How I Hear a Poem Read Aloud, Even When the Hearing Aids Are Functioning

The spoken words disappear into the echo of the space.

 

It was "the art of . . . something."

The missing word had two syllables

and the sound of a long "a".

Facing? Basting?

Or spacing? Or tasting?

 

The art of spacing evokes my years of typesetting

with an early computer:

type each line two times—

oh, you really don't need to know,

because them days is gone forever.

And good riddance.

 

The art of basting.

This must be a domestic poem:

thread that needle (I hope your eyes

are younger than your ears)

and make long running stitches along the seam.

Ease in excess fabric as you go.

 

Or perhaps it's about

opening the oven to remove the holiday bird.

About tipping the pan and spooning juices

over the thighs and breasts

already halfway to a golden brown perfection.

 

The art of facing?

This might be more difficult,

depending on whom you're facing.

 

Let's call it the art of tasting

and be done with it.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Ann Tudor
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/InfallibleNana

FB: https://www.facebook.com/fastandfearlesscooking

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00JI4758O

 

Playmates

Cellar doors

and coal chutes

used to provide access to basements

from the outside.

A cellar door slanted

from the side of your house

to the alley.

The door parted in the middle,

and you pulled up both sides

and laid them flat

to reveal the entrance.

When the door was ajar

you walked down steps to the cellar.

 

When the two sides were closed,

you and your playmate slid down the doors

and after sliding

you both climbed on the rain barrel

and became jolly friends

for evermore.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Ann Tudor
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/InfallibleNana

FB: https://www.facebook.com/fastandfearlesscooking

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00JI4758O

 

Learning to love a life because . . .

Because what's the damned alternative? A friend once told me that when he was young he was a very unhappy, grumpy, and mean-spirited guy. And then one day when he was in his thirties he looked at himself and didn't like what he saw. So he changed. He told me he just decided it would be easier for everyone if he were happier. So he decided to be happier.

 

When I met him he had been "consciously happy" for some 15 years, and I was astounded by his story. I couldn't imagine him as grumpy and mean-spirited. He had learned to love his life because . . . well, he didn't really tell me why. I think it was along the lines of "it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown." (Not that I fully believe that. There are days when my face rests quite naturally in a frown shape and, although I can, on those days, bring a smile to my face instead, it is an actual muscular effort to do so. At least part of the time, I think frowning is easier.)

 

Learning to love life because . . . because we're here? Because we might as well? Because the Pope wants us to? Because God wants us to? Everyone has an opinion, and everyone is just waiting for the chance to share his opinion with you, with the idea of converting you to his reasons for learning to love life.

 

Some lucky people don't have to learn to love life; they are born that way. I could continue this meandering, but I've given you four paragraphs already. Now you can come up with your own reasons.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Ann Tudor
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/InfallibleNana

FB: https://www.facebook.com/fastandfearlesscooking

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00JI4758O