Natural love
Love cooked over a wood-fire
Smoky, smoked, well-preserved love
Well-worn love that fits just right
Like an old leather jacket
Love with wrinkles and smiling lines
Freckles and blackheads
Love with all kinds of kinks and twists
Love that writes love-letters in blue ink
Love so enduring it has callouses
Hard-working love
Love on vinyl, the gramophone kind
Love with no expiry date
No warranty required
Love that embraces the tedium of life
Slow-brewed love that numbs the aches and pains of life
(The elixir)
Love that flows from an infinite source
Natural love
Categories:
cooked over, love, true love,
Form: Prose Poetry
This year for a vacation
Camping we did go.
It didn't have my vote,
I was outnumbered, wouldn't you know.
Camping is relaxing
And fun at any age.
Trying to start a fire
With two sticks and burning rage.
The fish, they won't bite
But the bugs certainly do.
And beans cooked over a campfire
Definitely taste like glue.
The weather man's an idiot,
Sunny and clear he said.
If I'd been warned about monsoons
I'd have stayed at home in bed.
The sunstroke from this afternoon
Has left me weak and sore.
At night the temperature drops
Forty degrees or more.
Would someone please explain
Why I thought this would be fun.
The people at the next campsite
Are showing off their gun.
They say they have a new dog
They got him just last week.
A cougar ate the last one
Who apparently was meek.
The lake is full of parasites,
Perhaps they ate the fish.
Vacation time next year
Maybe I'll get my wish.
While everyone else goes camping,
Off having all that fun,
I'll head off to a resort
And soak me up some sun.
p.s. based on true events
written Aug.10/2010 ,by Francine Roberts
entered in Constance's "Why oh Why" contest
Categories:
cooked over, adventureme,
Form: Couplet
The scents I remember like hand rolled cigars
Wine cask lined cellars in musty cool basements
Chocolate miniatures nestled in bright candy dishes
Tea leaves and mint steeping in dainty china cups.
Baked goods cooling on the kitchen counter
Roast with potatoes in a rich onion broth
Lilacs and roses lined on back yard fences
Channel #5 clings to grandmother’s sweater
Scents I remember from childhood spent
Fondly reminiscing with a wistful smile
In this sterile world I live in now
What will my grandchildren remember?
No leaves burnt on a cold autumn night
No carcinogens cooked over red hot coals
No second hand smoke that will cling to your clothes
No hairspray, no tea roses, no creams or colognes
No Sundays exploring my old Aunt Ruth’s farm
No chickens or guineas; no old dusty barns
No fresh moved hay or cinnamon apple pies
Just germicide, purified, Ionic fresh air.
Categories:
cooked over, introspection, nostalgia, philosophyold, autumn,
Form: Free verse