I sprinkled dry yeast in warm water
And watched it bubble up,
Then cracked open a fresh laid egg
On the edge of a measuring cup.
I dumped in a helping of all-purpose flour,
A little oil, a pinch of salt.
Then I stiffened it up in a mixing bowl
Like a mugger committing assault.
I rolled it all out on a cutting board
Well-dusted with whole grain unbleached.
My hands went to work massaging the mass
As appropriate texture was reached.
I then let it sit till it doubled in size,
Set the oven to furnace degrees.
Then I fashioned a riddle and baked it inside,
Left the kitten to do as she please.
Twenty minutes later…
I opened the oven with fireproof mitts,
And fetched out my fresh staff of life.
I brushed it with butter, then set it aside,
Left to cool, while I sharpened my knife.
Ten minutes later…
The time finally came,
I was hot on my game,
And I cut me a taste-tempting slice.
But it was only half-baked,
Insufficiently toasted.
It had to go back in the oven.
I surveyed the scene,
Took a couple more tokes,
And baked up a morning worth lovin’.
Dear EveryThing AntiObama Donald,
It is a humbling,
not so Great Again, truth,
is it not?
This statement,
"Don't ever talk to
[or about]
The President
that way"
Sounds and feels much 20/20 different
when you are a belittled
and/or challenged
and/or blamed
and/or shamed President
judged as insufficiently Winner effective,
Than what you may 20/16 see,
and longingly return to competitively golden touch,
when you were belittling
and challenging
and blaming
and attempting to shame
as too multiculturally weak
to be resiliently strong,
without offering a shred of evidence
for your narcissistic bias,
running as a RePublican candidate
against a healthy democratic Presidency.
If you had this Win/Lose divisive Presidency
to do all over again,
how might you respond
to your own now wiser advice?
Don't ever talk
about a multiculturally health-wealthing
democratically inclusive
and cooperative economic
empowering
and enlightening Presidency
that shameful
and WholeEarth unpatriotic
straight white patriarchally privileged
ChosenPerson narcissistic way.
Rapa Nui Warriors stand bright and tall and stark
Monolithic dynasties enshrined in all our hearts
But what if I told you, til death doth do us part
Santa's elves could fill the shelves,
Yet you'd still leave your mark
Rapa Nui Warriors croon and beg and steal
Overarching humanity, like we're their final meal
A menacing divinity, one revolutionary zeal
Here is pen and paper, please sign our Satanic deal
But what of a winter, a bubbling brook
The heaviest of moai, all misshapen and shook
Where in the Kabbalah, the Qu'ran, the Lord's Good Book
Are we braced from E4 to E10,
Like the Man's unholy rook
In fraudulent suspense, here we sit idling
An educated mass, a society found sidling
Disgruntled, divine, cultured and crass
Insufficiently aerated, just like Mama Cass
Rapa Nui Warriors slouch meek and proud and mild
Seemingly inconspicuous, like the wild in a child
Innate maliciousness, see the expulsion of the Yids
For all will seem serene, until you're the final bid
No apparent order to illness, yet
Tonight it’s gunshot wound night
Last night was the night of the inflamed appendixes
Prior to that, the night of the living gallstones
There’s a full moon, no other reason
Price of tea is up in China, outside it’s freezing
gurgling mountain creek
blistered toes find sweet numbness
feet soak up relief
The human realm, chaos’ kingdom, no?
People of all levels of karmic progress
Colliding in the same milieu of limited resources
My small mind imposes its order on the circus
and finds it to be insufficiently logical…
Whose problem is that?
clear blue mountain sky
turns to storm, no reason, save
wings of butterfly
The twisting and turning of the universe’s agenda
A bit beyond my little pea brain to grasp
But if I had to guess, and in fact, I do,
It’s all in perfect, crazymaking order
Chaos is just what we’re not used to
Or can’t find the rhythm of familiarity
angry skies open
drenching torrential deluge
accu-weather fail
6/8/16
© by Author
For contest: My Cousin Chaos
Sponsor: Brian Davey
twenty minutes
with an ice cube in my palm. . .
ice king wannabe
My Conclusion:
cold stinging torture
becomes more bearable as. . .
ice turns to water
Insufficiently numbed. . .
my hand could now tolerate
a hole drilled through it
For Skat's ICE KING (in less than 10 lines) For the adventures one Poetry Contest
I really wanted to see how long it would take the cube to melt in my hand when I was laying out in the sun, around 100 degrees F. So I timed it and it took 20 minutes. It stung really bad for at least the first ten minutes and hurt all the way till the end but was much more bearable as it turned to water!! for me, this was like performing an experiment. I would not like to be the ice king.
Inadequacy defines me.
Money is not my only lack,
Pinching, as pride slips through the cracks,
Overdrafting maintenance fees.
Vacancies have never been free.
Emptiness makes my sad soul slack,
Reduced beyond what you can stack,
Insufficiently, just to be.
Shortages abound all around.
Hardships are collected instead.
Meagerness charged my flesh a pound,
Exhausting my efforts in bed.
Necessity will make a sound,
Torturing my spirit, when dead.
I never overcame your departure brothers
since then
my feet walk crippled
the kidney only filters half of the residues
my heart partially collapsed
and beats insufficiently
the gastric juice became acid
and corrodes the sweetness of dreams
the bronchial airways are carbonized
and emit a roaring echo
the neurons lost
innumerable synapses
when dying necrotic
but here I am with my soul
regenerating light
so that the guide with the candle
calms my rumble of jungle
Sometimes I feel invincible
Other times I feel minute
Sometimes I feel powerful
Mostly I feel mute
Thank you for the inspiration
From all your bitter words
Thank you for the lack of love
Never allowing me to be heard
Strength and will I have no more
My mind continues to deteriorate
Your remorse is nothing but a farce
Allegedly not trying to desecrate
But the damage is already done
The torment you cannot take back
Your vicious attacks on me
For what you insufficiently lack
© Stacy Lynn Stiles
How you stand so nonchalant
When I’m the one who built this font
Doing everything which needs to be done
While you sit idle watching me run
A life I’ve made for our children and us
While you’ve focused on you, unable to discuss
You’ll regret your choices; incapable to go back
Our children have seen what you insufficiently lack
You chose a career over the ones who love you most
Our existence in your life; we’re merely a ghost
But we’re happy with your choice and pacified within
We saw the meaning of life through your egotistical grin
© Stacy Lynn Stiles