Today is a Two-for-Tuesday prompt, and they both come from Michael Grove.
Here are Mike’s prompts:
- Write a letter poem.
- Write a recipe poem.
Robert’s attempt at a letter and recipe poem:
“Dear Author”
I regret to inform you
a tablespoon of garlic
powder is inferior
to the same measurement of
garlic salt. Try both. One tastes
better, and you’ll know which dish.
As for your “cookbook,” I’ll be
returning it straight to your
publisher with improvements.
I’m sure you can buy my book,
“The Better Cookbook,” next year.
*****
Thank you to Michael for these excellent prompts. Click here to follow Michael on Twitter.
Since only a fraction of readers are participating on the forum, I’m combining the rest of the month into one thread. Click here to share there.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
This premium collection of goodies went on sale November 1 and is now down to only 36 kits still available (as of this posting). If you’re interested in growing your audience and building a career writing in the current publishing environment, act now. The kit is priced at $99, but the individual pieces retail for $534.96.
Day 13
Prompt: Letter or recipe poem
Dear Children,
I feel sad
our holiday
ended
on a bitter note.
No matter how
modern composers
tout & flaunt
cacophony
I want back the
harmony.
But maybe it was never
really there
in the first place?
I pray your hearts heal
toward one another
and you make your peace
in my lifetime.
Love,
your Mom
Letter to Santa
My dear Mr. C.,
The little angels are fast asleep.
Meet me at midnight
by the milk & cookies
(I’ll be the one in bathrobe
and bunny slippers
bearing 2 hot toddies &
1 warm smile) and
I will share with you
my recipe for a very
merry (ho ho ho) holiday.
Love,
Mrs. C.
ps: Light the fire.
filagreed frost
her faded handwriting
on old recipe cards
To my Daughter on her wedding day,
I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you
So this letter I give in lieu
It contains a gift straight from the heart
In hopes that you will never part
Things I’ve learned, things you’ll see
Instructions, or rules, a recipe!
Always love each other, as you do this day
Don’t work too hard, leave room for play
Disagree when you must, but never fight
And always, always kiss goodnight
These simple rules I give to you
Loves recipe for staying true
When reading this please don’t be sad
Forever and Always, I’ll be your Dad
Dear Mom,
It’s been awhile since
I’ve written you, perhaps
a year or more. Overland
passages flow like the rain
through your garden.
Summer blooms have gone.
The sweetness of the valley
no longer floats through
the air. The many colors
of the dahlias have lain
their heads to rest.
Winter in November
and now your work
is done. But in my
heart your garden
is blooming on and on.
Fat Man’s Misery
Next stop, the Devil’s Corncrib. As if
the devil was one of the farmers you
knew who sold his land to Wal-Mart,
and every time you go buy cornflakes
and bacon with your throw pillows, you
think of him. Then again, how many of
these guys have ever worked a cornfield?
This is killing my mind. Even if you’re
skinny, this is the moment when your
wetsuit is pulled up over your face, arms
alongside your ears in neoprene gauntlets.
You know in a few moments your mouth
will be free to breathe, but right now the
panic bird is hot under your breastbone.
Sometimes I dream that I am diving
through a cat door, through a tunnel
where I used to fit. This is probably just
the sleep apnea talking, but I believe
that if I can take a wave in the face
and stifle my cough, then I can hold
my hand in that goddamned box.
A Recipe for Insanity
I suppose we should have known
That you plus me was a recipe
For insanity, but our explosive
Expressions of friendship
Seem to make the scales tip
In the direction of sincerity,
If you ask me. Sometimes
Things get a bit messy,
And I know I can be testy,
But nothing’s been broken yet.
It’s my bet that we’ll always
Get things cleaned up, because
That’s what friendship does;
We take off our masks and
Put on our gloves in jest,
Because discussion’s the best
Way to clear the air, and
I love you so well I don’t care
That you’re crazy sometimes,
And you don’t mind that I
Get grouchy without reason
Or rhyme, and people think
We’re both insane, because
Undoubtedly you plus me
Is the very best recipe for
My favourite kind of insanity.
T
Plum Cake
(Day 13)
If you like Plum Cake
Do beware
For unripe plums
Can cause despair
Be very careful
With the flour
Sift and sift but
Don’t take an hour
Add just a small
Amount of sugar – hey
Diabetics don’t
Come out to play
Mix in some
Butter and lard
I say, with fingers
You have washed today.
Now it’s time, throw
In those plums
All juicy ruby red
Then off you go
I’m doing the cooking
For you – it’s time for bed.
The Letter
(Day 13)
It sits upon the table,
the white closed letter
as I contemplate,
shall I, shan’t I, over and over
until my mind gives in.
My hand moves forward
clutches at its white innocent
outer coat to reveal within,
then stops, fear feeding every pore.
my hand stilled.
Good or bad, the news it holds?
Would I know? Or maybe live today
and all my tomorrows with only
the knowing it sits upon the table
the white closed letter.
I wrote this letter poem and then realised it probably wouldn’t mean anything to anyone outside the UK. But I’m posting it anyway! For those who don’t know who Jimmy Savile is, he was a very popular TV personality, presenter, DJ and charity campaigner for many years. He died last year and it’s only in the past few weeks that we’ve found out he was a serial abuser of children. It’s a national scandal at the moment, as it appears lots of people knew or suspected this, but allowed him to get away with it because of his celebrity status.
