My co-host Sara had a bit of a mishap and had injured her hand. She figured it would preclude her from participating for a few days. But I have given her a chance to make a difference by giving her reign over providing today’s prompt. So today, is Sara’s day. She had provided some ideas and i liked this one particularly. So for Sara:

This tuesday we’re inspired by Picnic, a movie based on a play by William Inge.

The film dramatizes 24 hours in the life of a small Kansas town in the mid-20th-century United States. It revolves around the Labor Day holiday, the traditional end of summer vacations in America, after which people must return to school or work and face up to the challenges in their lives. It is the story of the proverbial outsider who blows into town and subsequently manages to overturn complacency, shake convention, disrupt and rearrange lives and reset the fates of all those with whom he comes into contact.


Obviously, Picnic is no picnic! But you can fix that by writing a picnic poem. Foods, settings, companion, sounds… anything you’d associate with a picnic are fair game for your poem! We’re rolling along this July and the participation has been great. Let’s finish strong!



    The ants of summer picnics seek
    A way to pierce the slim divide.
    From under blankets where they hide
    They crawl to where the humans speak
    And lay out plates of summer treats.
    If only these workers could say,
    “Will you please share this feast today?
    We are harmless ants. Have no fear.
    A tiny crumb would bring us cheer.
    We’ll carry it and crawl away.”



    Like anyplace else, we love to have picnics
    in Rochester, Syracuse, and Buffalo
    but here we have something that most other folks
    are missing, although it’s because they don’t know

    that picnics mean beer and picnics mean pop
    and picnics mean burgers, lots and lots,
    and picnics mean salads, potato chips too,
    but you top it all off with Zweigle’s white hots!

    NB: My home town, Rochester, has a strong German heritage. There were once several sausage makers here, and a few still survive. The best known, in Rochester anyway, is Zweigle’s. Anyone interested might like to read this review from a decade ago:

  3. I’m down the pike from the Roch. Zweigel’s are clearly the best (since Shelley went belly up!) Szelongowski’s was Buffalo’s Polish entry in WNY! Great memory/enticement, William!

  4. A Panhandle Picnic

    Turkey burgers sizzling on the barbeque
    Yummy potato salad waiting in the kitchen
    Bush’s baked beans and corn on the cob
    All covered up to keep the bugs away
    Tiki torches loaded with candles lit
    The scent meant to keep away the pests
    But failing miserably to do their job
    The massive shade umbrella open wide
    Hovering and protecting the patio table
    From The intense heat of summer
    In the Florida Panhandle

    If we actually muster up the courage
    To face the heat and eat on the deck
    We’ll call this a Panhandle Picnic
    A chance to eat and sweat as a family
    A chance to enjoy the great outdoors
    Something rarely done in the summer
    But quite often in the spring and fall
    When the weather is more bearable

    Well, mama just declared it too hot
    And what mama says is the law
    So we’re moving everything inside
    Where everything will still taste great
    Without the dripping sweat saltiness
    But with all the talking and laughter
    That are always part of our gatherings
    At our family Florida Panhandle picnics

    © Earl Parsons

    • I enjoyed both of these poems, and each reminds me why I think October is the best month for everything, picnics included.

    • Never too hot in my part of the South for a picnic. Maybe sometimes too cold if done in winter but never too hot. And yes, Mama’s word is law and she says, Eat!!!

  5. Picnic

    P lease, pass the potato salad, chicken, chips…
    I can eat no more, my belly’s full.
    C an we just sit a while, laugh and reminisce?
    N ow that we can move again, let’s have fun!
    I like badminton, boating, biking, and hiking.
    C an we do this next week, not wait till next year?

  6. Picnic

    So many voices,
    so many choices.
    Where will it be?
    What shall we do?
    Will there be many?
    Will there be few?
    At the beach with a peach,
    or in the park with a lark,
    a twosome romantic,
    or a field trip pedantic?
    Potato salad, fruit salad (hugs),
    chicken salad, tofu salad (ughs).
    the kind mom made,
    or ice cold beer,
    like dad held dear.
    Hummus and crackers,
    or, better by far,
    black bean salsa,
    Texas Caviar.
    As for the games,
    there’s none that’s
    that’s a loss,
    from a three-legged race
    to a messy egg toss.
    There’s badminton, Frisbee,
    horseshoes as well,
    and the pie-eating winner
    will be easy to tell.
    Whatever the choices,
    just get out in the fun,
    and never forget,
    it’s supposed to be fun.

    • Yes, it is supposed to be fun! We never had any beer at any of our picnics being teetotalers. And now I am adult and still no beer unless someone brings some and they always gravitate towards the huge container of lemonade with slices of lemon and mint floating. No contests – family not public crowd. Family reunions though with tons and tons of food and 12 versions of fried chicken. Yes sir, try them all.

  7. When summer showers interrupt…

    When summer showers
    Just dance in the rain

    The Picnic
    Deep gazes
    Eyes mirror blue skies
    Bare shoulder
    Light laughter
    Lighter touch…Now I’m sweating
    So…I drink her in.

