Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Yang Embryos Swim in Yin-Yin Seeds
I'm looking for a Theory of Everything
that might mean anything
for figuring out what to eat for breakfast.
Start with a taoist egg.
Did you say "toast and egg"?
I doubt my eggs are religious.
No, but they are natural,
and contain binomial form
with regenerative ethological function.
So you say. Maybe my eggs have metaphysical syntax. Would that work?
Philosophy, at its best, and most permanently encultured, has room for religion and spirituality, as well as science and nature.
OK, but I'm not absorbing this metaphysics of an egg.
Eggs are temporary organic incubators.
They function as a largely Closed-Set internal double-elliptically encoded information system.
Their interior boundary issues remain actively interdependent with their environ-mental boundary issues of general ecological risk and opportunity.
They respond to thermodynamic balance
at a cellular
and organic/holistic/holonic levels
of 4-dimensional cooperative synergetic organization.
Eggs are sensitive to gravitational pressure
and have bilaterally limited tolerance levels for speed of change,
which interact with their relative temperatures.
Maybe I am lost in the forest of your analogizing
but this egg sounds more like an ego
with some serious boundary issues.
Or maybe like a scientific,
or some kind of mutually immune, or defensive,
anti-inductive while pro-deductive,
or paradigmatic boundary screen
of cognitive dissonance
protecting internal design process,
Still not seeing the Tao in this egg,
and whatever originates
and cultivates new life.
If Yang is the power of formation,
while Yin is bilateral flow and function
of teleologically positive nutrients
regeneratively composting with exquisitely timed delivery
of sustainably eco-rooted function,
then which is this full-colored yolk
and which is this transparent white?
OK, yes, now I see the taoist, well-timed, egg. This begins to feel like egg-cooking class for a vegan. Now what?
An embryo is a "budh",
if you are a Buddhist,
and a "bud"
If you imagine your ego-identification
as your egg's DNA yolk
being fed most eco-nutritiously
by your RNA-inclusive
Not-Languaged/Eco Right-brained exegesis
of yin-squared = c-squared = e-squared = +/double-minus P-squared
that might be how a post-millennial Taoist
and bicamerally incarnate
comprehensively con-scientific polycultural co-operative consciousness,
So, I am this Taoist ego-bionic balancing eco-logical eco-normative system. Homo Bicameral Sapiens as Eco-Nomials.
But, because Yang ego-bodies
are dipolar incarnations of Yin's eco-soul DNA intention,
Yin is Yang equivalent only as squared,
as well as either-or,
negative correlates are dipolar 4-equivalent dimensional collateral
(please feel invited to re-binucamerally see G. Perelman's 0-Soul Theorem),
so HomoSapiens are bilaterally incarnated
as ego/binomial Left deductive/expiration
balancing eco/monomial [polynomial] Right intuited/inspiration
fractal-octave frequency harmonic
spacetime Common natural systemic.
Wow, dude, that's some really esoteric shit you've been smoking!
but sticking with generic embryonic beginnings,
a bicameral Taoist egg language developer
might re-paradigm "esoteric" as "eco-terra"--
Earth's ecological intelligence,
as ubiquitously displayed
in fractal-root structures
of regenerate temporal-spatial cellular development,
emerging from aptic-universal cultural awareness
toward a more aptic/synaptic balancing
bicameral unitarian consciousness.
Now you're saying we are a species of anonymous Buddhists,
and also Unitarian Universalists?
that "anonymous christian" conjecture
by Hans Kung
really didn't get great reviews
in many multi-religious environments.
but Christianity is a theistically framed view
of our shared eco-identity,
and Buddhists covenant spiritual principles of shared belief
as teleologically exegetical information;
an ecologic of Fuller's Universal Intelligence,
Yang-Form and Yin-Function, together
assume gravitational synchronic purposes
as primal for secondary ego-satisfactory meaning,
"Earth", and all DNA/RNA encrypted Earth Tribes
sharing a cooperative vocation
to balance our co-gravitational solidarity
with our eco-RNA harmonic default preference
for Win-Win mutually subsidiary,
reverse-hierarchical governance eco-norms,
electromagnetic with thermodynamic prime relational comprehension
consciousness that positive radiant convex
fractal-ergodic universal balance
inhaling and exhaling,
double-negative gravitational concaving
I'm not feeling the love and passion
within this hard-shelled Taoist egg.
