we buried witchcraft
but kept old snake oil bottles
lined up on our shelves
hooked up with magic potions
to give hope when logic fails
science displays signs
fate is foretold on the screen
yet we plead for cures
still brewed over smoky fires
hope fixes we can't forgo
hunger stays away
concoctions remove old stains
herbs promise rebirth
purging latter-day poisons
making tomorrow spotless
old curses survive
though no cauldron lights the room
we demand revenge
through hidden spells and curses
that only witchcraft provides
when reason falls short
shadowy figures emerge
in crystal ball veils
to give our nameless fears cause
rather than leave darkness blank
science lights the room
yet something circles in flames
older than knowledge
witchcraft belatedly lives
where reason cannot go
All rest is over
Personal time is gone
The narcissist is up
And needs are on
Are you all hungry
Go get me something to eat
My money bought your way
Duty is attached to feet
Mobility is paramount
For health has gone awry
No care visible
In every hmpf and wayward sigh
Generations have passed
With every need under the covers
Sexualized emotions
Hidden so deep, only TRUTH can discover
...care concoctions
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07-10-2026
Excuse me, friend
My mirror has been retracted
I've faced my fears
Where light was refracted
Your sharp words
No longer cut and maul
I've recovered what was lost
In that catastrophic fall
Away from me, fear monger
What have I to do with you
Stirring your concoctions
Making deception seem true
Feet running quickly
Finding trouble and despair
I'm finally at peace
Knowing that life is never fair
What is this voice I hear
Walking from eternity into time
Inviting me to come away from position
Following LOVE until I find
...the child is grown
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-12-2026
Note: LOVE doesn't demand its own way, no matter the level of maturity.
the king felt thwarted in his own kitchen
he was not fancy, but his concoctions were ’n
the cook said to her sous chef, he is a rogue!
in her unusual jibber jabber, an Irish brogue
the king knew he was entitled, he had been so at birth
He straightened his crown, and bowed to the earth
a loudspeaker on the wall laughed at his pompous ways
he baked a treasure in his scones, in pinks and grays
the cook tried not to laugh, she had to hold on to the sink
The sous chef was yelling “those scones are gray and pink!”
the king’s cheeks were all red, he ran from the place
Serves him right said the cook, making fun of His Grace.
219.
My 35th Leaf
Got thee from water
Sitting position
According to host
It's a herbal plant
But don't know this one!
From a rich maiden
In town she's famous
Ex-SB Member
A lady so fair
She's Joy Paredes
Fifth day of August
Year Twenty Thirteen
It is a Monday
Local holiday
It's our Town Fiesta
One of concoctions
Of rare drink to me
With other sliced fruits
First time to take it
Said it's fat water
Fiesta remembrance
Another rare chance
Still with Joy, Shamie,
Arnold & Almars
Was nice being there!
-08/05/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
picked food is complex
hard to grow, with goodness sparse
slow to chew, digest
native creatures evolved
balancing, yield, taste, and toil
mouthfuls interlaced
fiber, protein, starch, cells, grit
a feast in wholemeal
hunger sated, kept at bay
with low-density nurture
then came processing
oils distilled to easy fare,
grains stripped to white ghost
sugar added to boost taste
complexity was erased
Sweetness in a flash
fat that melts before the tongue
salt sharpening crave
a banquet turned to quick hits
food factories replaced fields
food calorie dense
drove people to gorge too much
with same portion size
so they all became obese
as their bodies begged for more
evidence is clear
just see how fast, how sudden
Polynesians who
adopted Western diets
became fat and unhealthy
rich over-processed
food mutes satiety's bell
body asks for more
calorie-dense concoctions
devoid of complexity
Why does doom feel so familiar
While happiness seems so far away?
How many times have you heard the supplications
Asking for help, or
Begging for mercy, from our suffering.
In this god-forsaken place,
Where we have been placed, to test our tenacity.
Here in this tent city, surrounded by the sounds of industry,
Talking to strangers, about predestined arrangements
Watching the birds fly and the bugs crawl beneath the canopy
In a seemingly parallel reality, I’ve come to suffer separation
From this place we call civilization, the noise of today
Is but tomorrow’s memory, wanting to steal my spirit away.
Just leave me be. Forget about me. Mind your own business.
Leave me out of the fray. I never asked it to be this way.
Criss-crossed with trespass, egregious behavior
Upon someone else’s path, invasive presence, vainglorious -
Self-interest that clashes with everything including itself.
Vibrating like a hive of invasive species
Eating away at the fabric of our being.
Loud, obnoxious, rude, concoctions, diseases for the masses
Please take me away from this insanity. Again,
I pray. ~psp
dr. (pi)
.
Mean Gray
I Know You've Been
Thinking About What
A Normal Person
Would Think...
And Are Often
Always Trying
To Make Sure
You Do.
You May Have Even
Learned What A
Superior Person
Would Think...
