Category Archives: Humor

Debatable Edibles at the Pot Luck Dinner

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click on photos to enlarge. jdb photos


Debatable Edibles at the Pot Luck Dinner

That dip indeed looks most delicious—
one of many lovely dishes
spread out here upon the table.
I’d eat them all if I were able,
yet, I admit I am suspicious
of this and several other dishes.

I fear that they may harbor fishes—
foodstuffs far outside my wishes
of consumable provender;
for fish of any size or gender,
no matter how incredible,
I’ve always found inedible.

Tuna, marlin, salmon, cod
are flavors that I find most odd.
Clams and lobster, oysters, shrimp—
brand me as a seafood wimp.
Anything with gill or fin
I do not choose to put within.

No horseradish or mayonnaise
can shield me from the pure malaise
that befalls me when I bite into
a canape I’ll later rue.
You cannot hide that fishy flavor
to turn it to a taste I’ll savor.

Many others  have met defeat
when trying to get me to eat
anything from sea or lake.
It’s a mistake I just won’t make.
So keep your ceviche and dips.
I’ll make do with potato chips.

The prompt today is suspicious.

It is also appropriate for Smorgasbord, which is the June 13, 2018, prompt for Ragtag Daily Prompt today.

Vendor Bender

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Rapidly, the handmade Mexican handicrafts sold by beach vendors are being replaced by cheaply-made Chinese duplicates. I refuse to be a party to this destruction of native craftsmen and artists, so this year for the first time, I have not bought. Today, however, when this hawker walked by my porch, barely bothering to pitch his wares, I called out to him. I’d been to the Michoacan village that was devoted to creating the craft he was selling, and what can I say? I bought two–one for me, and one for my friend Marjorie Pauline, who actually only had to borrow 200 pesos. What was it that made me break my resolve?

Vendor Bender

What bought I on the beach today, What could I not resist?
What souvenir of  painted clay, what bauble for my wrist?
Though I have sworn no more to buy, why have I changed my mind?
Have I found a memento of a more novel kind?

The vendor started to walk by. I had to yell “How much?”
And within a minute, he had me in his clutch.
The price was right and  he possessed the perfect pitch to sell.
He serenaded me and oh,  he did it very well.

It mattered not that I had two others of its kind
waiting for me in my home, for  it was such a find!
I bought one, and my friend did, too. She knew not how to play it.
But I was complicit.  I did nothing to allay it.

I have no yachts or penthouses.  I have no fancy cars.
But although I rarely play, I now have three guitars!!!

 

Strums
The guitar vendor serenading us.
Marjorie Pauline with her mini guitar treasure. She doesn’t know how to play!

Click on photos to enlarge.

You can read about the remarkable village where these guitars are made HERE.

Mnemonic Phonics

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Mnemonic Phonics

Babies use clues amniotic
to deal with stimuli chaotic,
but later, memory gets thick.
In short,  it’s anything but quick.

Age slows us down and trims our wick,
fogs our recall,  slows our pick.
So I resort to many a trick
to give my mind a little kick.

This loss of memory’s demonic
and leads to fits most histrionic,
so I depend on clues mnemonic
for memory that’s supersonic:

(Can you guess what the below mnemonic devices help me to remember?)

Neither leisured foreigner
seized or forfeited the weird heights.

Every good boy does fine.
Good boys do fine always.

My very excellent mother just spewed up nine plums.

How about you?  What mnemonic devices do you use?

 

The prompt word is mnemonic.

Tending House

19 Replies

 

Diego supervises as Pasiano “tends.”  jdb photo

Tending House

In no place I have ever lived do so many people seem to be necessary to maintain one house. On any given day, in addition to my efforts, it is likely two or more of the following caretakers will be present: housekeeper, gardener, plumber, locksmith, bricklayer, tree-trimmer, cistern-cleaner, fumigator, carpenter or appliance-repairer. Do things really break more frequently in Mexico? Do locks jam more or garage openers go on the blink with greater regularity? Do more brick pathways need to be laid? More roof tiles slide down and go boom? More solar water heaters spring more leaks? Do pools develop cracks more easily and pipes pop open just for the fun of it? Do houses cry out to be added onto? In my sixteen years of living here, it certainly seems so. I especially remember the day described in THIS POEM as being one where the entire world seemed to be directed toward the care of my house. It was the monarch. We were its slaves.

The prompt today was tend.

I think this photo also qualifies for the Thursday Doors prompt!

The Persistent Suitor

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The Persistent Suitor

He has no right to loiter here, has no permit to tarry.
He looks no more familiar than  Tom or Dick or Harry.
And yet he is persistent, as though it’s his profession.
He gives no apology and renders no confession.

One day he carries chocolates, another a bouquet,
yet they do not grant him access. They do not pave the way.
Then one day he’s missing.  He doesn’t grace her door.
She hears no insistent knocking. There are no offerings more.

All day, she thinks of him and where he might have chosen to wander.
It seems perhaps that once again, absence has led to fonder
reflections on the part of one who’s playing hard-to-get.
(She is noted for her skill at it among the party set.)

