If you’d like to read how I shocked every souk owner on my block when I lived in Ethiopia in 1973/74, read this old post from three years ago:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/10/10/coffee-with-no-ceremony/
The prompt today is shock.
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.
Look familiar? If you were around three years ago, perhaps you read it before. Let me know if you found it worth reading again and made it this far. The prompt today is agile.
Maiden’s Dilemma
Each myth, legend or fairytale
from “once upon” to “fare thee well”
shares some elements of story
be they sad, uplifting, gory.
Always a damsel in distress—
Rumplestiltskin’s name to guess,
for straw once spun out into gold,
or another story to be told.
Too much sleep may be her curse,
ugly stepsisters, or worse.
Murder, treason, sloth and pox
were emptied from Pandora’s box.
These troubles spread from near to far,
(although, in fact, it was a jar.)
Zeus forgave Pandora’s shame.
The imp revealed his own strange name.
But the other women described above
were saved by cleverness or love.
Scheherazade escaped the hearse
with stories, legends, tales and verse.
Cinderella rose from hearth and ashes
and Sleeping Beauty opened lashes––
both maids saved by daring-do:
one by a kiss, one by a shoe.
So whatever might have been their fate:
loss of child or murderous mate,
wipe tears and fears away with laughter.
They all lived happily ever after.
Another rewrite from four years ago. The prompt today was legend.
15 Minute Timed Writing
(300 Words in Search of a Meaning)
One-a-minute two-a-minute three-a-minute four—
big bad minute police waiting at my door.
If I take a minute more, I know they’ll somehow know.
so thinking about what I say is gonna bring me low!
They’re gonna crash my firewall and take me off to jail.
So with no other bloggers here to get me out on bail,
I’ll get on with my writing. Write about anything—
not about-a-nothing, and the words they gotta sing.
Time is of the essence ‘cause there ain’t no other clue.
Topical-type bloggers won’t know what to do.
Don’t know why with time limits I’m lacking all my grammar.
It’s like my words are nails but that I’m lacking any hammer.
With no topic they all lie here, looking for a wall.
There’s no sense to any of it. No. No sense at all.
I’m sure a question’s out there, but nobody’s gonna ask it,
and all these words just roll on by like eggs without a basket.
Purpose keeps eluding me. I know I’ll never find it.
Somehow though I’m running, I stay too far behind it.
I once said that I never know what I will be writing.
From line to line, I follow words and hope they’ll be inciting
a thought, a theory or a theme somewhere along the way.
I always hope it will be soon, ‘cause I don’t have all day
to do the kind of writing that I like to do,
for when I look, I see the time—9:15:52!
I know that is impossible. I’m sure that there have been
fewer minutes since I started—only nine or ten!
Yet the clock says fifteen minutes and seconds more as well.
So though I’ve met the challenge, It seems I’ve missed the bell!!
I drew a blank on today’s prompt so this is a rewrite of a poem from three years ago. The prompt today is theory.
If love were a savor, a flavor or a taste,
a sauce or certain gravy, a marinade or paste,
Cupid could write a menu and we could order in
with romance as an appetizer, sealed up in a tin.
We could order lovers as others order food
according to our appetite, according to our mood.
I’d start out with Greek salad to titillate my palate.
Then move on to fresh lobsters beaten with a mallet.
A juicy steak would be served next with T-bone still inside.
I’d savor all the tender flesh with French fries on the side.
Dessert would be rich chocolate cake washed down with ginseng float
to make it slide so smoothly, smoothly down my throat.
There would be no tears, dear, and not one broken heart
if love came from a menu, to order à la carte.
Bad News for the Substitute Teacher
Pity the poor substitute.
No matter just how resolute,
up on the subject and astute,
no matter that you’re deadly cute,
these factors will not constitute
a success that is absolute.
They will not render class clowns mute,
for they, too, have their horns to toot.
These truths I swear can’t be refuted.
You’ll rue the day you substituted!
After today’s poem about English teachers, Mike Akin requested that I write one about substitute teachers. I meet every challenge! Here it is.
Announcing, the First Annual Spamster Awards
After reviewing the spam messages on my blog over the past five years, I have appointed myself to be the founder, administrator, adjudicator and guardian of the first annual Spamster Awards. I’m now taking nominations for blog Spam above and beyond normalcy, literacy, legitimacy or usefulness. To submit your nomination for worst spam of the year, check your spam folder on your blog and then copy and paste the message you wish to nominate into a comment on this blog. If it does not fall into one of the below categories, do not worry. We’ll make up a new category. Spread the word, but please be sure to send nominations only to this particular blog posting. Also, feel free to submit new category suggestions.
For the category of most incomprehensible:
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For the category of most likely to have used a translation app for the message:
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And yes, I did receive a spam letter in response to this posting. Of course, it was totally unrelated to the subject.
Memory Games
The only thing that makes my present memory lapses at all bearable is that all of my friends seem to be having the same problems. I lose my keys, find them and before I make it out the door, lose them again. When I drive into town, I usually forget at least twice where I am going and end up repeating again and again, “Bank to get money. Bank to get money,” or “Pick up Glenda.” The other day, however, I reached a new low.
I was about to Skype a friend to tell him where I was going and why I wouldn’t be home for the rest of the afternoon. I was going to the awards luncheon for a local news magazine. I’ve been reading this publication monthly for 16 years and submitting work to it for nearly this long. Long story short, I am very very well acquainted with its name, but suddenly, I could not for the life of me remember what it was. I shook my head, trying to shuffle and refile my memory, but nothing popped into mental view until suddenly, the word “ajo” popped up. Ajo what? “Ajo del Agua.” It sounded sort of right but something seemed wrong. Ajo? Garlic? Agua? Water? Why would a paper be named garlic water? Yet it seemed so right. Ajo. Ajo. It was driving me crazy. Oh, wait, I was already crazy.
