she spends hours coloring mandalas in adult coloring books from Amazon, dozens of them, I’ve lost count over time, she needs them, she says, they help to keep her mind from dwelling on the pain… incessant, excruciating pain sometimes late at night I hear the sharpener grinding wood and pencil lead… grinding, grinding, grinding and occasionally, deep moans as she shifts position the sound makes the dogs bark and the cats scatter to the shadows I can’t begin to imagine it, my aching arthritic knees seem trivial to the monster that consumes this once brilliant, vibrant, caretaker of others who now depends on others, on me, for everything I can’t begin to know when it may become too much for her to fight this impossible fight try as I might to ease the burdens of life I’m powerless to stop the pain…so… I keep buying coloring books and pencils and I cook her favorite things, pork chops, Dutch babies, sweetened coffee cream, Italian ice cups and I help her complete little tasks and big ones like getting the band on that citizen’s watch adjusted to her shrinking wrist I’m not a watch wearer but she has always been and it was important to her, I could tell… little things…are sometimes very big deals in sickness and in health, I once said and meant it…til death… an unwelcome visitor who taunts her daily as I do my best to hold things together to try to make things better in these worst of times…do us part
as the days grow longer, trees burst, dense and green, the forest floor grows dark nights, though shorter, darker still moon and stars hidden beyond the arboreal canopy, even on cloudless evenings; of course I wouldn’t know…is it dawn or dusk or midday? it’s hard to tell here in the woods where sweltering days are cool and damp, where squirrels leave remnants of hickory shells and millipedes slither through decaying leaves, where trees dance in the breeze, mimicking the sound of waves crashing into the seashore, where woodpecker’s wild calls echo from the heights, where crows cackle, cowbirds cluck and mourning doves coo from the shadows, and bright red cardinals perch nearby, messengers from beyond assuring us all is well, all is well
~kat
Taking a break today from the brevity of micro poetry. Isn’t this time of year breathtaking?! My senses are waking up from slumber…just had to pause to take it all in! 🌷
The seduction begins with an orgy of chocolate cake mix, devil’s food, because, well… given his titular title he has a reputation to defend. Add a ménage a trois of eggs, and wetness, water, if you will, and a fair amount of lubricant, cooking oil, to the connoisseur, to meld the mix into a smooth batter.
He prefers a preheated oven to do his rising, filling the entire room with the aroma of his decadence, foreplay to what comes next after about thirty minutes or so.
While still warm from the oven, with a wooden skewer, or fork, poke holes in the cake, reservoirs to be filled with a slathering of sweetened condensed milk…
“Oh, but I’m not finished with you yet!” he teases playfully, inviting me add a smooth layer of caramel sauce and another of sweet whipped cream, with a sprinkling of crushed chocolate toffee candy…”yes please! chocolate on chocolate…oooh, yes, yes! Please don’t stop…here, and there, and oh…there…” a drizzling of caramel syrup brings this all to a climactic finish!
“Ooh la la, Mr. Better Than Sex Cake, I am breathless, you’ve outdone yourself! My tender tastebuds are tingling! I think I need…a tall glass of milk!”
A Note to the Avid Gourmet: There are a few variations to this recipe that include ingredients such as vanilla cake mix and pineapple…but in my humble opinion, vanilla is well, vanilla and pineapple is too sweet. I like my cake dark, decadent, slightly bitter, and smooth to the tongue.
~kat
NaPoWriMo 2023 Challenge Day Twenty-Nine: write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
she alphabetizes the books in her small library nook by title and category, and if it applies, by author as well with some shelves dedicated to vinyl records, cds and dvd / blu ray films, also sorted accordingly; for good measure, cataloged electronically on spreadsheets that she keeps on her phone, a ready reference just in case, you never know… you know? with so much time and energy devoted to caring for her collections she barely has time to enjoy their contents, to peruse her beautiful book pages, or listen to a favorite tune, or sit long enough to catch a flick, start to finish, without interruption or distraction…still, she fancies herself organized to a tee, because being so feels safe and settled; helps erase the chaos ping-ponging in her scattered brain; things in their place keeps her sane or at least implies as much; a secret, her secret, hidden to those who only judge books by their covers, where eccentricity is a gentler reality to madness
-kat
NaPoWriMo 2023 Challenge Day Twenty-Eight: write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index, somewhat in the style of this poem by Kell Connor.
memories of my feral youth flash like jiffy pop in my head at the sight of buttercups in bloom what wild little beasts we were slamming the screen door on our way to never land at dawn small change in our pockets to spend on penny candy, the streetlights striking midnight at dusk when all good brats scurried back home before turning into pumpkins, days in the sunshine with dandelion stem curls in our hair, the gritty satisfying taste of mud, fashioning queen Anne’s lace into bouquets, collecting fossil rocks, garden snakes in coffee tins, and pop bottles to earn enough money, 50 cents, for a Saturday matinee fearless, it’s a wonder any of us survived considering how cautiously we rear our progeny in 21st century bubbles…once upon a lifetime ago monsters hid under our beds or in the closet never dared to stalk us in daylight… simpler times then, nights illuminated by fireflies in pickle jars buttercups glowing under our chins to prove we liked butter ringing round rosies like whirligigs on a breeze, down, down…to ashes
~kat
NaPoWriMo 2023 Challenge Day Twenty/Seven: write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun. The poem should contain at least one simile that plays on double meanings or otherwise doesn’t quite make “sense,” and describe things or beings from very different times or places as co-existing in the same space.
So it is easier for you to find all the parts/chapters of my ongoing fiction series, I created a new page that lists all the links. You can check it out HERE!
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