Gaelic: it was my mother's native tongue,
and her grandmother’s elder tongue.
Grandfather was a Romani gypsy,
horses naturally understood his voice.
My lips follow English,
a tangled language with too many roots,
tuberosities awkwardly clumped together,
like hard and lumpy potato soup -
a dish My Irish mother made
with an inattentive gusto...
her pink tongue licking the corners of her mouth,
as she slopped the part-cooked pottage out
into thick porcelain bowls.
She had quite forgotten her mother tongue,
or how to respect the potato,
and its historical significance to all in exile.
My own tongue was young and tender,
and too hungry to care. Already I instinctively knew
how to take my lumps.
Leroy
Cowboy
Rode horse
Of course
His hoss
Named Ross
Ropes steers
Slurps beers
Slouch hat
Flaunts gat
Wears boots
No suits
Eats beans
Wears jeans
Raised hell
Pell-mell
What's more
He swore
Has gal
Named Sal
To pub
For grub
They dance
Romance
They kiss
Pure bliss
Gets slopped
Fun stopped
Big brawl
(That's all)
That little piggy who chose to beg off
going to market, stayed home with a cough.
He bragged he was a cut above
butchering, "when push comes to shove
I will always be king at the food trough."
While "king" was napping in the best mud hole,
roast beef pig tied his four feet to a pole;
had-none pig slopped glue in his eyes.
When "Come, get it!" the farmer cries,
stay-at-home pig finds out who's in control.
November 25, 2022
Sponsor Eve Roper
Contest Name Children's Limericks
No matter how some complain and bellow
they are exposed, each a trolling fellow
I'd look them in the eye
for telling one more lie
but I heard they're too busy eating crow
by Jenna Logan
Their "platforms" anchored, tightly tethered
Their statements all "if, ands, and whethers"
While blowing their horns
And spitting out thorns
From mouths full of fluffy crow feathers
by John Lawless
Cruel comments, sure catch one's eye
Demeaning, vindictive, but sly
Trolls aim to debase
And leave a bad taste
Perhaps they should eat humble pie
by Jan Allison
Some people just won't admit when they're wrong
Like to spin yarns and then string you along
But without any doubt
They are always caught out
Then feast on the first crow that comes along
by Tom Cunningham
Will he choke while eating crow
A feeble mind he does show
He messed in the blog
When he slopped his hog
His words are wind and they blow
by Mark Koplin
Fell into a dream on a summer’s day
In the middle of a meadow, with sticky fingers
orange marmalade toast next to me slopped onto grass
Wonders happened almost instantly
It was not a rabbit-hole but something better
A tunnel practically hidden by a circle of sticks
Coming to get me was my grandmother
I had not seen her since sixty-four
I found myself tumbling and rumbling
Dipped into an empty cavern
You are killing me I whispered.
I felt her arm on my shoulder as I tumbled.
Grandmother and I landed in a magical spot.
A dream place I had only seen a few times.
Giant bookshelves with Pippi Longstockings books
and treasure maps! I was in heaven.
Have I died? I asked my grandmother.
No, darling, she assured me.
You are merely soul dream walking.
In the morning you will be back in your bed.
I am disappointed to say she was right.
For it is in dreams we get to visit our loved ones
And only there; I never wanted to wake up
But of course I have.
Onions in my meatloaf, in chili, and in sloppy Joe's they make us smile
In scalloped corn, and of course mashed potato gravy once in a while
Onions are chopped, ready to be slopped into everything here
For my husband and I adore them, hold their taste the most dear.
Others can have their ketchups, mustards, mayonnaise, and such.
Onions are flowing around in soup and whatever else we dream up
We have a pile of onions in the laundry room, behind the wall of clothes'
If they were found to be nuclear, we would pretty much be okay to glow.
Onions on the counter, onions on the stairs, onions in my dreams.
We love them in all capacities, even fried, and boiled with our beans.
I know it sounds excessive, but I learned about them from my mother
They are supposed to have healing properties, according to her brother
We are never sick, so maybe onions have saved us some hospital time
We raise them in the garden, and they come out tender and so fine.
Onions in our meatloaf, in chili, and other wonderful homemade dishes.
Please let us enjoy our onions, they increase the taste of fishes.
We carried it home in a salty pail;
the bones of a monster.
Freddy said it was an alien;
his dad had seen their ships
shining like sixpences
in the sky.
When we tipped the bucket,
seawater and bones slopped.
For a moment
the loosely strung carcass swam.
