“Innovative Cooking,” A Story in 18 Words

Out of gas, I’m cooking custard with the hairdryer. So much for my resolutions to use less electricity!

For: Can You Tell a Story in 18 Words?

Three words to use are: resolutions, custard and hairdryer.

Addendum, Jan 2, 2025

Becky and Lach didn’t take their New Years Eve presents home, so I’ve had to find other uses for them. This is actually the second post so if you haven’t seen it, see the first post HERE  and see the third post HERE.

Oh World I Cannot Hold Thee Close Enough, for RDP, Jan 2, 2025

 

Oh World I Cannot Hold Thee Close Enough

The jet wing like a dolphin cuts through
deep orange, brilliant, fading to gold.
Dark islands of clouds
push through like trees,
above them pale blue bleeding into
an infinite number of ever-darkening shades.

Thumbnail moon, one star, planet bright,
just far enough above the horizon
to be set in the darkest shade that can be blue
before deepening to black.

Scenes like this are like a long slow heart attack
spread over the surface of my life,
my heart exploding from a fullness
that I don’t know how to spend.

I used to feel like this holding
my sister’s newborn child.
I wanted to use his fragile beauty
and the wellspring of love inspired by it,
but lacked direction.

The sunset which first seems to fade
flares more brightly than before–
as, flying West, we keep catching up to it.
We sleep, we read,
move to the bathrooms and back again
shepherding children
like small sheep,
their eyes like berries turned toward the windows
and reflecting back fire.

Jets protrude like fins
which, shaped for reasons aerodynamic,
serve poetry nonetheless
as they swim for hours
into that orange sea.

I cannot get enough of
these colors, want to run to the cockpit
to feel orange wrapped around me like a scarf–
want to paint something significant
from these fiery embers
washing into pale, then deeper ocean blue.

Everything stretches out to a hypothetical vanishing point
seen through an airplane window
as we sit in the dolphin’s womb
waiting to be born.
And there is nothing to be done with this creation
except to create from it.

We are performance artists in this world,
our director sometimes here with us,
at other times distracted–
picking at a hangnail on a clay-crusted fingernail,
paint orange, blue on the cuff of his sleeve
still wet from dolphin fins.
Our purpose here lost like light
fading across an incredible canvas.

Yet everything above
and under us
once given up to night,
swells in us still,
reminding us
to hug the world tighter–
to squeeze life into it and out of it.
Hold it closer,
finding no meaning except being of it
with it in it having it in us.

“Oh world I cannot hold thee close enough!”
Understanding that.

For Ragtag Daily Press, the prompt is picturesque. This is an extensive rewrite of an earlier poem. The title is taken from the first line of a poem by one of my favorite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Thanks, Edna, for the inspiration.

False Messiahs for MVB, Jan 2, 2025

False Messiahs

Messages they send out to the world in bottles
(those they think up as they stir their morning cups of chocolate)
—beware their dangers.
These messengers have hands that can slap you awake,
then abandon you as they return to the problems of the privileged rich.
These parasites, dosed with their vitamin B,
ride roughshod over their hosts.

They linger in their beautiful dreams of percentages,
profit on the hunger of the poor.
They see not your skeletons when they look in the mirror.
They do not see the hearts they have broken.
Once, surrounded by the stricken, they put their fingers in their ears
and pretended they were evangelists to the poor.
Then, their illusions shattered by going door-to-door,
they slammed doors shut again.

Their messages in bottles are swift to flow away.
The ocean has no doors to slam in their faces.
And their heads bent in prayer will not open those doors they have closed.
The ballast their bottles carry does no good.
The hunger of the world has no stake in the good books they carry.
The mood of their verses is malevolent. The vows they swear
are words in a wind that has come too late.

For My Vivid Blog the prompt is imposter. Image by Robert Koorenny on Unsplash.

A Fresh Start: New Year Wishes

Fresh Start: New Year Wishes

When you wish upon a star
how does that star know where you are?
You are a dot in outer space.
It does not know your name or face.
So you must make those dreams come true–
what no one else can do for you.

No stars can make you lose that weight.
What works is just an emptier plate.
Discipline and time will do
what no wish can do for you.
And yet much easier to wish
than to avoid that favorite dish.

My other wish was for long life
away from illness, grief and strife–
a harder wish to make come true
without some magic helping you.
Diet and exercise once more
might keep me longer from death’s door–

My New Year’s wish was all a dream.
A bit of fluff—a hopeless scheme.
Wishes, wants and hopes and lies.
Visions seen behind closed eyes.
Yet when that wish was lost to me,
I suddenly began to see

how these wishes could all come true–
simply, what I have to do
piece by piece and bit by bit
to start to make the pieces fit.
It is now clear and I can see
the one to grant these wishes is me!

For Writer’s Digest poetry prompt: A Fresh Start

Kalanchoe, for FOTD. Jan 1, 2025

For FOTD

NY Eve Revelries, for Last on the Card, Dec. 31, 2024

Click on photos to enlarge.

Becky and Lach came to celebrate New Years with me. We lasted until 10:30, Here are pics of our revelry. This might not end here. For future developments, go HERE.

For Bushboy’s Last on the Card.

Papaya Blooms for FOTD Dec 31, 2024

Gotta keep posting, Cee. I’m addicted. xoxo Happy New Year.

For FOTD

Crazy, Crazy..Much as I am trying to stay away from the news for awhile, this is a must-read!!!!!!

                   Heather Cox Richardson, Dec 30, 2024 (Subscribe HERE for more)

Hibiscus for FOTD, Dec 29, 2024

For Cee’s FOTD