The dog seen a rabbit and how he did chase
to catch that little critter and boy what a race
But one thing that rabbit knew as he ran away
he was not going to be lunch for that dog today
Around the tree and into the bushes he went
the dog was right after that little rabbit's scent
the dog was so busy that he never did see
that big old hornet nest way up in the tree
running and barking and making a sound
made all the hornets start buzzing around
They all made a dive and together they flew
when they hit the dog he knew he was through
He made up his mind right there and then
he would never go chasing that rabbit again
They organized a church bazaar,
To raise money for the poor.
A booth for selling chances
Was set up, outside the door.
When I bought the raffle ticket,
My reasoning was murky,
And I could only just believe it,
When I won that doggone turkey.
Now, the kids were all excited
When we brought the critter home.
So we placed him in the barnyard,
Where he'd have lots of room to roam.
Since the date was late October,
I'm quite sure you understand,
That to have him for Thanksgiving
Was my awe inspiring plan.
Well, the turkey was no birdbrain,
As I was very soon to find.
That bird knew what I was thinking;
Why, I declare, he read my mind.
I let the children care for him,
To my most profound regret--
He turned on his charming manner,
And, quickly, he became their pet.
But that fact did not deter me,
I told myself it didn't matter.
I was dead set and determined
To see that gobbler on a platter.
When the kids perceived my purpose,
They turned on the tears and pleas.
Then, the wife joined in their chorus,
And that brought me to my knees.
So I told my grieving family
They could dry up, and relax.
I concealed my disappointment--
Went and put away the axe.
Came the dinner of Thanksgiving,
Not a sad face could be found.
And our live Thanksgiving turkey
Was the gladdest bird around.
We gathered around the table,
And I humbly asked the blessing--
While Tom gobbled down his corn, outside,
We had hotdogs and dressing.
Morning light fills in the details
hidden by last night's new moon.
His pillow bears no dent, seems colder
than the draft that she needs to find
and fix, soon, before winter sets in.
It means going into the workshop,
poking through sticky, old drawers,
a territory that was never truly hers.
She must find the caulking gun and try
not to stare at that festooned hat,
the once well-cared for fishing gear
robed in cobwebs, a calendar unturned,
bowling trophies, an empty chair,
one model schooner never finished.
She pours a mug of coffee, though she
prefers tea, slowly steeped in a proper
pot, loose leaf oolong, nicely cozied.
His mug is too large, too practical, too grey,
and her small hand is more familiar with
English bone china, roses and ribbons,
the romantic pattern of their days.
There is a slight dip in the kitchen floor
as though he is still standing by the stove,
as though the tiles hold onto him, too.
Thirty years of omelets, his way-
polish sausage, spanish onion,
over cooked, over salted.
She expects to hear
the whisk, his voice, laughter.
Weekends they'd shop at the market,
Farm fresh eggs, he'd said, were best,
worth the trip and he'd indulge her
love of something sweet or
surprise her with marmalade,
clover honey in tiny jars.
She opens the fridge door, takes out the
cream and settles for toast with jam,
thinks about canceling his subscription
to Sports Illustrated, Rod and Reel,
but decides to wait until tomorrow.
She sees the egg carton, reads:
brown. free run. flax fed.
Some chickens just have it good,
he'd said. Oh, he'd said that often.
She stills and her shell breaks
as she notes the best before date...
Two months have passed since
her world expired.
Sa kisame ng bahay, itong si Butiking Pasas
Ay minsang nakipaglaro sa kanyang mga KAIBIGAN
Kanyang inaliw, mga pakpak na kumikinang, pumapagaspas
Binola ang bawat lipad na kay panglaw
Habang sa isip, may nabubuo’t nakaambang kalokohan
Tila naiinggit sa kanilang kakayahan
Nang hindi na sila nakatingin, tumalikod lang saglit
Nagsimula ng ibuka kanyang mapinsalang bunganga’t bibig
Nilantad matatalas na dila, na may malaasidong laway
Na tutunaw unti-unit sa kanilang katauhan
At sa isang kisap mata, dila’y pumulupot, sumalaksak,
Nilunok, nilamon sila ng buong-buo, walang kamalay-malay
Sila’y kinitil, nalinlang ng mga matatalim na SALITA,
Kawawang mga KAIBIGAN…
Kanilang magagandang LAMANG LOOB…
Tuluyan ng nawasak, nalusaw
Within these walls…
Fragrant aura of comfort
Freshly washed baby hair and sweet breath;
Passed around in soft pink pajamas
Laughter and wit from older minds;
Even though the stories are well used
Awkward ramblings of youngsters;
Still testing their wings
Warm delicious wafts of seasoned meat
And sugared pies
From a kitchen full of women;
Sharing recipes and secrets while sipping Chardonnay
Rambunctious giggles from upstairs;
Playing children’s games in pretty clothes
While piles of coats, hats, and purses
Sleep soundly on the guest room bed;
Along with one gray tabby cat
Crisp fallen leaves dance with shimmering snowflakes,
The first of the season
In a chilly November breeze
Just outside the door;
Painted a vibrant red
Illuminated by glowing amber post lamps;
Stalwart sentinels for our
Within these wonderful walls
It Takes A Whole Village to Raise a Child: The Farmer
It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does a farmer help
Families raise the children?
Farmers live near the village; and together,
Everyone helps raise the children.
How do they help?
The farmers near the village grow food to sell.
They plant, tend, and harvest vegetable crops.
Veggies: lettuce, beets, cucumber, and tomatoes
Collard greens, cabbage, onions, and potatoes
Green beans, artichoke, peanuts, the list and work
Goes on and on and on—
Farmers hire many workers to harvest their many crops.
Products are then, sold and sent to many vendors.
Although there are still some independent farmers,
Some farmers, like those in olden days, grow on rural farms.
Families, men, women, and children working together,
Using hoes, beasts of burden and hand plows to work the soil.
Children helping along side watching adult examples—
However, these days, big agriculture businesses own farms.
They use huge machinery to operate their many acres.
Food producing farms: planting and harvesting to feed masses.
Their products, like smaller independent farmers’ products,
Are sent to markets in their homelands and abroad.
In the process of providing food and cotton for people,
Agriculture businesses and farmers alike set examples.
Good or bad, the children watch wide eyed
And ears perked!
What was better than pumpkin
pie stuffed in my eye? Nothing
more than a burger and a fry..
That's why I wonder why?
If pancakes are great at
breakfest time? A sandwich
is great at lunchtime?
A spaghetti a great meal at
dinner time? But what was
better than just old fashion
ham on rye? Nothing more
than a burger and a fry..
Lunchtime Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2010,2014..All rights reserved.
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin' in a seafood sto'
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin' in a seafood sto'
Well I can look at you and tell you ain' no child no mo'
A few interpretations for this visually challanged and rather paranoid creature:
Still makes me hungry just don't LOOK good as it used to or
Still smells good, just ain't sure what I'm SMELLIN' no more or
Don't LOOK good as it used to, Don't SMELL good as it used to and
Definitely don't TASTE good as it used to or...
I was born that way, so what? or
Used to have two, now I only got one and
That's all you need to peep with anyways and
I think that's all you got left too so...
Let's put our eyes together on this thing and
Let's sneak over there and tom-peep that hole and
You peep on the women seafood and tell me about it and
I'll peep on the men seafood and tell you about it and...
Wait a minute here, something's not...
No, no I'm not gay! I swear I'm not!
I know by the above verse it might appear that way but
I swear to god! I swear to god I never...
Alright now, this has gone JUST ABOUT FAR ENOUGH and
You can't hardly tell them apart anyway and
The men don't even have one...they just kinda sprinkle, you know and
The rest just...How do I know? Well I-uh...read it somewhere and...
Oh, just kiss my big you-know-what! and
Wait!...I-I mean...if you're a FEMALE fish you can or a lady uh...
Oyster? Or girl crab or ..Hey, stop that!...Ow!
I didn't say...Ouch! Why you!...(Sigh) let's try this again, shall we?
Sorry folks...Just had to get this out of my system...Hope you think it's funny and
What?... WELL!! Kiss my-my uh...Elbow!...yeah, that's it! My elbow...
Bill Haley and the Comets became rich and famous for doing a 'sanitized' version of this song in 1954... Big Joe's original was considered too suggestive and sexual for white audiences...
Second verse for example:
'Way you wear those dresses, the sun come shinin' thru
Way you wear those dresses, the sun come shinin' thru
I can't believe my eyes all that mess belong to you'
(In 'proper' English: THE way you wear those dresses)
Germ-free Mason jars, hot from the pot of boiling water, gurgling on the cast iron wood stove, stood ready to receive the fruits and vegetables, fresh from the fields and orchards. Lids and sealing rings locked in the freshness. Mama, in her apron skillfully flavored the veggies as she prepared for meals months ahead. The old pressure cooker hissed as it played its part in preserving the bounty of the family farm. Preserves, jams and jellies, sealed in wax, filled the cupboard just waiting for future hot buttered biscuits.
Peeling, dicing, chopping, pickling were all part of the process that brought kin from far away to socialize and join in preserving food for times when the land rested and awaited the start of a new season.
Outside, Sauerkraut (layer of shredded cabbage, layer of salt,) repeated and compressed, awaiting fermentation filled the depth of a Crock on the front porch.
These glimpses of the times that are all but gone will remain with me forever. Life was tough at times but love was the balm that treated the abrasions of near poverty. And the tender touch of those who came for “Canning Days” was felt until the last jar was consumed. God’s bounty awaited, and next year’s promises stood always before us.
Written by: John Posey 10/21/13
Inspired by Canning Colors,
A poem by Donna Jones
I am Corny Dog Man,
the fave Super Hero in all the land.
My main mission is to hand out free
cornmeal-batter covered foot long
hot dogs skewered on a stick
to every hungry girl and boy
in the whole wide blessed world.
My sidekick Honey Mustard Girl
is always right by my side
with the sweet tasty dip
for more added enjoyment
for all of my myriad of kiddie fans.
Never fear kiddos, I’ll be there to
make sure one and all will receive at
least one yummy to the tummy meal
before I fly back to Junk Food Paradise to
refill my Biggie Boy Backpack with many more
foot long corny dogs for your eating pleasure.
