Canning Tomatoes: A to-do via poetry

 Canning Tomatoes: 
A how-to via poetry

 

Way too much red on my kitchen table.
Lumps of juicy flesh lay ripening
on metal trays, pleading to be devoured
            or dealt with,
            and quickly,
for these tomatoes are ripe and ready.

First, to peel and put in jars:
            Set in sink, let the spray bounce back
                        and tiny droplets SLAP
                        your face as you clean and core
                        each one.
            Place in bowls, listen for the SLOP
                        of the water boiling
                        in the tea pot
                        on the stove;
            Pour over waiting fruit.
            Palm each tomato

once surfaces CRACK,
            remove skins, carefully SLICE
            the meaty part into chunks,
            and SLIDE
            into waiting jars.

Second, to boil seals to jars in water bath:
            Set lids on jars, seal-side on clean lips,
                        and SCREW rims over lids—
                        not tightly!
            Gently place in rack
                        in canner
            Cover with warm water
            Heat to boiling
            Wait patiently
                        for over an hour
            Hear the BAM
                        of the canner’s lid RATTLE
                        against the pot as steam
                        escapes;
            Add more hot water
                        to keep jars immersed,
                        watching and waiting,
                        TAPPING toes,
                        until the BUZZ
                        of the timer alerts you.
 

Third, to complete the seal:
            CLAMP heads of jars and—
                        without tilting—
            Bring each glass marvel to rest
                        on towels
            Wait for 24 hours and listen for the
                        POP of each jar lid
                        as your bounty is safely sealed,
                        safely kept,
            Wanting a winter’s day
                        that calls for warm soup.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

Julie S. Paschold: Poet, Artist, Agronomist from Nebraska. Author of Horizons (won 2024 Nebraska Book Award) & Human Nature. Semi-finalist in Kate Sommers Memorial Prize, honorable mention in two Writer's Digest contests. Resident Poetry Instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens. Volunteer for the Human Library Organization. https://medium.com/@jpaschold or https://jpaschold.blogspot.com/ .

Weeding the Seedlings

 Weeding the Seedlings

 

A frustrating day.
Ended by the final cry
from our 20-year-old
rusty push lawn mower
who decided to give up the ghost
halfway through mowing
the overgrown lawn.

My son is now assembling
our new one, which shall
mulch away the tips of blades
and tops of broadleaf friends
who volunteer their growth
above the soil.

I am bending over twin oak
seedlings captured in
chicken wire for their protection,
viewing the vines choking
their sunlight.

Pulling these unwanted plants,
I pile them to the side,
being careful to avoid hurting
the small trees. I talk to them
as I perform this overdue task,
and as I am coaxing the woven
tendrils from the wire,
I notice the slightest movement
at the tip of one oak leaf.

A baby praying mantis perches,
startled from my activity.
As I call my son over,
we look closer. Two tiny spiderlings.
A pill bug. And my favorite,
a lady beetle larva. Who else
have I disturbed from this
miniature world in which
we humans become the
vicious wild creatures to fear?

Wisps of who they will become,
my son and I are viscous, floating
out of time, imploring our new friends
to find themselves lost
in the nearby garden and grow.
The mantis crawls under
the shelter of the shaded leaf,
and we leave the pile where it lays,
holding what we hope are more
living dust motes, more tiny worlds
around which we hover.

Earth, today, for just this moment,
is generous.

--After Celia Drill

 

by Julie S. Paschold

7.3.25

Unraveling on a Thursday

 These two poems seem to go together.  I wrote them during April 2025, which is National Poetry Month, based on Writer's Digest poetry prompts.

10:09 AM on a Thursday

in April and it starts
plut plut plut
on the hood of my raincoat
as I’m walking and it
makes me smile.
Early this morning the birds
frantically told me this rain
was coming, the clouds headed
our way, the sunrise not to be
taken advantage of because
that sun would soon be covered
by a blanket of white and silver,
dropping its treasure below.
I do not shorten my stroll
which startles four mallards
on the small pond, who move
to the other side to shake their
heads and wings at me—or
the raindrops falling—and paddle
noisily along the far edge, bodies
gliding. I finish my walk and
head back inside. Later that
afternoon the rain stops and
the silence in the office is so loud
I can hear my tinnitus singing
in my ears. At 3:29 PM I open
the door, peek my head out,
and it starts.
The bunching of tear ducts.
The tears rolling down my face.
I don’t know where they come from.
Relief. Overwhelmed. Exhausted.
Overextended. Happiness. Gratitude.
Whatever their source, their purpose,
I let them fall—my own rain shower,
my own silver lining. The treasure
I drop to the ground below,
joining the rivulets from the sky,
traveling away to join the soil.

Unraveling

(with prompts from @imandq)

 

All morning my mind has been
in a state of disquiet like the
sleepless wind so I begin the
percussion of feet against blacktop
before the thoughts within me
melt my brain. I’d like to see the sun
after so much grey. The weekend spent
alone brought about a vintage
loneliness, a familiar tingle like
rereading a long-forgotten memoir
once upon a time I was…
listening to cavernous whispers
and tracing the lines of my hands
wanting to read the future of it all
but my reflection has changed
and though letting go left a mark
I see through the seeping blindness
that this stepping has taken me
down a road I’ve been before,
and looking up I see her, a bald eagle.
She swoops down to me, hovering above
so close I can see her feathers and
the curve of her yellow beak.
I stop and stare. Just take it all in.
The eagle, silently soaring in the sky.
The frogs’ prolific symphony.
The partial sun igniting
every busy word in my mind.
All this, unraveling the knots in me.

***

I did not get a picture of the eagle.
Some moments aren’t meant
to be photographed.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

April 2025

***

Julie S. Paschold: Poet, Artist, Agronomist from Nebraska. Author of Horizons (won 2024 Nebraska Book Award) & Human Nature. Semi-finalist in Kate Sommers Memorial Prize, honorable mention in two Writer's Digest contests. Resident Poetry Instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens. Volunteer for the Human Library Organization. https://medium.com/@jpaschold or https://jpaschold.blogspot.com/ .

The Beginning: A Poem

 The Beginning

a poem

Do you ever wonder how the world began?

The Beginning

Scientists probe into the journey
toward the beginning of the world;
ask such questions.

Who came first: the fish or the frog?
Is the Neanderthal our cousin or our brother?
Who initially reached for soil: roots or legs?

The earth left clues written in code
formed from another language, one
partially erased from a time
long forgotten, long passed; 

                                                a time
before the moon threw back the tides
and stars gazed at the barren sands.

We are made of cells; cells made of
organelles; organelles made of molecules;
molecules of atoms;

                               our endless world
so vast and sturdy, yet so infinitely
tiny and delicate. We are substance
and air, liquid and solid, mass and energy
combined. 

                    For all we have discovered
and defined, we are left baffled—
how intricate and extravagant,
how complex and perplexing,
how wondrous this all is!

Whether root or fin or leg or membrane,
cousin or brother,
sea or land or air or magma,

we are all part of one story, one world,
one amazing timeline, we sparkles
in God’s eye, we miracles of life,

we unexplainable wonders that keep
the experts guessing, questioning,
seeking explanations

                            for the beginning
of a world that stretches, perhaps,
to eternity.

 

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

4.10.25