A wizard in the kitchen, she performed well her thaumaturgy by transforming porridge into fine cuisine for me. Each dish she served just seemed my hunger to inflate as she put spells on my stomach and magic on my plate.
Her stew pot made by blood boil, her milk pudding made me purr, every single dish a symbol of my love for her. Then lying in her oaken bed, my hunger still intact, She finally quenched my appetite. And that, folks, is a fact!!!!!
I got a hot rod Ford, and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There’s soda pop and the dancing’s free
So if you wanna have fun, come along with me
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cooking somethin’ up with me?
I’m free and ready, so we can go steady
How’s about savin’ all your time for me? No more lookin’, I know I been tookin’
Hows about keepin’ steady company?
I’m gonna throw my date book over the fence
And buy me one for five or ten cents
I’ll keep it till it’s covered with age
Cause I’m writin’ your name down on every page
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me?
Written as calligraphy or scrawled upon a wall, a book tucked in our pocket or extending down the hall, expressed as tight couplets or as an angry stew, words impart great insight and volunteer a view into minds of wisdom or the hapless few who unfortunately have little else to do
but to spray-paint imprecations of gender or of race here in public places where all of us must face those dark spots of the soul brought into public view so volunteers of vitriol can share with me and you those murky muddy sentiments better buried deep instead of out here in the world to cause us all to weep.
If left to steep within the soul perhaps some inner magic might turn them into poetry—profound and deep and tragic. Some inner mental chemistry performing that gestation that makes insight of vitriol, transforming imprecation into understanding to write upon the pages of potential misanthropes transformed now into sages.
The child asked her grandpa to teach her how to spell, and he could not deny her, though he knew good and well that spelling class for him had been a different sort of Hell.
They had not been his forte, the chalk board and the book, and so this was a challenge he timorously took. He had to find a method to help, by hook or crook!
He said to make a menu of all the words she sought and he would make a list of all the spellings they were not— a reverse teaching method that, thankfully, she bought!
So, she gave her assent to all his ballyhoo, discounting his misspellings of “tuthbrush” “taribul” “hoo,” on her route to finding spellings that were new.
Thus she learned to overlook solutions that he sold her in the loving ill-contrived way he sought to mold her and used the dictionary, ruling out spellings he’d told her.
My bugbear really is a bear, but it does more than bug me. When I take a walk in woods, I fear that one will hug me. I shake in terror every time I hear a dry branch crack, afraid that I might have a bear descend upon my back. My footsteps are deliberate. I do not want attention, fearing that a grizzly bear will demand my detention.
At church camp I stayed with the group as we walked to chapel, imagining a black bear with his sharp claws like a scalpel ripping through my backpack and shredding through my tee, getting down to business. Getting down to me. When father saw something was wrong as he heard my confession, he said that i could tell him all, that it was his profession
to listen to the foibles and the fears of kids like me. Whatever worries I might have, he could set me free. And so I told everything—my excessive worry that I might encounter something clawed and toothed and furry. Then he disqualified my fears and did it in a hurry, by saying that God put no bears in central Missouri!!!!
Modern life is a rigmarole, day after day. It radiates chaos for which you must pay. If you’re hindered by change, then this isn’t your world. Week after week, more updates are hurled that change the position of all that you do. How do I find “send?” I haven’t a clue!
They make no provision for those who are old who have to remember instructions they’re told. And just when they’ve memorized everything new, all the things that they need have been placed out of view. I find it uncouth that the programmers make change after change just for change’s sake.
What is the purpose of transforming a word into a symbol? I find it absurd. Then putting it somewhere we don’t think to look so we have to survey every corner and nook just to perform a task we once found easy? It makes us confused and a little bit queasy
that computer techs constantly accelerate change so we’re always just out of date!!!! Does it give them a lift and make them feel jolly that they’re making their predecessors melancholy for the old times when all the things found yesterday were in the same place when looked for today????
Does anyone else keep getting the “Exchange Password Required” message dozens of times a day from Microsoft??? It is driving me crazy!!!!
The small dog snuggles closer, chin on my computer keyboard, brown eyes begging, “Love me!” and I do.
Outside fireworks celebrate the current fiesta, holy day or wedding.
Wind stirs the Solari bell that hangs from my plumeria tree in the lower garden.
Celebratory whoops from some party down the block.
Slow whirr of the ceiling fan. Darkness pierced only by the light from my computer screen.
Words in the night
fly in like bats to bring
the whole world
here into bed with me. All is well–– as is usual in my world.
For the Weekend Writing Prompt # 300, the prompt is Midnight. We need to use exactly 94 words!!! I hope the title didn’t need to be included in the word count….
Alone is not lonely And single’s no sin. Solo is only a state I am in because I need time to do what I do. To scan and to rhyme, to create and to stew both poems and soups without watching the clock or jumping through hoops or having to talk.
I really like cooking dishes for one. I’m simply not looking for “coupley” fun. I like doing art far into the night. This freedom is part of traveling light. Going solo is groovy. Single-handed is fun, and it might behoove you to try being “one”
instead of a brace or a duet or pair. You’ll have all this space. You’ll have all this air. Your closet’s your own to fill up with shoes. No sharing a phone and no bathroom queues. You won’t have to fiddle with left or with right. You’ll sleep in the middle every night!
You’ll eat what you want to and dine when you wish. You’ll get to eat tofu and never eat fish. You can stay up till dawn to finish your quilt. You’re nobody’s pawn, so you’ll never feel guilt. Leave coffee cups sitting all over the house? It’s behavior most fitting when bereft of a spouse.
Pop bonbons and read all day in your bed. You can meet every need when you’re no longer wed. On the other hand though, you must walk your own dog and when water comes slow, must unclog your own clog. When you blow out a fuse and your lawn goes unmown, there are no “honey do’s” when you’re all on your own!
I wrote this poem 9 years ago when I had about 2 readers –one of whom has sadly passed away and the other who no longer blogs, so figured it was okay to run in through again.
Sternutation means to sneeze— (to create a noisy breeze) but no one knows what perturbation might be set off by a sternation. Could it be the sternum’s action when it raises in reaction caused by the excessive sneezing, coughing, sputtering and wheezing brought on by the summer gusts that stir up pollen, raise up dust?
At the height of of last year’s forum where we barely drew a quorum, we discussed the summer pollen that had lately daily fallen. Prodigals returning home bemoaned the flower bits and loam raised into the gusty air that stripped the flowers and pathways bare.
It’s true folks stare when you are sneezing, but perhaps you find this pleasing. If raised sternums cause sternation, causing your lungs full dilation, perhaps it is good for you to rid your lungs of dust and goo. So tell me, when you’re on vacation, Are you pro or consternation?
Media Memorium
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 