Last-Minute Menu Changes

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Last-Minute Menu Changes

My ravenous cats lurk up on the roof
while my dogs all remind me in language of woof
that they’re hollow with hunger and rattled by need
of kibble and catfood to fulfill their greed
for something to fill up space found in their tummies:
chicken or beef or those jerky stick yummies.
Now the dogs rush the door in their need to be seen,
push open the glass door  and rattle the screen.
With a flicker of tail, they crash once and again
into the door screen ’til they have slipped in,
and both dogs and cats leap onto my bed,
shaming their mom, whose face has turned red
with embarrassment over the fact she forgot
to go shopping for food for the whole furry lot!
So I leap from my bed and run down the hall,
pursued by my dogs and my cats, one and all.
Run into the kitchen and throw open the door
of the fridge, then I spread out all over the floor
the food I’d intended to feed to a guest
whom I had invited with all of the rest
of his family to dine–the roast and the cheese
I had purchased because I knew it would please
all my guests–the potatoes and veggies and flan
and I watched all my animals lick every pan
until it was empty of every food scrap,
then they lay on the floor for an after-meal nap
while I wandered in and climbed into my bed
to try to decide what I’d feed instead
to those guests who’d arrive in just 4 hours more.
Then I dressed and departed to drive to the store
to buy frozen pizzas and ice cream and cake
out of which a quick meal I’d return home and make,
shooing out of the kitchen those pets now sedated
once their fierce hunger was finally  abated.
The floor now licked clean, it was one task the less
I’d have to complete. They’d cleaned up their own mess!
So I mixed up a salad and set a fine table
and completed the meal as best I was able.
Poured tequila, cooked pizza and uncorked the wine.
The guests were well-pleased and my pets lay supine
both on terrace and roof or snug in their beds
while visions of roast beef careened through their heads.
And lest you wonder, I’ll say one thing more.
I bought kibble and cat food while there at the store!

 

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle 751, the prompt words are: ravenous lurked shame space found glass hollow flicker rattled slip red crash

“Showing Off Their Locks” for Cellpic Sunday

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Kristina and Isidro showing off their long locks at Fren & Norma’s on the San Juan Cosala Malecon. Fun times and no hair in the soup!!!

for Cellpic Sunday

Letter from the People of America for dVerse Poets

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Letter from the People of America

Photo by Louis Velazquez on Unsplash. Used with permission.

Dear Elected Representatives:
(A Letter from the People of America)

We ventilate our dwellings of many different kinds,
but may not have the sense to ventilate our minds.
Perhaps we fear we’d stir up something that has died—
some milk of human kindness that’s buried deep inside.

As kids sit scared in cages and countless forests burn,
you think you’re given license to hoard all that you earn,
protecting it from others who have need of it,
flailing around in luxuries of your money pit.

Yachts and cars and mansions should not buy peace of mind
when they leave our planet in a lethal bind.
Our plastic world is flailing. It chokes on its excess.
How can you turn your backs on its extreme duress?

We elect our rulers. They are not born to reign.
In return we must demand that they share our pain
and do not profit by it with cash for legislation
leading to their betterment and our consternation.

Look at where we’re going and look at where we’ve been.
Open up your minds. Let truth and justice in.
During your term of office who’s advanced as far as you have?
It seems the teeming masses did not profit as a few have.

We’re taking back our government, abolishing each clause
that gives you the entitlement to profit from the laws
you enact for self-interest. It’s time that you were outed
and all who vote against our interests were routed.

You defend bad judgement, support your corrupt clown.
Now all who stand behind him must also be brought down.
You overlook the obvious for motives all your own.
You’ve opened up the cage and the dove of peace has flown,

stalked by a bald eagle who feeds on those for whom
it should serve as symbol of something else but doom.
We must bring back our liberty, nobility and pride.
Resuscitate a country that many fear has died.

The truth is there before you, so open up your minds
to see there’s a solution for our present binds.
If you refuse to topple that one on whom you dote,
we’ll topple you one after one–when we go to vote!!

For dVerse Poets we are to write a poem in the form of a letter.

The Numbers Game #119. Come Play Along!!

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Welcome to “The Numbers Game #119. Today’s number is 241. To play along, go to your  photos file folder and type the number 241 into the search bar. Then post a selection of the photos you find that include that number and post a link to your blog in my Numbers Game blog of the day. If instead of numbers, you have changed the identifiers of all your photos into words, pick a word or words to use instead, and show us a variety of photos that contain that word in the title. This prompt will repeat each Monday with a new number. If you want to play along, please put a link to your blog in comments below. 

Here are my photos for today:

Because it reflects so well the two things I love most about Mexico: the children and the artistry.
Cuppa Tea?
Behind the Bride
Um. Only problem is that one of them has seemed to have lost his head. Let’s hope this is not a forewarning. (Alas, it was.)
Before
A legation of legs? Daniel gives his cigar a rest as he takes a cigarette break.

