snippets: how warm and cold supper can be

Beautifully penned. A sweet poem about love, relationships, and food.
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Phylor's Blog

image: the vegetable gardener

the water in the pot, as it began to boil,

beat out a percussion tune

windows began to steam and frost ferns grew

soon smell of parsnips and turnip swirled round the wood stove

pedestrian potatoes felt steam bath too

scraps of rinds scrapped off to the compost bucket

knife, hands and wrists resting from the vegetable wars

struggle to contain root veggies to cookable chunks

set table with favourites:

chipped but cherished square pottery plate beautifully made as a long ago love gift

mismatched real silverware discovered in yard sales and buried in back yards

crystal wine glass, now lone of set of two

pretty iris adorned paper napkins

lid rattles, butter warms, taste buds awaken

as winter rages, root cellar feast

candles, to protect against the storm-enforced darkness

make all seem like someone sits across the table

smiling, clinking glasses and saying:

“I love rutabagas…

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piece by piece 

This is simply one of the rawest, most honest pieces of prose poetry I think I’ve ever read. Powerful!
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centaurus A

a flake.

a flake for each boy ive parted my lips for. making room for their pride and spitting out my dignity. swallowing every notion they give to me, as meaningless and spiteful as they sounded i absorbed them. played them back in my head a thousand times. opened my mouth to return the favor, but my words bounced right back. as if it never mattered.

a sliver.

a sliver for the boy in the blue vest, eyeing me from across the room. telling me im beautiful. more beautiful than my friends. more beautiful than his ex. more beautiful than my ex deserved. thats the part that won me. but in his head hes silently plotting the makings of an unmade bed. tussled from his satisfaction and smothered with my emptiness. his teeth are clenched because even though im beautiful, hes forgotten my name.

a piece.

a piece for all…

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poem-differences

Wow, I am blown away by the nuances of this poem. A Powerful message about how each sex views a relationship!
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Shawn L. Bird

An invitation is made when the bosom

appears bulging into the neckline,

his gaze is grabbed and as she walks away

she pulls him to his feet to trail after her,

eager for the game.

.

Her instigation is subtle.

He appears at the stair,

tips his head toward the bedroom and waits.

If he’s ignored, he offers another tip.

And if she decides to follow him,

she will do so with a sense of irritation

that he doesn’t offer invitations

so much as commands,

and she’s pretty sure she didn’t actually

promise to obey.

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Day 3 – 30 Day Challenge

Describe your relationship with your parents.

My mother has passed on now, and I don’t really like to speak ill of the dead, but our relationship was mostly strained all through my childhood and adulthood. Since I know the symptoms of Bipolar, being one myself, I honestly believe that my mother was bipolar too. She was never diagnosed or treated, except for the Valiums she took when I was really young. Mother had an extremely abusive father who threatened her life and that of her sisters and mother frequently. I could never ask my mother for advice or make comments without her dredging up her past and relaying stories that had nothing to do with what I needed to know. I eventually stopped talking to my mother unless it was just general, casual conversations. She was depressed, lonely and at times out of touch with her surroundings. I never had friends over, but occasionally a cousin would come to stay for a couple of weeks. I spent a good deal of my summers away from home to avoid all the fighting going on between mother and my sister. I loved mother dearly, but from a distance.

Dad is more easy-going and relaxed. He taught me about Football and Baseball, and how to fish. If I had listened, I probably would have learned how to be patient. He loved my mother dearly and put up with her tantrums pretty well. I didn’t have to be cautious around Dad; I could always be myself and he would accept me. He’s in his late 60s now and retired. He takes care of my brother who has a bad back. If he had the money, he would probably take care of anyone who needed it. He gets that quality from his mother, who opened her home to anyone in need. I live over a 1000 miles from him and have for the last eight years. I miss him. I miss that inner peace and stillness I feel when I am around him. He is the last of his family line, all his sisters and brothers have passed on, and he is the rock of our family.