One more day he’s absent. She claims she doesn’t care.
It’s easier to leave her house without a suitor there.
Yet when he finally comes again, she opens up her door
flushed with her power to attract. Victorious to the core!

“Yes?” she says, one eyebrow lifted in disdain,
as though another suitor is an aggravating pain.
And the confidence of her suitor seems never to have swerved.
As he handed her an envelope and said, “Ma’am, you’ve been served!”

 

 

The prompt today was permit.

Morning Ritual

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Morning Ritual

One pill, two pills, three pills four.
Five and six complete the score.
Then one rolls off onto the floor,
but knees are stiff and back is sore,
reclaiming it a painful chore,
so you just open up the drawer
and select one capsule more.
Swallowing pills is such a bore.
Can you remember what each is for?

 

How Not to Walk a Crocodile

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How Not to Walk a Crocodile

I’ll admit, it’s been a while
since I walked a crocodile,
so my technique is rather rusty
and my memory is dusty.
Still, I’ll tell you if you sit awhile
how not to walk a crocodile!

Don’t walk him through the butcher shop.
The butcher will just call a cop.
Don’t visit bakeries at all.
His roar will cause the cakes to fall.
That store where Mother bought her dress?
No place to walk your croc, I’d guess.

And though your pet may need some air,
it’s best that you don’t take him where
small dogs are left out for our viewing
just right for crocodile chewing.
Dog parks do not work for crocs
Find a new place for your walks.

Don’t walk him on your grandma’s floor.
She’ll sweep you both right out the door.
Don’t take him to your Sunday School.
He’s sure to break the Golden Rule.
And if you take him to the deli,
no saying what ends in his belly.

I’ll share a secret with you now.
It is, I really don’t know how
to take a crocodile for a walk.
All of this has just been talk.
And can I guess by your big smile,
you do not have a crocodile?

I guess it was the recent sighting of a croc on the beach at night that sent this little ditty rushing into my head this morning. I would love to have someone illustrate this.  Anyone want to try? Send a sketch of your vision of the croc in one of the given situations. You can either email it to me or put it on your blog and send me a link!
Here’s a photo of the croc that was on the beach near the house I rent. You could see my house in the background if it were light! Photo by Susana Vijaya. (She estimated the croc to be 3 meters long!)

Update: If you’re not ready to leave croc world yet, here’s an oldie but goodie. (Thanks to Marilyn for the memory jog.)

The Inkling

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The Inkling

I haven’t an inkling what I ought to do
about that weird spot on the tongue of my shoe.
Don’t know how it got there, don’t know what its made of.
And such a strange color! I don’t know the shade of
odd pigment that it might be properly called—
somewhere between baby pig and grandpa-bald?

What color is pink to end up on your shoe?
With pink on his toe, what’s a fellow to do?
If there were a shoe wash, I’d go in a blink,
but since there is no sort of place, then the sink
is the place I will go to to wash off this matter—
this slimy soft substance that looks like a batter.

You may think I’m silly to make such a fuss,
to blather and worry and mumble and cuss,
but these shoes are brand new and my favorites, at that—
undeserving of refuse left by the cat.
Now the cat’s in the barn and the shoe is restored.
Almost. Must that shadow just be ignored?

I’ve dined out on this story ’till friends are all bored.
As they approach me, I hear them say, “Lord,
protect us from more boring talk of his shoe.
Please let him not mention that gloppy pink goo.”
They may call me a heel, these folks I’m among
as I tell them once more how the cat got my tongue.

But I can’t abandon those images that
that mess on my shoe was left by the cat.
On what innocent creature might she have dined—
its tiny pink corpse so sadly reclined
on the tongue of my perfectly saddle-soaped shoe?
My friends will not listen, so I’m telling you!!

 

The prompt today was inkling.

 

Behaving French

9 Replies

Version 3

Behaving French

Today I find it suitable
to practice my inscrutable.
It’s part of my act femme fatale
that men can’t fathom me at all.

They’re wiles my mother taught to me
back when I was only three,
and I admit it’s served me well
putting bon vivants through hell.

When situations new astound me,
I wrap my femme fatale around me.
I use it everywhere I go,
’cause it’s the only French I know!

The prompt today is inscrutable.

Happy Ending

8 Replies

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Happy Ending

He was a follower, a grunt
who married a lass dominant.
She led, he followed in their dance.
He wore an apron, she the pants.
It was a perfect unity
if folks had only let them be;
but, alas, the other blokes
had to make the usual jokes.

They called him pussy-whipped and meek—
berated him as timid, weak—
and so, simply to please his mates,
to end their jeering cruel debates,
he went against his true love’s wishes
and refused to do the dishes.

The facts, there’s no need to imbue.
Both words and dinner plates, they flew.
He could not match her swift invective
of ways in which he was defective,
and so he simply stood and waited
until her fury was abated,
then asked this cyclone he had wed
if she would like to go to bed.

Their skirmish ended in romance.
He shed his apron, she her pants.
A worn-out lover well-behooves
a meeker husband in his moves,
and nothing like a little tiff
to make a timid fellow stiff.
Now that her angst had flared and passed,
he got to be on top, at last.

The prompt today is dominant.