Dear Email,

Dear Email,

I no longer can spend as much time as currently:

You’ve zapped my time

and your austere words

leave me cold

and hungry for lunch

and tea, which I’ve forfeited

for you.

My eyes have told my brain

how abusive your are.

You take advantage and document assumption

I am only for you.

Jealous of the instant message, telephone.

Scandalous black-ball of printed letter!

You claim, it’s all for me.

You monopolize my attention,

Narrow my vision and knowledge

And lay false claim to Innovation.

You and Social Media have built

an empire, an organized crime world of

Grammar and Communication, and I

can no longer rely on you.

You are flagged

tagged

unliked

filed

forgotten

as my pen returns.

Twelve Cassette Tapes

One of the twelve tapes

we had was Linda Ronstadt. She’d been mistreated.

One pine mini-crate, held a dozen

cassettes, sat on the bench seat in the front,

and were played on road trips.

I hear Sergeant Pepper and see the blurry cover. Blue, colorful,

mustache-oed.

A Lovin’ Spoonful of what? I was only 10.

Yellow, red candy hearts, an image

of summer sidewalks in a summer city.

And lipstick everybody, Janis.

Don’t murder me, I never knew

what some of these songs meant,

but they were all gentle, and smooth,

like the fourteen foot Chrysler Newport in robin’s egg blue

that carried us slowly through Suburbia to Grandpap’s.

I will love you when you’re 64, why wouldn’t I? And I’ll

think of the sea sponge, soapy, swishing

across crystal diamond platinum blue

Lincoln Continental (no rust!).

So love me do, as I mind-wander

to these tunes

and ramble to you.

Scarcity

Is the week where I did

Nothing Right. Reminded at each

moment, each turn of my head,

each lifting of my eyes

toward the speaker’s face,

how I had failed

to attain perfection

in the perfect diet. Not enough

calcium the nurse said without test.

The scale turned to me and said

I didn’t exercise often enough

and lacked both the minutes and heart

rate of perfection.

My employee pointed out

my typo and disheveled stacks of papers

and how I should not kill so many trees.

I turned and opened 7 emails

telling me replies overdue

recalculate projections, and create a new policy.

Promote our organization’s anniversary.

My daughter explained it was my fault

she slept in

And my son told me to go away, too close.

The post office delivered proof

I don’t make enough money,

bills a-piling.

My professor said my paper

was not quite good enough.

But you told me thanks

for the chai tea

and to screw them all.

-a.l.graysay

This poem was inspired by the daily challenges individuals face that are unnecessarily troublesome. Be there good health, good food, safety, and wealth, yet still it is not enough for the daily critics of the unimportant; despite the attainment of so much, the perfection is unseen by some.

Chicken Shawarma with Garlic – Yogurt Dip

This sounds amazing. Chicken, pita, garlic yogurt dip…

foodbound

Chicken Shawarma Recipe | Garlic Yogurt Dip Recipe

Chicken Shawarma Recipe - www.foodbound.wordpress.com

It’s been ages since I baked a cake. We have been trying to eat healthy for the last few months…trying to hang on to our “new year” resolutions. I think I’ve forgotten how a chocolate cake tastes! Talking about eating healthy, we have been trying to cut down on refined flour and processed foods, we are trying to increase our fiber intake and limiting eating out to ONLY one meal a week. We thought of giving the above mentioned a break, using Easter as an excuse. By occasional cheating, I find it easier to stick to my “eating healthy” plan. I don’t believe in completely depriving my soul and stomach.

Baking has been on my mind, for a while now. Couldn’t stop myself and hence decided to bake these beauties. Nothing like fresh, homemade bread, free from ingredients/chemicals which you can’t even pronounce!

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Give Me Back the Moon

image credit: J.Revis2009

Grant me the memory of the inky spills
behind the moon, and the angel
expression on your face.
The Black Hills disappeared
as the inkwell sunset tipped,
and the pale light hesitantly, quietly,
illuminated the vanilla-bean ponderosas,
fragrant with pitchy sap
in August.

That honest smile of yours,
strong under the gentle moon.
Strong as granite underfoot that night.
Strong with honest lips,
under the security of our youthful skies.

That is our story, atop the ridgeline,
in a star village.
Before the industrial days burned
us slowly, like a tire fire.
Smoky attacking stacks,
exhausted cars running,
hot tar streets melting.
Days of commutes to work,
clouding our skies – our view.
Before the days tarnished
the moon yellow like tobacco-stained teeth.
O, love!
O, youth!
O, memories kept!
Give me back the moon
with its frail light falling
across your face.

Poem for Poetry Month

Reading Before Bed

 

Stacked hardbacks askew

On the nightstand.

Collins. Marici. Alleyne.

Jimmy Carter’s poetry

Unread, too.

Collections: The Manatee and West Branch

Tiny book of sonnets

With smooth binds.

Fresh with ink and glossy cold cover

Perfect for a night cap.

A drink of words –

Mixed like a martini.

Slightly different with each poem,

Recognizable as the favored flavor.