those long stainless spoons
bring back memories
the noise of the chefs bringing long trays
of food we would soon be dipping into
as trays would make their way along the line
gathering the daily meal the kitchen had prepared
the last duty was the exit dispensing
the bagged lunches we had already prepared
as they made their way back into the streets
the camaraderie in the kitchen
was a daily blessing
sometimes one could hear old gospel songs
or perhaps a newer popular tune
it was a shared joy
the art of bagging baloney and cheese
the banter between volunteers and recipients
and the Thanksgiving meals of the Salvation Army
escorting them through the line, seating them
oh, I could tell you tales from the shower detail
soap, shampoo, new t-shirt, specialty products
the smiles, having removed the everyday wear of life
a chance to walk into a new life for a moment
my walk from the trolley among them gathering
waiting at the door, offers of drugs, street reality
when i must confront the cruelty of humanity
it is here i remember, the heart of Christianity
Oregon 8/3/26
The summer of 1961 stays with me in small, steady ways. Bare feet on hot Texas sidewalks, jump-rope songs drifting between houses, mothers calling from screen doors—all of it part of the quiet world I grew up with. The box fan's low hum, the sharp crack of ice trays, the porch light warming the dusk—ordinary things that felt like the neighborhood holding itself together.
Rock ’n’ roll floated out of transistor radios, bicycles waited in the yard as if they knew we’d be back, and fireflies stitched their brief gold through the evening. I didn’t realize then how memory was already gathering these moments, saving them without asking. I only knew the slow stillness of night settling in and something larger than childhood holding me close.
dusk in my bones~
old summers rise like prayer,
soft and unbidden
In shades of teal the ocean's roaring calls.
A realm so deep where life in ripples lives,
a world of shells where boundless beauty sprawls.
Beneath the sky a water color-scape
wild currents move in rhythmic Afro dance.
In shades of teal the ocean's roaring calls.
Sunlight falls through surface green and blue
creating teal amid the kelp and grass,
a world of shells where boundless beauty sprawls.
Within the darkened blue so deep and wide
the mystic sea unveils its great display
in shades of teal as ocean's roaring calls.
A gentler call as nighttime stars come out.
The gems are seen in stony tidal trays,
a world of shells where boundless beauty sprawls.
As twilight winds regain their strength afar
in fog a moonlit echo can be heard.
In shades of teal the ocean's roaring calls,
a world of shells where boundless beauty calls.
(Unrhymed Villanelle)
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
My inner child remembers those days
When life was simple and full of praise
For doing good and rejecting that maze
Of anything bad, which caused a craze.
Oh, how I miss those firm, clear-cut ways
A choice was grasped from "yes or no" trays-
And not from jumbled "this or that" sways.
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
I have ears covered.
And angry ankles with socks.
Just a hospital.
It flew endlessly.
Dreams can be like tank tops.
Comfy and have designs sometimes.
Yet they are as empty as that water bottle in the corner.
Dragging us around.
That week?
We rode on top of our ankles.
To the hospital.
And then a week went by and…
A thing entered the gates.
We all remember like eyeballs nodding.
Dreams cover me up like leaves.
Flying like ankle socks.
Dreams in the hospital.
Trays of food, plastic forks.
Lasts and lasts like indestructible coats.
Christmas Day it’s unbearable to be here.
I have ears.
Hearing things like medication.
It’s cold like a piece of jewelry.
But not as nice.
Dreams in the hospital.
The showers were full.
Dragging around little more.
Pretended I was in a grocery store.
I think maybe it was nine days after all.
I might never see any of them again.
I left behind a plastic fork I used to pick my brain.
And I hope that’s it.
A red wine stain stays
seared into the wooden grain —
the table keeps watch
how their laughter filled the room
last time they were together
Jellybeans loiter
on the shelf in cookie jar
I wish none remained —
better emptiness than this
waiting for sweet that's hollow
Perfume on pillows,
a scent that's too strong at times
still wafts through the air —
sometimes the scent warms the room
often it dampens the mood
Burn marks scar the trays
where scones were baked lovingly
await scraper's blade —
to erase fond memories
of toppings with jam and cream
Much-loved song lies poised
in the player seldom used
my choice, not hers now —
ready to play her music
to ignite the glow we shared
No flowers drying
only books she left behind —
in the bookcases
that still cups the curve of hands
that held them by candlelight
Mailbox yawns empty
no letters, no messages
no texts, likes on screens —
she deleted her accounts
no one home, got no reply
So much left to clean
to pack, stack, clean and carry
yet I leave it still —
for the mess is a mirror
that keeps her ghost in the room
Upright fluorescent streetlamp
Kind host of the village boys
Sweet memories twined with it
Cycling around the pole base
Playing hours with friends under
Mouth watering snacks nearby
Chat with girlfriend in starburst
As yummy as vendor’s trays!
