Bagel Horror Movies
Tend to include
Serrated knives, Chase scenes through onion fields, And toasters rigged
Not to pop.
Serrated knives, Chase scenes through onion fields, And toasters rigged
Not to pop.
Posts Tagged ‘agriculture’
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
31
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”
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”
15
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
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
05
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.
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.
