In honor of Canadian Thanksgiving and looking forward to ours later this month, this poem is dedicated to Morrie and Diego, who profit from all culinary events in my house:
Leftovers (Dedicated to Two Hopeful Dogs)
Crying for our leftovers won’t bring you any favors. You will not taste their textures or masticate their flavors if you stand there begging. Those winsome looks aren’t working. Nor are your lapsing manners—your twisting and your jerking.
Hunger doesn’t justify your unwelcome behavior. Before we even sat down, we saw Grandpa was your savior, slipping you a turkey leg he had dipped in gravy. (That leg I’d saved for leftovers–a turkey sandwich, maybe.)
Our home-cooked meal? Delicious. That you already know. When I cooked the pies, I fed you scraps of dough. The turkey giblets boiled for gravy, later went to you. When I cooked the cranberries, you even ate a few.
You licked the pumpkin bowl so clean. You licked the beater blade when I whipped the cream for pies. Dear ones, you had it made. So when you beg for leftovers, I’ll just ignore your fuss. You ate before the guests, dears. Leftovers are for us!
Be thankful for your bugaboos, though they invade your head while walking down a lonely street or lying in your bed. I know they make you nervous, especially at night. They ramify your countless fears. They niggle, scratch and bite. Fear is the voice of instinct. It says that something’s wrong. It sets action in motion when pain sounds the warning gong. Fear and pain must guide the way. Without them you are guileless. How would we know something was wrong if gall bladders were bileless? Nature’s warning signals, be they physical or mental agitate those normal states more pleasurably gentle. They are our bodyguards and they make us more secure, warning of us problems for which we need a cure. They tell of hidden dangers. Make us more aware. It’s true both pain and pleasure are part of nature’s care.
Throw clothes over your birthday suit, it’s fast becoming dawn. We need to be respectable, so put your jammies on. The milkman will be coming and it would be a plus if when we met him at the door, we had some clothes on us.
Mere speed will not suffice, dear. We also need some raiment.
No need to let the milkman in on our entertainment.
For milk upon our Fruit Loops, there are obstacles to hurdle if we want to eat before the milk begins to curdle. My walker in the hallway, your cane dropped on the floor, the stairway to maneuver, the deadbolt on the door. Folks as old as us should have passed this lusty phase.
Bed for us should merely be a place to laze.
So smooth your messy hair, dear, and try to look less daring. No need to let the milkman in on fun times we’ve been sharing. We should be sharing pastimes like t.v. and crossword puzzles. Who would suspect that we are still into passion’s nuzzles? So in spite of all the cheap jokes, no milkman will succeed me. When it comes to filling orders, my wife still seems to need me!
The chill is on the mountain. Its height seems insurmountable.
Tenebrous and unpassable, its obstacles uncountable.
And though failure is eminent, still we’ll do our best.
Deal with problems as they come. This is no time to rest.
Lend your hand for brothers struggling with the task.
Don’t settle for what’s easy and give them what they ask.
The dangers in just turning your back to the ordeal
is that the villains at the top will plot and cheat and steal
your conscience and your water, your air and liberty
until they’ve taken everything they can from you and me
and view the ruins of what they own, from sea to shining sea.
Photo by David Everett Strickler on unsplash, Used with permission.
Before it’s Too Late
We could use a sentient being in the White House about now. Surely his staunchest backers must be wondering how they can save face. How can they be suffering no qualms? You can tell them by their panicked looks and their sweating palms. How can they stand behind him? How can they fail to see how he’s cast our ship of state into a stormy sea? Already, they’re too slow to recognize the fact that they jeopardize our country. Their fealty just may bring about our final fall. This game that he’s been playing at, remember, when he’s gone, is still the world that we’ll be staying at. Judges, remove your blinders. Senators, seize the rein. Acknowledge that our captain has slowly gone insane. It’s not too late for action, but if we do not act, we’ll go the way of other fallen empires. That’s a fact!
photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash. Used with permission.
She kept her heart protected securely in a box bound up with heavy chains and secured by keys and locks so no one could purloin it. No one could even try. All potential lovers were forced to pass her by. Not for her two entities entwined into one. As other women sought their mates, she was content with none.
She never walked the nuptial aisle. No vows were ever said. Never spread her gown out upon the wedding bed. Never succumbed to childbirth. Never soothed the brow of a fevered toddler and never until now regretted what she’d missed in life by sealing tight the gate that at last she’s throwing open, but, alas, it is too late.
Prompt words for today are purloin, box and entty. These are all the prompt words posted now and actually, Ragtag’s prompt of purloin is from yesterday–posted too late for me to use it then. I’m going on a four day writing intensive with a friend to work on the book I’ve been putting off for so long, so I won’t be posting again until Monday, but Forgottenman has generously agreed to repost some of my old poems each day on my blog for me—possibly things from so long ago that we’ve all forgotten them, so hope you drop by and have a look. See you on Monday!!! xoxoo