I remember back when times were simple. You could have your milk
delivered to your door. One of my favorite memories was waiting for the
Helm’s bakery livery to drive slowly down our street, alerting us with his
musical whistle. Specially built Chevy suburban panel wagon’s, bright
and shiny yellow, contained the most heavenly scents of do-nuts and
cinnamon swirls, rolls and breads to delight the most discerning. Our driver,
we called by name, would stop, get out of his seat and come to the back to
open double doors to the smiling faces, of usually about three or four neighbor
kids besides my sister and myself. The most difficult part was trying to decide
what delicious pastry we would put on our monthly tab. Fine wooden drawers
with glass windows let colorful do-nuts peek through. We would get our usual loaf
of potato bread mom would tell us to buy, but then, quite often we were treated to
a glazed jelly do-nut or a chocolate covered cream filled éclair. Mmmmm my taste
buds tingle at the fond memories. Those succulent delights would be out of the bag
and into our mouths before we hit the front door. By the time we got inside all that
would be left would be little pieces of sticky wax paper and our gooey little hands.
As I recall those happy memories of the late ‘50’s, my only regret is that I am sorry my
children were not given the thrill of hearing “Here comes the Helmsman”, let’s beat feet!
© September 12, 2012
O B E S I T Y
Before forbidden words dawn to confess
Come... Uncoil your taste-buds for me
Entrust you health fully to thee
Enamored beyond possible reproach
I opened my mouth for crumbs of tasty
Crumbs later become spoonfuls
Spoonfuls turned to one, two, three plateful
Appetite feast in crescendo of daily treats
Boosting my body: front and rear - pound per pound
My clothes then groan: a cri de couer
Yet, desirous mouth craved for more and more
Eating up to the crust and core of everything
Months passed, Bigger! BIGGER, I come to be.
'Til even walking and standing, I can't do
My room - my only day and night intimate boo
My children, I robbed tardily of their joys
As their focus and attention divided by two
Fats stored everywhere on my bod
Gradually they are killing me - stealing my breaths
An oxygen via prongs must be on beside to help me breathe
My back an archipelago of aching ulcer...
Comestibles become my sweetest agony
Breaking me and my dignity so gently
Obesity then my heavy tumbling story
© O. E. Guillermo
10:51pm, Oct. 17, 2014
Thanksgiving’s on the way
This had crossed my mind
While shopping the mall yesterday I came on this display –
Who could miss it? –
Shelves and shelves full of teddy bears nutcrackers
dolls delicate ornaments and then!
this big open square rimmed with the most perfect
synthetic trees one might imagine – silver trees green
trees blue trees even a red tree
all decorated magnificently
In the middle exactly in the middle of the square – a stage
an empty throne and this short white slat-fence
enclosing the whole
I shook my head
What happened to Thanksgiving?
Who the hell is thinking about Thanksgiving?
certainly not the merchants!
Well I wandered down the aisle toward the food court
and guess what?
I come across a pen with a real live turkey strutting around
Seems I was wrong about the merchants
So? To top it off – in the food court at one of the tables
there sits a man in suspenders white tee shirt red
trousers red coat draped across the back of the chair a
phony white beard red cap lying on the table
He is one ugly bony faced misshapen human being
Santa’s on lunch break gravy and partly chewed food
spilled down his chin bald head red as a beet
I can’t help staring at him totally freaked
He looks my way smiles
“Gobble gobble” says St. Nick
the quiet of the spring day was broken
by the noise and shouts in the fields
belching smoke the great iron beast
dropping its sharp blades into the soil
took large bites into the soft belly of the earth
warm and moist the soil yielded to the blades
as the monster moved quickly forward leaving
straight lines of soil like long ribbons
following was yet another of the beasts
smoothing the rows and carefully planting seeds
into the long ribbons of soil
the season of planting had begun
and another year awaited for the time
when the soil would give up
the long awaited harvest of its crops
the call of that grand lady welcoming all
to our shores with her message: "bring me
your hungry and tired, and we will care for them", was being answered
America's feeding of the world's hungry
had begun, and the great food basket of the country
was about to be filled
the first tender shoots began to appear -
small and fragile at first - and then with the aid
of a soft rain grew stronger and taller
looking over the fields the long green ribbons of
the manna of the soil - soybeans, corn, sugarcane and
the once king of them all, cotton, now reduced to
a lowly position due to cost and price - all were about to fill the
breadbasket of the world
the great crops of the South all in one of many fields
spread out as far as the eye could see
great green ribbons - swaying in the soft summer breeze
majestically saying to the world that the time would soon
be near to provide a filling of the baskets of the world
another season, another planting, another feeding -
the busy cycle had begun as had been done
since the earliest days of the nation
corn planter, bean puller, cane cutter and cotton picker
of the world, the great smoke belching, iron monsters of
the fields had begun their work.
rest would not be an option until the work was done
and the plates of the world filled with the products from
these southern fields
There in a land foreign
Folks did not give us forks
Instead they said...
"chop the food with sticks"
The sticks stuck to my hands...
l could not eat
From across the table a voice said ...
"well then, use your hands instead"
Yes, the time had allowed another opportunity to be near you,
Though well heaven knows whenever you are near my fear crunches my breath,
Leaving me starving for you, and wanting nothing more than to flee…
I stood in line, mainly because my family was there…
God knows I was not hungry at all…
Which is odd—I’m usually always hungry when I come to food gatherings
But there I was, my stomach swirling, and I looked out of the window,
And I saw you with the others, serving the food
My first thought was, great, here’s an opportunity,
And then the fear came—oh boy, what are you serving?
Are you serving something I like?
Something I hate?
So I closed my eyes and opened them again…
And I looked at what you were serving…
It was either macaroni salad, or potato salad; wasn’t quite sure at the time
I was more intrigued by how you presented yourself,
So friendly…so easy-going….so very natural and engaging
Damnit! The line is moving fast!
I cringed at the thought of approaching you,
Even when I was following all the others;
And I knew you couldn’t be left insinuating-
Oh, that girl’s kinda weird and creepy…
I guess you’d only think that if I went to the table for the third time or something-
But still, I was shaking with stupid thoughts
There was a problem though…
I do like macaroni salad… well, a little bit--I've never loved it
And I’m rather sick of potato salad frankly…
So if I refused the food, would you think it’s just another way to avoid contact?
Or will I give eye contact and smile at you, and say “no thank you”?
As I got closer, it was apparent it was potato salad…
And I begin to think
Well! Potato salad…it’s not that bad…let’s play it safe, shall we? Let’s get a little bit.
And before I knew it, I was where all the food was
You were talking speedily, happily with the others
About just everything it seemed… my ears heard blurs at this point
A lady offered me salad – I accepted the bowl and slowly put dressing on and looked up
And you smiled at me and said,
“Best potato salad in the world, right here.”
And I can’t remember if I smiled,
But I most certainly lifted that stupid plate…
The lady next to you said,
“and there’s another kind right beside it!”
I said quickly, “I think I’ll pass…”
What she didn’t know was that I was trying to get the hell away before I vomited on everything and everyone...
I wasn’t hungry at all…
But one thing was certain…
I accepted the potato salad because you were serving it!
And I ate it too…
It wasn’t bad…in fact I could say pretty easily,
It was the best potato salad in the world
You were… were….. right there.
Ti’s at the beach I bury my feet,
an inch deep in fine white sand,
That coats the beach like enamel,
does teeth for reasons inconcrete,
While watching the breaking waves,
I noticed a pod of quails,
Trying to crack open a coconut!
I said to myself, ‘they must be nuts’,
They can hardly leave a dent,
on the coconuts' robust shell,
So I approached them and auctioned my arms for rent,
they told me ‘no’ and that I should ‘go to hell’,
What rude birds they are,
with that attitude they can ne’er go far,
My guess is they’re experiencing stress;
why else would they be manner-less?
I decided to forgive them,
after all what good is holding a grudge in this realm?
So I approached them again
‘n auctioned my arms for rent,
they replied, ‘we’re sorry we didn’t mean to rant,
It’s just that we’re hungry,
and this coconut has proven to be quite the adversary,’
Poor birds, they seemed to have not eaten in days,
but they must be plagued by craze,
To choose a coconut over a piece of bread,
if this persists they’d surely be dead,
What has the world come to?
This deprivation of sanity is surely one to rue,
‘Should I leave them to their doom,
and watch them die at half past noon?’
For doing nothing would save me time,
which I would wisely spend to cure Lyme.
Written by Sunil Rao.
It’s Christmas Eve and through the house
There creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair
And finds the cookies waiting there.
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.
He gazes with wonder at the tree
And the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
A mystery tale to tell his spouse,
When he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
He has drunk of some spilled over gin,
That had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
He has concocted to amuse her.
She is home-bound, we must excuse her.
He once came home all out of breath
To say he had been scared to death
By a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
“While I was nibbling off some cheese
To bring to you, my love, to please.
He almost had me in his paws.
I’m sure he wasn’t Santa Claus”.
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
And wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
Carrying fruitcake for his wife.
Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
For the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas meal
From food their dad managed to steal.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
And a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn’t like it they’d still taste it.
This food their mamma set before them,
Their dad risked his life to get it for them.
I just walked past the restaurant
A terrific place I used to go
Early in the evening hours
Of a chilly and recent past night
The fullness of the moon cast a memory
Reminders of my having traveled to these places so often
beneath its comfortable glow.
Places like this I used to dine
In what seems like so many moons ago
Could it have really just have been
Only seemingly late last year?
And then I realized I was outside a window
On the outside looking in
I am on the outside looking in
Of a place where I might or could have been
Tonight or any other evening
And I had been here oh so recently
Only a very short year ago.
Today the price of entry to this place
Is way beyond my meager means.
I recollected that being seen here
Had been so important to me
Now it is the last thought I hold dear.
I saw the fancy tables
of where I used to dine
With only the finest crystal
That held the finest wines.
I saw romantic candles
Flickering and burning bright
I saw tables surrounded with beaming faces
Flushed and filled with anticipatory delight
Anticipation of the wondrous delicacies
They would all soon have and behold.
I saw the sommelier pouring wine
Bottles and endless bottles
Of all the nectars considered to be in vogue
Every one of their prices
Deemed them to taste like liquid gold.
All drinks designed to compliment
The amazing and stylish cuisines
Posh dinners were arriving quickly
Looking as though from magazines
Arranged and prepared with minute details
Nothing ever missing, nothing out of place
Happiness was everywhere.
Joy radiated from every face.
And as the November wind
Begins to blow
I turned my head to go
To walk toward my empty street
My scarf wrapped tightly against the night.
Striding ever more quickly
Trying to beat the wind and cold
I had some thoughts and revelations
About that what I had just seen.
About those who have never been waited upon
Never in their whole lives
And about those who dine within those walls
Whose thoughts have never even considered
That they could end up on the outside looking in.
I who now know for certain
That it is such a very thin line
Between being poor and living fine.
And now I have to wonder
If being there had been some sort of sin
And now that is now the reason
I am on the outside
On the outside looking in
To The Restaurant.