Dear Jimmy
I would like you to fix it for me
that you never died,
so you were still here
to face the furore
your evil perversions
have stirred up.
It sickens me to think how much
I admired you as a child.
I wrote to you once back then,
was disappointed
not to receive a reply.
How relieved I am now
that my letter went unanswered,
that my innocence was never
tainted by your presence.
How my heart breaks
for those countless children
who weren’t so lucky.
I bet you died with a smile
on your face, laughing at how
easily you got away with it,
nearly half a century
of abuse.
Your country mourned when you died,
remembered you with fondness
and admiration.
A year on, your country hates you.
Even your own family
dismantled your gravestone.
If such a thing as Hell exists
I hope you’re in it,
hope you’re enduring
the same pain and suffering
you meted out to those
too powerless to resist.
May you never rest in peace.
Recipe for an Expectant Grandparent
Take a cup of happy surprise,
add a dash of pride,
add a tablespoon of ancestry
and suggestions for baby names.
Blend well, and pour
into a heart-shaped pan.
Put in a warm oven for several months.
Meanwhile, stir together
telling everyone you know,
browsing baby shops,
planning a shower,
and nervous anticipation.
WORD SALAD
It’s easy enough as long as you can dream
to stay away, be watchful as you scan
following the images as efficiently when they pan
across the universe, it’s mostly a scheme
devised for nimble minds to fill up lines
with letters forming words that describe what you see
twisting and turning, grab them quickly, take them they are free
examine them, project their meanings, study the signs
they show you, meander, yes wander inside them, roll
them about in your tongue with your eyes closed, watch the sight
of how they fill your head, but be careful, they just might
not be the ones you need. Go back again and call
out for another combination, maybe a phrase
that is formidable, but who knows, it could be the path,
the beginning of what your pen records, like a swath
cut through into a piñata with stuff to gaze.
Don’t be embarrassed by this wealth, this mess
gather it up as you take all the parts
of a jigsaw puzzle, organize, as it starts
to become, the details reveal themselves, then address
how all the colors of this picture come to seek
not what a painter paints, or camera shoots
this is a seed that you plant in grey matter, boots
the information in lines, the language that poems speak.
Zev Davis
Recipe
I wanted to come up with something
like a formula, to describe who you
are, or denote my favorite attributes,
the ones only you possess in perfect
amounts that complement me and all
my random little foibles. The closest
I could come to anything like that
formula was less definitive than what
I initially had in mind, but somehow,
it fit you better than I expected. Here
goes nothing: One part faith. One part
courtesy. One part respect. One part
that look you get on your face when
you watch me walk down the stairs
and into your arms in my night-on-
-the-town best. One part the look in
your eyes when I tell you that, with
or without your permission, we’ve
made a miracle, one that will squall
its wet, squirmy way into the world
in about nine months and captivate
you in ways that even I never could,
and I won’t even be jealous when I
watch you jealously cuddle that
bundle close. One part trust. One
part independence—just so you know
that you don’t need to lean on me
to bolster yourself up because you
have other people to prop up your
self-esteem when it falters. One part
the security I feel, not when you
draw me into your arms and hold me
close but when you clasp my hands
and bow your head to pray for us,
the assurance that I don’t have to be
your higher power. Mix well, and
serve with affection and laughter.
Recipe for Rest
Put the soothing music on.
Nestle chocolates two by two.
Strawberries or berry scones
Grapes and cheeses ought to do.
Pour a glass of wine and there
Pick up that book you long to read
Clear the cats out of your chair
Your heart and mind you still must feed.
Turn off your phone and take your seat.
Inhale, exhale, take sip, feel blessed.
Just tuck that blanket ‘round your feet,
It’s time to bake a batch of rest.
Poetics Aside November Challenge – Day 13
Write a letter
Write a recipe
Worth Another Shot
Dear Ms. Erable,
I was distressed to learn that your recipe attempt
did not go well. However, in looking over the
ingredients and the order in which they were
blended together, I did find some errors which
may be causing your final product to fail.
To begin, you left out compassion which is a
vital ingredient for success. In placing sexual
fulfillment first, you have neglected the art
of conversation and communication. Sense
of humor was used correctly, as well as love.
I suggest you give this recipe a second chance
and please do let me know the outcome.
Yours truly,
Mr. Wright
Dear Santa…
As a poet I’ve been nice.
As a human I’ve been naughty.
Since I’ve made your list twice
and I’m not the slightest bit wordy,
I think ONE present should suffice…
perhaps two… maybe… forty?
To the Baker
Dear Baker,
Don’t to forget the filling in the pie.
Whether it’s chocolate, pumpkin, or apple,
what’s beneath the surface is what’s important.
Be sure to bake it well,
so the crust is flaky.
The crust will draw attention
to your creation,
but remember what matters
is the first bite
and the taste of what you have put inside.
Be sure to dress well for the occasion,
and wear a big smile,
but what makes the holiday special
is what you hold in your heart.
Fantastic Prompt!
posted on my blog today see it HERE
Great work everyone!
I wrote two poems today… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/13/365-creativity-project-day-309/
Tassajara Life
There is no single recipe.
You grew up sailing, attended a boys’ academy,
and breathed in your mother’s cigarette smoke.
You went to Hebrew school and became Bat Mitzvah.
They fed you bagels and lox, bananas, horseradish,
hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps, asparagus.
I lived in a crumbling farmhouse, stacked firewood,
fed the chickens, skied, read books to teach myself.
