MAGPIE...Prompt #186

THANK YOU, Tess..for Magpie Tales...


ON THE MAP

You put me on the map
so to speak,

so good at sketching other's lives.

Lover, friend,
life partner,
I'm up to date.

Gave me form and figure,
colored me in with Crayolas,
but you went over the line,
let me bleed
into undisclosed territory.

Lucky me,
critics always ready to comment
with a saving grace.

Many salvaged me,
made me fit their hindsight.

I became a double doppelganger,
mirrors reflected an eternity of me,

but every karmic comeback
left room to be desired.
Still a babe
knocking at the door.

Just let me in.


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MAGPIE...Prompt #185

THANK YOU, Tess..at Magpie Tales


"Oh waiter, please, I'll have some meat loaf, and some mashed potatoes.  A lot please...and oh yes, ketchup, please.  Thank you, sir."


1946 MEAT LOAF & MASHED POTATOES

2 lbs. ground beef
1/2 cup plain bread crumbs
1 egg
1 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup ketchup

Preheat oven to 350 deg. F.   Mix ground beef, bread crumbs, egg and seasonings in a large bowl.

Shape into a loaf on shallow baking pan.  Pour ketchup over top.

Bake 55 to 60 minutes or until cooked through.  Let stand 5 minutes before serving.  Serves 8.


MASHED POTATOES

3 1/2 lbs. Idaho potatoes, peeled and cut into cubes.
1/4 lb. sweet butter, cut into small chunks.
1 1/2 cups milk or cream
Salt and pepper to taste.

Cover potatoes with cold water and bring to a boil in a large pot.  Cook until tender, about 40 min., and drain immediately.

Use a potato ricer or electric mixer to mash the potatoes.  Add the butter and half the milk or cream and mix to a smooth puree.  Add more milk or cream if necessary.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serves 10.


You can have this in an hour.  Butter....cream...yes!!  This isn't the Orient Express.

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MAGPIE...Promt #184

 

ARTWORK/ Jeanie Tomanek

 

 

THANK YOU, Tess...at....Magpie Tales

 

 

 

UP A TREE

 

My inner dove

wakes me from a doze.

 

I find myself up a tree,

without an answer,

and what we call thought

 

passes in a flicker,

 

is waiting to be felled

like kindling.

 

This tree will fall

by art and aim.

 

I think to alight from a limb,

and if I land

in the vast

elemental sea,

 

pray I don't materialize

up the creek.

 

 

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MAGPIE...Prompt #183

                                            PASSING PLACE/ Steven Kelly


THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...


LONG AND WINDING

Ready for cloud nine,

instead, barren arid landscape,
not the wrap up I'm expecting.

I'm floating
like a half-formed banshee,
asking veiled spirits
if this is Paradise?

Not a seraph in sight
to bundle me across
the path of good intentions.

Where's the tunnel of light,
or my spirit guide
swanning in the mist,
waiting to take my hand?

I expected
at the very least,
a beckoning angel,
face of a Gothic saint.

Maybe a chorus line
meandering up
the stairway to heaven.

Really disappointed.


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MAGPIE...Prompt #181

                                                      Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec


THANK YOU Tess, for Magpie Tales...


GLIDE

It will never halt,
this loop of jazz
sheathing my pulse,
my sweat stuck
to your cheek,
a briny recipe
for a singular hunger.

I pull away, glide,
a trickle
bounces off my breast,
enticing a glance
from your smoky eye.

Like a butterfly
just coming loose,
I alight on your rhythm.

Out of the blue
you're across the room,
then back beside me
in a stride.

Who is she?


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INSTRUCTIONS

Letting go, urged to do so by philosophers
of opposing hues.

Don't look back, never embrace your own
dark ages.

Brush the dust off, all that earth and high
heaven could ever measure out.

It's a first-rate saintly mission to keep
plucking those scales from our eyes.

Return attachments to the ocean of cosmic broth.
There in the waiting throng, ready to cool
my fevered brow, I dream my birth.

The heaviness of the burden fell into the
black hole a long time ago.  Sing: life is
but a dream.

All is reflection, a mirror.  Read this backwards,
start in the middle.

The beginning is on the horizon, the end
just slammed shut.  Not the first time.