(November 15, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Tall Aunt Euvela
Made biscuits for our dinner
It was requested of the crowd
How many biscuits are required?
My daddy said, "I always eat two."
Uncle Troy said, " You won't eat two of Euvela's."
When dinner was eaten,
All the dishes washed.
Uncle Troy said," Morgan, two you stopped short of."
Daddy said, "Troy, you was right those biscuits were as big as plate."
He continued, "No one could eat two of Euvela's biscuits."
That woman had those big hands with long fingers to match her six foot height..
(Good Advice Spurned)
Grandmother packed a picnic lunch.
Brother, sister, and I, with two uncles
traipsed into the woods,
in search of adventure.
We found it.
We ate our picnic lunch, sitting
on a fallen tree, spanning the creek.
We sampled “Rabbit Ice,” formed
on weeds, hugging the stems
in smooth, thin white curls.
We drank creek water in cupped hands,
so cold, we shivered.
“Let’s build a fire,” my brother said.
Uncle Larry cautioned, “You’d better not.
You’ll set the field on fire.”
We built the fire,
warmed our cold hands.
As the circle of fire began to spread,
we beat it with branches,
water carried from the creek in our hats.
Undaunted, the fire ate up the dry grass,
spreading like a pond ripple
from a rock thrown in.
Uncle Larry refused to join
our efforts to ‘beat out’ the fire.
He stood, callously laughing
at our futile efforts.
The entire field burned.
We worried all afternoon.
What would Granddad say,
when he saw the black field
from the kitchen window?
I am Canine lupus familiaris
Known as dog
Man’s best friend
Someone to fetch
Someone to catch with
Someone to walk
Since I cannot speak
I watch and listen
I also watch my master drink sour water from cans
As he and his friends laugh
Their shrill laughter becoming louder and louder
Their voices hurting my ears until I leave the room.
One week master was excited
The phone rang constantly
A jarring message
A three day weekend
More sour water
More loud noise
Then suddenly I was left alone
Quickly and firmly
The door closed to me
At first I was glad for the silence
My eyes grew accustomed to the dark
Hungry, I searched the house
Found food and some water
I could smell the bags of dog food in the pantry
But it was no use
I couldn’t unlock the door
But I was brave
I didn’t panic
I made do with what I had
I conserved what little food was left in my doggie bowl
I drank water only when needed
I pooped in the bathroom
Like my Master always did
But it wasn’t enough
By the third day the water was gone
The doggie bowl empty.
When the door opened three days later
Master walked in
Sour water on his breathe
Short angry hissing words escaped his lips
When he found me
Alone and hungry
Rubbing his face
More short words followed
Anger directed at himself for neglecting me
Then he hugged me
Suddenly there was water
There was food
Looking up at him
My eyes told him
My father was the Wolf
From the frozen North
My mother the She Wolf
Who ruled the forest
And guarded the wolf dens
I came from strong genes
I learned how to survive.
He glances through the curtains as she leaves.
And he knew she was going with him instead.
Desperately he washes his soul of her but its for naught.
And he hangs each feeling on the line and the cool breeze.
She walks to the corner and gets into his car and flips her hair.
He always loved the way she flipped her hair and the body after a drink.
Her body would glisten with the sweat of his thrust and the bite on his shoulder.
The car pulls away and he watches the lights drive off with his heart and the bite.
The laundry machine moves like her and shudders and vibrates.
But she will return with food from the Chinaman.
Chinese food was how he knew.
She never ate Chinese food except afterwards.
The clothes lay fluttering in the night air as his heart dried.
And she came home with egg rolls and the feint smell of polo.
Curry. Cumin. Saffron.
Mmmm, the hallways always smell of spice,
her seventy-year-old body perfecting the rhythm of movement
from icebox to oven in her efficiency kitchenette.
Tangerine wall paint cracks and mixes carelessly
with bits of spice yet lingering in the air; it
follows her, this aroma that eats the eater,
dancing around her skirts
like faeries honoring their faerie queen.
She knows this, and smiles at the sliver of sun peeking through her window.
Down the corridor
people begin their ritual of recognition, then sniffing,
and finally a smile that reveals anticipation.
No one goes hungry inside Apartment A6 and everyone has seconds.
Lunch and dinner, breakfast too
if a body is moving about as dawn surfaces.
Though small, her main floor seems to expand
beyond the boundaries of walls,
everyone cross-legged and eager to devour dishes
few could pronounce and none could forget.
A legend among the two hundred desperate palates;
today, however, souls wander lost through the hallways
because the lucky have snaked their way into heaven
and left the masses to a barren, tasteless fate.
As the onions, okra and potatoes, flavored
with a hint of saffron and even less ginger,
entice bodies five deep and ten across,
our greedy fingers and mouths offer no thoughts of others
going without while dripping sauce falls onto our legs
and Berndi seems content with the pleasure she’s wrought.
We walked over the rough soil
previously churned by machine,
exposing potatoes to open air.
like careless love hands
whose only aim is gain.
We picked up those potatoes
scattered like rubbish,
floating on ocean waves.
Peelings pitched as casually
as the unwanted debris of our lives,
left a freezer stocked
for an entire winter.
There's an old cliché,
One man's trash . . .
It's funny how we associate things. They become one with each other. Who can imagine an Easter without the bunny, or losing a tooth and not being paid a visit by the tooth fairy. And Christmas would be unthinkable without Santa. So that is why, I guess, that I still remember one particular Thanksgiving from my youth.
Back then, turkeys at the market were fresh, not frozen and encased in plastic as they are today. They also represented an extra expense on an already tight food budget. So my mother made arrangements with the market manager to set up a layaway of sorts, paying some each week, and they promised to hold one for her.
I remember when, on the afternoon before Thanksgiving day, she sent me over to the grocer to pick up the turkey. I jumped on my bike and rode downtown to Converse Market. Walking up to the door, I found it locked. Shading my eyes, I pressed my nose against the window and saw that all the lights were off. Turns out they had closed early that day to give their employees a little more time to spend with their families.
When I returned home and told my mother what had happened, the look on her face was one of devastation. What would Thanksgiving be without a turkey? I thought my dad would be mad, but instead he just said “we've got food in the house don't we”? And we did.
So, although the letdown of a Thanksgiving without the traditional bird could have been a disaster, on that particular day, we chose instead to give thanks for what we had, and, as a family, dived into our pork chops with all the fixings.
It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does the village help
Families raise the children?
Truckers live in the village; and together, they,
Along with everyone else helps raise the children.
How do they help?
The truckers transport the goods that merchants
Need so the merchants can sell the things
That folks need to be smart, strong, healthy,
Entertained, clothed, and happy.
They work around the world…endlessly.
Delivering products. Through towns and cities
Driving here, driving there; delivering goods.
Back in the times of the horse and carriages,
The “truckers” used horses or pushed handcarts.
If someone had an extra hog to trade or
Crops to sell, they usually bought directly.
The farmers or someone else in the village
Helped deliver the things that needed to be delivered.
Together, people worked, struggled, and helped
One another. Children were responsible.
Their help was needed for survival…appreciated.
Everyone in the village helped to raise the children.
Even the children helped with the younger.
People interacted, closely. Thus, they helped raise the children.
Today, men and women still help raise the village children.
The children watch truckers on the road.
Driving, passing, changing lanes, shopping in shops
They set examples, good or bad.
And children watch wide eyed with ears perked!
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 19, 2010
Poetic form: Free Verse
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 19, 2010
Poetic form: Free Verse
Bobby Dobbler is a fast food slob,
known by all as Fat Boy Rob;
although he’d rather be called Magnifique Roberto.
He prefers the burgers at Burger Doozie;
he should know best for he eats them by the dozen.
The most scrumptious fries he says come from Rummy Dummy,
crisp and tasty when smothered with ketchup galore.
But the crème de la crème of the ice cream treats,
according to Fatzo, is found at Whatzup With Your Burger Fool.
So put some extra go juice in your pimped out ride homey
and hit all three and you’ll have a meal fit for da scene.
One night and one
one place in a crowd
too many flowers
no room for a frown
places are higher
the World and the news
people and places
a distance for spaces
a planet with wastelands
a future with grape lands
cloudy with rooms
more flowers and brooms
jewels and the bunnies
bracelets for no money
a panther and the day light
a creature and the new sights
blue wars that go around the moon
makes prettier roses
and more waters bloom
What can you do with all those seeds,
slick, black missiles that blaze
a path down your throat,
when what you want is to taste
the sweetness that surrounds them?
You collect them, as if they're treasure,
and curious grandchildren follow,
eager to play, sure of victory.
I spat those flat torpedoes beyond
the range of their imagination, and they,
in slack-jawed wonder at my dubious talent,
took turns spitting and measuring,
each determined to beat my record.
I dispensed seeds as lips pursed, tongues
pushed, seeds flew and the air rang
with spitting sounds. Grandpa shook
his head, laughing at our nonsense.
The game continued, dishes stacked
unwashed, pride built, skills increased
and seeds diminished.
But watermelon seeds' primary purpose
is not to be denied. Lush vines sprang up
in flowerbeds, dwarfed petunias and snapdragons
and produced huge, sweet melons,
replete with slick, black pips.
We have been waiting ohhh, sooo long and now my fellows the time
The sweet smell of cut grass IN the cool fall air triggers the feeling we
all know so well
Clashing giants on a 100 yard field, a sound so dearly adored
By ones that love the risk and fear, an excitement with fans in accord
And a manicured field, suitably crafted through hands of meticulous
Lines and numbers laid down upon grass, so green, so soft and supple
Upon those fields, teams do play with men giving their all for the cause
Sprinting so fast, hitting, slamming, driving all for ground that is gained
Bulldogs running with power and speed, rebellious ones defending their
goal line with greed
And the Gators ferociously trying to knock down the one that carries
the treasure around
All to the delight of a energetically, maddening, exuberant crowd
The Tide rolls in and the tide rolls out, delivering a brutal offensive
All to the tune of grunts and groans, with crackling of joints and the
breaking of bones
There are Commodores that fight to give the foe hell, with spirit and
pride all fanatics will hail
Wildcats clawing to reach the top, coming oh so close, only to be
Volunteers that strike fear in the enemy’s souls and gamecocks fighting
toward a day it can crow
Bengal tigers that run and pass with a great roar, Hawgs that root for 10
yards or more
A contest of strength and quickness and speed, crafty decisions made
by mentors that lead
The pounding of hearts that beat with pride, outpouring emotions none
For it runs within their blood with steam, those fitted in brilliant
uniforms of their teams
With full speed ahead these men follow their dreams, for a future in a
game fit their means
Those fans, Oh those fans, their banners they wave, with mascots and
colors for them to display
The fans gather before the contest begins, an intoxicating affair
among family and friends
The smell of grand cookouts drift though the air, titillating the senses
of everyone there
Ribs and Burger, prepared with such care which those that are cooking
will graciously share
And they will in the drink and delectable food, then sit and converse on
their confident mood
The fans live in the pride of their alma-mater In hopes that their team
will not falter
And that one day the ultimate prize will be found, and their team will
wear the SEC CROWN.