I took care of my sisters. I ate only two slices of the
weekly pizza, rutabagas, green corn in July, plattar
with lingonberries, but I would never touch lutefisk.
Now the children – one can scarcely find his own socks.
Cats adore him, machines seize up when he comes near.
We always finds him underwater. Every day, for lunch,
he has a cheese sandwich and a clementine. We feed
him kale and garlic, pomegranates, avocados and tea.
Another ice skates, reads lying on her back, jumps off
cliffs and waterfalls. She laughs with other girls, cries
when she’s angry, looks impassive when afraid. She
loves pasta, lamb chops and clam chowder. We give
her beets, sautéed spinach, and champagne mangoes.
The youngest plays violin, cooks pancakes on Sunday.
He build switches and radios, memorizes lists, listens
to German songs he can’t understand. He is allergic
to apples but eats them anyway, loves cucumbers. We
serve him meatballs, lentil soup and vanilla ice cream.
It doesn’t really matter how you make it –
just so long as you nourish the person.
A POEM
This is a poem about “A”
The beginning: the start.
The very heart of the Alphabet
About as authentic as “a” can get.
Always aware, alert and adroit,
answers to no one, always polite.
Apologetic, apoplectic, agreeable,
amiable and acceptable.
Anonymous, and amorous
an additional plus. This poem
has been brought to you
by the letter “A”.
A letter poem.
The Tin Man Interview
Yes sir.
It is true I am an empty tin can
as you so amply demonstrated
with the palm of your hand.
But I assure you that means
I am only more open to others
experiences and emotions.
Well, it is hard to tell because
this hard outer shell
does keep me from showing all that
I feel
but it does give me backbone,
so to speak,
and keeps me
being me.
Yes sir,
my ax is very sharp
and at times I did
and do rust up
with fear, anger, uncertainty.
But I am easily brought back
with compassion
and love.
Yes,
I am often frozen
mid-swing
and especially when I was younger
I found there were times
when I could not stop the swing
once I was brought back.
Yes,
of course I knew
there were always those
who knew how
to use this
against me.
“Dear Hannah” (Rispetto Poem)
From birth’s first breath, you opened eyes to life’s joy
Love beams from your soul, sunshine within a heart
At times I chuckle, a mirrored face so coy
No matter the distance, we’re never apart
Each summer adds a year being my daughter
Still wish I could shelter you from rough water
I know life’s lessons in time you too will learn
For you, dear Hannah, boundless pride grows in turn!
“Hannah Pie Dough”
In large bowl, mix together
one part each of the following:
Pianist of six years and counting,
Budding old-fashioned cook,
Gourmet cupcake baker,
Possibly Lucille Ball’s biggest fan–ever,
Flag-twirler in the marching band,
Distinguished honor roll student,
Anthology-published poet,
Reading Olympian,
Alto in the middle school chorus,
List-making planner,
Trustworthy, considerate, giving,
Compassionate, helpful, silly girl,
Hugger extraordinaire
Pour mixture into a 12-year-old mold
Watch the dough rise overnight
Dear Sir or Madam:
I would like to complain to you about so many things,
like the sunlight that still butters the edges of leaves,
some of which are still green. It’s November; if
everything is going to die, I would rather it be soon.
For weeks, I’ve braced myself for it, and yet, I still
see a flower here and there, hanging in, and its
unwinnable fight hurts me more than if it would
just die already, so I could mourn a little, move on,
make myself ready for ho ho ho’s and the exchange
of good cheer. It takes me a while to make myself
feel that, you know, though eventually I do, at least
a little, even in the worst of years. I am not unmoved
by public sentiment, no matter how frothed it is by
advertisers, manufacturers of things. I like things
as much as the next person, maybe more, and I can’t
lie: I especially like things that are not necessary, ones
that are apple-heavy in my palm and make their own
starlight. I would like the world to turn a little, all of us
to suffer now in darkness and cold, because winter
can’t end before it begins. This anticipation, it’s like
waiting for a blood test, sitting there in an awful room
with a TV you can’t turn off (there’s a handwritten
card that says so, in Sharpie, no less—it’s permanent,
you know), and you can’t imagine that your name will
ever be called, the test ever be done, your blood
remaking itself before you even get up to go home.
You can’t imagine home, not when all of you is
wrapped up in dread, suspended animation.
It’s like that, dear sir or madam.
That’s just what it’s like.
Baby
Sometimes I can’t find the words
to tell you how I feel.
I know I love you dearly.
You know that this is real.
I’ll write it in a letter,
I’ll post it on your wall,
a message in a bottle.
I’m giving this my all.
We both know we’re in this
and my feelings are all true.
Let me tell you one more time.
Baby, I love you.
By Michael Grove
Like the prompt, Mike!
Here’s my left-handed letter:
http://imunuri.blogspot.com/2012/11/on-other-hand.html
really a minor irritation but I could not resist
Dear writers digest, so
You are posting comments too quickly. Slow down.
Okay. So now I have to write each day and
Uselessly try to post.
Aargh.
Really, write post repost
Each day. Fight for
Poetic prompt time
Only to get You are posting comments too quickly.
Slow down.
Too quickly I give up and think
I can quickly write another day.
Nothing comes to mind then I write a thought away.
Grasping at an elusive idea.
Too quickly mind over matter.
Ouch.
Okay.
Quickly pick up pen and post on forum – hmm where is the forum?
Until
I plot to post until I can be read yeah.
