revenge is served cold
with malice in cold steel knife
beside three-pronged fork
hate needs patience to mature
like a ripe blue-vein Stilton
anger sets the feast
memory seasons each course
with bitter chilli
sprinkled to sharpen revenge
as hunger outwaits its prize
when the dish arrives
rust has reached the waiting knife
mould adorns the fork
the taste of blood turns bitter
in the gnash of grinding teeth
It was like a rainbow, this bead so fine that strung up so many lifelessly like puppets pronged. The carry-over appears, like ageism defeated but again it rears and spills the beans over another adventure, so silly that goose like hemlock endeavors, so wily this bead so effervescent that dowry hidden in the stores are much too much of a bounty.
Come on! Is that the best blast you've got?
Your thunder tantrums don't scare me - Your flash and flare they're half hot!
I love this dunder, blunder, thunder, and underhand rumble-in-the-jungle!
Touché! Olé! We're duellin' again with fork-pronged lightn' sparkling lances.
Clang! Bang! Ker-pow! Ker-plunk! Ker-thump! - Your thunder's late by years!
I flash, bash, smash, crash, gnash — while your Ker-boom goes boom blah, blah, Ahah!
Your quick flashback, claptrap wisecracks come back five seconds late.
Bolt after bolt, your jolts, revolts, cheap-shots and pot-shots hit my ear flaps.
All roar, no score, no gore, no nosebleeds — just air stabs in ionized air.
By then your temper, torage, outrage, out in the garage is binned — You lost!
You ain't learned nothin' from last night's plate-a-smashin' dry run.
Oh No! Don't let the rain come down!
We're both having far far too much fun!
You can't resist, can you — spoiling the perfect row —
By making up, way, way, way ..... too soon!
544.
Learning Developmental Reading
A Prof. Ed. subject – Developmental Reading
Process with stages, purposes with meaning
It uses different skills
Like eating different meals
Do not miss the 4-Pronged Approach
In reading it is an effective coach
Read between the lines the idioms & allusions
There are theories & tactics as guide-ons!
-03/18/2017
(Dumarao)
*PEN Poems
A Friday,
a plane crash,
a phone call,
all it took
for your whole world to shatter.
You never got to tell them
how you’d follow in his footsteps
in his wing span
You never got to tell him
that you only wished to follow
in that Cessna Skylane
one three-pronged tragedy
became the axis
around which the rest of your stories
would turn
one sorrowful night
changed who you were
forever
and by the time I came along
all your fire
ferocity,
passion
had crashed into electric wire
erupted into flames
had been decapitated
and so it is left to me
to honor your mother,
and your brother
in ways you never taught me
but I learned anyway.
And I will ignore
the memory of Grandpa George,
because he crashed that damn plane
on purpose…
or did he?
‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’
~ (The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 1)
'Tis a fair merchant that I claim to be
Lowly seller of wares and grain for seed
An honest man, but if one dares cheat me
Clobbering I shall do, until they bleed
My body is off limits, so hands off
No laughter shall thee hear if I'm tickled
Nay! A frown given to thee and a scoff
With sour brine I'll throw, thee shall be pickled!
Poison me, peasant and If I'm not dead
I shall slip Romeo's drink in your ale
In your pints be wary and live with dread
For in Venice, your body shall float pale
My merchant's wrath shall be deadly, if wronged
I shall prick thee with a fork, double pronged
Let me tell you of a journey- from The Parthenon to Paris
in the springtime - of which real year, no one knew
Riding on an ostrich guided by a gilded leather bridle
traveling back roads dressed in mysterious disguises
using signals only ostrich riders do.
The endurance of the ostrich was as equally surprising as
the smoothness of its gallop on the road.
It needed very little in the way of daily edibles
while the softness of its feathers made a very comfy saddle.
Now an ostrich made an eerie sight in swaying fields of daffodils.
Its three-pronged feet so admirable for climbing alpine hills.
It handled every mountain as well as any Hannibal
with eyes adept to guide a sleepy rider while he slept.
The gallop into Paris was singularly memorable –
No wildly cheering crowds of proud Parisians-no-one knew-
No showers of cherry blossoms sprinkled from the Eiffel Tower
in praise or celebration of this epic ostrich rider.
What evidence is there, then? What memory endures
Perhaps a photograph or witness tells the tale
If the novelty is forgotten and the mists of time have passed
Could fields of daffodils remember or perhaps the Cherry blossoms?