At the end of every service each Sunday afternoon,
While walking out the back doors many sing a special tune,
Tables are set up with food and toiletries on top,
It becomes like a free food store or a gift shop,
Some Sundays there is bread, cakes and different brands of cereal,
Other times there are candles, clothes and cosmetic material,
Whatever the blessing, it is open to anyone from the congregation,
This is just an extra, not the church’s obligation
Now some people who attend are very poor, while others just have hard weeks,
Even if you’re wealthy you’re more than welcome to take a peek.
One Sunday there were boxes of sweet scented candles
I watched as a woman took more than she could handle
I offered to help her bring the boxes to her car
I knew that she had parked very far
When I got to her trunk what I did see, were ten boxes, each holding about twenty!
At first I laughed and found it kind of funny
“You must enjoy lighting candles" I said, she said "no it’s all for money"
My eyes opened wide and I asked her to clarify,
She proceeded to tell me everything she gets free, she puts on the internet for others to buy,
Now I ask you is she a genius or a criminal?
Is this something that should be viewed as minimal?
This is like Robin Hood stealing from the poor to make himself rich,
I don’t think that I am wrong for seeing a serious glitch,
The stuff that’s supplied is to help people that are struggling,
Yet this lady thinks its ok that she is smuggling,
That was the last box I ever offered to carry,
I hope that these act's of hers will somehow tarry.
By: Sabina Nicole
Genius or criminal " True Story"
Incalculable power a god given wealth,
With paws and claws and incredible jaws;
He makes the rules and the hunting laws.
The little one to stray,becomes his prey;
He'll sleep at night and wait for food in the day.
His brides do seek the food to slay,
Leaving the king to roll and play.
Always proud to be head of the pride,
The food that's left,he'll carefully hide.
Although with stealth and extremely strong,
It's the hunter who knows,he'll do some wrong.
Shot in the head with a bullet of lead....
End on a rug at the side of some bed.
(Artist and Poet)
when things are springing and
i'm diggin' into a lively summer
and the sun's downing the day
and the earth's warm with love
i play, i dig, i dream
i work, then play some more
i pluck, and turn, and wet
my appetite for life
retiring to repast
i pull my digits to
a pentagon point and
inhale - deeply the scents
from under fingernails
a loamy tanged radish
relishing heritage cukes
meeting bliss of better boys
better days, even now
a botany so lustful,
and good moaning too
soon the cooling solstice
will fallow your terra
but now, your swelling,
your musky fragrance
brings orgasm of appreciation
and appetite for even more
to wish to share it
the sheerness of light
the fragrant breeze inhales
the sense of scents
and a budding lingual taste
- the dirt of desire
© Goode Guy 2013-05-28
I sit on the floor and wait from dusk to dawn, for a new day will soon be reborn. I count all
the blooming flowers, and count down the long hours, while mum takes her shower.
Today's the day, for it's my birthday. I hope I get A car, or A guitar or maybe even become
A movie star, but that's asking A bit too much of me. I walk around singing out A loud,
acting proud feeling as if my heads in A cloud. To my surprise I start stumbling over my
words and begin mumbling. Maybe mum just forgot about me, or are they just hiding the
presents from me? I walk through the hall, with my head dragging looking at the floor,
and go to bed with my heart feeling torn. It's getting late and I can no longer wait. I turn
off my light, and close my eyes and cry having so much things go through my mind. I
drift to sleep but then I see, mum walking in my room in the middle of the night with A
light. It's so bright. She raises my heart like A kite, taking of it flight and she says, good
night, and turns of the lights. She raised my hopes high and then shot them out of the
sky. I break down and cry, it feels as if I've just died. No one remembered why today was
A special day for it was my birthday. I look at the sky and wonder why? I light my candle
and close my eyes, tears dripping down onto my thighs, and I start to whisper in my
mind. "I don't want A car, or even A guitar. I don't even want to become A movie star. I
just want to be free of this disease called poverty, I just want people to stop running away
from me. Free me of aids so I can stop feeling afraid. Stop me from being poor, so I can
afford to stop sleeping on the floor. Make me smile for there is no reason to smile, but
please make my life worth while. Take me away from Africa, for all I see is people being
raped and all the kids hearts filled with hate, I'm loosing my faith for I am living each day
even though there is nothing to live for". A Tear drops on my candle, And puts out the
flame I whisper in pain,This is "My Birthday Wish"
We wish for luxuries that only money can afford. They wish for water for they are poor.
People need to learn to smile, for kids living in poverty have A legitimate reason not too.
Be happy for what we have, and never complain for what we don't have.
- Wiko Te Maru
Whenever we get together as confreres in the religious order,
there’s so much to deal with burning issues and other concerns,
paucity of personnel links to inability of acquiring new missions;
indeed, a great need that our priority speaks for more vocations.
Like an investment in business where we cooperate with lay people,
our ministry articulates relationships with diverse cultures,
a key-word in evangelization walking with the poor people;
again, it’s what the role of the church echoes in today’s generation.
Across the length of time I’ve spent in the growing mission,
one particular item that always reminds me more than anything else;
live the lifestyle of poor people - aware of their limitations,
closeness and aspirations that someday they’ll get an answer.
God’s blessings are revealed in many dimensions and situations,
with strong faith in Him, along with patience and optimism;
one can move on and cope with hardly any complaint at all,
for he believes that God knows what’s best to every human situation.
It’s an endless stream of struggle, a continuing effort to better off the plan,
with individual’s cooperation geared towards the commonality of our vision;
that is to build God’s kingdom in our working relationship with people
where peace, love and justice would reign in every heart and soul.
Oh, after that engaging discussion, let’s share now the food that’s served on the table,
with all those good wines such as chateau haut gravet, montes alpha sauvignon,
pinot grigio, les ombelles, les glaneuses, les fondettes, les genets, vallee de loire,
made from good quality, with refreshing, toasty aroma, and weighty on the palate
their spirit keep us warm, aligned to glorious meaning that missionary life entails.
SEA TO SHINNING SEA,
...this is so intimate of time, as a first kiss of time is...so close of soul, so near, so dear of heart beat, so precious a rhyme that flows so intimately,
deep of time, down by the Crystal Seas...
...this is so intimate of dreams,
as the Crystal Sea so reveals of destinies galore,
destined as the night light of the moon-glows of starry eyes,
upon the waters,
...seeing tranquility upon the waves...
watching to the depth of a dream,
and a sun-rise
being so true...
for underneath and within this a moon-lit poem of starry night eyes, down by the Crystal Seas, a vessel sets sail upon the deep...into a kiss of dawn...
Sea to shinning Sea.
Today’s assignment is for a disappearing Dessert : the “Baked Alaska”
I want five groups of four, Sous Chef, Saucier, Garde-Manger, and Cook.
The recipe is in front of You. You have an hour and fifty-eight minutes
Each cook in the group has to watch each phase of the recipe.
Sous Chefs, You are to make an orange-lemon Sponge Cake.
Garde-Manger, will make a vanilla- chocolate Ice Cream.
Cooks are responsible for an egg wash and the Meringue.
The Sauciers will make a hot Triple Sec reduction.
Once the cake is in the oven, every eight minutes, coat it with egg wash
When sponge cake is done ; cut the center out, an inch and a half from each side
Cut all but a quarter inch from the top, cut excess into finger pieces.
Fill the center with ice cream and cover with top piece.
Using a no. twelve tip in the pastry bag, squiggle four horizontal and three vertical;
Meringue lines, place back in 400 degree oven for five minutes. Heat the Triple Sec,
Drizzle over the Sponge cake, and ignite, it should make the meringue Golden Brown.
Tomorrow, each of YOU will make muffin size Baked Alaska.
Inspired by "SweetHeart" of POETRYSOUP ( and Me ) Linda-Marie's Contest
Running up the stairs
I had done so well
The family ate
And I ate
Seven o’clock on a Tuesday
I only ate two
No sour cream
I had done wonderfully
Eleven thirty on Tuesday
Everyone in bed
Everyone but me
I approached the kitchen
I ate it all
No one saw how much was left
They won’t notice it’s gone
I put it all away
They didn’t see it
But I ate it all
Running up the stairs
They have their fans on
They won’t hear me
I find my familiar place
Kneeling at my altar
Forgiveness is always found here
It’s time to confess my sins
My fingers slip into a spot they know too well
I struggle for a moment
Nothing will come up
Don’t let it stay inside me
I feel it coming now
Oh thank God
It’s all gone
Now I can sleep soundly
I wash my hands and face
Rinse my mouth
I look in the mirror
Why is this happening?
Oh my God
Look at me
This can’t be me
This can’t be what I’ve become
But what choice do I have?
How is it possible? Sixty years? Ouch. I shudder to remember
those first attempts in the kitchen. At that time, the kitchen was
“hands off” to men. I began cooking at age fifteen. But only
desserts and breakfast food. I could make biscuits, cornbread,
pie crust, and fried potatoes, eggs, ham, or pork chops.
But I loved everything from fish to sauerkraut and fried okra.
He is extremely allergic to fish. He loved steak. The year was
1954. A thick T-Bone steak at the grocery could be had for 60
cents. In our first year of marriage, we ate a lot of steak.
He would eat only potatoes and corn, with his steak. I still love
baked potatoes, but soon grew tired of corn, and hungered for
veggies. Time changes everything. He now eats anything but
fish. No problem. When we dine out, I order fish.
If I haven’t cooked sauerkraut recently, he will say, “I think I’ll
go get some Polish Sausage and sauerkraut. He brings it home,
then goes to work in the kitchen. His tastes almost as good as
mine. He even makes the cornbread and stewed potatoes.
Never been one much for food, always caused too much fear. “Geeeeez” would there be
enough? Enough food was always a concern. I’d think of cold days when Dad was gone. Mom
was crying and sled rides through the snow to grandmas where, maybe, there was venison.
Didn’t like seeing the red, blue-black meat all smelly and sizzling in the pan. (The deer’s
head was a porch wall!) Loved the golden butter and the onions. Gram would have potatoes
always lots of them.
