Candies
(Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter, 2024)
My stepmother
always shared hard candies
at the holidays,
jumbled together
in a heavy, ruby red dish
with a top that lifted off
to reveal a multitude of choices:
tiny cylinders with images in their centers –
a swirl, star, tree, butterfly, watermelon –
some wrapped in shiny papers
of red, gold, silver, and green,
round peppermints and spearmints,
curled ribbons with multicolored stripes.
My favorites
were like little stuffed pillows,
plump and tufted,
usually in fruit flavors;
I would forage through the jar
to look for the purple ones,
my hands sticky
as I pried the pieces apart,
anxious for that grape flavor
to fill my mouth.
Sometimes,
there was at least one
with a strange taste,
unidentifiable,
the one I would push out
secretly with my tongue,
hide it in a Kleenex or napkin,
throw it away
and get another.
An Ode to Ice Cream
In a bowl, mug, cup,
atop a cone or piece of pie,
you are the universal panacea,
the Magic Bullet that soothes tears,
celebrates success,
improves the flavor of even the driest
cake, brownie or waffle;
you are a temptress in simple pink, white, or brown,
a seductive siren when accessorized with nuts, chips,
whipped cream, gooey hot fudge slithering down your curves,
beneath a neon-red cherry.
We turn to you after our losses –
tonsillectomies, wisdom teeth removal,
the ninth inning walk-off wins by the opposing team –
in a universal language,
you never fail to bring comfort,
you own your richness,
stand strong against your competitors –
the ice milks, the yogurts –
for you are the original,
politically correct, diverse, multi-colored,
down home like butter pecan,
childish like chocolate chip cookie dough,
refreshing like green tea,
and always exactly right
like plain chocolate and vanilla
Just Desserts
(published in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer, 2021)
It took hours to make that pie,
to peel, pare, slice the apples,
mix flour, shortening, salt,
roll out the dough,
bake in the oven –
a crisp homemade crust,
gooey cinnamon fruit inside
a glass pyrex dish;
placed on the roof of the car
temporarily,
then forgotten once we
slammed car doors,
rounded each curve all the way down
that windy Oakland hill
aptly named Snake Drive,
the dish hanging on somehow
until the very last turn,
when it flew off,
shattered on the asphalt,
glass and pie in pieces
and me not sure if I should
laugh or cry.
An educator for over 30 years, Nancy Haskett retired in 2011 and is a member of the Ina Coolbrith Circle, MoSt (Modesto Stanislaus Poetry Center), as well as a small, local writing group. Her work has appeared in more than 40 publications, including the anthology More than Soil, More than Sky; Stanislaus Connections; Homestead Review; Iodine Press; Song of the San Joaquin; The Pen Woman; Monterey Poetry Review, Penumbra and more. In her spare time, Nancy enjoys reading, traveling, walking, and spending time with her family. Her poetry collection, Shadows & Reflections, is available on Amazon.
(Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter, 2024)
My stepmother
always shared hard candies
at the holidays,
jumbled together
in a heavy, ruby red dish
with a top that lifted off
to reveal a multitude of choices:
tiny cylinders with images in their centers –
a swirl, star, tree, butterfly, watermelon –
some wrapped in shiny papers
of red, gold, silver, and green,
round peppermints and spearmints,
curled ribbons with multicolored stripes.
My favorites
were like little stuffed pillows,
plump and tufted,
usually in fruit flavors;
I would forage through the jar
to look for the purple ones,
my hands sticky
as I pried the pieces apart,
anxious for that grape flavor
to fill my mouth.
Sometimes,
there was at least one
with a strange taste,
unidentifiable,
the one I would push out
secretly with my tongue,
hide it in a Kleenex or napkin,
throw it away
and get another.
An Ode to Ice Cream
In a bowl, mug, cup,
atop a cone or piece of pie,
you are the universal panacea,
the Magic Bullet that soothes tears,
celebrates success,
improves the flavor of even the driest
cake, brownie or waffle;
you are a temptress in simple pink, white, or brown,
a seductive siren when accessorized with nuts, chips,
whipped cream, gooey hot fudge slithering down your curves,
beneath a neon-red cherry.
We turn to you after our losses –
tonsillectomies, wisdom teeth removal,
the ninth inning walk-off wins by the opposing team –
in a universal language,
you never fail to bring comfort,
you own your richness,
stand strong against your competitors –
the ice milks, the yogurts –
for you are the original,
politically correct, diverse, multi-colored,
down home like butter pecan,
childish like chocolate chip cookie dough,
refreshing like green tea,
and always exactly right
like plain chocolate and vanilla
Just Desserts
(published in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer, 2021)
It took hours to make that pie,
to peel, pare, slice the apples,
mix flour, shortening, salt,
roll out the dough,
bake in the oven –
a crisp homemade crust,
gooey cinnamon fruit inside
a glass pyrex dish;
placed on the roof of the car
temporarily,
then forgotten once we
slammed car doors,
rounded each curve all the way down
that windy Oakland hill
aptly named Snake Drive,
the dish hanging on somehow
until the very last turn,
when it flew off,
shattered on the asphalt,
glass and pie in pieces
and me not sure if I should
laugh or cry.
An educator for over 30 years, Nancy Haskett retired in 2011 and is a member of the Ina Coolbrith Circle, MoSt (Modesto Stanislaus Poetry Center), as well as a small, local writing group. Her work has appeared in more than 40 publications, including the anthology More than Soil, More than Sky; Stanislaus Connections; Homestead Review; Iodine Press; Song of the San Joaquin; The Pen Woman; Monterey Poetry Review, Penumbra and more. In her spare time, Nancy enjoys reading, traveling, walking, and spending time with her family. Her poetry collection, Shadows & Reflections, is available on Amazon.
