You gotta laugh, and you gotta have poetry. Wellness is as much a state of mind as a state of body, and we hope our Food Poetry page will brighten your day just a bit.    

Retired

pork chops, said my father, i love
pork chops!

and i watched him slide the grease
into his mouth.

pancakes, he said, pancakes with
syrup, butter and bacon!

i watched his lips heavy wetted with
all that.

coffee, he said, i like coffee so hot
it burns my throat!

sometimes it was too hot and he spit it
out across the table.

mashed potatoes and gravy, he said, I
love mashed potatoes and gravy!

he jowled that in, his cheeks puffed as
if he had the mumps.

chili and beans, he said, i love chili and
beans!

and he gulped it down and farted for hours
loudly, grinning after each fart.

strawberry shortcake, he said, with vanilla
ice cream, that's the way to end a meal!

he always talked about retirement, about
what he was going to do when he
retired.
when he wasn't talking about food he talked
on and on about
retirement.

he never made it to retirement, he died one day while
standing at the sink
filling a glass of water.
he straightened like he'd been
shot.
the glass fell from his hand
and he dropped backwards
landing flat
his necktie slipping to the
left.

afterwards
people said they couldn't believe
it.
he looked
great.
distinguished white
sideburns, pack of smokes in his
shirt pocket, always cracking
jokes, maybe a little
loud and maybe with a bit of bad
temper
but all in all
a seemingly sound
individual

never missing a day
of work.

-Charles Bukowski

Submit your own poem or one you like to poetry@diamondorganics.com.

Schmaltz

My grandfather died asking for it,
sweet, greasy juice
of bird-who-never-ran-fast-enough,
yellow smear of chicken fat on a bagel.
Tubes in and out of every hole of him,
total failure of the body to endure its own appetites, v and his scared sons leaning over the hospital bed,
hungry for last words. "Sure wish
I could taste some schmaltz,"
he rasped, and died.

Sentiment comes and goes, but food is serious.

The old man in charge of the kosher butcher shop
has a white flowing beard,
hooded eyes, hawk nose.
He wears a jeweled and embroidered yarmulke,
and a blood-stained apron.
Those blazing eyes see right through me, I can tell--
they know I only go to Temple once, maybe twice a year
to hear Kol Nidre and say Kaddish,
just for the unbearable sweetness of the minor key.
And he can see that I only shop kosher
because it tastes better,
while at home we eat pepperoni pizza straight from the box,
but he gives me my heavy bird anyway.
Even the faithless should eat well.

Behind the shop, in the parking lot
Leroy approaches with his rags and Windex.
Says today's real bad, no one will even talk to him.
Tears in his eyes
he describes the meal he wants to buy
around the corner at KFC:
"Two pieces, a breast and a leg,
mashed potatoes. Greens, a biscuit. Gravy."

Hunger the common language that unites us,
less elegant than music, more painful than love.
I give him a dollar plus all the change that I have,
and later regret
not letting myself give more: a five, a twenty.
Enough is a miracle to have, even for an hour.
Not much else can furnish
that full feeling, besides the kindness
we yearn toward; our poetry, our schmaltz.

-Alison Luterman

Love a Potato

Me? I'm a potato junkie. I'll take one in any form you can think of except raw, and I'll consume it with or without relish and abandon. I'll take it...

mashed
smashed
     or succotashed

fried
dried
     and served on the side

sliced
diced
     and lightly spiced

boiled
broiled
     and lightly oiled

heated
kneaded
     and onion-treated

faked
creped
     or shaked-and-baked

floured
soured
     and cauliflowered

chilled
grilled
     and parsley-filled

steamed
creamed
     or fry-machined

whipped
chipped
     or butter-dipped

fluffed
puffed
     or broccoli-stuffed

breaded
shredded
     or lettuce-bedded

teased
cheesed
     and topped with peas

wrinkled
crinkled
     or cayenne-sprinkled

wet-farmed
dry-farmed
     and organic farmed

I love a potato

-Dave Smith

Breeze in the Apple Orchard

This breeze, the hussy, has traveled around the world,
gathering smoke from cook-fires in Afghanistan, stealing the sweat of lovers in London,
the stink of traffic in Marrakech,

blowing her hot breath through your threadbare heart,
huffing up your skirt,
roughening your genius hair,
hot with the stench of battlefields,
cool and sweet with the cries of gulls.

Breeze! Tell me it's me
and me alone that you love.

How can I tell you that
when I have just caressed the seashell ears of a baby
and caught, with equal care,
the parched last breath of the woman
whose strangled, abandoned body
won't be found for months to come?

When this morning I whipped veils against the foreheads
of that long line of refugees
carrying their lives on their backs
through an endless gray-and-white newspaper desert?

And this afternoon recorded the wheeze
of the bull elephant as he chased through the underbrush
trumpeting after his mate,
and listened just as intently
to the cricket, fiddling her delicate desire?

Well, then, what do you want with me?

I want one stray hair from your scalp,
one drop of sweat from under your armpit.
Give me that short breath you just took without thinking,
the blood-blister on your toe, inside your gritty sandal,
the fleeting impulse too swift to write down.

-Alison Luterman

It's So Easy

It's so easy
driving to the market
wandering the aisles
not thinking about what you're buying
or who you're buying it from
... from where it was flown
...where or how it was grown
it was flying the friendly skies
and hitting the freeway
...weeks and thousands of miles ago


plant it
spray it
cut it
cool it
preserve it
...salt it
...sugar it
...package it
...can it
......bottle it
......label it
......store it
......ship it
......stock it
......bag it
.........nuke it
.........serve it


out of sight
out of mind
...but not out of body

if it wasn't for shelf-life
it wouldn't have no life at all


Dave Smith
Published in Solar Living Source Book