I wondered if it was a small mermaid,
or a mermaid’s daughter.
Freddy poked it with his foot.
“Look at its head,” he said;
“it’s got no teeth.”
That settled it. We agreed
it was a drowned space kid.
That night
I dreamed it’s leathery beak
opened and sang of
deep green star-pools.
Sailing On A Sleek Sloop
We went sailing on a sleek sloop
Then had to stop for bowl of soup
When hungry both started to be
Boat slopped and got all over me
Sank according to latest scope.
Jim Horn
What recently I had realized
Is that when you are traumatized
Things sticky soon do become
Heard calling of a distant drum
With her music was mesmerized.
Writing has become habit forming
So out of the room started storming
Thoughts of new homes started sharing
And prices were reluctantly comparing
Which one in will we have a house warming.
Went barn storming to find a house warming.
Jim Horn
Landslide
Avalanche; executing terrible
approached unexpectedly and
Made everything despair;
Torn out, worn out
Making cry and mourn
Landslide came;
Vulnerability inclined;
Along with the despair
Lost out torn out
Hubbub came, cry came;
Landslide welcomed grief
Happiness lost, grieved out
“Mom, Mom….” Son yells
Heard from the distance
Within a minute;
Got soundless
Unbearable the scene
Pathetic and suffering
Reaped out, chopped out
Fatal and deadly the way
The hills slopped and fragile;
boulders additionally the clinkers came
Along with the rain
So brawling and cleaned out
Couldn't address bye; even
Rest in peace the soul
That is departed out
Horace the tortoise was ready to dine
He ordered his food, while the waiter poured wine
They bought the first course, (a huge bowl of soup)
But, the bowl had a rabbit who was swimming in loops!!
"Oh waiter! Come quickly!"..."There's a hare in my soup!!"
And soon other patrons, had circled in groups
Their eyes were astonished, as that hare took a swim
splashing the broth, and wearing a grin
"This is disgusting"!! "Oh my! A disgrace!!"
"It's that same rascal rabbit...from yesterday's race!!"
He is out for revenge! Now he's slurping my food
"He's that same trouble maker....who is up to no good!
"Help! Call the management! Please call the cops!"
"He's doing a backstroke while splashing a lot,...
Can't you see how he's slopped all my soup from the pot?"
Tired of swimming, we watched how he hopped right
out of the soup bowl without mopping up
He jumped from the table, and down to the floor
grabbing the salad, and hopped out the door!
Leaving a puddle, without looking back,
while leaving the tortoise just holding the check!
I dined with a girl,
guess I should say
we both were free.
Her name was miss Ethel,
made me feel special,
t'was love I could see.
(Chorus)
She was my whole world 'til that romantic repast,
I didn't know how long my stomach would last...
She cooked on the grill,
looked like road kill'
in some kinda swill.
She said let us eat,
I asked her "why?"
she said "my treat."
(Chorus)
She said "have some more" and I asked for a bag,
She slopped on some more and I started to gag!
I sat on the couch,
in fetal crouch,
whispering "ouch".
She turned down the lamps,
I held back my cramps,
She wanted to dance...
She asked me to stay; she was making desert,
"It's Gopher gut pie" and..I.. hurled in my shirt !
And.. then I awoke,
It was a dream,
My shirt was clean.
So I stoked the fire,
...isn't it good,
to eat what we should.
to the tune of "Norweigan Wood" by the Beatles....(Key of D preferred please)
.inspired by John Heck's Beatlemania Sing Along.
Abstracts hang:
sterling silver frames,
matted in motif,
celebrating Artist.
An exhibit, ten years old,
collects dust, forcing recollection.
The mortuary – Boyhood Curiosity.
Mother: Naked. Stretched. Stiff. Grey.
Tin baking dishes engulfed the counters.
Great aunts and second cousins crowded our sofas.
Somber chatter and pats on the head stung.
Clasping my girl’s hand, I twisted my door knob
quietly. Their chatter continued.
I escaped into her for my first kiss:
tear salt and cherry lip gloss.
Tuna casserole and ambrosia slopped
into lunch boxes. The cold steel of fresh
cut key tapped on chest, pulled the string around
my neck, leaving a rash. I walked into our empty house.
The walls echoed. Odor from cold spiral ham
replaced aroma of fresh cookies and oil paint.
Art followed Artist. Canvases were laid on the autopsy
table, framed for their wake.
Dressed in their Dynamic Blue,
Electric Lime and Habanero Red,
the dirging dead
hang on wall.