Monthly Archives: November 2021

“Rolling.” Fibbin’ Black Friday, Nov 26, 2021

Put the cloves individually into the roller

Here are the Fibbing Friday questions for this week:

1. What is rolling stock? Cattle after they’ve been loaded onto train cars and the train is in motion.
2.  What is a rolling deck ?  A convenient place for rolling doobies on your lap during a poker game.
3.  What is role play ? When actors mess around instead of learning their lines.
4.  What is ‘on a roll? Caraway or sesame seeds, unless it’s a cinnamon roll, in which case it would be frosting.
5.  What does a rolling stone gather?  Carsick groupies.
6.  What is a rolling boil? Whole crab served on a train.
7.  What is a rolling pin? A really bad bowling score.
8.  What is a steam roller? A passé method of curling one’s hair.
9.  What is a roller coaster? A round disk meant to be placed under your drink that has been positioned vertically rather than horizontally.
10. What is a roller skate? A beached fish.

Poetry Pie

Poetry Pie

Pick an armful of fresh words from the poet tree.
Trim off dry leaves. Dispose of the ordinary or over-ripe.
Choose words that flower when juxtaposed.
Choose tiny clinging bees that sting.
Choose pollen-dusted blossoms that make you sneeze.
Choose agile leaves that swing when you breathe on them.
Staunch stalks that do not budge.
Throw them in a vase so that they fall where they want to go,
then rearrange to suit your fancy.

Admire your arrangement
as you bring a stock to boil.
This stock consists of honey and vinegar,
water to float the theme,
lightly peppered with adjectives
and salted with strong verbs.

When the water boils, break nouns from your bouquet.
Tender stalks may be sliced to syllables, but leave the flowers whole.
Do not cook too long lest they be too weak to chew upon.

Scoop with a wire ladle and lay on parchment to drain.
Arrange on a bed of crushed hopes pre-baked with future expectations.
Pile to the plate rim, then sift through and remove most of what you’ve put there.
Fill up to the top and beyond with whipped dreams. Careful, not too sweet.

Put on the shelf to gel.
The crust will grow crustier.
The whipped cream will not fall,
but some of the words will rise to the top and blow away.
Others will sink to the bottom and become so mired in crust
that they will stick to the cheeks and teeth of all who sample your pie,
and this is what you want.

This pie will not be to the taste of all
and there may not be enough of it to satisfy the taste of others,
but it will be a pie that satisfies you,
and others may become addicted enough
to order it now and then
in spite of that shelf
of so many delectable pies.
Perhaps because it is tenacious.
Perhaps because it suits their idiosyncratic taste.
Perhaps because of its placement, front and center,
so it meets the eye.

Whatever the reason, whether to the taste of many or few,
it will be there for so long as the cook holds out
and the poet tree stands and keeps blooming.

Poet Pie.  Special this week.
Comes with a big napkin and no fork
so you’ll need to eat it with you hands
and suck it from your fingers.

It will run down your arms
and cause your elbows to stick to the table,
drip from your chin onto your shirtfront,
adorning you like splatters down the fronts
of old ladies in voile dresses.
It will adorn the beards of the hirsute,
hide the pimples of preteens,
make ruby red the lips
of little girls too young for lipstick,
cause the drying lips of old women
to swell as though Botoxed.

It will cause tongues to wag
and fingers to write poetry of their own
in the air or on paper or perhaps
merely in minds
infected by the addictive
nature of poet pie.
You can both smell and taste it.
Feel on your fingers.  Hear its
tender branches crunch between
your teeth–those parts of the poem
that hold the whole together.

That poem that perhaps holds your life together
for the minutes you consume it
and further moments when you try to wash it from your beard
or fingers or chin or shirtfront,
and fail.  So a part of the poem goes with you.
Some may notice it and try to scrub it from your chin.
Others may not be able to resist,
and in wiping off its sweetness from where it has streaked your arm,
may put their fingers to their mouths to taste it themselves
and may be suffused with a yearning for a piece of their own.

Or, say, perhaps, “Not to my taste,”
which leaves more poetry pie for you.

 

This is a poem I wrote for my blog years ago so I’m bending the rules, perhaps, but couldn’t resist. For dVerse Poets “Pie” prompt.

Avarice

Avarice

The clutching maw of avarice devours everything,
like a furnace, burning up all that life might bring.

Alas, there is no medicine to curb its constant need—
for its constant hunger and its consistent greed.

It’s hollow heart cannot  recall what loving may be for,
so when love is given, it just calls out for more

without using what’s been given by returning it in kind—
never using its own heart for what it was designed.

Pity those who take and take without ever giving,
never fully realizing all the joys of living.

 

 

Prompts today are furnace, hollow, avarice, pity and medicine.
Image by Meg Jerrad on Unsplash.

Talking Turkey: Flashback Friday, Nov 26, 2021

 

For Fandango’s Flashback Friday  we are asked to reblog a post we made exactly a year ago. Oddly, enough, I found that I’ve written three different poems on this date for the past three years and they are all named “Talking Turkey!”  This is the one I wrote exactly one year ago today on November 26.

Talking Turkey

I’d rather be footloose, I’d rather be free.
No more will I languish on any man’s knee.
I’ll eat all of my gravy and none of my peas,

get up and retire whenever I please.
I’ll retrieve no one’s underwear off of the floor.
When I use the potty, I won’t shut the door.
I won’t cover my mouth when I burp or I sneeze.
I’ll open the window to enjoy the breeze
or shut my house up as tight as a drum,
eat all the cookies to the last crumb.
I’ll dine for a month on my Turkey Day turkey.
I’ll be selfish and weird and eccentric and quirky.
For as much as I love human interactions,

 living alone has its own satisfactions.

Prompt words today are: human, gravy, retrieve and footloose.

Prediction

Prediction

In the family photo, Auntie stands with arms akimbo,
glancing over sideways at my cousin’s latest bimbo.
One cultured eyebrow raised and her disgust so thinly veiled,
there’d probably be a small explosion if only she exhaled.

Uncle’s blind to everything and stands with grin on face,
unmindful of his youngest son’s ultimate disgrace.
He has had a little turkey and a great amount of wine
and thinks his son’s new girlfriend is exceptionally fine.

My cousin looks besotted and the girl looks fine to me,
though she wears a lot of makeup and shows a lot of knee.
But if my cousin marries her, I’m sure it will be fine.
With Auntie as her drill sergeant, she’ll soon fall into line.

She’ll polish and distill her ’til the flavor is all gone,
bleed out all her color ’til she’s fashionably wan.
Then, just like Uncle Marty, Cousin Jeb will start to stray,
looking for fresh pastures when the old one turns to hay.

Prompts today are akimbo, everything, culture, veiled and uncle. Disclaimer: the  real lady attached to these legs and shoes is anything but a bimbo–a smart, cool lady. Photo is for illustration purposes only.

Intriguing Insects: Lens Artist Challenge 174

I am fascinated by the remarkable variety and beauty of insects. Here are a few of the more unusual ones that have visited my garden. Please click on photos to see larger views.

For the Lens Artist Challenge: Follow Your Bliss