I would not live without warm cookies and cold milk, a lady's love or Rainer Marie Rilke
To make a limerick oatcake
Five spoonful of wheat flour it`ll take,
The first, second and fifth spoons of 7-10 syllables must chime
With a rhyme that flows smoothly through all times.
The third and the fourth spoons of 5-7 syllables are bound,
To hold to the same sweet final sound
To each other with the same air,
Though quite shorter they surely are.
Then one adds a cup of powdered milk grand,
One cup of rolled oat of a noble brand,
Half a cup of sugar one must weave,
With a pinch of salt as joke that readers shall believe.
Let `s not omit drops of vanilla, a spoonful of baking powder,
And half a cup of butter before bringing to a knead proper
By adding a cup of liquid milk, a little at a time,
Leaving the knead for a while to shine.
The knead is checked for correctness,
Rolled in little balls, flattened with sharpness,
Then placed on a preheated buttered pan
And set in the oven, eight minutes each side, to turn grand.
DONUTS AND MILK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I crave a treat, a sweet delight
one that brings a smile and makes my morning bright.
Donuts and milk, a perfect pair
my favorite breakfast, beyond compare.
The milk, a chalice, pure and white
a perfect complement to the donut's sugary delight.
Glazed, iced, cake, or filled with jelly
each bite a journey that goes straight to my belly.
Donuts and milk become one with me
a perfect harmony, a deliciously sweet symphony.
Sear my heart, O rampant rage!
Simmer deep within!
Scour, devour this rusty cage!
What it takes to win...
As below, thus up above?
Not in this fair world.
Raptor hawk, guard well the dove?
Dead man's fingers curled...
Golden sparks to signal?
Attention that will get!
O prospectors, pill or pall?
Does it pay to fret?
No! Indeed not, my wild child!
Red run reconciled?
Crocodile in Nile beguiled?
Doubt and dismay dialed.
Tiled like floors in ancient tower?
Which architect planned?
Nightshade, is thy milk a-sour?
Blighted by the banned.
Is the ocean welling up?
Where the wound began?
Ark of Covenant, thy cup!
Revenant, how you ran!
Mutilation! Mutiny!
Murder in the streets!
Something lurking we can't see?
Have you seen the beats?
Reservations kept for six?
Bring thy crucifix.
Sullen heat out in the sticks?
Candles without wicks.
Fix it up, O soldiers!
We really must make do.
He who survives, first deters!
Ask the wallop hoo...
Rain
When listening to
the rain I have a
strange urge to
milk a
cow and
stick stamps on my
forehead.
“Think what a better world it would be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.” Barbara Jordan
There’s not a single problem in the world that couldn’t be solved by sharing a cookie, a smile, and a hug. Imagine if before discussing nuclear arms or trade negotiations, our world leaders simply sat down, shared a glass of milk, a few cookies, and a quick nap. Maybe they would all dream of world peace.
No child was ever
Born with hatred and mistrust
We have taught them well
Grandma’s button box and first aid kit were both mainstays in the kitchen.
We knew she had everything to help us if we were hurting or itch'n.
If we tore up our pants, got poison ivy or ripped a button off our coat,
She could have us fixed up in seconds, and then milk a cow or a goat.
In the morning light, a milk bottle stands,
A relic of bygone days, in my trembling hands.
Embossed with nostalgia, a link to the past,
From the dairy farm, where memories last.
As a little girl, I'd wait with glee,
For the sound of the milkman, with bottles three.
Clad in white, with a smile so kind,
Bringing fresh milk, a treasure to find.
The clink of glass, the cool touch of the jar,
Filled with creamy goodness, from cows afar.
A cap of foil, a symbol of care,
Delivered with love, from the dairy farm fair.
Each morning ritual, a simple delight,
The taste of fresh milk, a pure delight.
In that old bottle, a story untold,
Of days gone by, of memories bold.
Now the milkman is gone, the farm a memory,
Yet in that bottle, lives a legacy.
Of childhood moments, of innocence so sweet,
In the simple act of milk delivery, a connection complete.
As I sat on the plane, flying through the sky
I knew there would be heartache, but I didn't question why
Together Mike and me, had made this choice
To bring home 3 kids, we obeyed an inner voice
We took this option, though we were rather old
We brought them home, so their story could unfold
We knew it wouldn't be easy, with each damaged little heart
It certainly wasn't breezy, but it was a chance to restart
We gave them freedom and we gave them rules
We gave them love and taught not to be fools
we showed them love of nature, let them dance in the rain
In the hope that it would heal all the damage and the pain
We gave them compassion and we fed them well
Fresh food from the garden, good health they could smell
They learned to care for animals, ducks and chooks
How to milk a cow and a love of reading books
We encouraged being artistic and taught them to be kind
we gave the chance to mend their battered little mind
I'm so proud of these babies as 8 years have gone by
Though I'm often tired and cranky, I still don't question why
his baby daughter
tossed aside like a rag doll
dad wanted a son
my mother told him
that I was ‘the next best thing’
at least she loved me!
always second best
but useful with garden chores
I can milk a goat!
unwanted... unloved
no father daughter closeness
I do not miss him
since he passed away
I have flourished with my words
but I’ll never grieve
Rocks are quite overrated,
Aren't they now?
What can you do with a rock?
With a rock can you even milk a cow?
"We MaKe RoAdS WiTh rOcKs"
Okay, but still, what else is there use?
Can the rocks fix my broken light bulb,
Can they even fix its fuse?
"But that's not what they are meant to do!"
Exactly! So why are people expected to do more?
More than what they CAN do!
Let them do what they can!
Do what can be done by YOU!
He played in his father’s shadow
with a wooden Kalashnikov.
Meanwhile the goats needed milking.
The sun daily entered the sky tower
calling air to prayer.
His father has been gone too long
his mother cries
wails
beats her chest.
He follows the ways of his older brothers.
“Put this finger here,” one says,
“this is how you milk a she-goat.”
Another says, “Put your finger there,
that is how you pull a trigger.”
Soon he will put on the robes
of a shining martyr,
shave the hairs off
his hairless body
then far from the village
wash every inch
of his 12 year old life away
to become the very shadow
of his father.
Santa Claus, Babbo Natale, whatever you choose to call him these days, in the hearts of many he was never defamed.
Yes, he rides his sleigh on Christmas spirit, fueled by the Northern lights.
Nine special reindeer with 4 toes on each foot,
prance around at night with a glowing red nose full of soot.
He wears a white trimmed jacket of velvet and fur
and when he flies across the moon, it's like a blizzard, a big fat blur.
Chimney drops, present tucks, by the time he leaves,
there really isn't anything to sweep...
A glass of milk a cookie or two, then off to bed for a fortnight sleep
While there across the midnight sky, Santa gives a
ho ho ho and a wink on the sly
Yes, he rides his sleigh each Christmas Eve for all the hearts that wait,
while Christ is readying for His blessed birth,
he Santa, is always waiting at the gate.
A woman who works shucking corn
Tells jokes that are Iowan born
Just lend her an ear
And you're bound to hear
How colonels can milk a French horn
The wife loves the neighbourhood lads
And shares with them the latest fads
She shows them how
To milk a cow
So they all know how to be dads
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