Some problems
Cannot be solved with money
Do not have a clear cause
Do not hide behind words
Some problems
Appear out of nowhere
They live right where we do
Like furniture or crockery
On the table or in the sideboard
Or like the view from the window
On a clear day, or at dawn
When winter sets in
Summer days will be frozen
In the photo archive of years gone by
Memories will flood back
And there are no problems
Some problems, fortunately
Disappear of their own accord
Without anyone’s involvement
Like snowflakes melting in the air.
Last Christmas the dishwasher broke down
The flooded out kitchen sure made me frown
Oh how I cussed, my mouth I couldn’t zip
That old machine got dumped on the tip!
We didn’t replace the broken machine
But need crockery to be sparkling clean
Now my dishwasher is busy at work
It’s relentless, this chore it won’t shirk
A tidy kitchen is just one of my wishes
So my husband hand washes the dishes
I’m just delighted by this Domestic bliss
The dishes are done I give hubby a kiss!
Just to keep up with a new style, while the Sand man sticks to a plan to hence understand the sentence one tense to be rinsed as the Grinch defends his tent in a pinch despite its foul rotten odor of a stench mouthed one voter who was NOT that dense in past present and future tense hence the bench warrant quarantine latrine screaming beanie baby trading card retarded jarred smarties party past time hardly hardy bartering shotgun runtime bubble covered in Nick at night slime time grime crockery stole bike spike Lymes disease treaty spiked seizer sky high geyser lightning bolt jolt soda colt cold shouldered boulder scolded holding smoldering diamond ring rugged bug-eyed smuggler tug of war tare of a care bare share holder folder to be both bad and bolder like gold oil and drugs with extra hugs and butt plugs underneath the rugs for the fuzz buzzing love jugs whatever that was or wasn’t but not my cousin nuzzling the guzzled puzzling Charlie Sheen screaming ice cream machine that feeds a team and the b team both green beans and brings the fiends back to their gene’s roots and boot scooting things... Let us see what else life brings. The Time is NOW! POW!!!
Fires flame from the face.
Doors shriek and squeal; cutlery and crockery crack.
Floors and walls quake.
Mountains crumble.
Violent volcanoes within
erupt
Eyes glow
with a glaze and
blaze.
Fires flame from the face.
Violent volcanoes within
blaze.
It's considered bad manners if you pickup your food
with the fingers that extend out from your paws
So many traditions surround
these inane culinary laws
Some days ago I watched a kookaburra
prepare a piece of meat
So unlike a human who need
a knife and fork for everything they eat
First he/she took it in his beak, thumped it on the turf
did it several times until a piece broke off
Then he opened up his beak, tilted back his head
downed this mini morsel with a mighty scoff
Humans are the only species that maintains a large variety of utensils
to prepare their food and then do dine
Followed up with crockery
to scull a glass of wine
Set the table, put cutlery in its place
add a clean white napkin on which you wipe your face
Me I prefer to be like the laughing kookaburra
Pick my fruit and park myself beneath a spreading shady tree
to dine in peace and eat my fare, much more naturally
Dusting, as if Second Advent is Christmas Day
Entertaining, from abundance or for mere lack
Cooking with the crockery, banging out souffles
Eating thirds, doubling waistlines, seasonal pounds pack
Merry-making, sozzled so in the festive mood
Baking anything that has a beat, even snails
Expending on material goods till it's rude
Receiving presents, swapping cards and vintage tales
Each month a craft fair,
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.
Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.
Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.
All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them!
Join in Folks! Cheers!
The CRUNCHING of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten the house
The SWISH of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming
Wanna go back to my poetic cauldron, the ink boils within me, pass me the spoon, minds and souls have went long without. Need I be punished for starving the nation, sprinkling my artistic expression, the aroma reverberates with poetic reverence, tasting glands oozes ravenously, sauces of creativity fills my hand, edible to the soul too,
marinate the mind with creative expressions, like an artist painter, paint spots all over my poetic kitchen, in my artistic kitchen crockery and cutlery of spirit evokes words, fill the cauldron to brim, multitudes are to be served, a poetic meal, entice the smell sense, as appetites widens, one belly after the other,
I serve the voiceless, the trapped, the surrendered and those who left this this earth not fed, for in my cauldron ingredients of life giving, competes. Lemme put flesh to these poetic bones and feed life back to this poetic body, it's in my poetic cauldron I wanna go back to
#Poetic_Ink
I saw it there and stopped for a while,
perched dainty at the top of the pile
of crockery, grubby, crazed and old
at the yard sale, waiting to be sold.