My children this is dad, whenever you are sad,
Talk to God, he will listen to you.
Think of something to say, to Him everyday.
At this age, that's what I try to do.
I can say this is true, He keeps his word to me and you,
Throughout my life he always did.
He spoke to my mind, every night at bedtime,
When I was a little kid.
You won't have a clue, when He's speaking to you,
His who, what, why, where, and when's.
When you spend so little time with Him on your mind,
But all day you'll it's your phone and your friends.
The One who took clay, to make humans one day,
Then gave us His lifegiving air.
But we choose to repay, by watching TV everyday,
To our Creator, we hardly even care.
The older you get, each day you will regret,
That you didn't give Him much of a try.
That question will haunt you, again and again,
As you lay awaiting to die.
I use to serve trays at the Bay Pines VA,
For some patients I was the last person they'd see.
They had regrets for the God whom they neglect
Saying, I hope he has forgiven me.
Family is important, so are people and friends.
You might not see God now.
But you will when your life ends.
Love Dad...
5 large egg whites
250g caster sugar
380ml double cream
5 tbsp lemon curd
300g blackberries
2 tbsp pistachios, toasted & roughly chopped
InstructionsPreheat the oven to 180 C/160 C fan. Line two large baking trays with baking parchment.
In a large bowl, whisk the egg whites until soft peaks form. Adding the sugar 1 tbsp at a time, continuing to whisk until you have a stiff, glossy meringue.
Divide into three, placing two big dollops nto one baking sheet and one on the other. Spread out until you have three circles approx 20cm in diameter.
Place the trays in the oven and immediately reduce the heat to 140 C/120 C fan. Bake for one hour then turn off the oven and leave the meringues inside to cool completely.
When ready to serve, whip the cream until soft peaks form and fold in the lemon curd. Remove the meringues from the baking parchment and layer with whipped cream, blackberries and a sprinkle of pistachios. Serve in thick slices.
This meringue cake is best eaten on the day of making, but leftovers will keep in an airtight container in the fridge for a day or two.Fagotto Amaretto chocalae and piscatoes
It only took a moment
When I saw you from across the room,
Standing there talking with the bride And groom.
Though we had met some years ago at a gathering,
Little did we know we would be part of Barb and Dan's wedding.
I smile and nodded as I casually walk toward the food trays,
What happened next, well that it’s hard To say.
He smiled and gently took my hand I’m not sure you remember I’m Dan’s
Friend Johnny,
And in that instant I knew together we were destined to be.
All decisions are made
at a desk in another country.
They pass through
‘in’ and ‘out’ trays,
collecting signatures along the way.
Then, one day,
they become a concrete wall,
where once a few
tired weeds grew.
Afghanistan, 2017
First published in Blue Minaret
Mangoes, the first of the season,
sit plump and shameless in trays,
their smooth skin tempting
a passing hand to reach down
and touch them, one cut open
sends the tongue into a spasm.
The market is a feast for the senses.
You need to walk slow
and take it in, catch the smell
coming ripe from the cheese,
golden blocks and creamy white
rounds speckled with mold
hang heavy in the enclosed air
of a stall. Salty, buttery, rich,
the nose lingers over each.
And further along, jams and preserves
rainbow their colors from jars stacked
high in pyramids and on a table,
trays of dried and glace fruit glisten
a sugary sheen in a sunlit glut
to the eye. Swelling apricots,
pineapple pieces and pear halves
bulge beneath clear plastic wrap.
It's almost overload to an old man,
stall upon stall of temptation,
offerings of pleasures banned
by the diet police with their edicts
outlawing salt, fat and sugar.
On this warm, bright Saturday
afternoon in October I say f… em !.
TRAIN TRAVEL
I am on a superfast train
Listening to the soothing refrain,
Of the wheels on the railway track
Clickety clack, clickety clack.
Verdant vistas on either side,
Soothing visions during the ride.
Hamlets and villages flash by,
Little children waving "Hi"!
Fields of wheat and sugarcane,
Glistening from recent rains.
No pollution, no blaring horns,
No impatience or faces forlorn.
The catering staff wend their way,
Distributing food on trays.
We tuck into a hearty meal,
Get a satiated feel.
Chat with fellow travelers,
Some sober, some revelers.
Each with different tales to tell,
Caught up in a magical spell.
Halting at railway stations,
Quaint outposts of the nation.
The aroma of frying food,
You simply cannot elude.
Idyllic this train travel,
Just unwind and unravel.
Far away from stress and strain,
Modern life's eternal bane.
Stretching on my berth, relaxed,
Languidly just laying back,
Till I reach my destination
I'll admire Nature's creations.
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