Come and see my brilliance and preservence.
Keep on penning posting and posting.
Loiter and post instead of writing.
Yester day is done and I wait tomorrows.
Slow down
Laughing at this
Only letters I now don’t write only emails
Well glad this is
Done.
Only it’s not.
Welcome all
New posts.
Dearest __________________,
1 Pinch
no more than a square inch,
just inside the arm
where the soft flesh meets the shoulder.
You made me then,
no more than just a lump of dough,
into a pleading gingerbread man.
I should have seen it coming; that
1 dash
out the door
the night before we each kneaded another; that
1 dry ingredient
that we could never reconsitute.
You licked my fingers clean
while I slowly simmered in my own juices.
1 twist of the knife.
Consume the leftovers.
Sharing Dilemma
Dear Carol,
Attached please fine my persimmon
pudding recipe you have so long coveted.
Accept my apologies for what, may appear
to be, well placed smudges and stains,
covering quantities for sugar, salt, and persimmons.
They are the result of long
term use, nothing else. I’ve become
accustomed to adding these quantities
by color and taste. Hopefully, you can too.
Enjoy,
Sue
P.S. Please don’t serve this dish at our next
book club meeting.
recipe for disaster
houses on the sand
tropical winds
electrical lines above ground
cars that require gasoline
high tides
millions of people
rain
full moon
subway tunnels on an island
disbelief that the worst can happen
large trees next to houses
bridges between sand bars
roller coasters on the beach
high-rise apartments with old boilers at sea level
disbelief in climate change
only so many power company workers
sand dunes that can’t stop waves
a rising sea
sinking land
storm
Dear Me
Hello, dear me, ten years from now.
You are now sixty-four.
How is two thousand twenty-two?
I wonder what’s in store.
Has all your hair turned gray or white?
And did you lose some weight?
What is your daily schedule like?
Do you still stay up late?
Do you finally have an empty nest?
Did hubby leave his job?
Is your house all spic and span?
Or are you now a slob?
How is your lovely daughter, now?
And has she met her prince?
Did God answer this prayer of mine,
Are you a grandma since?
Your son is almost thirty-eight,
Did he grow to be a man?
Does he have family and job?
Or he’s like Peter Pan?
Are you still writing every day?
Or are you finally though?
And did you take up carpentry
like I so threatened to?
Did you take an Alaskan cruise?
And see the Island state?
If so, you’ve seen all fifty now,
Not just the forty-eight.
Did you spend money and your time
In ways that are worthwhile?
And most of all, did you do things
That made your Father smile?
I’m having a weird day. That is all.
http://whatnotshop.blogspot.com/2012/11/dear-life.html
This is an older poem, but, on the heels of Veterans Day I thought it would be appropriate to repost it here…a soldier, writing home…
RESILIENT
aching from loss
vision blurred by thirst for revenge
blood, thrumming in his ears
in animated whispers
he wonders aloud,
to no one in particular:
Did they train us for this?
surrounded on the hillsides
he begins scribbling words
he hopes will sustain her:
You are resilient…
The story continues here if you’re interested…
http://whenwordsescape.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/i-am-resilient/
My Favorite Recipe
a pinch, a rub, a dash, a sprinkling
turn up the heat and give me hot, Love
you’ll like this dish, I’ve got an inlking
a pinch, a rub, a dash, a sprinkling,
the fire there in your eye’s a-twinkling
tasting flesh you can’t get enough of
a pinch, a rub, a dash, a sprinkling,
turn up the heat and give me hot love
Oh my.
I’ll be so delighted if you want to read my post from yesterday on the blog you reach when pressing my name here.
I especially hope Claudette, Janet Martin and Vivienne Blake do so – that is if you haven’t done so already.
My today’s poem is also there for Poetic Asides’ readers. You’ll find it on the notice board; scroll down until you find “A RECIPE FOR MY SON.”
And thank you everyone! I enjoyed all the poems here. Mariya, I share Misk’s comment.
Recipe that never disappoints
Find bread
(may substitute: crackers,
minute rice, noodles, spaghetti,
instant mashed potatoes)
Heat to preference.
Add butter
(may substitute: any butter
substitute, peanut butter–yes–
mayo, olive oil, jelly–yes, even
on potatoes, don’t knock it–
Nutella, ketchup, salsa, mustard)
Consume.
Dearest You
Nineteen years. I certainly didn’t perceive the timetable when I first looked you over,
but then the future was an unattended diary with an inexpensive lock. Now we own
brass, looped fingers, nickel faces, knock-before-you-enter unlocked locks,
as well as little locks inside kisses with good that opens to morning, night,
and bye. Part of my existence rocks the big chair in your heart; you travel
through mine like signatures on many pages that mortgage ideals, trouble
and a grand promise at the end of semi-spent youth. But we acquired love,
didn’t we? At least we own its homemade disappointments, joys, tragedies,
triumphs and depths of territories we’ve yet to unearth. We birthed children
that desperately need their own security devices but come back often, inserting
the key that leads to home-base because they miss the diamond, the grass
and the ether of our tierra. It seems absurd, the culmination of these years.
Truly, dry and wet moments clap us together mostly with minute to minute hands.
Love, Me
““““““““““
Kindness
Altruism
Cheerfulness
Homelessness
Hunger
Helplessness
Warm up the second list and blend with raw ingredients of the first within the bowl of you heart.
your heart
Dear Knucklehead,
Of course your sister-in-law
should not have put your
birthday present on eBay
And it is indeed a bad
sign that your husband
has a secret bank account
in the Cayman Islands.
