The Poetry Marathon

2. The Introvert’s Self-Affirming Breakfast (Full Recipe)

Taken from the first page of “The Introvert’s Guide to Survival” pub. 3186 
*FIRST A very quick, very necessary, very punctual definition of introversion* (to simply and responsibly whet the pallet) Introversion, as it happens is not a measure of one’s ability to be charming, debonair, dashing, or resplendent. In fact, Introversion versus Extroversion signalises plainly the idea that humans gather energy from other humans differently. Extroverts can plug in to any social situation, positively teeming with other unfamiliar humans and thrive, whereas for an Introvert to do so, it would take an immense amount of Self Actualization, and, well, courage to venture out and capitalize on such an endeavour.
For a human to survive, it needs human contact, and therein, as they have been wont to say
Lies. The. Rub.
The steps for cooking and assembling the Introvert’s Breakfast leave room for improvisation. But, in order to provide a rubric, the following guidelines are recommended:

FIRST: Start with coffee. Coffee at any time is never a bad idea. Any roast will do so long as it’s rich to the particular taste. (for this step, drinking the coffee is not actually required, ‘tis the ritual that comes with making the coffee, simply to “get the ball rolling” as it were)

SECOND: A journal entry. Experienced introverts are well versed with this step, however, it is more often forgotten or simply not mentioned in other recipes. The cultivation of one’s own handwriting is an essential flavour. Basic, yet essential.

THIRD: A series of decisions. The combination and variety of decisions varies, but can usually be whittled down to “what to wear,” “where to go,” and “whom to see.” These are important, for they must be bold, defining, decisions. Robust things that will put you “on the radar” for potential conversation. These decisions flavour the outing. The bolder they are the more savory sweet bitter sour spicy
your encounters will be.

Combine these elements on a plate and indulge. Sprinkle a little “alone but not lonely” or “mysterious, single bar patron” on top for taste.
*If you didn’t get it right the first time. Choose to try again. Though the public can be draining, a balanced diet calls for the consumption of this recipe at least once a week*

2020 Prompt One (1): Mom

Mom Has Gone

She left some time ago…

Where she went,

I don’t know.

Her body remains,

Her voice she retains…

Yet, her memories are gone,

And sadly, so his her song.

Mom was a singer extraordinaire,

The loss of her breast,

…just one;

It took her zest…

It took her sun!

Mom could talk…

And she could sing;

It was her joy…

It had this ring

…of youth!

Mom retains her roots, nevertheless;

Ask her to yodel

… she obliges with a smile.

Her silence is alarming;

for Mom always had every word…

ever so charming,

and so disarming!

That is gone…

and missed.

Who would know…

I’d miss the complaints

… the sarcasm and candor.

This quiet woman…

Whom says she remember my name;

Her only child

… although, it’s hard to say.

It’s the way, when asked …

Mom will agree, “Yes, I know her name…”

Yet, when tasked to recall

… Mom needs reminded of it all.

I wish she could remember

… her mezzo tones

…she shared so freely,

frequently.

And her natural way

… to make it pay,

to offer her thoughts

… on your way(s)!

Not too long ago,

.Mom came for a moment…

and made a joke.

It was a day of fun…

Mom had one, then.

This woman who embarrassed me so!

Now, I want her back . . .

to make my blush or

embarrass my crush . . .

or may me exclaim, “Oh Mom!”

She lost three husbands …

…and now herself.

Be at peace, Mom …

as you need. I miss you more . . .

then can be said . . .

you know me somewhere;

and when you must…

I trust . . .

You will sing again,

And I will hear that voice,

and know the choir above…

has the made the best choice!

Then, like my father …

You, too, will visit in my dreams …

… tell me stories of your Army days,

…your joking ways

…the love you say

… was just for me.

NOTE: My 88-year-old mother, a former opera singer, is in hospice/nursing home care in Florida. She has severe Dementia and Stage 4 Metastatic Breast Cancer. She will yodel, if you ask. She has been legally blind for a few years with macular degeneration and glaucoma. She started the downhill in 2015, after her third husband (17 years married) died. She went through two bouts of breast cancer and some remission. Then, it came back and after the removal of one breast, after that, her Dementia was complete.

Mom served in the Army, sang with the USO, also, in the 1950s.

Maria Montessori: Half Marathon Hour One Summer 2020

A new vision of self within her,
she claimed her place among men.
Examinations, boards, clinics,
always serving women and children.
Ongoing ailments and illnesses with
roots in misinformation and ignorance
spurred her to find new solutions.
Education for a world of those underserved.
Traveling the world to help others.
Her vision for self led to possibilities for others
a new way of thinking, learning, and living.

A Recipe For Disaster

We loved, we created and we destroyed.

We loved the process of mixing our insecurities into our hearts,

Stirring the mixture with our red flags and pouring it into our lives.