Family Memories (and prompt)

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I spent most of the day today sorting out desk drawers and shelves and in doing so, I found an old journal that had a number of sketches about family members.  I’ve been looking for photos to go with them but it then occurred to me this would make a fun prompt. So, if you are interested, please write a sketch of each member of the family you grew up with and send me a link. If you have photos, all the better. Here are my sketches:

1956  Betty, Patti, Dad and me.

 

Family Memories

 

My sister Betty could have and would have slept around the clock if we’d let her.

My sister Patti expressed an early proclivity for the dramatic, as was evidenced by her Halloween costume when she was 9 years old: my mother’s lace curtain wrapped tightly around her hips, a silk scarf criss-crossed over her non-existent breasts with a bare midriff in between and a strand of pearls draped over her forehead above a purple-veiled lower face.

 

My Aunt Stella was a staunch born-again Christian who traded her disappointment in her  loving but quiet and reserved husband for a more spirited relationship with her creator.

 

 

 

My dad’s eyes, still as mischievous at age 70 as those of a 10 year-old prankster, seemed to snap with pleasure as he told a tall tale so convincing in its authenticity that it seemed wasted on a mere farmer––being more suited to a snake oil salesman, a lawyer or some other lowlife character.


When my mother married my father and moved north, she brought a sense of southern pride with her––one she tried to imbue her daughters with, but in the case of her youngest daughter, that quality ricocheted and rather than instilling within her an inflated sense of self, it instead made her vaguely ashamed and even more determined to mine the lower social orders of their small town where adventure lurked––more attractive than any false sense of nobility

. . .

My grandmother’s insistence that every second of the day be turned to some worthwhile pursuit seemed to skip a generation as her industrious son struck a balance between back-breaking labor and the complete leisure it earned him at the end of his long workday on the farm and ranch. Once finally home, he became a permanent fixture in the rocking chair that was labelled, “Pa’s chair” in the mind of every family member.  The minute he came into the house, spilling  wheat and cockleburs from his pants cuffs, he fell into “his” chair, grabbed up a “True West “or “Saga” magazine, and invited the nearest available daughter to “rub Pa’s head.” There he sat at a 45 degree angle, feet up on his foot stool, not moving except for the turning of pages until the supper summons came. Returning to his chair afterwards to read a bit more, he inevitably nodded off until bedtime, at which point he exchanged gentle upright rocking chair snores for his heartier prone ones.

. . .

My father’s hands that I had once watched as he pulled a  foal and later as he presented to me a baby mole––blind and struggling to be free––that  he had rescued and brought to safety––were what I saw as I observed my own square-palmed hands removing  the cap still pulled firmly down upon his head  as he sat sleeping in his favorite chair. “Time for dinner,” I started to say, but before I could get the entire sentence out, I gasped as, the cap removed, I watched a stream of bright red blood trickle from a huge gash in the top of his head down his forehead, the side of his nose and his cheek.  I dashed to the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth, a roll of toilet paper, towel, bandages and antiseptic ointment, but as I gently wiped the laceration, a strip of skin and flesh came totally free of his scalp so I was essentially scalping my father. I pressed the clean toilet paper against the fissure which literally bisected the top of his head, then squeezed the tube of antiseptic gel into the open wound before using  half a box of Band-Aids to tape a long strip of many layers of gauze over his bald pate. At least there was no hair to worry about later when it was time to change the bandage.

“What happened?” I asked, as he came fully awake during my ministrations. As he had kneeled to change a truck tire, he explained, the jack had slipped, dropping the truck on his head. He seemed more sheepish than wounded, and I could see that it was embarrassment over his own ineptness in allowing the accident to occur and that this is what had caused him to keep his cap on. How he thought he would get away without exposing his wounds and telling us the story, I don’t know, but in retrospect I realize that once he had regained consciousness after the accident, he had headed back to town to lay his tired body down in his favorite easy chair––a wounded creature delivered to his own lair.

When I was young, I yearned to savor
places with a different flavor.
And so I did, for years on end,
enjoying each roadway’s bend.
Much as I loved to sail the sea
and trek through jungles, fancy-free,
then bring their memories home with me,
now I find I’d rather roam
deeper into my own home.
Examine subtleties of flowers,
the building-prowess of wasps in bowers,
seek mysteries of a closer kind,
whatever treasures I can find
roaming my corridors of mind.

Mother, Judy and Patti on my very first vacation–enroute to visit Aunt Margaret in Idaho via Yellowstone! No doubt sister Betty was taking the  photo.

Easter Surprise

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OMG. I think I have figured out why I haven’t been able to sleep for over 4 hours a night for months now and why I am waking up and not able to go back to sleep cuz I can’t breathe! A number of nights I’ve gone to the couch and even outside to the hammock or lounge chair. Last night I slept in guest bedroom and not only slept a full night’s sleep. but also woke up without a sore back. I believe the reason is not only the firmer mattress, but because there are no feather pillows in guest bedroom! I took feather pillows off bed in my room and removed down comforters from both beds. On Monday I’m having Pasiano switch beds in two rooms. I might check out bed upstairs as well. I hope I’m right…Could change my life.

