To write a good letter, take ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ plenty of time ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Take patience ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ and stir it ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
With the ladle of energy. ¦¦¦¦ fill a cup
With kind thoughts and helpful thoughts, ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and words strong and true.
Mix all ¦¦¦¦¦ together, and ¦¦¦¦ add ¦¦¦ spice
Some good news, ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ all news that's nice.
¦¦¦¦ seal with a ¦¦¦¦ kiss and stamp it with care;
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and presto! 'tis there.
(Blackout of Recipe of a Good Letter by Amos Russel Wells)
From the beginning, I came with my fists held tight
When I exited my mother's womb, I screamed and readied myself for a fierce fight
A fight I didn't understand at the time...
Way before the development of my prefrontal cortex and mind
But something peculiar sat in my spirit...
Coyly poking and nudging me to be intuit
And into it I was
But over time I started to lose my buzz
As I grew, no longer was I mirthfully floatin' and stingin'
Still, I was in the ring, and the fight they kept bringin'...
Fighting for a seat at the table___
After I was released from Dad's steel hands and Mama's nurturing ladle
Fighting for my voice to be heard in a world with stuffed ears
Fighting, just fighting to abolish my creeping fears
Fighting for my sweet, sweet dreams...
With my clenched hands, I still hold them, but so far away they seem
Fighting, fighting to experience peace and joy in the golden light
But soon--oh, too soon-- the fists become less tight
sunrise smiles as I draw white drapes
voices of spirits disappear in breeze
hands stiff, feet c o l d — swollen
age asks not invisible
I hold window latch, opening with squeak
time for black coffee to
ripple another day
without smoke lacy friends
room glimmers not
it is still sacred with heaven’s silence
holding my mind
cells wait —-
s w e e t n e s s
dichotomies glide pale sky
paradoxes paragraphed
eventide arrives equally equal
orange hues tessalate
your frequency wefts through keyhole
toes spread barefooted eager
barley soup bubbles a broth spicy
soon presences will be precious
mocha perfume
never bottled
oregon floorboards
waiting ___ - - - footsteps in black pumps
undefined we dine
soup ladle hot ~
[ Standard Contest : Write a Beautiful Shadorma
Sponsor: Constance la France
Placing : Second ]
_______________
“Actually, if you don’t dip into the Soup, you might not meet Shakespeare and he won’t be able to taste your verses.” Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This soup tastes
like a fancy hat
bewitching
alluring
beauties and beasts swirling heat
pulchritudinous
Slick smooth soup
papyrus inky
taste chuckling
lyrical
luscious sages engaging
scripting evolving
Nourishes
Shakespeare’s ladle dips
readers gape
poets stirring
dramatically press keys
flourish stanzas bold
Sunday dinner is a time for family gathering
Enjoying conversation and home-cooked food
At the home of matriarch or patriarch of the clan,
Feasting on gumbo is a tradition for our brood
Oysters, shrimp, blue crab from Lake Pontchartrain
Onion, bell pepper and celery ~ Trinity of seasoning
Dark caramel color of roux though stirring is a pain
File' powder is made from ground sassafras leaves
It's used to thicken to a consistency that is nice
Leaving it out is a sin in the world of Creole cuisine
E'ach ladle of seafood's bounty is served with rice
Grateful to the cook for the effort to please our taste
Using the right ingredients brings smiles to the table
Makes us a happy family when nothing goes to waste
Broth of gumbo is a local favorite in New Orleans
Offensive not to have another bowl if you're able
Words dissolve in a simmering pot~
not soup, but something more.
Each ladle releases a new verse,
a flavor never before tasted.
Some mix their sorrow as deeply as a roux,
while others scatter hope like coarse black pepper.
A smidgen of resentment bitters the broth
while laughter improves the brew.
I bring my scraps, my burnt-edged rhymes,
my half-chewed thoughts still warm.
The pot absolves the awkward lines,
transforming them into poesies.
And when the steam has filled the room,
when my tongue is tinctured,
I leave not fed—but changed, undone~
with someone else’s hunger inside.
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)
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