You might want to talk to a
qualified physician about
those nosebleeds and fainting spells
Texting while driving is inexcusable
even in parking lots – stand your ground
And no, you don’t have to
be a swinger at your age.
I will hold my tongue concerning
your attitude towards your
son’s preference in clothing, except
to say you know what you need
to do: don’t blow this one.
And finally, it’s only a
set of dishes – get over it.
Sincerely,
And a recipe, of sorts.
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/13/cosmic-disaster-and-other-recipes/
PUPPY FORMULA
1 can evap milk, 4 oz yogurt, 4 egg yolks, 2 tbsp
liquid vitamins. Mix in blender. Warm to body temp.
Pour into a big syringe with feeding-tube. Here
it gets a bit tricky; get someone to show you how.
See how much tube it takes to go all the way down
into the pup’s stomach; this is important. Cradle
the pup in your hands, very gently insert tube, and
slowly very slowly press the plunger. Remember
Q-Tip? little girl-pup who never opened her right
eye? Tube-fed twice a day for weeks. She followed
us everywhere; never took the focus of her one good
eye away from us. Everyone who came to look at
puppies wanted her. But there was only one Q-Tip.
Note to self as if Self were a friend who died young
I love you.
you should love yourself.
Easy for me to say? Maybe
maybe easy to say,
hard to do,
but love, what is it, after all? It’s no more than
what you allow yourself.
Did you love that old shirt
that never did a thing to deserve love,
or the dog, the stinking dog? Did you
love rum, or only the anesthesia? Did
you love the oblivion? Did you want, really, to die?
Or did you only want to be
loved like an old shirt, or stinking dog?
RECIPE FOR FRIENDSHIP
Pour 1 cup of your words into a bowl
add 2 cups listening and stir
locate your missing grace
sprinkle liberally,
pour into pan.
Bake, cool,
frost thickly with patience,
and enjoy a longer friendship.
JOHN DEERE LETTER
Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you well.
You said war was hell, and I can tell
it is wearing on you. And it’s true
it’s been a few weeks since I wrote you,
it WAS something you said. I would quote you,
but then I’d be guilty of your same crime.
There is someone else this time.
He’s younger and more handsome,
has more stamina and agility
and a unique ability to finish the job
in half the time as you.
He has a 21 inch span,
and the man knows how to use it.
I do not abuse it, but I choose it
sometimes three times a week.
Oh, how that boy can mow!
That is why I’m selling your green
and yellow tractor. Please don’t be mad,
but it’s for the best. Glad I got
that off my chest. Signed, Louise.
BWAHAHAhaaaa!
Snort.
Naughty or Nice?
(a shadorma)
Dear Santa:
You know I’ve been good.
No—really!
(Stop laughing.)
Oookaaay, I’ll try harder next
year for the “nice” list.
Not convincing! Never try to fool the Big Guy!
Ooookaaay.
A Pinch of Cayenne
Darling,
I know you mean well,
but sometimes I wonder if you realize
just what a hot pepper you have
in me.
Don’t think this is a complaint,
exactly,
but sometimes a girl needs
a little more spice,
a little more fire,
a little more hachachacha.
Recipe:
you and me
fireplace,
glass of wine,
and a bear skin (bare skin?) rug,
tonight after the kids are asleep.
What do you say?
Your loving wife,
Cayenne
Of course I edited it all most immediately: Here is the edited version:
A Pinch of Cayenne
Darling,
I know you mean well,
but sometimes I wonder if you realize
just what a hot pepper you have
in me.
Don’t think this is a complaint,
exactly,
but sometimes a girl needs
a little more spice,
a little more fire,
a little more hachachacha.
Recipe:
you and me
fireplace,
glass of wine,
and a bear skin (bare skin?) rug,
and tonight after the kids are asleep
we cook.
What do you say?
Your loving wife,
Cayenne
Great recipe!
It’s spicy, but delicious! ^_^
A letter to the stars.
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/13/burn-before-reading/
can’t post any poems have tried and tried – Glory
Dear Used-to-be-a-friend:
There was a time you wanted
for us to hang around,
we talked and talked for hours
a listening ear you’d found.
But when I asked a question
I’m not sure what you heard,
it wasn’t what you wanted–
it’s plain that’s what occurred.
You called me several names then,
“sarcastic” “mean” and “rude.”
I’d never had a friend with
such a “bad”ittude.
You took my ear for granted,
you took up lots of time
I guess I was your therapist
who never made a dime.
(You’ll be getting my bill shortly.)
13 LETTER Haibum – Many interesting responses to fun prompt, Thanks Mike
John, your letter was a surprise. Yes, I do remember those candle light dinners for two, dancing to romantic tunes, mountain hikes, pausing by clear pools. A bon fire on a hidden beach with waves lapping at our feet. Hay rides under a harvest moon. Yes, I remember snowball battles, hot chocolate by wood fires. Study dated without study, weekend ball games cheering on our team, victory dances and parades. I do remember “look-out point” …. promises made.
You left, I waited,
been wife and mom for ten years,
I’ll just say. “Dear John….”
1-2-3-4-5-6
Dear Dad,
You never were
much for writing
so I never wrote
you a letter.