Fertility, rather than sterility,
rather than merely consuming life's essential nutrients,
these are timing,
flow and function issues.
To Optimize Continuous Quality Improvement
of comprehensive egolove and therapy,
we cultivate equivalent confluence
with our larger eco-logical value,
as eco-nomic polycultural/permacultural practice.
Polycultural Climax is our RNA-rooted vocation objective,
or full-yolked teleological purpose,
while Permacultural Design and Development
is our transparently shared ego-logical
deductive/inductive Left-brain dominant meaning.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck
Long poem by
Ivor Davies | Details |
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I ever had.
A holiday of every dream
that one lifetime could hold
so listen while this wondrous time
to you I now unfold:
In bygone years to travel far
was not a normal thing,
to travel some six thousand miles
by plane was amazing!
Propellers aided by a jet,
a very modern way,
aboard a British Eagle plane
my life would change that day.
A little island in the sun
where British troops were based
on active service out Far East
where they would get a taste
of jungle warfare while they helped
to form a brand new state
by helping stop objections from
a few this change did hate.
But as a teenage boy, you see,
the politics of war
were not as noticeable to me
as other things I saw.
I felt the beauty of this land
with folk of every kind
for at this time in England
few ‘cultures’ could be found.
For back at home in Blighty
a youngster such as me
had to know his place in life
and couldn’t roam quite free,
but out here in the tropics
no prejudice I found
of the nature that had kept me thus
by England’s limits bound.
Now out here in Malaysia,
on this island of Penang,
I found a place where deep inside
stirred memories that sang
of a time in my existence
that I’d never felt before
born of ancient inner knowledge
that my soul was screaming for.
To continue with my story
of the time I was a lad,
when in a British Barracks
with a soldier for a dad
I had given up my schooling
for adventure in the world
and like a butterfly emerging
my wings were now unfurled.
On this truly wondrous island
Minden Barracks was my home
with excitement and adventure
wherever I could roam.
I immersed in all the wisdom
of simplicity I met
and learned that what you give to life,
returns in what you get.
For the Chinese and the Indians,
Malays and some ex-pats
had found ways to live together
though all wore different hats,
in perfect symbiosis
where all fulfilled their roles
and by leaning on each other
could emancipate their goals.
Now even at this early age,
I was not too dim to see
that the rich were getting richer
and the poor were never free,
but something buried deep inside
these people of Penang
bore a certain understanding
of the common song they sang.
Now I grew up very quickly
as my friends all went to war,
young soldiers who were now my age
what were they fighting for.
Atrocities befell them
as they fought Malaysia’s side
against those from Indonesia
who would not join this ride.
though Penang was hardly hit,
it was only very seldom
that we faced a scary bit.
When Minden B’ was threatened
all the locals stayed inside
just in case the British soldiers
started shooting the wrong side!
But throughout this ‘confrontation’
my job became pure joy,
for the Army’s recreation
then became my brand new toy.
On the island’s sandy beaches
you would find me day by day
driving speed boats for the soldiers
when they found the time to play.
In Penang, their favourite island,
the troops would take their leave
and have fun while water skiing
as they took a short reprieve
from the nature of their duties
that had brought them to this land
and for just a fleeting moment
could enjoy the sea and sand.
For three years whilst Water Skiing
I enjoyed this paradise
but the days I was not working
were all equally as nice
for at home in Minden Barracks
was a special swimming pool
where friends would meet
and wash their souls
with conversation’s tool.
This really was the centre
of our commune in this land,
the meeting place for sharing
where all friends would understand.
Soldier’s wives, their men at war,
and others gathered round,
if any place is hallowed
then this pool is sacred ground.
But Georgetown and its traders
was the place I loved to be
where the colour, noise and culture
always let my soul soar free.
Where the many, many trishaws
and the bikes and traffic mix,
with the hawkers, shops and markets
this is where I got my fix!
Four good years I lived my life
in this very special place,
at a multicultural pace.
I’d been born into a country
that the world thought was mature,
but maturity is lost of mind
when progress is the lure.
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I’d ever had.