A teacup; white dots on baby blue;
the same my mother would sip her brew
of pale Earl Grey, in her Sunday best,
though only on days we had a guest;
usually her mother, my gran.
On matching plate, a strawberry flan
they ate, poured more tea, smoked cigarettes
talked about their woes and rising debts.
Other times, the cups were put away
in a glass cabinet, on display.
My sister and I would take them out
pour pretend tea from the teapot’s spout.
We always thought our mother didn’t know
she did; we found out a while ago.
“How much for the old blue cup,” I say
“ten cents,” he said, took it right away.”
WITHOUT A WILL
Does anyone who may have died
With an ignorant world at hand
Deserve mockery, as an easy jibe
These days it’s not a popular vibe
Yet even they might understand
Making blunders on the other side
One may laugh and with disrespect
Shower insults onto their memory
If one knew better the circumstance
The idea of mocking them is pants
It can painfully grate just like emery
Yet no comeback one can detect
They may once have had their day
Making mistakes and acting so dumb
Is there never a chance of any relief
Irrespective whether they were chief
Even if no end to depths left to plumb
They’re not around to have their say
For one to be remembered is enough
Even if a target of perpetual mockery
Such laughter still keeps the link alive
And humour may rest, but can thrive
But careful not to drop the crockery
Jokes may blow back from that stuff
There's a society of comedy horror show
that trains the leaders of tomorrow.
Built from the will of the mighty bullies
who wanted to make their own stories.
It's so judgmental, you may say,
but wait till you become the prey.
Membership here is so exclusive.
You wouldn't count unless you're massive.
A society for sons of nobility;
You wouldn't count if you're ordinary.
The food is great and the pleasantries
and a chance to meet David and Boris.
Ritualism, vandalization
are parts of their precious tradition;
Smashing wines and crockery
to draw massive controversy.
Riot club, bullying game,
that's where they derived their name.
Some still believe that they were chosen
to make England great again.
March 31, 2023
Bullingdon Boys Poetry Contest (4th)
Sponsored By: Joe Maverick
Taryn and Tigger of Irishville
Lived in fear of a windowsill
The old woman there was old and mean
And of cats she truly was not keen
I wish the faerie of St Pat was near.
She would fix that old dear.
She’d make her kind, and change her up.
She’d put tranquilizers in her cup.
Taryn and Tiger had a good day almost every day until
They found themselves under the old biddie’s window sill.
That old crone would come unglued and throw pots down
Breaking crockery and flowers all over the alley ground.
The faerie of St. Pat must have heard the kitty couple’s plea.
During St. Patrick’s parade, crone left the apartment to her cousin Bea.
Bea loved cats and invited them in for cat nip tea.
It was the beginning of a marvelous relationship, you see.
The kitchen's disinfected, the worktops squeaky clean,
The laundry's in the wardrobe and nothing's left in the machine.
The crockery is washed and dry, it's stacked in cupboards, looking neat.
There's just one nagging problem, I've got nothing left to eat!
April and the clocks forward spring,
our cricket practice gets in full swing.
Nets to untangle from their poles,
players to call and enrol.
Gang mowers to grease and oil,
the team kit-bag to disembroil.
Green stained pads to whiten bright,
fixture lists to expedite.
Mend the sight screen's rickety panels,
coax another season from my flannels.
Wash and iron the umpire's coats,
the score-box to creosote.
Tea urns to scour,crockery to rinse and clean..
a team captain's tasks routine,and unseen.
Cricketers good,indifferent,unsung,
across this land in a timeless sport played for fun.
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