You and I
always knew
each other
best through
landscapes,
pigments, brushes,
lenses, captured
hours, minutes,
and seconds
that will never
come back
but could be
relived again
and again
through transparencies
or stacked paintings
in a closet.
I write to you
now, looking
down at your
hands, freckled
and funny
as a write this,
and later,
when Alden
and I take
pictures of winter
deer, you will
be shooting with us
As always,
Linda
Take Two…no, Three…no, Four…no, Five…
Wow. I posted on my first attempt above!
Try #1:
How many attempts are others making, generally, in order to post here?
When I get to 11 and it won’t post, I stop and just don’t post. 10th try. (Yawn, eat chocolate, bite lip, peel potatoes for dinner, think about coffee, bury myself in sand, think about time-sucks, )
Letter to My Younger Self
To say that things will never be
as you expect? Oh, too easy.
No millionaire. No famous star.
But you’ll be great just as you are.
Talents you might now ignore
are just a hint at what’s in store
for you. Aim high and set the bar
‘cause you’ll be great just as you are.
The road is bumpy in some parts
but you’ll achieve in fits and starts.
Wear proudly every battle scar.
See, you’ll be great just as you are.
And don’t forget, time wounds all heels.
(Just kidding, younger self.) Ideals –
please hold them close and you’ll go far.
Yes, you’ll be great just as you are.
(One more thing I’d like to mention:
Don’t date Don. Heart break prevention.)
###
Part one letter poem
Dear owner,
Hello there owner of mine
It’s me your little brown pocket hugger
Folded so neatly in the pouch of your jeans
So thin weak and feeble with no green to eat
I’ve nothing to feed you again this rainy day
I know you’re hungry and that’s a shame
But the rain would not let us work today
It’s not my fault I’m sure you know
And for whatever its worth I want you to know
That I’ll be hungry too if things don’t change
Like you I fear the coming winter days
I’m tired of being empty I’m sorry to say
But maybe it’s time for a career change
Can you make some money for me to hold
Writing on rainy dreary winter days
Feed me with your writing if you can
Feed me in any which way you think you can
Feed me feed me somehow today
For I’m so famished and so empty
On this rainy dreary day
Signed…Your loving wallet…
Gingerbread House
A gingerbread house, thick with paste,
Will hold its shape, but not its taste,
But make it a more scrumptious way,
The walls and shutters melt away,
One for looks and one for food?
Gifting either would be rude!
Form and function never meet.
Who thought up this Christmas treat?
You’ve all written so well this morning to this prompt. Thanks, Mike, for the challenge to my tired brain. Here’s my attempt to fill the order.
Dear YouTube,
Because of you,
I went to the movies
Last night; scores filled
Waiting ears, mind, and memory.
Because of you, my emotions
Did a roller-coaster
Dance in time.
Because of you,
I became young again,
Seeing those places left behind
That mattered back then, forgotten til now.
Because of you I cried, I laughed,
Revisited who I was
Before you came.
A Garden’s Recipe
A garden works
As a stew pot;
Small ingredients
Brought together
In time to meld
For enjoyment,
Prosperity,
Lasting flavors;
Desire begins,
Planning ensues,
Tending wins out,
And then—harvest.
So few additions
To create such
A pleasant life.
I hope you are enjoying this prompt. I’m finding it difficult to write until later in the day due to my increased work schedule. I’ll be back later with a new one. Here is an older one for now.
Recipe for Togetherness
Never, ever rush this special mixture.
Spend the proper time to gain insight.
Everything worth having is worth waiting for.
Take all special cares and get it right.
Start with two who truly share some common goals.
Spare the melodrama and white lies.
Add a dash of romance more than every now and then.
Fold in great compassion, strain the cries.
Stir in more desire than you’ve ever felt before.
Blend with commitment bound by trust.
Knead gently all those regions which you caringly explore.
Set aside the coarseness of the crust.
A cup of compromise will help the texture.
Add a dash of hope for better days.
Combine with inner peace that comes from sharing everything.
Soften up the hard shell for the glaze.
A pinch of passion helps you thru the hard times.
Mix in some fun and games to quench your thirst.
Divide the daily tasks up so that neither’s overwhelmed.
Add a can of kindness, drain well first.
Simmer down whenever anger blocks out logic.
Remove from heat all doubts that make things bitter.
Prepare for understanding all so no one feels alone.
Let stand ’till thickened, never be a quitter.
Spoon on monogamy so thick, spread smoothly for the future.
Baste in iconic feasts of bread and wine.
Top it off with some affection pure and sprinkle tenderness.
Serve warm with hearts of gold and love divine.
by Michael Grove
LITERACY du JOUR
Begin with a student eager to learn
add in a teacher with resources galore
sprinkle with lessons for which they earn
to have speaking and writing and reading and more
Ever so slowly, let it all stew
stirring and mixing and blending it for
a wonderful magical linguistic brew
DEAR TEACHER
Thank you for teaching
me to think
about the words that
I learn
so that I can
use them
like money
at the store of Life.
These are both wonderful, Linda!!
Thanks, Hannah! I love reading everyone’s entries…we have such talented writers in this group.
Thank you for the post, Robert…prompt Mike, poems everyone!!! Warm smiles.
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/13/day-thirteen-a-letter-and-a-recipe-haiku-style/
RECIPE FOR INSANITY: PART 2
Write a poem.
go to submit it
to the P-A-D,
press “Post Comments”
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat.
Write a poem.
go to submit it
to the P-A-D,
press “Post Comments”
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat.
