Pushing the envelope outside the box
if only here to accentuate
the many ways in which
emu may emulate
by delivering nutrients' benefits
and what's more
help repair with anti-aging hydrate
yet won't clog your pores
they herd the birds in a mob
not a troublesome job or task
with ladle fire pit pot and hob
'How is it collected?' I hear you ask
as allegedly good for the skin
anti-inflammatory emu oil
is scooped off the bubbling surface
when they're brought to the boil
I sit on a straight back
red vinyl chair
in a Chinese Take Away
waiting for my beef
and black bean sauce,
pork chow mein and a serving
of special fried rice - hear
from behind a beaded rainbow
coloured curtain the sizzle
and spit of hot oil, the constant
sound of a ladle scraping
the sides of a wok, smell
a symphony of smells
that run a river of saliva
across my wanton tongue -
then silence, seconds
seem like minutes until,
“your order is ready sir”,
and at that moment
all the loveliness
of the world becomes
boxed and cradled
in a Lion Dance labelled
take away carry bag.
Note for American readers.
In Australia we use the term
Take Away instead of Take Out.
Same thing. Not sure of the term
used in the UK or elsewhere.
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles – 3-14-25 Dedicated to my Grandmother Pickel and her famous pickles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles
Forgotten in a tapestry of shadows
Woven in long twilights and long rows
Of blue cheeses, tomatoes, daisies and flying salmon
Shelves, birthing dust bunnies,
Give up the last jar of her pickles
Sealed in clear mason glass
Still smelling of dill and garlic and her hands.
Her handiwork still looks
As fresh as crisp cucumbers
Gathered in fields wearing sunflower bonnets
And the scent of new earth readied
To grow round again
With new seeds
Not to forget the children she gave into angel’s hands.
Brought into the light, her love shimmers
Through the artistry of her hands
A rhapsody, sealed and sung across decades,
Plays as I ladle jam and new pickles into her jars,
Savoring my harvest with gorgonzola on toast
And raspberry sherbet on a waffle cone.
it twas evereth the 14th
and ladle had stilled consequence
perceptive decorum and froth's
constable would, could naught
cold heart and battled fart
bequeath to thee
a brothersome free
door and locksey
leashed a board in mercy
a wait, as bait, beside boyhood fate
to undress against
shallowed peasant
four returned to Ireland
bedside and tired
blankets paging in grass
ant's weary temperment at gas
a home a key
a star left he
the all might and his coward
to run the knights
round to Britain
i and i only minors scribes
have told in telling
of poor bottoms swelling
I'm the cells cavern
An orchestrated advance
The corridor the call
The snip the fall
Interior design in might
Out of castled walls flight
Terror in known streets
Publication and ceremony in defeat
They will have had we Rome
And no thing at door
Battle as framers wools
The third wall of a fine ants parish
Forward the Chinese admiral
Onigiri is another level,
I don't know a place called Seattle,
I took a ladle,
Put it on a table,
I don't know where I'm going at,
I took a sat,
I see myself as a lad,
I don't want to be sad,
I took a notepad,
From the wad,
I stare at the ceiling,
As if I'm on a sailing,
I am not wailing,
But I am piling,
All the reasons I left behind,
For now, I am not resigning,
From what I am trying to define,
The meaning of refine,
I remind myself the since,
I don't take a Hinch,
Even a sinch,
Over something that is so clingy,
To hold onto a blingy,
My burger is zingy,
With a taste I hold onto,
With a pinch of cilantro,
It is my intro,
I keep on going,
For what I am doing,
I love myself in this song,
Is this what I am looking for?
Until my hands are sore,
To the day, I want to do the chores,
Look, it is my other course,
I try to find the source,
Here is my sauce.
My infantile eye left me crying in my spiritual cradle.
I was a baby in desperate need of the divine hand and a nutritious ladle.
With divine guidance and nutrition, I started to grow.
My legs got stronger, and I started walking. Then I started to know.
But somewhere, somewhere during my maturation, I walked away because I thought I was grown.
I felt I could go it alone, do it all by myself, all on my own.
Soon during my sole walk, I found myself constantly tripping, slipping, and falling.
With so many bumps, cuts, scrapes, and bruises, my legs grew weary, and soon I was back to crawling.
An aimless, petulant child crying out for help,
But oh, when "Jesus Wept."
The bumps, cuts, scrapes, and bruises did not cease.
But somehow, somewhere through the pain and toil, I felt a sense of peace.
Grow me through the pain, oh Lord, mature me.
Prepare me to walk upright, strong, and free.
You can sip the broth,
but never really taste the burn
that lingers on the pot’s edges.
It holds the stories of everything it devoured —
what lingered too long, what wandered too close.
They say wisdom grows with time,
but what good are minutes
piled like pennies in a jar,
if you’ve never invested a single one
in something that could leave a mark?
Take the ladle, scrape the bottom.
Embrace the bitterness.
Worried for the day
I sit at the table, too nervous to say
I must write a fable
With my pens in array
I look for my ladle
My hunger I must slay
My thoughts in disarray
Worried my hunger could be fatal
I forget my paper, in my bed I lay
My stomach tied knots
If I was understood i’d earn my spot
For now they look at me like an empty lot
When quenching
the silence
alone at the well
One ladle
awaits me
and loneliness quelled
Tomorrow resurgent
all thirst
fading fast
My shadow
refilling
— the emptiness past
(Dreamsleep: September, 2024)
Campbell's 'Soup' is no more, with its name change usurp,
Eating soup without a label, makes me a twerp,
I’ve sipped every bowl,
Now it’s taking a toll,
If I ladle soup, with no soup label, I’ll burp!
watered down soup has lost its flavor ~ the broth is not one to savor
it's over peppered and there's too much garlic ~ sometimes vitriolic
nothing wrong with a little pinch of salt ~ but don't use words to assault
those who post AI should be put in detention ~ maybe suspension
don't ladle me a bowl of soup ~ if it's been tainted, and that's the scoop
In fiery red costumes, anger dances fire ablaze.
Anxiety, pain, and isolation, from within, gaze
Garlands of skulls, bones, and spun veins are worn invisibly.
Bloody tongue ladle, like that of a hound, quizzically
Irritability, stress, and strain are in full posture.
Arrogance, annoyance, and aggression are their gestures.
Hostility, powerlessness, and rage in ballet blend
Assumptions amalgamate with negative assessments.
Veerbhadra, Narasimha, and Mahakali unite.
With Lyssa, Medusa, and Nemesis, they seem to fight.
As the butterfly and dragonfly metamorphosis
The dance of anger ends with a congruous catharsis.
The stars in the sky throw a party at night
A million twinkling points of light.
They come and invite me as a guest
To witness the dance and judge the contest.
The Big Dipper’s ladle scoops the dark
Orion the hunter leaves his mark.
Twinkling stars jig and jive
While shooting stars take a dive.
A million tiny diamonds bright
Scattered high across the night.
The moon, a giant disco ball
That casts a glow upon them all.
No music plays, but silence sings
Of distant worlds and wondrous things.
The next time you see a starry throng
Remember the party goes on all night long!
To drink
from my well
you
first must believe
Each cup
that I proffer
permission
received
The fuller
your bucket
the stronger
your vow
Each word
that you ladle
rebaptized
— aloud
(The Radnor House: January, 2024)
Poetry’s for me
Don’t need Plot
Character
or Theme
Nor Beginning
Middle
or Ending
Activate the senses
Stir up an emotion
or two
Slip in a Mickey Finn
POW!
Dip the ladle in the punch
Invite the world to try it
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