“Hide” for SOCS

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Hide-and-go-seek

She enters my hideout and calls it her own.
Now I’ll have to move on, for my cover is blown.
I try to go deeper into my lair
but still she follows, finding me there.
I cannot escape her. She has all my keys.
She blows through my memory like a fine breeze,
usurping my details to make them her own
so I can’t reclaim them, wherever they’ve blown.
From a full-body mirror, she stares back at me.
My elbow’s her elbow. My knee is her knee.
She alters my hairdo and rouges my cheeks.
She searches my memory, looking for leaks,
then piles the lost parts up in her poems,
through her underground railroad, gives them new homes.
When I see myself spread out here in these pages,
some private part of me protests and rages,
but she doesn’t listen. She finds me too fussy.
She leaves herself open, the ungrateful hussy.
Does she not realize that it is me
who has made her whatever she’s turned out to be?
She should listen more closely when I say to stop.
Allow me to be her poetry cop.
But she doesn’t mind. She says what she wishes.
She dines out on me and leaves me with the dishes!

The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “Hide.”

Writing a Poem for NaPoWriMo Day 3, 2026

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Writing a Poem for NaPoWriMo

I try to comply with the day’s writing task,
and so I rise early to do what they ask.
Turn on my computer to see what I should
write about because I want to be good
and follow the rules and so I start
mining my mind and surveying my heart.

What had I done by seven o’clock?
I’d let in the dog groomer, fastened the lock.
By eight I had fed all the cats and the dog
and turned to my duties: my prompts and my blog.
What had I accomplished by eight or by nine?
I’d returned to the task and and written one line

and worked on another for a short while
’til the plumber arrived with a motor and pile
of tools to put in my garbage disposal.
I talked to the gardener, made a proposal
to plant a new tree, then the housekeeper came.
If my poem went undone, I’d Yolanda to blame.

We talked for awhile, then I bent to my task
A ten minute reprieve was the most I could ask.
At ten, it was Oscar, arrived for his next
lesson in English.  My poem is hexed!
I download five photos that if I am able,
I’ll use with the poem, then spring to the table.

We study the use of “what, when and who”
of “where, why,” and “how,” then the next thing we do
is read a new story about Tio Nacho.
who had an old hat that was not very macho.
He said it in English, I said it in Spanish,
but when we were finished, my poem seemed to vanish.

I finally found it hidden in “notes,”
Found all my photos. Found all my quotes.
I shoo the white kitty off of my purse,
because the plomero I must reimburse.
Then I finish this poem and close up my Mac.
That’s a typical day for this poetry hack!!!

For NaPoWriMo Day 3 we are to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be.

“Different” for the One Word Challenge

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When my husband and I did arts and crafts shows, at least once during every show, someone would wander into our booth, have a good look around, and as they left, shrug their shoulders and say, “Well it’s different!” (Usually pronounced “differnt.”) It actually was an “in” joke between those displaying their art—always interpreted as the speaker not understanding and not really liking the arts and crafts. Growing up in a small town, it was not the first time I’d heard the word in its derogatory sense. Thus, this poem: 

“Different”
When I finally made my way into the world so wide
I found myself exotic. Somehow transmogrified.
I liked being the foreigner, eminent in my oddity.
I found that being different was a definite commodity.
It was my prerogative to be just who I was
without creating currents in the small town buzz
of that place I had grown up in. My acts were less explosive.
My strange words now acceptable, not garnered as corrosive.
They thought my weird behavior typical of my nation—
those oddities of word choice and excesses of oration.
In finally being somewhere where “different” was not a sin,
the more different that I was, the more that I fit in!!!

For Fandango’s One Word Challenge: Anomalous. (deviating from what is standard, normal, or expected.)

Easter Fibs For Fibbing Friday

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For Fibbing Friday, Apr.3, 2026, the subjects to prompt our fibs are:

1. Why do we have Easter Eggs? Because we ran out of frozen waffles.
2. What makes a Hot Cross Bun? When we leave them in the oven for too long.
3. Why do we have a bunny at Easter? Because we ate the frozen turkey for Thanksgiving.
4. In which country did the Easter Bunny originate? At Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Estate in the U.S.A. 
5. How many decorative balls are conventionally on a Simnel cake? None. Each one is unique.
6.  What is a can? Just one of the dancers in a can-can performance.
7.  What is a can-can? The opposite of a can’t can’t.
8.  What is a cantaloupe?A girl locked into an ivory tower by her father.
9.  What is a canister? A storage container for one’s future to-do list.
10 . What is a candelabra? Extra support for more well-endowed candles in a candlestick.