Write a poem.
go to submit it
to the P-A-D,
press “Post Comments”
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat…
Strangely, when I posted today it was the first time that it went through on the first try! Go figure and just below this!
Technology is grand, Walt….when it works! Thank you for putting our frustrations into verse.
Walt, absolutely brilliant!
Here is my shot at a two-fer.
NOTE TO SELF
If you are reading this,
clearly you have yet to learn
the art (or importance)
of the stand-alone recipe.
But as you have found this missive,
you must now find the fortitude
to push ahead.
The trick is to take crumbs
from the unsuccessful efforts
and to spread them before you
like clues—each having its own flavor.
The problem lies in saving
too much failure—it’s bitterness
overpowers the rest,
resulting in a dish
fit for the chopping block
of even the most lenient of
culinary critics.
But, since you are reading this,
there is hope.
***How to Make Any Good Stand-Alone Sauce***
Start with simple ingredients:
equal parts of esteem, good and self.
With out these basic staples, no
recipe stands a chance.
Mix these until smooth and
fully blended.
Now, add equal portions of
intent and direction,
continuing to beat until
all doubt has been removed.
Take the vial of reserve energy,
(almost forgot you had that, huh?)
and add it gradually, mixing
thoroughly as you go.
Once you have these all whipped up
you are almost through.
Fold in a few pinches of
attitude according to taste—
savory, sweet, salt or spicy.
This modus operandi is
guaranteed to create a personality
that can contribute flavor and
substance to any group effort,
and yet stand comfortably
on its own.
And since you are reading this
you know that you wrote it
and it works pretty well.
Ellen Knight
RECIPE FOR INSANITY
Do the same thing,
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat.
Do the same thing,
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat.
Do the same thing,
over and over,
expect different results.
Repeat….
Dear Poet,
Apology for lateness
worry hard a week now
this one sick—
dealing Poem bugs too long.
Give folks a chance to keep
everything Today
Before I do.
Keep everything Today
and soon try Poem long.
Today.
A chance.
Written after Robert Brewer and the Chance Poets.
Anti-Dadaistic
(Thanks, Robert, for inadvertently sharing your words)
***
“Lost recipe Found”
Ingredients:
1 mom
2 daughters
3 sons
Glaze with Psalm 1
and a bit of fun
salted lightly with the earth.
Yield: One prayer
***
If I ever start a rock band, I’m going to have to consider naming it “Robert Brewer and the Chance Poets.” Thanks!
And thanks to every poet who got a quick opportunity this morning to poem even before me.
or Robert Brewer and the Rising Yeast!
Nice!!!
Hey, I like that!
That was supposed to be under Robert and the Chance Poets.
recipe for progress
eager eyes across the world
focus in on the Western strategy
for progress, measured in success
against [mostly] themselves,
in an effort to compete;
trying to achieve the American dream
despite the irony…
and systemic limits…
and deterministic warnings…
but tunnel-visioned goals
for the as-seen-on-TV life,
however child-like and utopian
deserve a helping hand
to follow our example
and learn from their mistakes
instead of the ones we made.
where they fail in realizing
the endless chase for efficiency
is a simple matter of priorities,
and a quick exchange
in their mixture can fix it:
first, take your workers,
and throw them away in favor of
labor that does not require
food or drink or sleep-
no human needs-
and your land, your resources,
give them to the developed world
and they will mix them up
and sell them back
without asking (or caring)
about the who, what, where, when,
or how you develop-
autonomy comes with the package-
just so long as you grow
with their technology,
and using their product
instead of your raw goods.
follow this to the letter without exception
and your society will never be good
but they would call it better
Recipe for Drama
“Recipe For Drama: 1 Cup Of Gossip 1/4 Tablespoon of Rumors and; A Dash Of Jealousy.” ~Unknown
A pinch of this. A pinch of that.
Reality TV. Let’s chat.
You’ll never guess who’s doing whom.
A recipe for drama. Boom!
“I saw it on the Internet.
It must be true.” The statuette
for WOW goes to…(just get a room.)
A recipe for drama. Boom!
A rumor spreads will easy grace
but can one ever ‘do’ erase?
En masse, the tabloids we consume.
A recipe for drama. Boom!
And gossip? Add a cup and stir.
The sex, the drugs, the strong liqueur;
just light a match and watch the plume.
A recipe for drama. Boom!
###
Ode to Ink
I miss the days
when in the mail
a letter would come
on paper frail.
The paper smell
and the words in ink,
wonderful to read
like you’re here in a blink!
Oh and the postmark
from beyond the shore,
across the seas
I would long for more.
New stamps to see
I might collect,
keep one or two
a treasured object.
Would the handwriting
be frail or bold?
I would know in an instant
if it was Grandma, she’s old.
I miss those letters
that we took time to write.
To share the news,
to thrill and delight.
So send me a text
or an email if you must,
but Times New Roman is lacking,
there’s nothing personal nor robust.
I’m dreaming of paper
and letters in ink.
Call me old fashioned,
I don’t care what you think.
Oh, lovely ink.
*Letter*
Although you’ll never read this,
I think I have to ask
Some questions that have
Been burning my mind
For a long time
For over twelve years, to be precise.
Starting on along this road
Did you remember to take
My smiles with you
And the memory of hugging me?
Do you still keep them,
Or have you forgotten all
About me and how I
Depended on you in everything?
Remembering you is never hard
Do you remember me?
Crying for you is always easy,
Where do my tears go?