I can’t ever remember wanting to feel full. When I was full if I ever got full “Wouldn’t
someone else be empty?” I thought they might, so, I never tempted fate. I was a little bitty
girl. I took bitty bites and wee tastes especially if it was yummy.
There were and are things I love to taste, but I wouldn’t say eat. “Tastin’ now that’s the
thing! Tastin’ doesn’t hurt no one. Don’t hurt them by eatin’ all theirs and don’t hurt you if it’s
yucky” The bestest most happiest tastes, I can remember, are sour tastes “Go figure? “ I’m
your kosher dill girl. I’m a prickle barrel surprise. My Jewish family Tanta and Uncle Don had
the bestest pickles “Mmmmmmmm yummy!” What a crunchin’ delight and a pickle won’t fill
you up either. A pickle will just make your mouth water and your tongue lick your lips. “If
you have two pickles you ain’t eatin’ no ones supper either!” So I’d have ta say, “ Pickles is
my food of joy crunchy, cold, half-sour, Jewish pickles given with love from my Uncle Donny.”
Godfearing grandpa died over two decades ago,
he had an adventureous spirit bolder than any explorer of long ago;
and in his many voyages: from tumultuous Argentina
to Canada and America...he immensely missed
his faithful and beautiful blue-eyed wife Maria...
and when he dreamed of that face he once caressed,
tears flowed thinking of her with a man's desire,
which too often he bore throughout his dire...
and he could have found a companion, but he resisted that urge
by opening the Bible to remind him of his refuge.
That large barn, which echoed with the peasants' voices and songs,
was the labor of their callous hands storing hazelnuts, chestnuts, grapes
and grains to be sold in the town's market square...all that was his pride and joy;
and what made those long furrows with vines so bountful?
Their source was a river flowing through those well-kept farms,
nourishing them with its fresh waters that at times proved to be
very disastrous and fatal when its banks filled to capacity
when floods occurred making him sad, but seldom he lost hope...
as he glanced far, dreaming of sailing beyond the crimson horizon.
Godfearing grandpa was never stouthearted, he firmly believed in Divine Mercy.
Godfearing grandpa sailed from the Bay of Naples
on a ship cramped with thousands of desperate immigrants,
to seek fortune outside Italy after Mussolini seized power;
and he didn't curse his native soil for making him leave,
but kept on loving it with same ardor of his youth.
" I will return to my land and my barn as empty as a shell,
dreaming of stacking it with those crops ready to be gathered...
I will smell the ripe apples, the juicy grapes, the yellow pears,
the plump oranges with their strong scent in the crates made of oak!"
He solemny shouted to the reddest sky overlooking his rosy barn.
“Ok, I need to know, which do you prefer, a sunrise or a sunset?”
The question was odd, who was this guy? Hadn't we just met?
I pretended to ponder on it carefully and tried to look very sage.
To choose one was to decide which of my appendages I preferred
My arm was a chosen favorite so should I leave my leg deferred?
The elf was insistent.
I said I didn’t care, I shrugged my shoulder and he almost fell off.
I started to laugh at him but instead I just gave a bit of a cough.
The little guy looked up at me and I tried my best not to smile at him.
He looked impatient and I sighed and thought about the puzzle again
I suppose I preferred sunset because it always got a lot of attention.
The elf nodded slowly.
I made a decision and I said that sunrise was good because
It meant the start of a new chance and then I gave a pause.
The little guy looked impatient I sighed again and he said,
“Do you really have to do that? Answer my question, hurry up.”
I looked at him and thought about producing one good hiccup.
The elf glared at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on the front of a cereal carton?”
His face turned red and I decided to pay more attention.
“Sunset is good because it means that soon there will be a new day
Although it depends on when you ask me this question, you see
What if tomorrow doesn’t come, then sunset would have to be…”
The elf was losing patience.
“Are you hungry? My neighbors brought some food from next door.”
He didn’t bite and he definitely wasn’t interested in eating a S’more.
He didn’t like it when I said I usually slept through most sunrises.
He told me I had only a minute left and then I would be sorry I joked.
He stomped his foot, pulled a pipe out of his pocket and then smoked.
The elf had a mean look.
“Ok, I pick sunrise are you happy?” I wondered if he’d leave
The elf puffed on his pipe, “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
The smoke entered one of my nostrils and I tried to suppress it.
With one giant sneeze the tiny elf’s body went head over heels
He landed on one of the brownies in a plate with a few squeals.
The elf was still.
“Eat your way out of there, I have got to get some sleep tonight.
I’m sure you’re just a bad dream.” I started to turn off the light
But I’d left the TV on and Fiddler on the Roof was playing that song,
“Sunrise, Sunset”. I decided it was too coincidental. I got the plate.
And I grabbed a brownie. “I love it when my neighbors cook this late.”
The elf just held on.
One of America’s most treasured holiday and tradition is known as the celebration of Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving a plentiful feast of food and a gathering of friends and family a holiday began as a feast in the beginning days of Americans is one of the most celebrated traditions .To some thanksgiving is just another holiday that is unimportant just another reminder that Christmas is just around the calendar .Just a day off of work or school ,a tradition passed on over the years, commonly excuse to over eat , an occasion that is between two months ,November the 4th Thursday and October the 2nd Monday for Canadians .
But in November 1621 ,after the pilgrims first harvest the Governor William Bradford established a feast and invited a group of the Native American allies .Now remembered as the “first Thanksgiving “ by Americans even though the pilgrims used this terms to describe the feast it was held for three consecutive days .Even though there isn’t a known historic banquet menu of there was record of that several of the Wampanoag guests arrived Bearing five dear by Edward Winslow who wrote in his journal .Also Many Historians suggest that many of the meals were served in traditional Native American spices and cooking methods . Because none of the pilgrims had oven and the Mayflower sugar supply had dwindled there was not the modern day traditional that featured pies, cakes and other desserts .The celebration of Thanksgiving has never changed through the year weather your nationality or faith background it is always been a time to express the thankfulness of family Thanksgiving is the day to reunite with family and feast upon food.
There are many traditions that come with thanksgiving but one that is know over all of America is the food. This tradition is know by many households is that many families struggle to finish out the thanksgiving without having a Ham or turkey on thanksgiving . Also many us have all heard you cant have a turkey day with football, Not every family in America makes football a part of their tradition but the most do .This could range form watching the game to having a little fun playing a game outside .
But you cant forget the essence of thankfulness this can be saying a prayer of thanks to the family gathering to tell what there most thankful for and There are many ways that this can be expressed.
Sitting on a stool at a hole in the wall joint called, “The Don’t Drink and Drive Bar.” The place smells like day old burger grease with a dash of lemon scented Pine-Sol. I was on my way out to Denver, but I had to stop for the night. I needed to sleep. The road was starting to look like a long black coiled snake, waiting to strike.
The roadside motel was nice enough, but the moment I put my head on that starched white pillow case, I was wide awake. So I sit here, eating fries that are too crispy, a hot sandwich that’s too cold and drinking a martini that’s too bruised. I could live with it, but I was getting sick and tired of hearing Garth Brooks saying he has friends in low places over and over. Obviously he has never met me.
At the other end of the bar, sat a woman who looked like a long lost mother. She had those extra long Virginia Slims in her hand, the smoke encasing her head and hands. She was sucking them down to the nub as quick as a thirsty drunk would suck up beer through a straw. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying. Or maybe it was that all that smoke was finally bugging her. She went over and put another quarter in the jukebox. She must of had a crush on Mr. Brooks, or maybe her husband left her, but it’s likely that she lost her puppy.
I didn’t care, I just needed some sleep. I knew that I’ll end up having a nightmare with some guy with an acoustic guitar, breathing smoke saying I’m not low enough to be his friend. I need to get out of here.
Lorenzo Lorraine Langstoth* located the bees passing space
Three-eights of an inch,would gove them grace;
The world widely used this discovery
and copied his patent too easily-
Lorenzo found 'fame' but fortune was not to be.
In 1851 this American clergyman * made the discovery that made honey a viable commercial
East Colonial Boulevard
I've been hiding here for years
but you don't know my name
You call me something different
but to me it's just the same
I'm hungry all the time
though I don't eat and tell
I love that cream colored coating
now, you don't feel so well
I devour meat and fats
but I never feel full
I've seen the 'nodes of Ranvier'
with them I have some pull
While I devour fiber with no shame
let me interrupt this message
I've been hiding here for years
but to me it's just a game
You call "myelin, my meal
I was born to inflame
I like getting on your nerves
and there is nothing you can do
Though You'll keep on trying
you can't move when you want to
So make them stop all the research
I must continue to consume
for I mantain control
in this axon of a room
so while I pause to feed
Let me interrupt this message...
I'll continue hiding here for years
as you complain about fatigue
I don't care about your fears
I must fulfill my needs
While you suffer I only hope
they never come up with a cure
because that inventive medication
might make you who you were
You would be walking once again
and feeling really fine
M.S. would be defeated
then I'd run out of time
Oh no, you've taken something new
and you interrupt this message
interrupt this message...
interrupt this mess...
Customers are like bouquets of flowers passing through our twenty-four hours.
Breakfast, lunch, or dinner all 365 calendar days guaranteed for a full twenty-four seven.
“Hello Sir”! Welcome to Waffle House America’s favorite place to eat!
Some say we are the closest thing next to God's Great Heaven!
We have a confusing language of our own, the blabbering towers of the real “April Showers”
Service with a smile that has walked the many hard-earned extra tenths of miles,
Nothing computerized with files, just organized by our own genuine unique styles.
Waitresses are serving with hard enduring time and each crosses over a mighty fine line,
Master grill operators optimize a divine talent marking your plates perfectly aligned.
Friday and Saturday nights the party train arrives blessed coffee to the many lips we’ll revive.
Regulars and irregulars you’re served just the same, pardon me did I really get your name?
Loud ones, quiet ones, and even the picky ones strive to come back to us,
Here we bring back the basics of being alive.
Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, or topped?
So do you want them “All the way or just partly aflame”!
Young, old, or different at being indifferent just being sane,
Especially when the “Waffle House Way” is to say the first “HELLO”!
“Morning Mam”! Can I get you your usual or will you be having something different “TO GO”?
Brief moments of insanity with the moods that walk through our doors,
Thank God for every single one of those Jukeboxes!
The quality of service opening an eye to the sly foxes,
We’d really be in trouble if we sold liquors!
Foreign, military, and even civilian are in and out,
Our servers are like the gold stored at Fort Knox.
So what can we get you today that you haven’t already had before?
“The Waffle House Way” America shouts!
