At dusk, the cicadas rise,
tiny bronze lanterns
warming in the branches.
Their song begins low,
a tremble of earth-heat
and summer breath.
And there~
in soft cotton pajamas
printed with moons and small brave stars~
a little boy steps onto the porch
as if onto a stage
built just for him.
He lifts a wooden spoon
like a maestro’s baton,
solemn in the way only children
can be solemn
when the world finally listens.
The cicadas hush,
then swell~
a shimmering chorus
of wings and ancient rhythm.
He nods once,
and they follow,
obedient as any orchestra
that knows genius when it sees it.
The night glows around him,
silver-soft,
the moon leaning closer
to watch this small conductor
shape the wild into music.
And when he lowers his spoon,
the cicadas quiet
with reverence~
their final notes drifting
into the waiting dark.
The boy smiles,
bare feet on cool porch wood,
pajamas glowing faintly
in the moonlight.
He has conducted the night,
and the night
has bowed.
I found it buried in Grandma’s drawer,
the blasted wooden spoon with the burn mark
and the hairline crack God knows what from.
She snatched it from my hand like it was alive.
“That thing’s seen more trouble than you,” she said,
and the air in the kitchen shifted,
as if the spoon remembered something
and was waiting to see if I did too.
It wasn’t for stirring beans.
It wasn’t for tasting stew.
that spoon was for pointing ... slow, deliberate
at any child that had forgotten their manners.
My father swore he could hear it hum
before it struck the table.
My mother said it twitched in the drawer
when someone lied in the next room.
By the time it came for my generation,
we didn’t need the smack,
just the lift of Grandma’s hand toward the drawer,
the shadow of the spoon rising like judgment.
And years later, when my own children tested me,
I reached for it not in a drawer, but in its own crock
felt its weight settle into my palm,
felt every ancestor nod in approval.
The spoon never touched them.
It didn’t have to.
Some objects carry their own history,
and this one still waits in the crock,
quiet as a predator stalking its prey.
I remember momma baking cookies,
the big green bowl holding the flour and sugar and this and that, and the sound of the wooden spoon scraping the sides of the bowl, round and round.
Brown, prenatal cookies rolled out on a flat surface waiting to be defined into some animal form. A rabbit, maybe, or a duck. Awaiting the downward thrust of the metal form, to learn their shape.
Then popped into the heat of the oven against their will, enduring the transition from pliable to rigid in this formative period of their lives. Pulled out to rest upon their cookie sheet, fully formed.
What have I become, after the gathering of my ingredients, the stirring, the kneading, the cutting forces of culture and the heat of debate? A lamb or a wolf?
The house is filled with the wonderful smells
of our own treasured ingredients passed down
from generation to generation.
Diminished Hexaverse, brevity food is warm,
powerful, emotional, and comforting,
cooked up in a large Dutch oven with a wooden spoon.
Slow-cooked serving inspiration.
Melt 5-line stanzas, each containing 5 syllables,
and let simmer for two minutes. Creating a good base.
Add 4-line stanzas, each containing 4 syllables.
Whisk together 3-line stanzas, each containing 3 syllables.
Add the rest of the broth in, 2-line stanzas,
each containing 2 syllables.
The finishing touch! 1-line stanzas, each containing 1 syllable.
Cook for 5-8 min. until you're ready to serve!
This recipe never disappoints.
My Love
How do you expect me to survive
For I am thirsty of your saliva that I deeply suck from the walls of your lips.
While pumping mine from the hills of my chest
I'm trembling for my stomach is starving
The feeling of your hard wooden spoon feeding my mouth down the valley,
Gives energy to my legs and power to my heart.
Believing one day you will feed my mouth and satisfy my stomach and I shall never want to eat again.
How Would You
Define Love?
On Copper Kettle Dreams
Reflected In A Frozen Summer
Dancing On A Wooden Spoon.
How Would YOU Define It Now?
On Whisps Of Fragrent
Smothering Blooms Delivering
Solace To Stormy Seas?
How Would You Consume Love?
In Laughing Puddles Cold
And Careless, Waving Mercilessly...
Waving Back..