We created a recipe for disaster, heated it with our raw infatuation,

Dressed it as love and wrapped it neatly before consuming our vile concoction.

As we set it in the cold we abandoned our posts and our creation.

We had seen ice in so many places,

But never had we seen ice come out of our hearts.

We had realised that somewhere in between adding too much pride,

And forgetting to put communication we left ourselves out for too long.

So we were forced to throw away our once thought perfect creation.

Destroyed our recipe of disaster,

And tried again with other people.

~Baker

Hour 2, Recipe For a Happy Parent

Recipe for a Happy Parent

1) Patience

2) Wonder

3) Friends

4) Bugs, birds, and butterflies

5) More yes than no

With a lot of help
I raised three humans to adulthood,
and emerged with my sanity intact.

Patience was required throughout,
the main ingredient for weathering
each whine and fidget,
all tantrums and tears,
every bit of angst
and sticky embraces.

Outside was our salvation,
a blue outdoors our refuge,
a grey one our charged entertainment.

Friends would come and go,
imparting life lessons
on their own paths to elsewhere.
Birds, bugs, butterflies, and books
awaited curious minds
and grubby hands,
far more lasting
an impression to make.

A “yes,” and a “yes”
for most “mama, may I . . .?”s
eased them on their way,
more honey than vinegar
the potion to cure
so many childhood ills.

I ached for those days
when they ended,
far more than those now
grown babes,
until the day
a red, squalling grandson
was placed in my arms.

A new chance was given
to practice patience
through whines and fidgets,
tantrums and tears,
angst and sticky embraces,
as I and my fuzzy headed partner
read, ramble,
wonder, and roam.

Tracy Plath

 

Hour 2; Prompt 2: Adventure Casserole

Ingredients:
Math rocks; d20 set,
Tabletop; game mat or best option
Friends; 2 or more, but not more than ten
Imagination; any flavor
Time; 3-4hrs a week: more if possible

1. Write a plot, thick but not stiff; should be a consistency that allows for further thickening as needed
2. Add in some twists
3. Mix well, then set to the side.
4. In a separate room, assemble friends in a concentric circle; pentagrams and candles are optional
5. Mix each friend separately with math rocks, pen or pencil, a notebook, and character sheet. (tumble math rocks and record results)
6.Bring plot back to the table, and fold in each friend until thoroughly engrossed
7. Set timer for 0:0

This recipe is subject to change, and will never result in the same ending
Happy Adventuring!

Love’s Kitchen

What do you have today?

Well, we’ve got our special.

And, what’s that?

Well, love on a platter of gold.

Oh, really?

Yea, but you have to welcome

Everything that comes with it.

And, what might they be?

Oh, our chief chef, Cupid

Added a pinch of sensibility,

An eternity of flame.

Well, we’ve got the option of heartbreaks.

Which would you want?

What’s the other?

A chance to love again, and again.

A chance to heal. A chance to savour

The taste of true love in the body of a perfect earth.

Of course, you can avoid this.

You could enjoy our freshly prepared loneliness.

9:09am (new changes)

its been a hell of a week, driving around in fear while pumping doubt in the fuel tank.

everything is changing.

the locks of the world has finally opened back up but with the key around crooked stoplights that could change their mind at any given green light.

new streets have been paved under old tires, car rides are lonely when all your friends are flying in planes, going to their destinations over the sunny rays as the traffic ahead keeps you occupied.

where are you going? make a left at Single and single ave., construction on relationship street so make a u turn to heartbreak boulevard so you can get back on the freeway.

despite the new road you’re still driving on the same route.

Recipe For Survival (hour 2 prompt 2)

Ingredients:

1. Determination

2. Steel

3. Will

4. Diamond dust

5. Faith

Made of determination

With a core of steel

More than a dash of fury

And a concentrated will

Dip 3 times in diamond dust

Add in any rival

Mix up well & toss with faith

And you’ve a recipe for survival.

~Mandy Kocsis©2020~

hour 1 sarah was here 2020

sarah was here 2020

im screaming up at stars : : in the desert & its been too long
since we’ve spoken face to face because i hate a cliche

but dang it if I haven’t missed talking
to the bart-simpson-on-a-motorcycle constellation

i discovered at 16 at the gulf i can’t unsee
with a person whose memory id rather not evoke

(thats whats in a name romeo)   still tho i wonder
over him sometimes  :   i wish my rapist peace

does that make me a saint or a pushover   the answer is yes
i have a part that knows war-chiggers

still burrowed in his hands & ankles were
the reason he did

ink smears as i let go of my body drunk on ink
my hand blurs across the paper —the smudge left

is a fossil-of-movement   is a skid in the earth
that says   that screams at stars   :   :   sarah   was   here