Sunday, February 20, 2011

Sometimes it’s just not there©

March 28, attempted to write something quick. I picked the object “porridge”.

The past weekend, I had the good fortune to participate in a dinner party where the hostess tosses different people together to see what happens. She is a fabulous cook so the food is always a good staring point. 

One of the guests was a very well published traveling food writer. She brought up the topic of how the food of our childhood influences us. So I rhetorically asked how I wonder porridge had affected me. Still not sure but that’s probably why I chose the topic.

Back to the attempt - The only words that appeared on the page were “full stomach”:  Nothing more for many minutes. My head was groggy and my eyes would not focus – just a lousy “not on the planet” feeling – the flu probably…. Closed the book, rested my head on the streetcar window and let the vibrations lull me to nap between stop announcements.

Next day… I thought to myself … Hey! If I claim to be a writer I can’t just give in like that… opened the book and shoved the words between the lines…..

Warm. Gooey. Cinnamon. Toast. Foggy thoughts looking for headlights. Sleepy limbs in slo mo. Slipper feet padding. Low grunts of half hearted good morning greetings. Slurp of coffee. No sugar but some goat milk. I don’t remember making this…Spoon clanking on the ceramic cereal bowl. Or would that be surreal bowl, in my state… Creak of the timber mast in the wind – that’s a morning yawn if ever there was one. Thick house coat pulled tighter – not for the cold - just to hold the body in place – so it doesn’t ooze over the side of the chair. Secret leg stretch under the table. Waiting for the caffeine to do its duty. Pump the blood a little faster. “Shiver me timbers” yawn helps move oxygen to the brain.

Beep beep – microwave signals something is ready. Door opens with a cloud of steam and now it is known. Earthy, warm, gooey, cinnamon. Bling Bling – toaster oven announces….

She – who made the coffee, the porridge, the toast; brings the tray to the table. Sits down beside and wraps a wonderful arm around…a precursor to the warm wrap around inside with each spoonful and bite and sip…. ©

Toss and....©

Just a story - nothing more.

Ker-chunk. Two points. Kurchunk: another two points.

Crackling sound of a small fire. Shingle sheets of paper made into dry snowballs. Kerchunk – wall rebound. OOPS- missed that one.

OK. Decision time. Get my sorry stiff butt out off my creaky office chair; or not. Should I economize and wait until I have more on the floor or pick up each miss?

Distinct green apple smell, even stronger with the passing hours. Half eaten, it's turning brown with the wait. Mustard and vinegar from the pickles in my old sandwich are calling me.

I’m supposed to be writing a briefing note on why I disagree with my collegue’s ideas. Well I could just explain in person, but I need to clarify my ideas.

It’s after 7 PM and my office light is a lonely beacon on the floor. I really think better on my feet. Let’s walk around the hall – well at least stroll, carefully, the 10 feet around my desk – pad in hand.

Rip, Crinkle, crinkle. Kerrrr chunk – Two points…. ©

Paper Storm©

a little snowstorm
on the subway platform
love letter torn
into confetti
scattered by the oncoming train.©

Friday, February 18, 2011

Circus Man©

The circus man said,
“I’ll set myself on fire,
You can watch me burn.
If my light gets low,
Let me know,
I’ll take a drink
And stoke it up again.©

In Memory of My Friend©

Your frame sometimes lean sometimes not,
Your presence at times languid, at times taut,
Sometimes you’re oh so far away,
And other times in our face,
With that Cheshire smile and knowing eyes.

You were born with a mouth to smile,
And a voice to ring,
Peeling all sides of the truth,
Dark, Light,… In Between.

Your magnificent hands,
Compressed the black hard coal of life,
You wore the diamond with
Serenity and grace,
Your fingers made Nature sing
Paint brush, pen or strings.

Now Nature has you back again,
I hear you in the blazing leaves,
Whispering in the wind.©

January 14, 2009 Bitterly Cold©

So… bitterly cold. Hmmm how bitter?
Three-lemon bitter, six-lemon bitter,
Ammonia or sulfur bitter?
Nose running, brass-monkey cold?
No smiles. Winter of our discontent?
Drivers’ thin-lipped determination,
Eyes locked on the short to mid range.
Potential streetcar passengers,
Shoulders involuntarily at ear level,
Breathing into scarves, sleeves and gloves,
So covered up they would not be allowed in some places,
Terrorists or tired…. of this?
How many have rumbled by so far?
Couldn’t get on.
Air so frigid it tastes like steel,
Air so frigid it smells like aluminum.
Too cold for jokes,
They drop to the sidewalk and splinters into a hundred shards,
A laugh turns into a cough.
Where’s the bright spot?
Tiny kid bundled up into a balloon figure,
Big wool tuque on top,
Giant wool mitts at the end of the blown up arms.
Cheerfully oblivious, never the less,
Bending at an available joint, steadying the big boots,
Scoops up a big chunk of freshly scraped sidewalk ice,
Slowly claims his prize,
“Hey mom. Look what I got?”
Is it my imagination?
Is it colder downtown?
Is it the city itself or just the weather?
Chicken and egg.
Forget it.
Omelet and soup is the thing right now!