How Would You Ataack With
Love Right Back?
-Gray Squirrel
11-23-2025
When the world seems chaotic and I don't know how much more I can take
I find a quiet place to think and decide on what to make
Creating something new and adding only the magic that I can give
makes a world that can sometimes be ugly a better place to live
Writing, painting or a craft that I have in the making
so many choices but today I think I will be baking
Looking through my recipes I find one and start to read
I gather my ingredients hoping that I have what I need
I gather my favorite mixing bowls and my trusty wooden spoon
I grab the measuring cups the magic will be starting soon
Measuring, mixing and tasting sticking with the plan
Now that it's all mixed together, I pour it into the pan
I pop it in the oven, set the timer and take a rest
the smell that feels the house is absolutely the best
It's time to see if all went well and if the recipe turned out
It's the most beautiful loaf I have ever seen and I let out a little shout
The world is still chaotic but not as bad as I first thought
Is there anything better than baking magic and eating bread while it's still hot
It's a soup that's made to order never from a store
A little bouillon treat that's filled with herbs galore
Not the kind you get from packets, no not that kind !
with itty bitty chicken bits it has onions you can find.
I start with chicken base then add a clove of garlic,
turmeric and salt with a dash of home made magic.
I simmer for an hour while the veggies steam & swim,
singing in a playful voice, "a little blessed hymn".
I start with a clean counter then tuck my hair right in
wearing pinafore of white, with little ducks that swim
I stew it then I stir it, with a large wooden spoon
telling funny stories to a soup that cooks til' noon
Made with love and kindness, it really hits the spot,
I cook it just like mama did, when I was just a tot.
It's a soup that's made to order, never from a store,
this little bouillon treat is filled with herbs galore.
Enjoy !
wooden spoon worn smooth
calloused hands’ enduring tool
sleeps in a drawer
Wooden spoon -old fashioned handcrafted discipline tool
Vanilla rolls off the tongue,
silky like sheets,
soft and smooth,
sophisticated,
satisfying,
sweet.
Vanilla poured into a bowl -
the waft to the nose,
a high from the extract.
Sensational something
stirred up with a wooden spoon.
Vanilla pairs perfectly
with chocolate.
My personal sate
is sprinkles on soft serve
in a sugar cone.
Colorful paintings
cling to vanilla on walls,
as clouds to baby blue skies.
Vanilla rugs are decadent,
don’t bear well with kids and pets.
Clean bare feet keep them neat.
Vanilla, a fan favorite,
vehemently defends itself,
Voluminous and valuable.
No not the kind you get from a packet oh no not that kind
this one has little bits of chicken in it, with onions you can find
I start with chicken base and add fresh grated garlic to it
turmuric, black pepper, parsley, and basil just a bit
Then I let it simmer for an hour while the vegetables steam and swim
and I sing to it with a wispy voice, that little blessed hymn
that mama taught me long ago, while making chicken soup;
Not the kind that you order in from a store next door
this one comes from the pantry shelf and garden herbs galore
I start with a clean apron and my hair tied back
its bright red with white daises, and a strip of black
Then I stew it and stir it with a large wooden spoon
then I talk to it, until the hour of noon
the way my mama taught me, while making chicken soup;
No not the kind you get from a packet, oh no its never store bought
its the way my mama showed me, when I was just a tot....
calamine lotion
phisohex soaks, itchy ooze
poison ivy hell
~ ~ ~
Johnson's Paste Wax (floors)
wooden spoon on knuckles: smack!
wash dishes. repeat.
~ ~ ~
round dent in hall wall
from my head... demonstrative
daily reminder
~ ~ ~
recurring nightmares
chased, wolf snapping at my back
there is no escape
~ ~ ~
bare skin, willow whips
forced to eat raw onions
run away? tried. failed.
~ ~ ~
when company came
She laughed and called me her maid.
never good enough
~ ~ ~
fingernails pinch ear
dragged down hall: Make your bed right!
childhood memories
When we stirred the pot
Mum pulled out the wooden spoon
wielded wooden spoon
laughing kids ran like crazy~
screen time reduction
Senryu on Mother
Sponsor - Jenish Somadas
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