It’s like being home because that’s what we are all about.
i write to ease my brain.
like an alcoholic twisting off the top of the bottle with PAIN.
the words just flow easier then when i speek.
i can't express how i'm feeling at times my words r ALL combined n my cheek.
n then a few words leak.
but it's not coming out right, so n my head i go, thoughts i SEEK.
i write to let people read the REAL me.
like a book u kno the character but the figure u can't see.
it's somethin i hide behind.
but kno the true me you'll find.
i raise the pen and put it to the paper n begin to let u be un-BLIND.
as a child with no father, mother's working late.
i write n my little notebook to take the focus off my hate.
my hate for our situation me mom n sis for food we wait.
i'm 9 what can i do to help the situation we're facin.
little me just bracin.
for no food when i return home from school.
mom does what she can she'd starve 4 days 4 us she aint uh fool.
to hear kids make fun of our cloth's n wonder how at this age can u b so cruel.
i write 4 many reasons some i don't even know.
but thru my poems my mind does nothing but grow.
my true feeling's i show.
what i'v been thru by looking at me not 1 person would know.
even as i grow.
i put on a show.
i write cuz it's like my drug of choice right now.
i'm writting for hour's, head's clear then reality hits POW.
i wish my mind could let me be i just don't see how.
when my world is goin crazy u can turn it all around.
writtin my poem everything around is a peacful sound.
n my head i try to grab the thought i found.
but my minds got so much n it spinning like me.
i write so my evrything lets me be.
n my mother ME is what i SEE.
Gathered around the table
they lay papers before the sacrament
and the gathering is called to order.
Around the table they go, each to reply
as projections are cast on the future.
The seed of thy seed has been good,
exceeding all expectations of
our last gathering here.
Intoning "Our cup runneth over this day"
the saints all smile at
each other and their good works
leading the flock to a new field.
Taking that which is fallowed
and increasing its worth
over the cries of the sheep
at being driven to service before them.
The flock know not what is fed,
but they hunger, nonetheless.
My saints, thank the ultimate word,
that nature's genetics are our profit
and we own the rights to it, forseeably.
Let us, their shepherds, guide them,
for they are in need of our mastery.
Have them mark the deeds we present,
as legitimacy is confirmed to each,
that we are truly the saints
of god almighty and therefore entitled,
as a legitimate multi-national corporation
to possess and dispense
the seeds of mother nature
which we designed out of nothing
for the good, as we see fit.
let it be my saints
© Goode Guy 2012-07-15
Brushing my teeth has nothing
Over my morning cup of coffee
I do them both religiously.
Having a full cup of Italian
Roast ground for espresso
So strong it could bend iron.
Just one cup to wake me up
Consorting with a donut or toast
An espresso in the afternoon
Just to kick that lazy feeling.
As the line’s listless structure leapt into attentive control;
It’s purpose for existence instantly acknowledged.
The double-tapered weight-forward shooting line’s condensation,
Informed of its instant transformation,
Leaps to the water’s corresponding constitution,
Each droplet acting as spherical asteroids of deception on the current’s rippling surface.
Instantly, a silent connection has arisen.
One derived out of technology,
Entombed in the cosmology of the seasons,
Originating before explorations in genetics.
Taking solice in a meal of two moons,
How could one resist this temptuos delight?
Emerging with swarms of life; Analgous in size, shape, and color,
Cleaverly disguised in the guile of organic structure.
While sitting back and listening
to my confreres in their conversation
a glass of wine – red and quite strong
with Tuscany’s best Brunello as a brand,
gives that taste so good; a fodder.
Its spirit makes me reinvigorated
as I think about relationships;
be they human or in a different context
generates that appetite to communication.
Served as a conventional version
in any gathering or a meal, for example,
wine is indispensable, inevitable –
especially for the Italian people.
Uncalled and strange to my culture
having a wine on the table
makes my Asianness wonder
that truly this is wonderful!
It’s a beautiful experience I tell you,
a relaxing moment with a glass of wine
itts goodness and meaning to celebration;
adds glitter and joy to every person.
With an inspiring mood it unfolds,
spontaneity like in music with rhythmic vitality,
with benchmark sentiments and robust sound
wine’s spirit in general makes me speak up
and interiorize certain reflections about human life.
Birthdays come but once a year
A day we celebrate, a day to cheer
We all know the day we're born and our age
For birthdays bring us joy or change of stage
The day I celebrated my fourty-ninth year
On the other side of the world fear
Horror for a young girl named Heather
Who was swimming in ocean waters from boat tethered
Swimming around the ocean deep
Working up an appetitate for something to eat
Was a great white shark fourteen feet, whopper
Jaws powerful enough to bite through copper
At home I thought I had turned fifty
I figured this year would be very nifty
My father who was in his nineties
Reminded me that I was only fourty-ninty
In a land way down yonder
A girl named Heather was pulled under
Great white figured she was good meat
Nice and tender a very tasty treat
A girl named Heather was saved
That very day lived to be one to praise
People who worked to keep her alive
She praised God who lives in hearts and on high
Sara lived many years
Saw her grandsons through tears
She was the strength and glue
Who saw her family's problems through
Just in recent years in a land down under
A fourteen foot great white shark did blunder
Caught in a fisherman's net
He'll probably live this mistake regret
No, the fisherman cuts the lines
Frees his catch and shark from bind
Now the shark he named Cindy
Follows him around even when windy
Follows him everywhere he goes
Let's him pet her on her nose
Rub her belly and dorsal fin
She even grunts and tries to grin
Which of these do you think is the most grateful
Heather who is now disable
The shark who was spared his life
Or Sara the mother, grandmother, and wife
(The story about Heather is true. The shark circled and bit her right leg. Then circled and
grabbed her left leg. The people on the boat were hitting the shark and try to pull her into
the boat and the shark took her whole left leg off. She was only attended by a nurse who
was on the boat and radioed a doctor on shore as to what to do. She was 20 hours away
from the nearest doctor. She was lifeflighted to a hospital in California where she had to
have multiple surgeries and now has an artificial leg. The story about the shark caught in
a fisherman's net was really not true. The grandmother here was a true story.)
He sits at a booth and orders for everyone:
"Eliza will have a strawberry lemonade
and a salad, no dressing;
Hubert will take an ice-cold beer
to wash down his steak;
my grandmother, here, will have the chicken
and green beans;
and I suppose I'd like the duck."
The waitress responds to his requests:
"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I’m terribly confused.
I see no Eliza to serve a lemon or salad;
and Hubert’s not here to prove he’s of age.
Your grandmother, dear, I’m afraid isn’t here;
and we don’t have duck here to put on your plate.
I'm sorry to say, mister,
but you are alone.
No one is here with you tonight."
He stares up at her, baffled—
two tangled prisms absorbing dim light
"Miss, I insist, please bring me the food.
My friends and I have grown weary
from battle and war and we need to dress our wounds.
Miss, can’t you see that we’re brutally beaten?"
"Sir, I’m sorry to say that you are not damaged
or beaten in any kind of way. Your clothing is bright
and your hair is all combed.
You are still very much alone."
He stands up straight and sighs,
"a man is born alone and so, alone is how he dies."
War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred:
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was.
The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went,
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis,
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?
Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once was...so lovely and happy,
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?
Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries
recited with graceful whispers, gave them
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?
Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels
bend under their heavy weight and bow....
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"
Southern Italian Town: Baiano
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
At least once a month
the stench from my kitchen
sponge gets so bad I refuse
one more soap saturation
of this primitive sessile.
Why is it that I can’t toss
these replicas of marine life,
amongst the simplest animal form,
free of tissues, muscles, nerves
and internal organs? After all,
during the course of one day I toss out
all sorts of rubbish—paper towels,
chicken bones, cheese rind, empty cartons,
newspapers and rotten fruit, but have developed
a deep attachment with this soggy, smelly
two-dollar purchase. I take it into my hands
and scan it, as if looking for the spot
of defending stench or to hear the ocean
from where it came. Finally, I decide
to toss the thing into the dishwasher
with my daily load, to keep it vital
a little longer, perhaps a day or a week
or at least until I’m able to establish a degree
of separation from this rectangular block.
My only explanation for this drama
is my daughter is a vegetarian and animal rights’
activist, and like her, I want to save all creatures.
When I Am Feeling Sad
When the bills come. When bad news breaks. When I’m feeling sad.
I simply start eating my favorite things. And then I don’t feel so bad.
I eat cheesecake and some doughnuts. Next its time for flan.
Peanut butter cookies, hot fudge sundae with whipped cream.
I eat many things.
When my heart aches. When I’m lonely. When I’m feeling down.
I sometimes start drinking my favorite things. And then I don’t feel so bad.
I drink: milk shakes. Diet coke float. Ginger with eggnog.
If still feeling sadly, I sit down and eat: a half-gallon of mint ice cream.
I eat chocolates, some with cashews, almonds or pecans.
If that doesn’t do it, I just eat more things until I don’t feel sad.
Calorie counting and meal planning do not seem to help!
My exercise buddy just threw in the towel. So, now I’m feeling sad.
It’s time to start eating my favorite things; I hope I won’t feel bad.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
February 27, 2010
Poetic form: Narrative
They were named the Dolomites,
the Pale Mountains of Belluno,
for their limestone, jagged peaks
and shaped splintered spires;
and they're more breathtaking even without snow!
In this region, spring is so colorful and lovely
with its lilium parvum and misurina wildflowers
waving in those grassy meadows
so frequented by busy butterflies.
In the winter season, skiers,
bundle up in their warm sport's attire,
challenging their strength and curiosity;
while below, in wooden brown huts,
coffee is sipped in hot cups,
and steaming polenta is eaten with delight.
Alaska has bears and penguins;
in this region of Belluno,
the paradise of the Alps,
only cows are seen grazing,
and unbridled horses galloping
through grasslands looked above
by sleek Churches' steeples.
