The Poetry Marathon

Salt Water Taffy

Orange creamsicle!

my mouth like sticky fingers

Sweet May in Cape May

The AI Poems, The Future of Poetry, and rise of the machines

Prompt Nine: Peanut Butter And Jelly

Peanut Butter and Jelly

 

Only Daddy made it so good. Did he create this deliciousness?

I know Mom bought the Wonder Bread, the Jif Smooth Peanut Butter and Jelly.

 

Mom was not bad with the sandwich. But Daddy, his tasted creamier.

No, Daddy could not make lasagna the way Mom did. He wouldn’t dare.

But no one, on earth, past or present has ever made a PB and J like him.

 

It has been years and years, still I do not remember it so good.

Maybe Daddy just was more generous with the Jif; not concerned of calories.

 

Mom was always on a diet. Always going to a meeting with Weight Watchers.

Except when she made her lasagna or potato salad. Those were great meals..

 

Only Daddy made it so good. Did he create this deliciousness?

His recipe, if one could call it that, was perfect. More jam or that he created it?

 

It has been years and years, still I do not remember it so good.

In the long run, it must be the love. The feeling of someone taking care.

The one’s not letting you die or starve. And giving you such sweetness.

 

Daddy made his peanut butter and jelly goodness for me. My memories are fond.

As for lasagna, and potato salad, they are definitely Mom’s domain, and not mine.

A Bitter-sweet Afternoon (Hour 9)

Home from school and the sweltering heat of day

Greeted mom and she parroted, ‘Good afternoon, darling’

The last word slapped my face

Mom was no romantic

And a few steps into the house,

dad sat stolid, and stolidly greeted me.

An afternoon to remember

A bitterleaf soup with semovita, and Nico Mbarga belting Sweet Mother from ancient speakers

Something was amiss. Darling? And mom was no romantic.

Straight-laced Anglican woman with no frills about knocking a child back into shape.

Darling?

Siesta done, father called me by that name which portended danger.

Name in full, meaning, your cup is full.

The drawer opened and my sin (more…)

Another Failed Attempt

Another Failed Attempt

Another failed attempt.
Nature laughs in contempt
or in contemplation.
The other failed attempts
hover like ghosts incensed.
Either ether or intents;
ruinous is the empathy.

Failed again? Don’t look so down
and there really is a new tomorrow.
I’ll take that bet, you will regret
look here, Charlie– he’s a winner.
Every dog has their day but;
don’t pee on my leg and tell me that it’s raining.

At the end of the day
the goal is to get Charlie to a partner.
That is our quest, but I think it fair to warn you.
Each female can breed on their own.
Moreover they don’t need the male,
“Parthenogenesis” or something it’s called.
The adult females only live for a couple of hours.

Hour nine, 5pm
Another Failed Attempt
(form Acrostic/ syllabics)
Charlie the Mayfly.

v.j.calone

Another Lifetime

Time is an enormous long river Utah Phillips – song Bridges

I would like to believe in the multiverse theory of the universe
Each night after finishing cooking and the dishes

I could go into my home holo-suite and
watch another version of how my life came and went

and which decisions were important and
which were not and I could create a whole

system of evaluation and reduce these alternate
lives to numbers or letters or symbolic notations or

even 3-4 minute video clips of particular moments
that I could revisit from time to time

Perhaps after the first 20 or 30 versions of my life
I might get too wrought up or even bored

and I would choose to return
to watching star trek reruns instead.

Elbow Macaroni Sustenance

Growing up happy, we regularly

ate macaroni

with cheese, or hamburger

or summer vegetables.

 

A staple in the cupboard

versatility in a box. filling our bellies.

Mom gave the cheapest version

the name that was most fun to say.

 

Slum-gulligan rolled off our tongue

verbally, with a smile,

but stayed on the tongue

just until swallowed.with another smile.

 

That was macaroni with tomato sauce, because the

fancy sauce was gone, and no more grocery dollars,

and a can of corn for extra vitamins and extra filling for

growing kids – a whole bunch of kids.

 

We liked that macaroni so much,

that when pay checks were more plentiful,

we insisted on keeping

macaroni in the cupboard.

 

By Nancy Ann Smith,  Poetry Marathon Prompt #9,  June 25, 2022

 

 

Hour #9–An Exercise with Alliteration

Cascading crimson chiffon captivates curious consorts

Hour Nine – Baked Beans

 

Baked Beans

 

Dad’s recipe:

2 cans of B&M Baked Beans.

Add – some combination of

brown sugar, molasses, and

mustard powder.

 

Dig out the special crockery

only used for this purpose.

Nothing fancy. It was a round

casserole dish with a lid.

Brown colored, with a faded

yellow stripe.

 

The important thing was

to get the beans baking in the oven

on low heat, before the

afternoon sun penetrated our kitchen

on those hot, August days.

 

On occasion, I’ve attempted a

vegetarian version of

Dad’s specialty.  Sadly, I

don’t have anyone around

to ask for a taste test opinion.

 

My surviving brothers aren’t

nearby. The grandchildren

never tasted Dad’s cooking.

Mom’s gone now, too.

 

Perhaps I’ll search for my own

homely, baked bean pot – and start

a new tradition!

Star Baker

If I ever won star baker

There’d be no more hills to climb