Making Soda

Making Soda short poem

She made her soda
by the handful,
three handfuls of flour,
a pinch of salt,
a pinch of soda,
a half pint of buttermilk,
from an urn,
not a carton.

She made her soda
by the handful,
one hand that threw
dirt on the lid
of her sister’s coffin,
the other holding
an orphaned son.
Hands that raised him
as her own, and never
a ring on their fingers.

She made her soda
by the handful,
baked in a range
until it was done,
and we ate it, oven hot,
and thick with butter.

She made her soda
by the handful,
a recipe I have been
unable to follow;
I have different
sized hands.

This poem is part of the Poetry Book Black Eyed Peace

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of david atkinson

david atkinson

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
Irish poet, who spent his early years in Belfast and now lives in Coleraine with his wife and 2 children. His first collection "Thomas" was published by Lapwing in 2005, and his second collection "Black Eyed Peace" has just been published. It is available as either a free eBook or in traditional printed format. His work has been widely published in magazines, anthologies, and on-line. His work has also been broadcast and published by the BBC and a number of his poems have achieved competition success. He has been involved with the Ballymoney Writers for over 15 years and has edited and published 3 collections of their work.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

4 Comments on "Making Soda"

Notify of
avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Swathi Rao
Member

She has a good recipe, agreed. Nice poem.

Christopher S. Bunch
Member

Good twist at the end.

wpDiscuz

In Making

In Making short poem

Spurred the kerosene to burn the logistics. I had moved on untrodden snow of tanned gifts. There was no tomorrow for me, living from moment to moment. The warships had moved into positions. Adoring the monotheisn, I still loved many

We’re Making A Living.

Were Making A Living. short poem

We are making a living, Where humanity hardly exists; Where no love resides; Where compassion has died; Where beauty is deprived; Where only happiness is solipsism; And only sadness is breakup. In this living, The affluent is callous; The penurious

Making Wishes

Making Wishes prose poem

Nothing I shall do, to be a wisher; No wishes to make. Never mind,my friends, The”Making Wishes” prose won’t run so long. A wish precisely persists as a wish all along, Until I’m propelled by the blowing wind of wish