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MAGPIE...Prompt #180

                           DRAWING HANDS/ 1948/ M.C. Escher


THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...


SKETCHING

All art steals,
doesn't matter
who drew that smile first.

Hold it this way
and I can read Vermeer's mind,
skilled hands reaching into me,
weaving the gift anew.

Pulling a Daumier
from an etch-a-sketch,
perfecting my skill,
sculpting my thumb,
searching my hands,

finding a fingerprint
that proves it's me,
not guilty.

Grace is number one.
Reaching for my life,
sketching.



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PICTURE PERFECT...

 

 

 

ONLY BECAUSE I seem to be suddenly allergic, am I presenting this recipe to you.

 

Figs.  Gorgeous figs, never nipped at the roof of my mouth before.  Last night, a bit of a tingle... can allergic reaction be far behind?  Well, yes/ no, but I've been neurotic for too long not to feel a bit of panic, a bit of "what if".  So I do what I usually do, suppress and start walking.  Through my apartment.  Because nothing can happen to me as I trip a light jog.  It's my life, ya know.  Sometimes even magic works.

 

I live on the Upper Famous Side of New York.  But I live for bargains.  About twenty paces past my front doorman, is one of dozens of fruit and vegetable stands in my neighborhood.  It's definitely like having my own green market, don't even have to cross the street.  Friendly vendor, nowadays all stands seem operated by exceptionally polite young guys from the Middle East.  Who needs the United Nations? 

 

Bought a box of lovely figs, nestled in a green plastic basket.  Picture perfect. You know the rest.

 

After the false alarm, didn't die of shock, figured it's best to sort of do a compote.  This AM, cut them in half...now pay attention, this is the recipe:

 

Small saucepan, put figs in.

Sprinkle with brown sugar,

or honey.  Or both.

Pinch of salt.

Shake some cinnamon, nutmeg.

Small slice of ginger,

couple slices of lemon.

Water to cover.

Cook, for about 20 minutes,

covered, very low heat.

Uncover, cook down to syrup.

Cool. Chill.  Eat.

Vanilla ice cream, why not?

 

 

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MAGPIE...Prompt #179

THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales...


BECOMING DELUSIONAL

Taking a deep breath
like a comedian high
on inhaled helium
filling a red balloon,

I'm nesting in
a new-fangled identity.

Changing my voice,
fooled my lover,
kissing a new Spiderman
on the web.

What's the matter
if there is no matter,
Einstein's laughing,
just as lofty as me.

Playing games
with the gravity of it all,
double entendres
all over the place.

I leap frog
over poetic impediments,
craft is empty,

invisible me
steering a skill
full of hot air.

Forgotten all together
the witty driver
of yesterday.
Monday morning,
me, dimly plotting.


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RECIPE...Perfection

HOLDING A PERFECT, RIPE PEACH, right now.  Is there perfection in this world? 

Mother Nature takes care of that.  The bounty of the earth.  Not us..we're here to mess up, spot karma along the way, try to make amends.

But Mother?  At the bottom of all mischief, all temptation.  Be tempted now.  Easily assemble tonight's dessert.  Find a peach as sweet as mine, with real fuzz on it, rosy as a baby's bottom..eat it now, or slice into it...that's right another slice, and another.  Falling into your most precious crystal..the one you drink champs from.  Or the one your grandmother brought over from the old country.

Pour some excellent red wine over the peaches.  They seem to crave it, but not too much...this isn't Sangria.  It's dessert.  So put it on the sideboard.  Go about dinner.  Drink what you wish.  Then get a silver spoon.  Yes, silver and crystal, peaches and wine.  No sugar, no spice, scoop the peaches past your lips, swirl the wine.  Ahhh.....

Here's the ending of a poem that I wrote several years ago.  It's included in a book of poetry, "Two Ghosts"...(aha!)...about a visit to Saint-Paul de Vence.

From "The Peaches of Saint-Paul" :

"A vender's cart,
just wheeled into the shade,
displayed avacados
alongside daisies.

Melons were cut open,
their pale green flesh
too pungent,
summoning a rush of fruit flies.

A dozen peaches
ripened to a dazzling pink.
One glowed with a fever
in my cupped hands.

I brushed its pre-pubescent fuzz
against your cheek.
It became a secret kiss
that no one saw.

But I saved
the first bite
for me."


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