The Poetry Marathon

(Picture Prompt 10) Will You?

DogSpeak #9 Dog Hair

DogSpeak #9 Dog Hair

Always yelling, telling us
to get off the couch, the bed,
your favorite chair,
even outside on the deck
to get off the chaise lounge.
The hair you say –
well, yeah, we’re dogs
made of hair.

Don’t be misguided;
we are not common dogs
we don’t like hardwood anything
nothing without tufting,
no unfluffy rugs for us,
no cold hard flat surfaces.
Though we have our own padding,
we want to curl up and stretch out
in an ocean of high-density
high-quality polyurethane fiberfill.

We like sink-to-our-bellies cushy
we love deep-as-our-knees comfy
we want down-filled pillows
under our feet when we walk.

We want to roll over and over
in a field of cotton clover,
a couch of springy soft foam,
recliners covered in silk damask
stuffed with the wool from a thousand
newly-shorn sheep, and expect us
to leave some dog hair behind
to remind you we were there.

Brush us all you like, day and night,
we’re dogs, we shed… a lot –
you should accept that and
to helling with the yelling.

We want to nap in the lap of luxury
want to sleep in doggy sweet dreams
on the overstuffed sofa
and not have you chase us off.
It’s only right, we are not common dogs
it’s where we belong –
after all, that’s why they call it fur-niture.

~ J R Turek

Moving Out

I slipped out

Of your grip

When I could

No longer fathom

The tears

That remained

After the laughter

Has ended

Just Saying

A sumptuous 5-course meal
At the enviable Taj and waited on hand and foot
Is no match to the simple but wholesome
Curd rice,
Conjured in minutes by Amma
The combo of Steamed rice and curd
Tempered with spices aromatic
Garnished with corriander and love
Topped with tangy mango pickle
Is no less than the meanest kind of magic
A 5 year old then; Amma, curd rice and me
A 50 year old now, my kid, curd rice and me
And Amma smiles at us, beaming, reminiscing
Times flies and yet it stands so still….

Wonders

In the frozen north there lives a man

Who never said no to a challenge.

He once lived in the South then saw

A commercial proclaiming a simple life

In the arctic wilderness where moose roam

And Alaska natives speak forgotten tongues

So smitten, he gave up his life to move there

His friends said he was crazy, that he’d die

But he bought cold weather gear, and made calls

And snapped up some land no one wanted

Money changed hands to help build a dream

A wooden cottage nestled in no man’s land

Just stop by today and ask to stay

An Bob will smile and welcome you in

And tell you the wonders he has seen

Old Phone

Old phone
Runs down so fast
How to make power last
Without divine intervention
Or losing sight of goal
So I dive in
Black hole

Hour Nine: Soda Bread

Hour Nine: Soda Bread

I keep the recipe tucked into a cookbook
a cookbook I rarely use, of old Irish recipes.
This recipe is written
in ballpoint blue ink, just beginning to fade,
on a 5×7 sheet of unlined paper,
paper I recognize as the pad she always used,
kept stored in the kitchen drawer
where pencils, scissors, thimbles,
other odds and ends were tossed.

A fresh loaf of soda bread was always on the table,
one of our staples.
It was served to guests.
It was a late night snack,
a dessert with milky tea,
a quick breakfast with coffee.

Her recipe is not very precise:
1 ½ cups of buttermilk, or a cup of milk and ½ cup of sour cream,
or a cup of sour cream and some milk, or whatever you have on hand.

As many raisins as you like. Maybe a full box.

Bake for an hour or so.
Be sure to cover with tin foil so the top doesn’t burn.

She scrawled it quickly for me,
when I asked her to write it down.
She’d learned it from her mother,
but I hadn’t quite learned it from her,
and I wanted to make it for a St. Patrick’s Day gathering
at school.

And now she’s no longer there to answer the phone,
to repeat directions, to correct my errors.
But I have her words, inscribed on the page,
and I can hear her soft voice
as I follow her steps,
measuring and mixing and kneading just slightly.
Every slice of that bread,
filled with raisins and
dripping with butter
tastes like a visit back home
and I’m back at the kitchen table
with Mom.

 

“Look in your cupboards and find a food that brings up a childhood memory, and the memory is your prompt” – contributed by Deborah Dalton

Nameless

Time, you said

Is what you need

To keep this

Whatever we have together

That still remains

Nameless after

So many years

 

Yet you never

Seem to have

Enough of it

To give me

 

Time, you pleaded

When I walked away

From you

And whatever it is

That we have

That now

Will forever remain

Nameless

Strangers Meet Up

There was spark

You said

The first time you saw me

 

There was hope

You reflected

When you met me

 

You gripped

My extended hand

And

You never let go

The Table of Life

At the table of life
Set before us are corses in turn
We trim away the loss with our knife
And eat spices that tend to burn

We all have our forks in the road
And greedy fingers in others pies
We scoop our dessert alamode
While we shew away the flies

Choose your dish with thought
Important to note the manner of food
Carried away not living as we ought
So we nourish in the manner we should

Thankful for the necessities we may have
And the hands that help us prepare
Within affection finds a smile at last
As we honor another by the forethought we share

Who could forget our glass filled with drink
Remember to watch it closely and keep it near
Its easier to spill than you think
Then what would you use to toast good cheer?

Be careful within this main course of life
For not to dip in with a dirty spoon
And watchful of the days that cut like a knife
That you be not dead inside while life still blooms