Back in 1966 I went back home again
and the schooling that I’d given up
had not been lost in vain,
for I’d learnt the real meaning
of my Life in this short stay,
a meaning full of everything
I carry till this day.
So now I’m in My sixties,
not the sixties of my past
and the thing I’ve found along the way
is most things never last.
But learn from where you travel,
let morals be your guide
for none can steal the things you hold
and carry deep inside.
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
Since childhood I was always fascinated with nature
Curious to know how plants grow
Always intrigued by the ingenuity of ants
And mesmerized by the coordination
And spectacular tactics of birds.
Birds come in different colors and species
They symbolize many conditions and have various
Significance and meaning in different cultures.
You have the nightingale and the humming birds
And the whippoorwill is perhaps the most cunning
of all species because it can camouflage itself.
Even though you can hear its distinctive sound
It's difficult to be identified.
I used to listen to them singing in nature
singing melodious tune, tunes that span beyond
Centuries, tunes reminding us that life is still divine.
I love to watch them soaring in the sky
flying from north to east, south to west
Until nature bids them to take their rest.
Birds embrace freedom and they hold the power of truth
they are unique messengers so the next time you see one
land on your doorstep just figure out if it is genuinely from nature
who send it, and what it is trying to say before you angrily chase it away.
Birds have wit and might, they are powerful
communication tools, they earn their keep from nature
and that’s how they stay alive
like the cows and the sheep
they can see way out in the deep.
Something peculiar has been happening in nature
I have been observing something unusual from the sky
While walking down the street the sun burst from
underneath a dark, cold overcast sky
and spread its light over me then suddenly disappeared.
Each time I take a stroll an army of birds appear from
nowhere and split up into different directions,
they form groups of six, seven and eight, three,
four, two, one and groups of twelve.
Sometimes they are so many that I can hardly count them.
It didn't seem as if they were on a journey, it appeared as if
They were caged up somewhere and were suddenly released
into the atmosphere.
My curiosity grew deeper when I pounced upon
a man attracting the birds with feed laced with
corn grain and black sunflower seeds.
This was quite unusual because
no one in the entire neighborhood feed birds
I could read right into this mysterious cultural behavior
not only was he making a statement,
he was marking something by placing
the bowl of feed in front of the house
under my window and luring the birds to
fly from all directions to feed from the bowl.
They say that black birds are symbol of human soul
and they symbolize happiness, intelligence and wisdom;
they also have deep religious meaning.
Always remember that everything we do
evil always hinges close by good
to make things seem inconspicuous.
Legend has it to say that the devil appeared to St. Benedict
in the form of a black bird to tempt him.
Long time ago my kindergarten teacher
used to teach me this poem by mother goose,
“Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing
wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house counting out his money,
the queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey,
the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird and snipped off her nose.”
Birds are free habitats of nature
they do not earn their keep from artificial feed
but from natural food in the environment.
So the next time you see a bowl of bird feed
laced with black sun flower seed and corn
do not take it for granted
something is deeper than bird feed.
©2015 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
Food for thought !
Over what has been lost.
Days of long ago - filled with much flavour,
Foods exotic – for the discerning palate to savour.
There was Beef Wellington to enjoy.
Delicious, Lobster Thermador – Oh Boy !
There was exotic Japanese cuisine.
Much Chinese food to be seen.
There was Italian, Greek, Mexican,
Korean, Canadian and American.
All, to an adventurer, what a treat !
With French, Indian, English to meet.
In those days of long-ago – oh the pleasures
it stored in memories hoard - what treasures.
Time erases all that once was, it no longer is.
For today’s survival – the main biz,
as one comes down, downsizing to simplicity –
is to become creative, live off the majesty
of one’s own creations - a grilled cheese with sweet
mixed pickles, tomatoes, egg and a delicious meat.
Taste buds - still alive – have not forgot
to savour food and enjoy food for thought
that fills ones stomach and his soul – not
to regret or forget all that he once got -
with some of what yet may not be lost
if one could only get up, could afford the cost
that could change the state of the economy
he now lives, as he lives in a state of autonomy
on egg salad sandwiches permeated with salt,
pepper, onion powder, cayenne pepper, garlic salt,
cayenne pepper, fresh garlic butter on buttermilk bread.
this, to fill my stomach, taste buds to savour, fill my head.
