Monday, June 27, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #71

                                                 ENDEAVOR/ Lino Tagliapietra

THANK YOU, Tess, for this lively presentation for Magpie Tales #71


Just one more wave, my friends,
swim with me over the spray.

We'll drop our scales,
grow legs to walk on land.

Call ourselves evolved.

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, June 26, 2011

SWEET TOOTH/ Poetry Prompt #41

A VERY INTERESTING prompt this week, for Poetry Potluck #41.  The subject is SAINTS, MONKS, and MEDITATION.


A tiny winged thing flew
onto the chocolate icing.
It was a mite,
or maybe a minuscule saint
with a sweet tooth.

Who said
a sanctified creature of God
has to be as tall as me
and clad in Titian robes?

It either burrowed
into the sugary darkness
to sleep in saccharine slumber,

or made its way aloft,
tucked into a mouthful
on my silvery fork,

its fate sealed
for a trip to heaven,
because I ate either a fly
or maybe a saint.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Thursday, June 23, 2011

SAILING/ Short Story Slam 4

                                                    photo/ Penny K. Sherman


He put me off the boat.  He said he would do it, and he did it.  I was both fuming and relieved.  Bye-bye, Ace, bye-bye.

Every Saturday, during the summertime, Ace sailed in the regatta off Fire Island.  He was a mild mannered doctor in his real life, even tempered, with the ability to nod his head in agreement in a professorial way that honored your opinion.  But when he set foot on anything that sailed, the Queen Mary, or a raft, his transformation was as rapid and complete as if he was Lon Chaney, Jr. turning into the Wolfman.  Or Captain Bligh, till the race was won.

The first rule of our engagement was, sailing first.  Food, clothing and shelter later.  I adjusted.  It was still the old days, when I was sort of the little wifey.  Sure, Ace, you can sail today.  I'll just shop.  After all a river isn't running through Saks Fifth Avenue.  Water, nay, terra firma, yay.

Then Ace, beyond all reason, invited me to join him for a little jaunt around Great South Bay.  Despite the tears that were beginning to form in the corners of my eyes in fear and loathing, Ace insisted that this was a safe day, that even I, landlubber that I was, would really enjoy and finally share in his love of salt water.  If I began to love salt water, it would most likely take the form of a mouth wash and a gargle.

Cajoled by a suddenly emerging sweet talker, I tossed all cliches to the wind, agreed that, "what could possibly go wrong on such a gorgeous day"?

Having coasted along all my life as a complacent and compliant person, I managed to keep hidden even from myself my magical powers to control weather.  No sooner had we sailed into drowning depth, than a tinge of grey appeared overhead.  A cloud?  On a day such as this?  And from where comes this unremitting breeze?  I accused Ace of a nefarious plot.  A tale befitting Alfred Hitchcock was brewing!

He called me an albatross, and upon reflection, as I tightened my water wings, I sort of remembered a couple of other times when I had the power of Circe.  Don't mess with a myth.

Ace sailed toward shore into wading depth, and raised his voice above the roar of the oncoming tempest.  He made me walk the plank, soak the edge of my hip-huggers.  I waved my espadrilles above my head to signal help.  The wind drowned out my cries of accusation.  No one came to the rescue.

This is a true story.  Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.  Thanks to Short Story Slam 4 for the inspiration!

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Monday, June 20, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #70

                                             photo/ Tess Kincaid/  Magpie Tales

Thanks, Tess, for this enigmatic photo..for MAG #70...


I know why you're buying this.
I know it's not for my virginal looks,
a purity left on the snapshot,
tempered by innocence,
enforced by whispers.

But the photo will go,
soon to be slipped
from under the glass,
removed, and I know
you'll toss it into the trash
and it will land face down
next to the orange peel,
that the cat will sniff
and maybe paw.

I know the treasure
is the fine beadwork
that I stretched around the edge,
red to match my hair.

My day of delight,
youth and splendor
was even then slipping away.

I know,
but $1.99 is still $1.99.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, June 19, 2011

ECHOES/ Poetry Potluck #40

THIS WEEK'S Poetry Potluck #40  presents the theme of Void, Loneliness and Sorrow...something to plunge into...


In a hollow of echoes
I fling my voice into the the world,
first as a soft lilt,
cup my ear for the comeback,
like an old movie star
hoping to be revitalized.

I find the cadence
wasn't bracing enough
to bear return.
Next time, I emphasize the bass notes,
push them out into a parade.
Still not a sound comes back,
so I drive an octave higher.

Carrying my own torch,
dancing in its light,
I race to be in two places at once,
to impress,
look for someone to agree.

