1876 - The Taste of Life

 

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

taste summer sweetness snap rush half resin turn melts luck passion hand

dVerse Poet's Pub has the prompt "Comfort Food".

Poets and Storyteller asked us to write on what we feel deeply.  Food!

The Taste of Life

Preamble

I have been lucky, blessed

With a family that cooks—

A passion that nourishes.

I

Apricots

The early fruit of summer.

My mother would slice them

Onto fresh, buttered bread,

Sprinkle on cinnamon

And a little brown sugar

For added sweetness.

Served on pine floorboard off cuts.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

II

Gravy beef,

The cheapest of cuts.

Slow cooked until it melts—

A rich, gelatinous meat,

Served with sliced potato

And mum's special coleslaw:

Half cabbage, half tinned pineapple.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

III

Mrs Kier.  No first name.

Granny’s sister ironed her shirts

And was given the recipe

For a rich dark fruitcake.

Granny would regularly turn out

A cake, sometimes iced, often not,

For all family occasions.

Hand mixed, no rush, delicious.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

IV

Burnt butter.

Sounds a disaster but it’s not.

Burnt Butter biscuits

With half an almond on top.

The smell is rich, unique, 

And should they cool—

They snap 

And crumble as you eat them.

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

Postscript

The taste has been stored for a lifetime.

But, in truth, the recipes live on—

In the repertoire of sons and grandsons.

The people too—my mum, my grandma.

Who else but us now remembers Mrs Kier?

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1875 - You Never Know

 

 Modified by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

facade doubts curiosity bitter torn hit restless hope massive frail strip sting

Poets & Storytellers has the prompt "looking back".

You Never Know.

The Elder

I was young, I was raw,

I was full of idealism and hope.

The world was wondrous 

And I was very curious.

The Youth

I am young, I am raw,

I am full of idealism and hope,

I am curious, but full of doubts too.

Confident, restless, reckless,

I put up a façade.

The Elder

Now, my journey nears its end.

I am frail and getting tired,

I am not bitter, but alone

I wonder—

What’s it all been about?

The Youth

What to do? Where to go?

I am torn between choices—

What is the right path to take?

Could I be making a massive mistake?

Will my choices hit their mark?

The Elder

There was no right or wrong.

Life’s decisions were made

And it unrolled accordingly.

That is the sting, I guess—

You never know.

The Youth

Is there a right or wrong?

If my choices are wise… or otherwise

Life will unroll accordingly.

That is the sting, I guess—

I will never know.

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1874 - Denial

 Poets and Storytellers invites us to use “the world is burning, but…”  in a writing piece.

Denial

The government happily kicks it,
Down the road of "voters will nix it".
The world is burning, but… 
There's a complacency glut
And a hope that someone will fix it.

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1873 - What did we lose?

 Modified on-line image.

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

colony rattling still lose crunch life fits hunch scan packages grasping chains

What did we lose?

“Perfection of means and confusion of goals

 seem to characterise our age.” 

— Einstein

Chains clank.

Unseen things rattle.

Here and there a crunch.

Boxes jostle on roller tracks.

Robot arms grasp packages

Moving them smoothly

From machine to machine,

From track to track,

Scanning, labelling,

Fitting them into pallets—

There is noise everywhere.

But beneath it all—

A strange stillness.

◊

It looks like a bustling colony,

Never stopping, never still, it bustles—

But it is devoid of life,

The thing that drives bustle.

It hums—

But there is no-one humming,

No-one hunched over screens,

No-one pushing buttons—

Just machines.

The robots are here.

What did we gain?

And what did we lose?

◊

1872 - The Wall

 

Detail from one of my paintings.

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  
shelter settle rose rocks edge step messy flesh left ghost scrap tremble

Poets and Storytellers request that I write about my message to humanity.

 

The Wall

It shames me to say this—
I don’t care.
The world does not deserve my care.
◊
I look around me
At the messy, dirty, greedy world
That has little to commend it.
It makes me want to build a wall of rocks
To shelter me from it, protect me
From a world that daily appears
One step closer to the edge 
Of oblivion.
◊
But I am not being fair—
The world itself is lovely:
Sunsets, roses, pines, the oceans,
Stream, birds, butterflies, wide steppes.
The feel of wind in my hair,
The touch of grass on my flesh…
The world, the earth, is a wondrous place.
◊
But what is left of it now?
Why can mankind not settle
For the beauty that it has inherited
From the ghosts of people past?
Does it have even a scrap
Of awareness of its responsibility
To the generations yet to come?
Alas, there is no sign that it does—
War, greed, arrogance, consumption, entitlement.
The edifice now trembles, wobbles;
Small stones fall here and there
As the structure flexes under stress.
◊
But I am beyond caring.
Nothing I say or think or do matters.
So, in tiredness, not anger—
I build my wall,
Rock by rock.
◊