  8. Pingback: Poems: When summer showers interrupt & The Picnic – Wanna Get Published, Write!


    The season slowly fades and I’ve evaded these tasks,
    masking the reality that the park will soon shift focus
    from sumptuous picnic lunches to bunches of bundled snow-bunnies
    in funny get-ups, in cue for the toboggan runs.

    Summer’s fun is going, going, gone one-by-one, as people
    come in homage to the season’s demise.
    As I wrap the new young saplings in canvas,
    I canvas the area and still see some slight signs of life.

    Mr. Jones stands by the lake, a bag of kernels
    to feed the ducks that remain. His heart is stained
    having lost his late mate late in the spring. Her spirit
    brings him here to continue her mission, permission

    granted out of love. Near the trails, it never fails…
    teenage boys and girls seeking adventure in
    most mischievous ways. Gone are the days of
    gentle carousing, hell bent now on violent roughhousing

    profanity laced, and all other humanity placed out of
    their consideration. They have none for anyone
    but themselves, a selfish lot. I’ve got nine more trees
    to appease before the season will be officially over.

    And then, looking over… I see them. A woman
    and a man stand near the park bench on the edge
    of the trees. He’s a mensch. The man spreads a blanket
    upon the seat to offer a cushion; a comfort from the cold

    hardness of enameled wood. It should protect her from the buffets
    of early autumn’s ire. In a grand sweeping gesture, he waves his arm
    as if to say, “After you, M’lady!”. There under the “shade” of the tree’s
    soon barren branches, the chance that she will find compassion in these

    moments of peace are enhanced. She glances at him with eyes
    that have felt the pains he had inflicted, but has picked this moment
    to not forget, but to forgive and live fully in the time ahead.
    The leaves in anticipation of hues of browns, and gold, and orange umber

    do not encumber his feelings. He is happy to be stealing precious
    seconds to offer her in love and protection; all past rejections are history
    and their mystery is still a revelation in the making. Sitting, he is taking her hand
    in his own, and it is shown in the tenderness displayed that this day was made

    for this exact moment, at this exact time. His arm wraps around her sagging
    and tired shoulders and you could see the boulders of life lift from her
    fragile frame. In the name of compassion, he pulls her to him
    Close and closer still. Her head finds rest against him, his upper chest

    her pillow for the time they have allotted. A tender kiss lands on her head, soft
    and gentle, comforting.. In this place they can breathe the breath
    of love’s lingering lament. Emotions are sent by Him to placate their hearts;
    it all starts in this heartfelt caress. Her arms encircle him as well, and I can tell

    there is more to this tryst than meets the eye. The skies take on a crystal hue,
    a blue he had only seen reflected in the lake at the surprise of their first meeting.
    A greeting without words perhaps, but a million thoughts exchanged in the space
    of this blessed grace. And she sleeps. A needed respite from the stresses of life

    a solemn solution to the thought pollution it brings. The birds sing; a soundtrack
    for every day’s steps they will take. Odds are, they never even saw the lake,
    they failed to take their eyes away from their glances. Romance frees the soul
    to love long and strong. The breeze wafts through the trees and in an instant

    they were gone. As suddenly as they had appeared, they were
    no longer there. Not on the trail, not sailing on this lake. All that remained, was their picnic basket and blanket. I hope these lovers come back to learn and teach their ways of love. The clouds above openly shed tears. Autumn is nearly here!

    © Walter J. Wojtanik

    • We are still months from Autumn. That will hit sometime in November. “Romance frees the soul to love long and strong.” Hopefully these two loving lovers will return and bring love back to the land.

  10. Picnics from my childhood and last week…and no, it is never too hot for a food get together in the South.

    Al fresco dining – love it.
    On the side porch having supper,
    in a rest stop on the highway heading somewhere
    On a family trip.
    In Duke Park during a large family get-together.
    And oh, the picnic food!
    Fried chicken, ham biscuits, sliced ham
    Chunks of tender roast beef –
    Cooked to death green beans dissolving on the tongue,
    Several potato salads, cole slaw, fruit salad,
    Devilled eggs, pickles, tossed salad, corn on the cob,
    Greens, corn bread, biscuits, appleblueberrycherry pie,
    Butterscotch and chocolate pie, banana pudding still warm
    With that layer of pale brown meringue on top, corn pudding,
    Cakes – coconut, chocolate, caramel, pound,
    Huge jars of sweet tea and lemonade….
    Oh my, southern picnics. Adults gossiping, kids screaming,
    Teens clustered and giggling,
    Porch, side of the road, park, back yard…
    Yes, southern picnics.
    I’ll take one anytime.

  11. Pic Nix

    What changes occur between child and adult?
    I used to love picnics, eating outdoors,
    but now I think of what results
    Like marching ants, sudden downpours,

    wasps that hover, and cover my food,
    soggy sandwiches, unpleasantly warm,
    and annoying black flies that must be shooed.
    A lovely day becomes transformed.

    Set me down on a beach any day,
    even the sand does not bother me.
    I will stroll shoreline, watch white waves
    with nary an insect to cause me to flee.

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