We must not drink or eat
Absolutely nothing to drink or eat, I repeat
Forget sex, there’s no holding hands
Even a peck on the cheek is banned
As for washing, bathing, or showering
Maybe a maybe, if one's odor is overpowering
All of this, and Yom Kippur is called a holiday
~ Easy to see why the whole day in synagogue we pray!
an elk rib rack frenched
pinot noir
garlic
slab bacon
pearl onions
tomato paste
mushrooms
celery
red bell pepper
cayeene pepper
thyme bay leaves
carrots
brown all edges of the elk in olive oil
allow to cool
add wine and salt
Mccormick seasoning
all to marinade for three hours
in a dutch oven
add oilve oil 5 T.
cook bacon !/2done
(1/2 raw add lastly)
sautee carrots, celery,
red bell pepper
add mushrooms and
remove from heat
and add the rib roast
pour in wine
add one cup of water
pearl onions
thyme and bay leaves
add tomato paste
season with more McCormick's
cook for 3 hours at 350.
make a gravy and mash potato's
-----------------------------------------
serve with a grilled veggie salad with goat cheese
and garlic bread
Coffee
With a splash of cream
Delightful
I lie to myself and say I love the taste
I don’t
It’s alright
Pretty good, even
But I drink it just because
It keeps the day moving anyway
Then my fingertips smell like it
Earthy and dry
The day hasn't gone any faster at all
But it is something to do
Until one day I retire
And then I'll drink coffee for no reason at all
Ngokungazi, kade u- building a craft
Long before wawu- with the know-how to name it
That ikhono for mending, that ukuthambekela toward making —
Ku- your ubizo, your umsebenzi wobungcweti, your calling.
Your umsebenzi wezandla is being shaped in quiet hours.
Through ukuqina and indlela, ngibe gathering ulwazi.
The umsebenzi was never just work.
Ngi- not here by accident.
Be- meant to yiba yinyanga of this.
So yiba patient with the process.
What you are being called to ku- sacred:
Ubizo — umsebenzi only your hands ba- able to do.
Every day it just gets more and more embarrassing, smh. The sad part about it is, the grass was gray (dead and withered) the first time, yet somehow people still believed gray grass was gonna somehow turn green the second time around. Truth be told, it is far worst. We are in Total Disarray! Like for real, how many signs of stupidity can you ignore? Smh. We really are the Weakest Link and the Dumbest Link. Barnum & Bailey at its finest.
With that being said, keep your seat belt buckled, cause every day we going for a ride.
And every day is like a malfunctioned Waymo car, running wild and loose with no order, no structure and no sense of direction.
All I can say is wheww chile! When this circus show comes to an end, there’s going to be sooo much to do and undo… like literally, SO MUCH!
I shouldn't have to beg for someone to love me they should want to love me
The need to do things escapes me
However, there are things that must be done
I have eliminated dishwashing
Well not entirely
Just wash the one plate and fork
After every meal
Cooking has been modified
Can opener and/or microwave
I only vacuum when the cat complains
The dust “kittens” look like large mice
Fashion wise I have a rotating sequence
Flannel shirts, pants when required,
A sketchy seven o-clock shadow beard
Exercise primarily consists of
Picking up items I have dropped
For mental stimulation
I lose arguments with inanimate objects
And battle with AI “customer service” bots
For excitement I sit by the tracks
Waiting for a train to stir up a poem
When on my 12th year
father gave me a birthday card
with the number of days, I had lived printed
inside it. I had to sit down and wait for my heart
to stop leaping over imaginary walls.
There were 4.382 walls to jump over,
It took me days, by the end of which
I was much older than I should have been.
When I tried to explain my feelings to him,
he grinned, often that grin was more a sneer
as he poked an incriminating finger at my face.
It was a running joke for him, I guess.
What does a boy do with that kind of number?
A day is a long time for a kid, but that number
seemed like a worm cut in two, both ends
wriggling away to God knows where.
I took the card and pinned it to a bedroom wall,
daily I would add more numbers with a blue marker
until father made me wash the days away.
I bought a pocket calculator,
when father died, mother helped me
slip it into his coffin,
it seemed the right thing to do.
I'm kind of all out of love
It's just
seeping through my tone
my words
my heart
have you noticed?
onto the floor
running
away
from me
I feel so heavy
Almost like it's scared,
but it's slow
it seems tired too
exhausted, drained
so empty
I don't know where it went
or why it left
I can't give more
my heart is sore
I knew this would happen
I'm sorry
i don't know what to do
I'm kind of all out of love
for you
Was Leroy distracted, distressed or distraught?
Paul has no answers.
He is sixteen, and in shock.
Leroy had been his best friend.
Leroy’s parents persist their questioning.
Did you know what he was planning to do?
Paul is horrified.
Leroy had given him his sketchbook.
He had not realized.
What am I to do with these thoughts?
I cannot help or stop my heart to feel
Feeling pain, I never wanted nor sought
But without it, I would break and kneel
In prayer, I seek to know the truth
To understand how I was caught
Caught in love? Please don't assume
As it was never something I sought
The prayer is simply a question asked
How am I to break this powerful chain?
Beautiful is the bond. As a matter of fact
Though it drives me completely insane
Sadness to happiness, you control my mood
A world turned upside down with your look
In your beauty, happily, I become subdued
To explain it fully would take an entire book
But it is a book I would be willing to write
This story over and over till you finally see
My testament to you because of my plight
I've fallen in love wholeheartedly with thee
poetry crawls out of my dreams and shakes her head
she entices me with a line that wakes me up in a weird way
disoriented, all I know is that I need to grab a pen or a computer
she gives me no freewill; I am her captive, her prisoner.
My fingers are itching to either write or type
we do not care which anymore; but poems are making noises
shaking shimmering shabby chic missives exploding in our mind
I say our, so I can include Trixie, my muse, who is persnickety
She insists on getting paid credit. To not do this would be suicide.
I would die a slow death, under her warm tutelage.
no one has a muse any more persistent or insistent than Trixie.
She forces me to do her bidding; I am her minion.
Happy to do it, Trixie, truly, I am.
Snicker Snicker
Will you try to do something higher than impulse or ego?
Title:
Being Human
(A lone voice whispers)
Will you deny realizing your desires and self-serving needs for a higher moral, religious, or selfless purpose?
Will you try to put your comfort and will behind trying to help others by being kind?
And not being brainwashed by the circus?
If you can, reach out your hand.
We are as one… we are true humans.
(C) Copyright John Duffy
I do not know the borrowed words
That flutter lightly, spent on air,
The careful phrases people trade
And leave no warmth behind them there.
But give me fields at break of dawn,
When mist still holds the breathing land,
And I will hear what sparrows mean
Without a question being planned.
The bees confide in humble tones
Of labor sweet and faith in light,
They speak of summers earned by work
And faith that flowers will be bright.
A cat will tell me truths of rest,
Of patience folded into grace,
A horse will lend his quiet strength
Without demanding words or face.
I fail at talk that asks for nothing,
That circles safe and never sees,
But I am fluent in the hush
Between the birds, the leaves, the bees.
For there is speech that does not ask
To prove itself or to persuade—
It lives where listening is love,
And nothing true must be displayed.
I don't know what to do
From hands of love
Let me go on bloody
From hands of love
Let me give my wealth
Let me attain God's consent
Let me be naked
From hands of love
Word of Jonah
Became ash his core
Eyes are tearful
From hands of love
My place is montanes
My tears pour always
Steady blood cries
From hands of love
Written by Yunus Emre (Dervish Jonah)
Translation Onur Ünlü
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