It was disturbing me greatly and then, suddenly “Ojo del Lago” slipped into the right slot in my brain. Yes. “Eye of the Lake” sounded much more appropriate than “Garlic Water.” Oy Vey. That phrase is starting to feel ever more appropriate to express the events of my life lately.
El Ojo del Lago is a cool monthly publication also available for free online. Here is the link:
If you have a story or poem you think might be appropriate, they are always looking for submissions.
Thought I’d have to do this job myself, but Pasiano took over immediately and did a beautiful job.
Loop de Loop
Every little hole drilled, every little loop
helps attach the walls for—our new kitty coop.
They’re tired of the inside. They want to get out.
They’ve got cabin fever—I’ve not any doubt.
They’ve taken over all my house—bathroom, sala, kitchen.
So many handy spots to hide while they’re mama-ditchin’.
They pulled down all my CD’s and ate my bird’s nest too.
So many great high perches. Always something new.
But mama’s running out of time. She has too much to do
to spend all of her time running this temporary (?) zoo.
Some outside time is what we need—these 4 kittens and me—
a little outside running place will set all of us free.
So Pasiano’s attaching walls over the side gate bars
to protect the kitties from dogs and speeding cars.
Although escape to the big world I’m sure they’d find sublime,
we hope the napa palms are too slippery to climb.
The particle board is all installed. The kittens in fresh air
leap and climb and hide and play. They find it lovely there.
They don’t answer to their names, their naming is so new;
They are Kukla, Fran and Ollie and the white girl we call Roo.
Will the big cat come to visit, or perhaps a frog or two?
That would give them other interesting things to do.
As for me, I finally have some time to do some writing
with nothing climbing up my leg—scratching, mewing, biting.
Kittens are so precious, a constant fun delight;
but I can’t be petting kittens every hour—day and night.
They had two inside places. Now they have an outside other.
No one can tell who likes it most—the kittens or their mother!
Olie and Roo have a wonderful time rolling in the dirt, playing with palm fronds and trying to climb the slippery trunks of the trees. So do Kukla and Fran for a half hour or so, but . . .
soon I could hear their piping little “mew mew mew”s. They’d climbed between the bars and were begging for me to open the sliding screen to let them in. Within minutes, they were curled up in separate drawers in the bathroom, as was Ollie. Soon, only Roo remained outside, asleep in the sun, where she still is two hours later!
I would have shown you many more photos, but alas, my computer drive is full again and I can’t download any.
The prompt today was loop.
Every region has its own vernacular and sometimes we are not aware of how familiar terms of our childhood might be to others. My dad was a farmer/rancher in South Dakota where a low-lying field or land near a river was called a “bottom.” My dad loved a good joke, but not so much when it was on him; thus, while we laughed until we were ill, he never cracked a smile as he read the following news in The Murdo Coyote, our local small-town newspaper: “The men are busy this week moving dirt on Ben Dykstra’s bottom.”
One local wit was heard to observe that his bottom must be a sizeable one to afford that amount of activity for that length of time.
Another small town diversion, other than the local newspaper, was the church bulletin. Typed and mimeographed by a volunteer before the age of the computer, one of the diversions of church could be to search for snafus such as those given below. Thanks to sister Patti for sending these. I’d read them long ago, but I couldn’t have laughed as long and hard at them as I did today. My stomach literally hurts, but I really needed the laugh so wanted to share them:
Church Ladies With Typewriters
They’re Back! Those wonderful Church Bulletins! Thank God for the church ladies with typewriters. These sentences actually appeared in church bulletins or were announced at church services:
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The Fasting & Prayer Conference includes meals.
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Scouts are saving aluminium cans, bottles and other items to be recycled Proceeds will be used to cripple children.
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The sermon this morning: ‘Jesus Walks on the Water.’The sermon tonight:‘Searching for Jesus.’
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Ladies, don’t forget the rummage sale. It’s a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.
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Don’t let worry kill you off – let the Church help.
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Miss Charlene Mason sang ‘I will not pass this way again,’ giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.
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For those of you who have children and don’t know it, we have a nursery downstairs.
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Next Thursday there will be try-outs for the choir. They need all the help they can get.
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Irving Benson and Jessie Carter were married on October 24 in the church. So ends a friendship that began in their school days.
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A bean supper will be held on Tuesday evening in the church hall. Music will follow.
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At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be ‘What Is Hell?’ Come early and listen to our choir practice.
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Eight new choir robes are currently needed due to the addition of several new members and to the deterioration of some older ones.
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Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered.
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The church will host an evening of fine dining, super entertainment and gracious hostility.
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Pot-luck supper Sunday at 5:00 PM – prayer and medication to follow.
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The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon.
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This evening at 7 PM there will be a hymn singing in the park across from the Church. Bring a blanket and come prepared to sin.
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The pastor would appreciate it if the ladies of the Congregation would lend him their electric girdles for the pancake breakfast next Sunday.
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Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7 PM . Please use the back door.
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The eighth-graders will be presenting Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the Church basement Friday at 7 PM. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.
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Weight Watchers will meet at 7 PM at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double door at the side entrance.
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And this one just about sums them all up
The Associate Minister unveiled the church’s new campaign slogan last Sunday:
‘I Upped My Pledge – Up Yours.’
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 