QUAFF OR SIP
In days of old one drank from a flagon
Some were even embossed with a dragon
Yet more recently, mugs then emerged
And demand for matching items surged
Whether in tin, porcelain, or plain china
Some potteries’ items could not be finer
Later, tea drinkers in the Victorian era
Affected, bought cups that were dearer
Like doll house items, cups got quite small
And they offered hardly a mouthful at all
We know small teacups are not the same
So perhaps a cuplet is a far better name
What we do to our confessions?
We scribe them on the walls of caves / potteries & clay vessels
We inscribe them on elephant ivory in india / or papyrus in Egypt
We write them on each rice in china & give it a gift to wind
Or
We sit amidst candles
Embrace the stars & sky
Dance under our errs
Scold them under drizzling rain
Tell how our moons should always be / calm & humble / how our suns should shine
threatening eyes
Modern landscaping amuses me no end
in mansions and cottages round the bend.
To folks who seem aesthetically cultured,
a well-mown lawn is still ill-manicured,
unless there are potteries strewn around,
cracked, skewed, partly sunken in the ground.
But pots breed bad skitters that fill your artery
with dengue through this silly pseudo-artistry.
So, next time you stare at your yard be wary:
Mosquitoes sting anyone dabbling in pottery.
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