I listen for my name to bounce back,
returning like a shuttlecock
in the last championship game.

My own voice doesn't revisit.
Answer me, please,
I haven't ever
received a beckoning.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011


Wednesday, June 15, 2011

GOING.../ Short Story Slam 3

                                      Photo/ Melissa R. Bickel/ Short Story Slam #3


They think I won't leave.  That the weather will keep me from leaving.  That I have fear.  That they will prevail.

I'm standing at the window, and not a drop of rain has fallen yet.  The sky has the message.  I will encompass you.  The heavens always have a message.  Sometimes to comfort.  Today, no ray of hope.

A bolt from the mouth of creation says, I will put on a show of force that you haven't yet dreamed of.  Well, I come from a place where a lack of sunlight enters with the day, and dusk is just the time to stoke the coals.

I'll have some soup before I leave, the pot sitting daily at the back of the stove.  I'll add something that was hanging in the cold-room, after I take a bowl, so that they will not suspect a departure.

I'm going.  Not with shoes.  Not with skins for warmth.  When I cut the cord I will go into the world like a babe.  Let them just try to follow.  Let them just try to stop me.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Monday, June 13, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #69

photo/ tess kincaid/ Magpie Tales

WHAT A SEDUCTIVE SEA SHELL, I fell into its spell immediately..words just appeared!!  Thanks, Tess, for Mag #69!!


Bobbing on a wave,
sand grits my teeth
as I climb to the apex of the crest
and fall into a moving odyssey.

Carried ashore by Homer's fate,
one cupping hand
will set me at his ear,

listen to my siren song,
and when my message
is cold and spent,

place me gently
on a grain of sand
for time to rub my skin to dust.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, June 12, 2011

WARNING/ Poetry Potluck #39

                                                     painting/ Don Punchatz

THIS WEEK, we are asked to produce a poem for Poetry Potluck #39, around the theme of Dictatorship, Autocracy, and Despotism.  Serious stuff...


Don't move your eyes,
look straight ahead!
Follow the art of tyrants
who paint bogus landscapes.

Then, when your inner light dies,
carry a lantern without radiance
down a despot's path.

Look straight ahead!
Face a wall.
You have no one to fault
but yourself.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Monday, June 6, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #68

                                           photo/ Tess Kincaid/ Magpie Tales

THANK YOU, TESS, for this enigmatic prompt! 


The dealer of odds and ends
clasps the eyepiece
in the soft of his palm.
A film of grey stares
through the blue pigment.
An edge of ochre and white
rims the periphery
like a necklace.

The weight is heavy enough
to hold down a letter
of love or loss.

He tells me the legend
of an eye drawing breath.
He tells me this is Napoleon's eye.

A rise and fall does seem to flow
in the shifting light.
I'll take it.

A real work of art he says.
Napoleon's eye.
He places the orb
in a round satin coffer.
Tie it with a ribbon?

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, June 5, 2011

SINGIN' and DANCIN'/ Poetry Potluck #38

FOR THIS WEEK, Poetry Potluck #38, we are asked to be, "Inspired by a song'.  How nice!


My umbrella unfurls,
as a raindrop
grows rapidly into a puddle.

I race to the edge,
plunge right in,
tapping to a Cinemascope melody
that rises to the top
in Technicolor bubbles.

That skip always plunks
Gene Kelly by my side.

My dream, his movie.
I've got the heel
and toe routine
in my heart.
I'm the shadow on his arm,

sharing startime,
singin' and dancin'

in the rain.

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011


Friday, June 3, 2011

Pesto Pasta

WHOEVER INVENTED THIS, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  Easy, delicious, perfect summertime dish.  Pasta, thank you for existing!!



3 cups packed fresh basil
3 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tbls. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. blk. pepper
1/3 cup pine nuts, toasted
1/2 cup olive oil
1/2 cup grated Parmesan


1 lb. asparagus, cut into thirds
1 lb. spiral pasta, or any short pasta
2 pints cherry tomatoes, halved

Cook asparagus in salted, boiling water for about 4 minutes.  Drain and put in ice/ very cold water to keep crisp and green.
Cook pasta until al dente, drain and run under cold water, put aside.

Make pesto:
In food processor puree basil, garlic, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and pine nuts till smooth.  Add olive oil while motor is running, and process till a thick paste forms.  Add Parmesan and pulse a couple of times.

Make salad:
In large bowl, combine pesto, cold pasta , tomatoes, and asparagus.  Serve at room temerature, or refrigerate to chill.   Serves 8


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