It is down to this for a fifties, sixties, seventies man
who now creates a soup with his own, aged, hand.
It’s base, begins with Campbell’s tomato and tomato basil
soups with red peppers, cayenne pepper, so much so, nasal
drips, begins to run as weeping eyes start to flow
over the pork and beans you will now know
have been added too, along with beaches and cream
corn, rice, fresh garlic, ginger root, pasta, what a dream
for this one’s palate to sample before it goes down,
through the gullet, into the stomach, to one’s crown
Another dish – by these hands – to fill the days, the week
is a salad that consists of all the vegetable I did seek.
Cauliflower, broccoli, celery, red, green, yellow peppers,
cucumbers, onions, radishes, mushrooms, garlic, cheese,
honey ham, ginger root, avocados, brussel sprouts, tomatoes
drowned in Kraft’s golden Italian dressing - is how it goes
The final cuisine created to sustain this old soul,
throughout weeks, months as they rapidly go
by, into the ether of life’s swiftly, decaying hours,
- hours lost to what we once were – no longer ours.
It is a sauce for my spaghetti dinner
that will run the eyes, the nose and inner
recesses of the soul as you come to know
the power, the combination of these ingredient will show.
My laziness dictates, a base to be created with
Classico and Prago spaghetti sauce – there is no myth
here, as Campbell’s tomato, tomato basil soups are added.
Then red, green, yellow, jalapeño peppers sautéed, will tell
- as mushrooms, beef tenderloin , bacon are sautéed as well –
as fresh and canned tomatoes, garlic, ginger root add smell
and taste, as do the onions and sages that are added.
The pièce de résistance, red, cayenne peppers set fires of hell
all the way down and into the pit
as one will, to supper, bravely sit.
A fire extinguisher is what you will need
as upon my spaghetti sauce you decide to feed.
B. J. “A ” 2
November 7th 2004
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield
Long poem by
Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Details |
Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.
She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hips, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.
Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.
The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."
3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.
Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.
Ketosis: a sour apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spider web threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.
Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with Prozac,
fed me Diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.
Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Long poem by
Lindsay Laurie | Details |
For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide,
Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside…
But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine,
When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine.
If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke,
Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke,
Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait,
With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate.
But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign,
If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline,
There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load,
And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road.
I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more,
Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store,
Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips,
And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips.
But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain,
Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again,
For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory,
There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently.
I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border,
And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order.
The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell,
While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well.
And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy,
But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye,
The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack,
Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black.
So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot,
I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,”
As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say…
I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way.
I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old,
The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold,
I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high,
A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry.
I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice,
With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse,
I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase,
Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise.
The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat,
And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!”
I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek,
I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
The calendar reports that February will be a short month. It lies. February is shackled to each of its endless, grey hours and this month will be cold and draining. People have packed up their Christmas lights. All is bleak, and my kitchen window has betrayed me.
frost on the pane
constricts a view to blanched roofs-
Winter is pummeling the region with frigid fists. Today, I will cook with spice. Though some prefer the familiar respites of creamy potatoes or fresh baked bread, I long for my taste buds to tingle. I have been gifted three hours, time enough to saturate my senses. I’ve gathered my ingredients and start to prepare two dishes.
mingle with home comforts –
Cooking this way is intoxicating. I loose myself in texture and aroma. I turn the volume up on the CD player, allow the notes to stir me as I stir tea. The music is sensual, evocative.
I tap a spoon
on a chipped cup that steeps chai –
I forget the subzero temperatures, the punishing trek through snow with a large bag of groceries. My hips pick up the rhythm and respond to a tune that I can not translate but somehow understand, for the song is filled with longing. My feet move and the steps are defiant. While meat browns, I turn my back to all the white, the icy sidewalks and the clouds that have become ever-present and I glide to my spice drawer.