Climbers and trekkers follow their trials
and indulge in peace and solitude,
hoping to reach their highest peak and contemplate altitude;
that's plenty of endurance and patience to see their ego glow!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The water fluttered under the glass boiling in envy of itself
Marching to the sleek inner coating along the candid sphere like a band of drums ready for war
bubbling in heavy camaraderie the steam spoke a final thought and charged on into the night
"why cant I always bubble with such dignity"
Hot chili peppers are so cold to the unknowing, red suit and all buttoned up for the battle to come
Like a solider awaiting his shining moment on the front line
they make their mark by the way they stand so still,
Still like the nutcracker who comes to life only when awoke by the cheffly magician
Like a dream they are waiting for magic to awaken their slumber
As the night rumbles on under the black pot handle
great snowy mountain rests its head it never rests
And then as best it can hot water takes a stand to be noticed
And the cool touch of my mixing bowl greets me
a sprinkling of browned sugar today
A nose of cinnamon to the taste
clear glasses all in a row
tumblers are tumbling across the floor on my toe
My kitchen dances along the symphony's beat
A sugar plum masterpiece of squash, steam, and meat
And my fork waltzes to the tunes it plays like a string instrument to the waltzing flowers floating their way downstream
I spill the spaghetti onto my shoe and the squash laughs a little
I sing to the waters tune and the flowers smile a little
A little more into the water I boil my egg friend and rinse him good
I am interested in what you have to say to me tomorrow
Rambling on to myself I am slightly dripping with sparkle and glee
My ballet of baking completes its final scene
I am scored from the day and seek pillows therapy
Turning down the lights I fear for the moment in my mind when I remember all their might be missed in my kitchen symphony
And all that was, and is, and what might be
As the tile lay still, cold as fallen snowflakes in the night, I rest my head and dream
And I awake again when standing behind the red curtain
I could wish to see down but I choose to see up.
I step to the well to take a drink from life’s cup.
All I leave behind become the pieces I discard,
Life becomes easier where once it was hard.
The sun filters through some gray clouds in the sky.
Snowflakes drift downward from a place way up high.
They blanket the ground making it fresh and new,
I see only my tracks as I start to walk through.
I gaze upon a bird looking for food on the ground,
I stand and watch quietly, without making a sound.
It takes it's beak and brushes the snow aside,
Below the surface is where the food does hide.
At first the bird finds nothing but simply doesn’t give in.
The snow is like a haystack the bidd looking for a pin.
As the bird keeps digging it finally starts to sing,
The clock on the bell tower begins to ring.
It is almost like the bell says it’s time to eat.
the bird doesn't give up and knows not of defeat.
As I watch this process I think there is this I learn
To get what you need, you seek out what you yearn.
Suddenly a squirrel comes and joins in at the feast.
The bird looks at him funny like some sort of beast.
There seems some commotion and the bird flies away.
It seems that the squirrel sent the bird on its way.
It seems rather simple yet there is a lesson inside.
There still remains food uinder the surface it hides.
It took a little work but it was always buried below,
Dig past the surface and the treasure will show.
I start to feel cold so I turn back for home.
I follow my tracks the same way I shall roam.
I get back inside where it is cozy and warm,
I find some shelter and flee from the storm.
It's almost here,
when families celebrate,
in their own special way.
Miles will be traveled,
as the food is prepared,
that special home,
full of love, and prayers.
Be safe my friends,
in the air, and on road,
as you travel to loved ones,
to eat that turkey baked brown, and gold.
We will meet here again,
after this day,
take care my friends,
on this busy day.
Memories of my mother and grandmother
and there fried chicken…
First was my grandmother killing
the chicken, with a broom stick and bare
hands (won’t go into details, to gross)…?
As the chicken flopped around the ground
for awhile bleeding out my grandmother
would get out the gas burner and prepare
the boiling water, then the chicken would
take a nice hot bath, so the feathers
would come out easier…
I watched my grandmother plucking
its feathers then searing of the pen feathers…
One thing I didn’t like was the smell
of the wet feathers and the seared pen
After all the prep came out the cast
iron skillet, Cisco, the floured, salt
and peppered chicken…
Time seemed so slow when you
could smell the chicken cooking, but you
knew dinner wasn’t far off, for by the
time dad came home from work, washed
up dinner was on the table…
The deliciously fried chicken, side
of vegetables and the mashed potatoes
with pan drippings gravy,
Oh, soooooooo goooooood.
I am sure making myself hungry…
Never attempting of striking it rich,
whenever my cravings give me another itch,
I'm used to a quite and simple life:
enjoying good food and sharing a coldl glass of wine
when relatives and friends drop by;
why be someone you weren't meant to be?
Any millionaire around the globe,
sipping champagne desiring what I love?
With my beach cap pulled down,
so that my short hair doesn't sizzle and change color,
as my light skin turns to a golden tan;
yes, I thank God for a breeze cooler than a fan!
Whole afternoons are spend on this pristine beach,
with a waterfront that a Californian will envy,
to melt away that old cliche' of vanity;
come down here...the East Coast is a wonderful shore!
Low class, middle class and the upper one,
all share this unquenchable feeling,
to lay on the salty sand and begin to dream;
Am I talking non-sense or tackling the zest for living...
that this society has been unawarely denying??
Striking it rich is a temporary fancy,
imagining the possessions money will buy,
and many untaught temptations will materialize;
some will die by snorting deadly coke,
others squandering it on mistresses and hookers...
God, how the human spirit is corrupt and consumed by lurid
and unhealthy desires that once were out of reach!
And hopefully someone will ponder this,
to wake up to this gruesome, and parlous reality
and spend his or her fortunes wisely!
What good people will do for the betterment of the deprived ones?
First give them love from the heart, then help them financially...
that's the smart way caring, of planning to strike it rich;
what's the use of looking at your glittering gold,
and not giveit away to help anyone whose thirst and hunger
show in the sunken eyes...waiting for someone to feed their bellies!
If I ever stroke it rich, I wouldn't be here enjoying this sunshine,
but I'll get out there and search for the needy and helpless ones,
and stop the selfishness and madness that money provides;
if I share my good fortune with them, others will follow my example,
and a real change will take place...no poverty everywhere in our world!
Follow me, and search for everyone alive...to give them back their precious life!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
It was the night before Thanksgiving, had
trouble sleeping, counting sheep don’t work…
Kept thinking of the leftovers that we would have,
knowing that they would be calling my name before long…
With no will power to speak, no matter what
I would do, I will be haring the turkey calling my
name soon, and the sweet potatoes, homemade noodles,
bread stuffing, green bean casserole and cranberries too…
Wouldn’t be able to fight temptation, no matter how hard I would try…
Would go running to the kitchen, opening the fridge door,
getting a plate and start pilling on the turkey, stuffing,
bean casserole too, then pack on the cranberries to boot…
Keep telling myself, that it’s just once a year that
I eat until I am plump and stuffed to the gills you hear…
The stuffing is tasty, the turkey is so tender,
the sweet potatoes all gooey with marshmallows,
oh, so yummy and of course the pie too…
The gravy was tasty and smooth with no lumps…
Pumpkin pie was piled wildly with whipped cream on top…
Oh, yes, saved a slice of pecan for later into the night…
Keep the Pepto Bismol and Alka-Seltzer close for
you will need one of both before the nights over!
By Sandra Lea Hoban
Mi camma to America wid a passion for moni en fud,
hoppin to getta rich;
en de sai det gold is founda in striz!
Mi work en work ol dei
to meke sam dollar,
en mi eat pizza, en drink vino...
mi wanna be lika Al Pacino:
a famos attor ov Hollivud!
En me veit too mani iers, to see butiful voman
laika Marilin Monro...whata a fess!
Whata a bodi! A Diva so sexi!
En mi wanna be laika Valentino from Italia,
to sedus ol duh pritty ladi vid mi ciarma;
en ol kiss mi...O locki Casanova!
I come to America with a passion for money and food,
hoping to get rich;
and they say that gold is found on streets!
I work and work all day
to make some dollar,
and I eat pizza and drink wine...
I would like to be like Al Pacino
a famous actor in Hollywood!
And I waited many years to see beautiful women
like Marilyn Monroe...what a face!
What a body! A Diva so sexy!
And I like to be like Valentino from Italy,
to seduce all the pretty ladies with my charm;
and they all kiss me...O lucky Casanova!!
Entered in Deborah's Gucci, " Dialects make the world go around "
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The growing season,
is nearly here,
gardens will be planted,
for food throughout the year.
Tomatoes, and onions,
okra, and squash,
peas, and eggplant,
oh my gosh.
Fresh plowed ground,
waiting on the seeds,
don't have to worry,
about falling leaves.
Good Friday is the day,
my family can't wait,
to get the seeds in the ground,
we are never late.
means the faster they grow,
light rain falling,
then a plant starts to show.
More than ever,
fresh food is best,
I am ready for the exercise,
been getting plenty of rest.
At lunch on Wednesdays, we go out and dine at Trattoria Romana ,
wth my confreres in the community, there’s a choice to make;
either we spend the money or be content with the left-over at home
for certain reasons this makes us aware of those who are poor.
In many Italian menus, there’s always pasta with tomato sauce,
slices of prosciutto, ribbons of zucchini with buttery lemon-white wine sauce,
braised veal ragu with fresh mint and green olives, oh! delicious in toto;
We relish them with delight and affirm the goodness of eating out.
Scarpariello is almost our choice for every meal in this so-called place.
with its juice and broccoli rabe create a better taste to savor it through
truly, a special dish that everyone likes and recommends to order hitherto.
Homemade desserts complete the meal with a cup of Italian espresso,
some ask for a decaffenated coffee with cannoli cream that’s sweet and good;
like a friendly combination that culminates the whole menu for this meal,
a moment to cherish, an experience of grace that satiates our hunger and thirst.
We love to share our thoughts, insights, reactions or experiences while we eat;
it’s like a commitment to a life of sharing and ministry to our own people,
there’s openness and joy that take its course along with our conversation,
part of our meal, a relationship to deepen; that in turn enables us to love one another.
is the name of my wild
and incorrigible cat...
down the stairs she scurries
to keep intruders off my door;
and she, with her sharps claws,
challenges the most vicious dogs,
who would like a match
on my newly carpeted floor...
without letting me breaking up the fight!
eat your food and grow strong,
they will be back with their groan,
but your meows won't do much;
let me teach you how to win a fight
and keep them off for good...
more faith you must have in me!
come here and jump in my lap;
Faberette...there's no need for fright!
They haven't bothered you for a week now,
they must have sensed a change indeed;
and like friendly dogs they play and crawl,
instead of pulling off your spotted fur!
And cautiously you mingle with them with minimal fear...
can cats and dogs in friendship suceed?
But a word of caution I should make you aware of,
not all of them can change
and remain tame for long...
Faberette, be slicker than they are!
on my leather couch lies
under a warm blanket...
I pat her, and her feline eyes
flash the warmest glow; and I couldn't be
more proud of this wonderful pet,
keeping me company and share moments of joy!
And on her birthday, I even buy her a kitten toy!
my adorable cat!