Now all that remains is a silver framed photograph
A reminder of when there was a splitting of paths
Between one realm and the other, a bridge uncrossed
One day to be readjourned, but for now is just a loss
Tears are what waters the remaining greenhouse residents
As only one of two remains to stand and be present
Though flowers blossom and continue to grow
The color disappears in the heart that was bestowed
Snowflakes fall as autumn turns into winter
The seasons marching on as timelines are splintered
The moon keeps giving light, but inside it's disappeared
Death stabs the soul like a three pronged spear
Now the two only meet up in the plane of a dream
The tears they cry together make saltwater springs
And just like that they fade away, nothing to remain
Where life has to continue on, always to sustain
RED fire ball submerging,
we slip from the light
watching our shadows bloom.
A smoldering sphere,
not clean-cut, but badly drawn,
its REDNESS wobbles and fumes.
as it downs itself
still smoking a last shred of day.
For a few long moments Banshees
go silent.
Curious Giraffes stretch their necks
to sniff the freshly deceased,
as one by one
they black-out the flares
of self-rising spirits.
Another evening
in the zoological realms
of space.
The sun-swimmers flop on the beach
basking in the last RED drops.
Venus in her dressing-room,
is plugging-in her shine.
She adorns her gown
with fractals and sprinkles.
Mars goes in and out
of its dust filled hollowness,
seeking a deeper RED
to die within.
Skin still blistering with sandy itches
we head for home
ignoring the sighs of a leaking
and sullen surf.
A herd of colorful umbrellas
fold their pronged headgears
down into a dimmer,
more dusky RED decline.
There once was a lady from Lynx,
Who was a veritable minx,
she wrote about love,
cooed like a dove,
loved mixing ambiguous drinks.
Now the minx was wearing a wig,
Which made her look like a fig,
And she had the gall,
To hold me in thrall,
And jabbed me with a two-pronged twig!
Songs of the Ocean
Sing a song of the Ocean
Marine creatures in motion
The oceans turbulent waves
And those sailors truly brave.
Sing songs of the Ocean bed
Gems found in a treasure chest
Ol’ King Neptune’s three pronged fork
And the lovely quaint seahorse.
Sing of dolphins ultrasound
How they play with folk around
Sing songs of aquatic whales
Of their wishy-washy tails.
Sing of wobbly jellyfish
Ocean creatures tasty dish
Of exotic ocean plants
Swaying in a tidal dance.
*+*+*
28th March 2023
Children Sing to Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Slime is a subtle stage for blame I can’t stay stuck to your ways/
I’m a little vague so your game I’ll ante up to plague/
While a tirade goes for their bane they played and waged/
I’ll abrogate woes to lurk away more straight/
Compile and appropriate foe’s to contain your plate/
The trial of a pirate goes on to con tame and irrigate/
Denial of a tyrant that strove along to drain and irritate/
Then dial a vibrant cat to move strong and plain annihilate/
A senile re-brand that drove a pronged strain to acclimate/
The tribal withstand fought a shove from one that longed again to act just or right/
Sir it’s vital to know the zone read was a wrought lot and would attract a prejudice overnight/
Survival of a homestead sought above tact and when injustice is worth a fight/
Sure is final now just like a home’s bed brought to a spot held at last a permanent site/
“Still got that tin box that we used to ash cigarettes in college” she asked.
"Yeah, it still carries the ashes of my tenderness that I burned with every cigarette I lit after losing you." he replied.
Silence pronged, lips touched, but this time he could not close his eyes.
Kicking The Can
Written: by Miracle Man
November 19 2021
I’m not reluctant to express my opinion,
on consistently kicking the can down the road.
I've a mind of my own and not someone’s minion,
Nor by strong opposition will I become slowed.
By kicking the can down the road things are prolonged,
only to need addressing on another day.
Many times simple problems can become three pronged,
and often it's someone else who is forced to pay.
“Progress begins with the belief,
that what is necessary is possible.”
Norman Cousins
My fond childhood memories;
I couldn't wait to get to my grandparents
During the holidays when I was young.
Their arms always outspread with affection,
Their warm love for us was quite apparent.
Waking in the morning with smell of baked bread.
Wouldn't take much for grandpa and me to pause
Whatever we were doing when bread was ready.
Slice of hot bread and melting butter, our stomachs fed.
Gran would let me help wash clothes in a spent
Wringer washer, then hung on a clothesline
With two-pronged wooden pins in the backyard
To dry in the sun giving them fresh air scent.
I am older, with my own family.
I try to keep those warm memorable
Traditions. A bread machine, a dandy
Invention; all ending so happily.
One of the few things I do and provide
myself; if ambitions on sunny days,
I will hang my clothes out on the clothesline.
Memories of childhood I hold with pride.
6/16/2021
Poetry Contest: A Tender Moment From Childhood
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury
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