I am making butter chicken, knowing it will tantalize the tongue, readjust the temperature gage. There is alchemy to spice. The magic begins with Garam masala. Later, turmeric’s pledge will be accepted by cumin. I take a deep breath and let the the fog of flavour chase away each chill.
curry and cloves
transform the ordinary –
taste of India
Next, I begin on a recipe which I’ve modified. It is not quite Coque au Vin. I dredge the meat in Herbs de Provence. Root vegetables blend with crispy bits of bacon and chicken stock. Then, I combine fresh herbs, tuck them into cheese cloth, set it afloat and let the satchel share its wealth.
wilt as broth simmers –
I take my time tidying the mess which I’ve made. The poet in me takes a second look at the meals which now cook side by side, like twin continents on my counter. The cultures are distinct, west and east, and yet the aromas easily accommodate each other. There is no division, no conditions, no restrictions. Two territories, well seasoned and season-less.
the warmth of the world
escapes in steam from crockpots–
my contented sigh
Again, I inhale. Tonight, we will feast. A view of the outside no longer matters. This small space has suddenly grown. Time has flown and winter will not cross this doorway.
I will not let it.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan
Long poem by
Louise Phipps | Details |
It was that time again to empty once more,
I was on my Knees on the bathroom floor.
Putting tissue down the Loo making sure nothing stayed afloat,
Then I slid my fingers down deep inside my sore throat.
Trying not to make a sound, Making sure no sick hit the ground,
And even though the taste was so vile I needed to empty till there was no more bile.
I had to be quick but the release felt great,
No-one understood me but I believed this was my fate.
Staring at my reflection, tears would roll down my cheek,
I'd hear the torments in my mind saying how I was such a freak.
The Demons they would say "Look at the state of you,
You are disgusting ,You are a mess, No-one could ever love you".
When looking in a mirror at my body I would cringe,
Then turning desperately to the fridge I'd begin again to Binge.
I would eat so much till I was about to pop,
One more trip to the Loo then I promised myself I would stop.
I'd wish people would leave me be, They just didn't get that....
I had eaten too many calories and I was sick of being Fat!
So I had taken control of my diet, Obsessed with weight and measure,
Punishing myself after every treat, Desserts were no longer a Pleasure.
Over time people started talking about how I had become so thin,
So I pulled the curtains closed and I locked myself in.
Hiding myself away from neighbouring abuse,
I stopped all contact, I became a recluse.
Then a visit from my mother my Angel, who Id avoided for awhile,
Came knocking at my door, Arms open,
Oh I had missed her warming smile.
I looked into my mothers eyes as she turned to me and sighed
"Oh sweetheart what has happened to you,
Your hair is falling out and your bones are showing through".
She placed her arms around me feeling my frail torso".
Then whispered to me gently " Please let your Demons go",
"Everything you are doing is damaging your health",
"You're deteriorating into of me, You're slowly killing yourself".
Turning away she began to cry,
Wiping away the tears falling from her eyes.
She told me how she lost her best friend to the very deadly disease.
I wrapped my arms around her, Comforting her as she grieves.
Seeing the hurt upon my mothers face,
The heartache I was causing her, The shame and the disgrace.
"Mum" I said "I will fight my Demons and make myself strong",
"I realise now what Ive been doing Is dangerous and wrong".
"Getting back to full health will take a long long time,
But with you and my family and friends I know Im gonna be just fine".
So Here I am Today at this Time and on this Date.
I am Making my Illness History and re-creating my fate.
Big Thankyou to my family and friends for all of your support.
I know now time is too precious to waste and our life on Earth is short.x
Copyright © Louise Phipps
Long poem by
Laura Breidenthal | Details |
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.
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal
Long poem by
J Eliza JAMES | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/natures_single_dads___the_australian_emu_372914' st_title='Nature's Single Dads - The Australian Emu'>
Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days
Emund is busy
partners who’ll put
him to the test.
His pedigree line
has proven with time
that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay;
there is not enough
food for them all.
They dip and they
weave as they mingle
that each has a
With his reputation,
there is no
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin.
Others move to the
side as he leaves
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
He matches her mood.
His movements are
as they twist and
twirl in their
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
With steps that are
light he glides to
he meets her, bows
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
It matters not
whether we all stay
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
to deliver these in
your own way.”
After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect,
so with care he
covers every one
He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure
as he, turns each
egg every three
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.
The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
This egg will be
food for his hungry
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
He’ll sit day and
night until the
He knows, that time
to be continued...
Copyright © J Eliza JAMES