I'm searching for an electric kettle.
But all I can find to plug in
In my overnight cottage lodgings
Is a bedside lamp.
And while its 40 watts emits a ration of heat.
It would never in a month of dreary Sundays.
Boil water to make a Cappucciono
Think I'll just settle for a Stella instead.
We had a deal
And I cooperated with zeal;
Thinking it was real.
You gave me no dime,
Yet you stole my precious time;
This I read like a rhyme
Or even if you paid me,
That was little, very little;
I could not with it fill my tea kettle.
I gave you trust and loyalty
But you gave me distrust and disloyalty;
My commitment you rewarded out of inequity.
At heart I held you as myself
But you treated me like your chef
Meats stewed in a greedy pot while you did jeff.
Why then did we have the deal,
When to have everything is your meal,
That I struggle today because of your selfish will?
Disappointed!
I wish to be anointed
To discern deals flouted.
Elbows on the desk,
hands shoved against eyes,
knuckles pressed into their corners.
You know how it is:
you’re thinking, facing the screen.
Pondering, trying to meditate, excogitate.
Where is it? Where was it?
It was in my mind a moment ago.
It’s gone, my brain has lost it.
I even ask what it was.
The kettle boiled, whistled.
A letter hit my mailbox.
A car screeched to a stop out there.
A fly buzzed about my head.
Elbows, hands, knuckles,
thoughts, ponder, meditation;
brain plays with thoughts.
Then kettle, mailbox, brakes, that damned fly.
(Posted 7 Aug 2024)
For days now, nay, weeks cocooned in a cave,
Away from hands that could drag each to grave,
One of them, Seth, all the time craving sex;
He'd had brawls with Dickson this did much vex:
Dickson's giant fear: it could expose the gang;
On fate's set day, on their door hear a bang
Either from cops' hard knuckles or their gunshot;
And from then things would always be red hot!
Dickson might have made a cited prophet,
But for last-minute long look at poor profit...
Seth was to nail their group through his girlfriend,
Her last careless visit, that was the end!
A swift attack that tested Gang's mettle:
Nine in all, in minutes, Black kettle!
A little thing spoils the appetite.
Mine and face just had to become tight
Dulled what had been luminously bright
Because the matter was far from light...
What was it, again? Oh yes, Hot Tea!
I'd been asked to tea: Some two cups free;
What giver would want from me: 'Agree'.
Cups if I tasted down on my knees!
Gingerly placed before me kettle
I free to finish it or take little;
But before I could saw host's spittle
And to simply reach kettle battle...
Speeding car in a herd of cattle.
Grasping a plot
from my store of meddles
I spread,
near the sink,
verbs and nouns
I've found.
Cleaving each
to a size
then heated derive
a fragrant misty theme.
. . .to be continued. . .
Kettle or dishwasher
Battle for greatest
Tool used in the kitchen
How should we compare?
It is, of course, no doubt
Quite stiff competition
For each has its worth
And I’m not saying
Any different
But tea has something
Special. Hot and
Ready in an instant
Dishwasher, sure it’s
Hot enough but I’m
Not drinking of its liquid
If there were a prize
For best appliance
Kettle surely gets it
*Image of Tea & More by EverPic.
The Mettle of Mom's Kettle
Dear mother's tea kettle.
She purges impurities daily.
She satisfies it with freshness.
Encounters gained exponentially.
She alights the stagnant to awaken.
Temperate measures brew righteously.
Truly divine profoundness spirits a flavor.
She bears its consequence with confidence.
Gifting patient nothingness anticipated quench.
Honeyed sugary sweetness greets a reigning crown.
A Word of grace courtesies a solemn room full of smiles.
"...it continues..."
2022 December 31
*10th Place*
YOUR CHOICE
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2023 January 11
‘Black’ was called the kettle
But it didn’t it nettle
Nor its relaxed mind unsettle…
‘Black’ foully flung at the kettle,
Almost as a test of its mettle
And an order to order soapy Dettol
But also a bold try give the fatal:
Some grisly violence occasion the pot
Guiltily The Blacker on every spot…
But Amiable kettle considered this not,
Feud- Loving spectators denying blows hot!
If you`re familiar with Groton forest Vermont, then you most likely have
climbed Owl`s head with it`s views of Lake Groton and Kettle pond,
named after 18th adventurer Aaron Hosmer, who dropped his kettle in the pond while crossing on a log.
Wanting to write an Autumn poem of unity I imagined us in the world and the world in us, meaning we have more in common than our differences that divide us, with the analogy of a kettle in the pond and some pond in the kettle.
Autumn deepens towards winter,
through the eye of a crow,
the head of an owl
with a pond just below.
With a kettle in the pond
and some pond in the kettle,
and lairs in the owl
where the black bear soon settles.
The ridge over Groton,
once amber and gold,
lie the bones of last summer,
in November`s dark hold.
It`s the season of thanks
and a reason for giving.
No matter your views
no matter your living.
No matter your age
no matter your call.
Be kind to each other,
for there`s a battle within all.
Kettle song red strong
Silver spoon honey dripping
Sip morning green tea
My kryptonite is music
So much so that a teal tune
sticks in my head all day
until I hear another to replace
I find music in everything
the way the phone rings
how red tea kettle sings
the beat of a flat tire
the crackling of a blue fire
Music in even your snore
funny how you choke stop and hop to a beep bop
The wailing of a baby’s cry
Somber siren yellow and high
Music in the leaky faucet
drumming unique beats in the sink
Music in the way a squirrel
Scampers across the street
Music in chemistry class so loud
That indeed I did drop out
Music in numbers too
They unite to make a sound
If I was a note what would I be
An eighth a quarter C whole mystery
Music can help and hinder my sleep
Influencing my dreams sometimes depriving my sleep
Yes music is my kryptonite
And I say it’s alright.
YOUR KRYPTONITE CONTEST
10/12/2021
SPONSOR ANTHONY BIAANCO
I get it now... jackasses and elephants are the same
Getting off on control
Getting rich off prolonged misery.
Our collective pain is their superpower.
Our division is their weapon of choice
to maintain that superpower.
Do pray that the masses open their eyes.
Grow brave and wise -unite-ignite.
Become we the people again.
Pull back the iron curtain of OZ.
To expose the charade of self-righteous peacocks
And their plastic levers of logic.
Concocting diversions-shifting blame.
Making rules for the serfs but not for themselves.
The biggest fear of the elitist
is that we, the people, will stand together
demand term limits.
Prune special interests.
They fear we'd slap the mask of humility and restraint
(forged from the bones and blood of the masses)
to their crooked funhouse faces.
...jackasses and elephants... are the same.
We're nothing but pieces of coal to them.
Something to be plucked - pressurized-modified.
Into bling around their middle fingers,
Which they stick far up our asses to bore the spirits from our chests.
They say that heart’s anger is like a fire
Just about to burst without head’s control;
The more it’s fueled by the wood of ire,
The more it brings blaze to the furious soul;
When one never gets his evil desire,
His hate turns high like a red-hot charcoal;
And when wall is built between the two men,
No peel of love will ever be given.
Fresh upon the morning grove,
With day becoming hot,
And sitting there upon the stove,
A kettle and a pot.
The kettle blew and lifted high,
And poured into the cup,
With that to see it’s bottom by,
And so the pot spoke up.
“Pardon me to even know,
For I don’t mean to meddle,
But you are all black down below,”
The pot said to the kettle.
For a moment to rebuff,
The kettle answered back,
“I’ve seen your bottom oft enough
And yours is just as black.”
Looking down and much contrite,
The pot did then exclaim,
“It seems that Kettle, you are right,
I guess we’re both the same.”
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