Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art much more shrivelled and much more cold
Rough winds shake the withered leaves of today.
And your stomach hath too many a fold.
Sometimes too hot your sister shines,
And often is your grey complexion dimmed;
And you always smell like my uncle’s swine
Except your upper lip is less well trimmed.
Thy eternal summer did long since fade
And lost possession of that fair thou ow'st;
And Satan brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives death to eyes.
How strangely life will turn around, reverse, then come again
I remember how he would tiptoe in, from a warm and downy bed
He’d wink at me, then beckon me, while twinkling stars peeked in
In kitchen light, a bite to eat, a midnight snack, he said
I would pour the milk, and he would smile, then carefully tear the bread
The staff of life, a simple thing, these two small bowls of wheat
My Dad and I, the broken bread, with milk on top, or cream instead
A bit of sugar or honey dripped, to make it slightly sweet
Such a little thing, so comforting, and helped us both to sleep
And in my care, his dwindling years…especially at the end
He was fading then, no appetite, few foods that he could eat
Soft bread I’d make, with milk poured in, would help us think of then
I’d sit upon his bed and talk, and help him spoon some in
The things in life turn inside out, somehow come back again
For the Father's Day Contest: Sponsored By Carol Eastman
Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls and art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled
at these dear blends, how culture can transcend
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch.
Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air.
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory
but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.
*For my friend, Marlon, a scribe who blazes, but with a green thumb! Spirit! Yah!
Love from your Cousin, that vanilla chick with the chocolate swirl heart
I took you to the A M African Restaurant in Kitchener. I LOVED this place and when
it closed, wept like a baby.
Scribe, I think you’d have loved it.. total diversity, peace-brews! Like an
interplanetary love fest where food is king.
The place I worked was fairly close to this oasis… True story, so here I am going on
Maternity leave and my boss/friend asks me… we want to throw you a party,
WHAT FOOD DO YOU WANT?
When I said African, she was delighted. The other employees who are sweet,
Lovely ladies but about as WASP as you can get, were intimidated. So there I am,
belly so big it had its own address, saying forget you pickles and ice cream,
or those cutsy wootsy finger sandwiches... ta heck with crudités.
gimme turmeric, gimme zest!
Once they tried the food, they loved it! Oh, Ethiopian food ROCKS!
More in blog, soon…
Candy its yummy
It tastes so good
When it enters my tummy
I will love to give some to robin hood
You can get cavities
But its worth eating
Cavities hurt so much you cant do activities
Then you start mistreating
Candy just melts slowly in mouth
Everytime you think about why it melts you get the chills
Then you think about heading to south
To go to Beverly hills
I've said this before
And now i'm going to explore
I’d love to be with you in a canoe
accompanied by summer’s softest breeze,
enjoying the verdant valley view
while drifting on a river lined with trees.
Ahead would be a peak that whisks the sky.
We’d look above us from our little boat
to where the eagle and the osprey fly
as in the quiet glow of dusk we’d float.
We’d dock on sand and find a cozy spot
to roast some hot dogs in our campfire’s heat
and spread the luscious picnic foods we’d brought;
then relishing tranquility, we'd eat!
Amid dark, silent pines, by fire's bright light,
we'd snuggle happily into the night.
For Carol Brown's "Picnic Time" Contest
My morning retirement ritual,
Provides breakfast to the birds on my street.
Food for fowl, silencing bellies that growl,
Watching the many hundreds gather near,
Huddled together on branches they meet,
With a calm patience we’ve learned to revere.
Feeding the birds of every pedigree,
Flying things, all sizes, colors, and shapes.
Hungry beaks, vibrant feathers, sharp clawed feet,
Small Finches and Wrens, large Sparrows come round.
Harmoniously singing us awake,
Their only care: yummy seeds on the ground.
My morning retirement ritual,
Feeding the birds of every pedigree.
1) Sonnet written in Anapestic Pentameter
It strikes one at will,
As one whose intent
is to kill,
Causing rumbles and
tumbles in the
Making you rummage
for solution down in
The causer of all
kinds of ulcer
Which if untended
lead it can to cancer
And from which there
is loss and no gains!
The solution to be
sought when it
strikes is food
Whether large or
small in quantity
So far as this giant
can be tamed for
By it, be it of high or
Hunger it is that is
one life's equalities
To both with
It is the laziest of all creatures,
It could eat and eat filet all the day long.
Investigative eyes is a feature,
And it will sing to you its forlorn song.
It will avoid you like the plague by day,
Skulking, running, bounding, from room to room.
By night it searches through the halls for its prey,
The hunted will meet its impending doom.
The whisper of whiskers against the door,
Tip-toe, pitter-patter, sneakily creeps.
All at once bounding across the floor,
Whoosh goes the paw across the mouse hole deep.
“Drat!” says the cat, missed the mark once again,
Once more the mouse hunt will have to begin.
When asked what in my basket I would take
of any kind of fruit; well, here’s the truth.
I much prefer my fruit in pie or cake,
or chocolate covered for my sweety tooth.
No apples, peaches, pears or plums for me.
I find bananas boring. Am I sick?
Of all the fruits that grow upon a tree,
there hardly is a one I'd want to pick.
A mango slithers like an eel; I gag!
And though papaya can be rather sweet,
exotic fruits of which the natives brag
are just “ok.” I’ll stay with my red meat.
Just melon, grapes or cherries in my basket
and can you make them seedless if I ask it?
By Andrea Dietrich For PD's November Poetry Contest
Reese’s Pieces was ET’s only choice
And it’s loved by many children as well
And it was that candy that gave him voice
For Reese’s Pieces I’ll ring that cow bell
Reese’s peanut butter has its own taste
And Reese’s Pieces are easy to hold
And Hershey’s candies are never a waste
Instead of M & Ms Pieces are bold
Reese’s made the cups first pieces later
If its Reese’s it is peanut butter
We love it even the candy hater
Reese’s Pieces takes you from the gutter
If your life happens to be in pieces
Glue it together with Reese’s Pieces