And You Might
Make Sure You
Know
How Hard You're
Trying...
And How You Failed...
And How You Tried Again.
And How You're
Trying To Think:
Ideally
A Normal Thought.
***
No One Better,
No One Worse,
No One Faster,
No One First.
Every Bar Is
Full Of Sweet
And Dry And
Colorful
Concoctions...
Meant, Designed!
To Share
With Every
Common
Thirst.
But: What's Your
Favorite Color?
I Can't Choose.
Do I Really Have To?
Not Normally, No.
I Could Tell You: One.
-Gray Squirrel
06-05-2025
Dreams do not resolve,
They only recall, relive, appall, and gall.
They replay the scenes endlessly,
On loop, over and over again,
With the final chapter,
Be it a happy, sad or left-hanging ending - missing.
The cure to the plague of memories,
Requires a journal written down when awake.
Recording a list of infections, inflammations and cankers,
With their reliefs in portents,
potions, hocus pocus, spells and concoctions,
Written down in the stark light of day.
Read and revived, sipped slowly before shut-eye.
Sometimes with a dash of a 'beg to differ' or two.
Or a sprinkle of withdrawal, pulling back to let was, just be,
Pulling the pin, stepping back, sucking in, retreating,
Chin up and jolly rogered to defuse the angst, stem the rot,
To clear the air and begin again,
Coping!
Her mother was a seamstress, her aunts and grandma too
She had grown up into it naturally, serious seamstress Sue.
Her house was full of fat quarters, there were pins on her floor
Tiny bits of embroidery floss followed all her clothes out the door
She liked quilting, she was an expert, a hand-stitching queen.
Did not allow anyone to say “hand-made” in any kind of mean.
Her jackets were quilted concoctions made of a variety of fabric pieces.
She made comforters and bags for her six daughters and three nieces.
Sue's expensive sewing machine was going twenty-four seven.
Can she take all of the things she made, when she goes up to heaven?
Sue did not worry about any of this, she sewed all day and night.
Wore her spools upon her head also, she was a truly crazy sight.
Lee considered himself the most famous chili maker in the west
Added tobacco, Heinz 57, cinnamon, gave it a big taste test
We had heard about his concoctions, and could not wait.
The first bite was terrible, second bitter, the third one a bad fate.
What about this stew had given him a glowing review?
We could not keep our faces straight; this stuff was a big boo-hoo.
Lee waited expectantly, but none of us play poker.
His terrific chili had been replaced by his wife’s, she was a horrible joker.
When we got the straight stuff, it was worth the wait.
Lee was a fabulous chili maker; his concoction was quite great.
Why did you do that? We asked her, for the why we could not guess.
I was a bit jealous, said his evil wife, Miss Jess.
Sometimes,
looking back
shows a distorted image;
a mere reflection of yesteryear,
filtered through the lens of today.
What once was will never be again,
too many lost years and spent emotions
have muddied the waters of recollection;
and so, nothing appears as clear as it did.
We all pander to fragile egos and pride
and that often works to our detriment;
especially when young and naive.
Rusty, fragmented memories
can cut as deep as any knife;
draining the heart of love
and the soul of hope.
The past is an elixir
of distilled doubts,
mixed with pain,
love and hate;
a volatile
intoxicating
brew of emotions.
And hope often drowns
within just such concoctions;
treading water in yesterday's tears.
Crafty Christine has a magical way with a sewing machine
She is also great with crafts, she may be the queen
She puts things together in a fun, fine way.
Recipients of her gifts say “hip hip hooray!”
She can take old denim and make aprons that glow.
With hems of silver, they put on a fine show.
Her quilts are amazing, better than any we’ve seen.
Crafty Christine is the queen, yes, she is the queen!
Her concoctions and designs are legends around here.
We stand back, amazed, said her neighbors dear.
She can take a backyard and turn it into a park fit for a queen.
We are all impressed by our clever, crafty Christine.
Helzabob had her own ways of tweaking spells a tiny bit
She unleased some monstrous concoctions on her sister.
Helzabor created creatures who danced, twirled, and sometimes bit.
One time they went after a stuck-up guy who insisted on “mister.”
Mister came down the hill and slid into the witch’s house.
Everyone ran for cover, especially rat, crow and mouse.
Helzabob with a diabolical smile met him at the door.
She zapped him into a new green creature forever more.
I don't want to get lost in fictional worlds anymore
The one I am surrounded with
The one in my head
It is already too much to store
Immersed, overwhelmed, drowned
In the ocean of emotions
That engulfs me every time I open a page of a book
I get sucked into these lands
Devoid of the notions of time and space
I explore these worlds as a baby would
Eyes wide, curious, hungry for knowledge
For the thrill of leaving reality behind and getting consumed by my imagination
Meanwhile, my brain gets flooded with bizarre concoctions
They sow their seeds deep into my memory
And then blossom recklessly
Wither and die, do some
The others live/grow with me forever.
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