Sunday Poem: Refrigerate Overnight

[scroll down, or click on the link to read the whole shebang]

My muffins are laden with raisins and bran //

With unbleached flour not chemical white  //

But if I rush I will destroy the plan. //

 

Soft I sift soda into flour like fan

I prefer the quantity is slight

My muffins are laden with raisins and bran.

 

If I see my neighbours Danic and Dan

Of course, to my table I will invite

But if I rush I will destroy the plan.

 

I thank grain farmers for my wheat once again

With land, city bakers must reunite

My muffins are laden with raisins and bran.

 

In the kitchen I am but courtesan

Attendant to ingredients this night

But if I rush I will destroy the plan.

 

Though patience is rare in the common man

I will let my mixture mellow overnight

My muffins are laden with raisins and bran

But if I rush I will destroy the plan.

 

 

Sunday Poem: Making Sense Of The World

Making Sense Of The World

 

I am chagling churboyal for my chesby

//

Because I lappensker with all my heart

//

I have lompst my ramill for resabee.

//

 

As lonely as murf I kappeley kesby

Can a lemon defemon achilipart?

I am chagling churboyal for my chesby.

 

Aclanaclanaclan before I clessabee

Tears colack aclom off aklart

I have lompst my ramill for resabee.

 

Studiously ool I care for carresby

Tendip tofor tooko I takil taart

I am chagling churboyal for my chesby.

 

Contare congole simply wachilobee

Whispers of love gaskay aloggo gart

I have lompst my ramill for resabee.

 

Allup cas as alluppy pefezby

The riffem cammem beffem imabart

I am chagling churboyal for my chesby

I have lompst my ramill for resabee.

 

Sunday Poem: Ragoût à l’Écureuil

This was not the first year an urban resident has attacked my balcony garden, nor likely will it be the last. But in honour of the delicious creature known as squirrel, I have composed a short squibble to be enjoyed by poet and cook alike. It was inspired by fellow writer and gardener extraordinaire Damian MacSeáin.

 

Ragoût à l’Écureuil

The thief in my garden

I was unable to pardon

So I sought recipe for stew.

’cause I live in Quebec

With language police – Heck!

I was forcé de cuisiner Ragoût.

Sunday Poem: On This Summer Night I Thirst

Water or lemonade? It’s hard to decide

In my life I have abundant sour

To my initial choice I did not abide.

 

Without water today I might have died

But the alternative presents this hour

Water or lemonade? It’s hard to decide.

 

Before me two options sit side by side

As I sweat I wonder bath or shower?

To my initial choice I did not abide.

 

Listen up, let me this one time confide

When it comes to this moment, I cower

Water or lemonade? It’s hard to decide.

 

In decision making I take pride

However, at these two glasses I glower

To my initial choice I did not abide.

 

When my want and my wish viciously collide

Both liquids I devour

Water or lemonade? It’s hard to decide

To my initial choice I did not abide.