The waters flow. The land drinks. The pools are filled with the small
rain and the great rain of His strength upon the just and unjust. The earth brings
forth herbs meet for those who dressed it; receiving blessings from God with
fruitful seasons, our hearts are filled with food and gladness. This is His
witness. As He cuts a channel for the torrents and a path for the thunderstorm,
His doctrine drops as rain upon mown grass and upon the mountains that grass
may grow. His speech distils as dew into streams with goodness from the
morning cloud, and he even covers the bottom of the sea until the thick cloud is
wearied. The bright cloud is scattered, wherein the lord ascends. Fair weather
comes out of the north in golden splendor, as the tender grass springs out of the
earth by the bright shining after rain; on the good and evil His sun does shine.
So shall God come in awesome majesty with power and great glory will be
appear. His strength is in the clouds. Heaven is His throne and earth is his
Footstool. He will walk upon the wings of the wind in his faithfulness that
reaches as high as the clouds, and his favor is as a cloud of the latter rain to
provide food abundantly, the corn of Heaven, as did the former. And as many of
us who have partook of His bread shall be gathered into the harvest receiving a
blessing from God, being caught up in the clouds evermore to be with Him to
see Him as He is.
The Stars lit up the skies and nothing could I see,
Except these huge Mansions that fly in the sky.
Swirling winds picked me up and carried me high.
Making trails in the clouds it was just me.
It was breathtaking just to be,
Afloat the top of mansions that fly.
The Moon was bright and the Sun a bit dry.
They were huge and magnificent to oversea.
Mansions in the sky that fly above it all.
Mesmerized I went in and found no end.
None were too small.
None occupied, not even by a friend!
Mansions that fly fill a brilliant sky,
All emptied but not by I!
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
Easy to do it,
while you do other things here,
a washing machine.
It’s so convenient;
that nothing left is undone
How life gets easier,
with aids from other scopes
that science provides.
It seems cooking
at this time is an attraction
especially for someone who
starves and needs something to eat.
Alone in the kitchen
a good recipe awaits me there
it’s an attempt
to see if I can cook something
oh, it must be a good experiment
with my creativity to do it.
Men are my chocolate candy, I like to take little bites, to throw away the flavors that
i do not like
to nibble on the centers of those that I do.
I love to open the glossy box, ornate with a big bow.
I like to unwrap them individually and crumble the wrappers so that they will never be
able to use them again.
I know that they are fattening and I know that they can rot my teeth, but I can not give
i like the sugar rush so I unwrap them, poke the centers and put them back into the box
waiting to be devoured at a later time.
Men are my chocolate candy
I was driving down Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst
in my scash-a-bang Chevy Chavalier...and I was having a wallear for a hero,
but I didn't wanna wait on line like those noisy kids from Mexico;
I tried to jump the line, but duh tall, mean-looking boss yelled at me,
" Get back on line, skinny molink...I don't like dis kinda of weisenheimer...
you're just another duh-ta-duh! " I wa so hungry I could have eat'n a cow,
and want'd give him a piece of my silly mind! " Oh, my God...he sounds like those tough
dudes from The Sopranos! " You got a loud mouth, wack! " I yell'd back
" Don't you mess with a goomba! I said with the loudest voice " Oh, my God,
you get me so mad...I just wanna my meatballs hero and go! "
The chubby man with a face fins said angrily, " Hear me out...don't you tawk to me
like dat, I axeya in a nice way, so go back on line and wait
like dey do! Don't you laugh at me like I'm tell' you a wacky joke!"
He freezes my words...I can't tawk and with a huge hero
in my hand, I quickly run back to my scash!
I was driving down Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst
in my-beat-up Chevy Chavalier, and I had a craving for a sanwich,
but I didn't want to wait in line like those noisy kids from Mexico!
I tried to jump the line, but the tall, mean-looking boss yelled at me,
"Get back on line, skinny guy...I don't like this kind of wise guy...you are
just another idiot! " I was so hungry, I could have eaten a cow,
and wanted to give him a piece of my silly mind!" " Oh, my God...he sounds like those tough
dudes from The Sopranos! " " You got a loud mouth, wacko! " I yelled back,
"Don't you mess with a clown!" I said with the loudest voice " Oh, my God,
you get me so mad...I just want my meatballs sandwich and go!" The chubby man
with the moustache said angrily, " Hear me out, don't you talk to me like that...
I'm asking you nicely, so go back in line and wait like they do!
Don't you laugh at me like I'm telling you a crazy joke!"
He freezes my words...I can't talk and with a huge hero
in my hand, I quickly run back to my old-beat-up car!!
Entered in Deberah's Gucci " Dialects make the world go 'round "
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Two brothers from Wichita
Borrowed 600 dollars from Ma,
Needing money to pay college fees,
They repaid their debt with ease-
Selling Pizzas from a hut,was a breeze.
Tribute to Don& Frank Carney of Pizza Hut fame
The vineyard of this man, who lacks judgment, and the field of the sluggard is
overgrown with thorns, and nettles cover its face. Its stonewall is in ruins; by
much slothfulness the building decays and the rafters sag, and through idle
hands the house drops through and leaks. Therefore, do not love sleep or you
will grow poor, but open your eyes! Stay awake! And you will have food to spare.
Just go to the ant, you sluggard; consider her ways and be wise. She
has no commander, overseer, or ruler; yet, she stores her provisions in summer
and gathers her food in the harvest, as does the wise son, but a disgraceful son
sleeps during harvest; he regards the clouds and does not reap.
The wise son tills his land and is satisfied with plenty of bread, and
his soul is made fat. His way is made plain and easy because in all hard work
there is profit, for diligent hands bring wealth. Although he may prize his
possessions, he also gives without sparing, for a generous man will prosper,
and he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed. His diligent hands will
So, how long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up
from your sleep? For yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands
to rest, so shall your poverty come as a vagrant and your want like a robber.
A Scripture Compilation
salt & pepper
In mama’s kitchen I find
comfort food for my weary soul
a pleasant dinner surprise.
I hear everyday, about the hungry, and scared,
how not enough money is available for their care.
The children, and elderly, doing without,
tell me, what this is about.
Our land is so rich, and many have much,
then why, oh why, are we hearing such.
Programs are needed in each city, and state,
designed to help them, in any way.
When you're not hungry, and you're not old,
it's hard to imagine, how could you know.
Beans are a soul food,
that is what I think,
I like beans, and tea to drink.
Cornbread , and onions,
sitting on your plate,
fried green tomatoes, umm, great.
Gotta have meat,
roast, cooked just right,
simmer in the crock all night.
Desert is a treat, after this meal,
how about cake,
maybe, apple crumb bake.
Dear Mr. President
Christmas is upon us, and I am busy
planning for the celebration of the birth
This year our family will not have a tree,
for I have been laid off from my job.
They told me, they found someone else
that would do it for half the money, that they
have been paying me.
Also, my health insurance is worthless now,
my family can't get any assistance we need, but
we are still grateful to be able to say,
we live in the USA.
I know for sure we will be getting a turkey
from one of the many churches in our area,
they never forget the less fortunate.
This is the reason for my letter,
my family, and I, would love for you, (and
anyone else, that would like to attend), to
join us, as we celebrate the birth of our
Lord, and Savior. Dress casual, and
remember, In God We Trust.
Ladies, ladies, now let's all decide,
cheese on the burger, or, on the side.
Tom, may very well,help himself,
so we have to be sneaky, he loves it so well.
Let us meet in the kitchen, and be very quite,
if Tom finds out, we may have a riot.
Just cranked up the old Bar B Que pit.
Didn,t want to start burning but I finally got it lit.
Fixing to throw on that brisket, just let it smoke.
While I put on some potatoes and drink me a coke.
Got the water to boiling the potatoes are done.
I smell that old brisket a cooking it sure is a big one.
Tater salads made and put in the fridge to get cold.
Chopped up my salad and tossed it the way I was told.
Got roasting ears of corn in the pot in hopes they might steam.
Carrot cakes for dessert topped with vanilla ice cream.
Them beans in the slow cooker, cooked all the night long.
Big pan of corn bread, butter, and onion you just can’t go wrong
The brisket is done we’re ready to eat.
Got a big glass of cold milk that’s tasty and sweet.
Y’all come on over pick you a plate.
But you’ll have to get behind me I’m so hungry I can’t hardly wait.
The morning was cool, just a little nip in the air,
then I saw her in the alley. with a hungry stare.
Digging in a dumpster, she was looking for food,
I could not imagine, I didn't have a clue.
She is someones mother, " I thought to myself." but
do they look for her, or do they even care?
How in the world does she even survive, then she looked
straight at me, never blinking her eyes.
This is America, the land of plenty,
why do some have so much, and others, not any?
I knew the weather was about to get worse,
so I ask her ,can I help , while looking in my purse.
I can take you to a store for food, and while we are there,
maybe, we will find, a coat or two.
"Where do you live, are you cold at night?"
"Do you have a family," then she got real quite.
"I'm all alone, I don't have anyone", but I do fine,
most of the time.
Don't worry child, this is the way I live,
and I can tell you the good ones, that always give.
I know everone that lives in this town,
and I can tell you their secrets, and who is running around.
Yes, street life is hard, but it's almost free,
it's not for everyone, but it is for me.
The drive-thru did it again,
messed my order up,
I don't understand.
All I ordered was a salad, and fries,
you tell me, do these people have eyes?
How hard could that be, simple as can be,
a salad ,and fries, nobody in the line but me.
So back I went to the fast food line,
and ask them please, get it right this time.
A gallon of gas is what it took,
to come back here, and get the right food.
No apology did I hear, not one little word,
Really, some folks sure have the nerve.
The next time I'll check, before I leave,
saving me a trip back, with food I can't eat.
With love it will turn into a blessing
With hate it will be marinated in a poison dressing
Add respect and values to the family you feed
A taste of satisfaction and not greed
There are ways you shouldn't and should
Manufactures will never reach whats inside my blood
Fuel and food for thee & me
To Noah a sign of life
And others ,a symbol to end strife-
A pictorial arbor emblem
To encompass God's kingdom
Wine of multi nuanced flavour,
Many coloured & aromas to savour;
Final judgment,always in the taste,
Swirled & swallowed without haste.
Bottles,magnums & jereboam,
Bouquets,hints oflemon & jam;
Tempranillo,Merlot jostle in a throng.
Whitesunsurpassed & gastronomical;
Top of the list,Bernkastel Moselle,
As aperitif or with food,just swell.
A trinity of champagned,sherry& port,
The last from political pressure brought;
Once England's larges wine import,
It remains,Stilton's best escort.
Beaujolais,loved by the ligh-hearted,
Crushed from Gamay fruit so red;
Perfect to quench a lngering thirst,
An annual race to the import, first.
Sparkling,still,filtered or fine,
None can surpass Rioja's reserva wine;
From Ebro at a thousand feet,
Oak aged,ripened after summer heat.