Yeast
The yeast that go up to
the top of
the beer fermented in a
not covered vessel should be called
Bob and Barbara.
No one seems to be able to pronounce yeast
Some give it a j sound, like jeast
And who cares how we pronounce it.
Anticipating the hot sweet dough
And the melted butter
And the warmth of the roll on my eager tongue
That’s all I care about it.
Call them dogsnoggers – I will still eat them.
Apparently, the combination of a prose-like paragraph and a haiku, seemingly disparate, yet interwoven and forever connected, produces the mysterious haibun. This indeed seems unlikely, since the connection relies on you, the dear reader, and the nature of said ingredient is not clearly specified here. Nonetheless, we assemble what we can, sit back, and await what arises from the primordial soup. It’s the yeast we can do.
yeast and pregnant pause
haibuns rise in oven?
directions are vague
A little fertiliser
And the flower will bloom
A little catalyst
And the chemical reaction will complete
A little yeast
And the cake will grow
And so man
Please remember
A little more effort and confidence
Will do
In your enterprise
the topped her desire with a cherry on the cake
icing sugar crux of the biscuit cusp of pure delight
candles had outgrown the sweet surface of pastry
but she cherished her life just the same evermore
tasted age and radiant light with no shadow of doubt
the older she got she esteemed pleasure and freedom
revered memories and sheltered her many vagaries
as mere kaleidoscopic reflections and mosaic change
tapestry and canvas had altered but not the tenderness
with which she dreamt fantasized and painted the path
she felt at ease with the easel mixed pastels on pallet
tasted whatever tickled her fancy narrated her story
smacked her lips and decoupaged poetry in images
adorned colours patterns and texture with meaning
beyond words and calligraphy stencilled on life
one might wonder what gave her unwavering strength
to find inner voice and dialogue to express emotions
to blend them with reason and the magic of her mind
why was she so blessed and cosseted despite her fears
a glance into her lover’s eyes responded unquestioned
31st March 2021
Writing Prompt - Cherish - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
He would not condemn rape; he was God
He could no longer dissolve it
as he could resolve it
He was fraud
He would only pay for what he did
and not for what happened
He could only open up for things he bid
and not for them that stappen
For he was God that ever
had a pass for ladden
or he was priced for every
kind of other who had hopes he's sadden
When he said all to who
would have had reason
Where he who'd have
would all to ever have a reason
When all who end for hue
to who have ever end yeason
Where all who rend
to any kind of reason
Hot bread
Can’t wait
Mom has on her apron
She was up at four this morning
A delightful smell comes from the kitchen
Peeking in the oven window
Salivating big time
Watching it rise
Hot bread!
Starts bubbling
a desire
yeast from brilliance
of the mind
drops rained
by the Muse
life’s thrashing
adds the flour.
Mixing, churning
springs alive
in the bowel of the
mind.
To the working hand
it sticks
even wakes you when
you sleep.
Pull it, punch it
let it sit
while it bubbles
share the yeast
with a sigh
to inspire
naked child
of poet mother
an uncorked
champagne bottle
celebrating death
or life.
I am planning for a feast
without the beast,
so I can leaven the bread,
with the bowl of yeast,
but ninny tumble over
the leaven bowl of dough,
and upset the little beast,
who nibble the grocery list.
4/8/12
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