, though nice, sticks in my teeth
so I give them a “3”

Next up is the berry patch
a sweet and fragrant heaven
But too much sugar rots my nose
still they get a “7”

Finally the onion fields
come up around the bend
Their pungent, piercing, bold bouquet
earns them a perfect “10”

I breathe in deep and scrunch my nose
just like Robert DeNiro
Until I pass the cattle ranch —
with its stinky, bagel “Zero”


05 2009

wichita, ks

i remember when this was just meadows
not a condo or strip mall in sight
just a colorful flash of birds’ feathers
and the flit of a young child’s kite

but change fluttered in with the winter wind
and onion seeds came along too
before i had reached my childhood’s end
fragrant bulbs frequently grew

these days the smell from the flour mill
brings the answer to every boy’s prayer
when crossing the field with your kite in tow
the bagels, sweet bagels are everywhere


03 2009

Praise Song for the Bagel, A Poem for Watching Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration on TV

Each morning we go and do our business,
we flush and we jump in the shower
or not, drying and then dressing.

All inside us is hunger. All inside us is
pang and rumble, yearn and ache, we
long for something touching our tongues.

Someone is scrambling an egg, boiling
water for coffee, Popping a Tart,
heating the things that taste better hot.

A woman in a hairnet waits on tables.
A line cook examines the melting butter.
A hostess says Please. Let me seat you now.

Say it plain: that many have slaved over this meal.
Sing the names of those who brought it here,
who plowed the fields, planted the crops,

picked the onions and the wheat, kneaded
batch by batch the glorious dough
they would then roll into perfect little rings.

Praise song for the bakers, praise song for the meal.
Praise song for every boiled little bite,
the chewing-it-up at kitchen tables.

Some live by you are what you eat,
others by an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
But what if the mightiest food is bagels?

Praise song for getting something in our stomachs.


01 2009