Can you really hear my voice
When I speak up,
As old wives’ tales warn me?
I put all this in writing
On a computer screen
Which you have never seen
And which cannot be
Stained with tears
As paper does.
I write because
I’m still alive
And want to remember
And fancy you
Remember me.
***
This is so touching, at least I find it very touching because it’s often something that I wonder myself.
Dear Santa
I know you may not exist
but I just could not really resist
the chance to write this little note
all I’m really asking is a boat
so I can travel far and wide
with my beautiful wife by my side
there’s not much time so its a rush
don’t wait for Christmas, just use a bush
instead of the tree dressed up in bling
you really must hurry but there’s one thing
we’re on the run yes we must flee
’cause we left dentures for the Tooth Fairy.
Nobody Reaches Out
Dear Miss Emily,
Please accept these binoculars
They’re only lightly used
For spotting bird particulars
Great spotted owl or goose
But they can open windows
Where those many doors are closed,
You might even peek what you dared not seek,
As you tend your favorite rose.
The war has taken so many boys
We knew, as has TB
But I am here and living near
Do you remember me?
I think if you stand on your stairs
And angle past the trees
From that small portal nestled there
Perhaps you will see me—
Another busy nobody
Who scribbles now and then,
If you should wish to send a gift
I’d love paper and pen.
Don’t tell,
Your neighbor
Lovely. Just lovely.
Thanks, Diana. Can you guess whose poems I was teaching just yesterday?
Dickinson?
Recipe: Preserving Love
Fill a cup with the sweet scent of you,
Spill love into the mix and I
Will bake you an eternity with me.
~ ~ ~ ~
Letter From Heaven
My darling Daughter,
I miss you more than my heart can hold,
and from time to time it spills over in floods
of tears that can still pull me into darkest depths.
Who is it that can’t let go: you or me?
With Love,
Dad
Then & Now
I wrote a letter to myself,
A missive across time,
And asked myself to open it,
When I turned thirty-nine.
Did you launch into the fray,
Or take the higher ground,
Love someone with all your heart
Or was love never found?
I wondered what would matter,
In the middle of my days,
And now, at last, I’m writing back,
Surprised in many ways.
Sometimes the path into the fray,
Can lead to greater peace,
And though I never found my love,
I love with greater ease,
I look back at looking forward,
And in ways I wonder how,
I could have missed the subtle bliss
Of simply living now.
This is simply wonderful. Good writing.
Thanks! I feel like I’ve had to bunt on a few of these, but was pretty satisfied with this one.
Here is my terribly weak limerick…
Dear Daughter
There once was a girl with overdue books,
she would bat her eyes and bait her hooks.
She said, “I have no clue,
still reading, what should I do?”
Return or renew, stop giving me looks!
Ooops – the final stanza (which is one stanza too many for a Kyrielle, actually – although I took poetic license there) should read:
I’ll keep the chateau since it’s nice,
And since, I’ve asked you nicely – twice!
here is the statement I will make:
&@#! you, J. Burns for heaven’s sake.
Return Policy
To Whom It May Concern, please know
I did not order a chateau.
I can’t afford this strange mistake.
Please take it back, for heaven’s sake.
Dear Madam, surely you must see
that orders to our company
must be filled promptly. That’s our take.
Regards, J. Burns. (For heaven’s sake?)
Dear J. Burns (whoever you are)
this situation’s quite bizarre.
While I appreciate your stake,
please take it back, for heaven’s sake.
Dear Madam, it’s our policy
for satisfaction. You’ll agree
I’m sure. So please give us a break.
Regards, J. Burns, for heaven’s sake.
Okay. Here’s what I do propose:
I will dispute this charge, while pros
at MasterCard can sort this fake.
But well, meantime (for heaven’s sake)
I’ll keep the chateau since it’s nice,
And since, I’ve asked you nicely – twice!
So here’s a statement I will make:
&@#! you, J. Burns for heaven’s sake.
###
Hope you and your family feel better Robert.
♥ this prompt!
To Whom It May Concern
I’ve learned you’ve spurned my pleas
To close accounts oure seas.
So as concerns your fees,
I’ll not be paying these.
Dear John
Dear John,
Thanks for teaching
me how strong I can be.
I’d never have left without it.
Goodbye.
Green Beans – Simply Key
To make this green bean dish, you’ll need
only a few things to succeed.
Fresh cooked green beans (obviously.)
The next few things are simply key.
So, add some butter (just one pat.)
Then sprinkle garlic over that.
Next, toss it well. I guarantee
the next few things are simply key.
To the pot, please liberally add
some dried cranberries. You’ll be glad.
You’re almost finished, as you’ll see.
One final thing is simply key.
Into the mix, place walnuts (glazed.)
Then serve. Your guests will be amazed.
In fact, they’ll want this recipe.
This green bean dish is simply key.
###
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
After numerous attempts to contact you
I have found it necessary to say to you,
your failure to return my correspondence
is down right rude; it’s nonsense.
So I will withdraw my offer since I must,
and if I had any last word, it would be just
that I love you and wished thinks could’ve worked
you jerk! With all my heart, Walt.
I have so many times wanted to comment on your poems, but seriously, at my end the posting is a trial of lesser sorts, but aggravating none-the-less. I’m on numerous attempts as we speak.
To all the poets…enjoying the work here! Write on.
You’re Welcome, JR. Anyone here? Okay, if you say so!
No. no one here!