Not The Rockefellers

you gonna eat that? the rest of  that stuff you gonna  leave that? on your plate you gonna  wrap it up? take it home  'n stick it in the fridge you gonna  eat that? or  give it to me? Rene ~ July 2013 a little Friday fun Have a great weekend everyone 

Potatoes photo by Agustin Berrocal  this fire a cradle under a waning moon for rockets  pulled from the earth and kissed Midas gold by smitten Gods, peasants and spangled stars this fire ritual fuel for launching cowboy sunrise revolutions Rene ~ July 2013

Image: Helen Ward via Magpie Tales It's always a sight at the trattorie when wild city critters make a scene crumbled cake, candelabras chaos and weasels in starched collars paper crowns, rumpled nightgowns won't someone turn that racket down? reptilian wait staff spin and slither a tortoise brings breakfast in time for dinner but there... in the midst of all the clatter a honey badger pot scrubber for whom the noise doesn't matter he keeps to himself, he doesn't care doesn't give a whit about the whole affair he sticks to his task, gets it done then leaves the city moon for the country sun Rene ~ April 28, 2013

the way you stir your coffee makes the blood rush from my head the come hither twirl of that fortunate spoon and I'm bringing breakfast to your bed red lipstick caffeine kisses your heart jumps, so quick the hit my kingdom resides on the rim of your world and I'm waiting captive to your sip Rene ~ February 10, 2013   For Magpie Tales Image by Joseph Lorusso

Image: PublicDomain.com God, man It's been a long time since I've had someone whistle in my kitchen It's quite the delight Ahhh...you made coffee And you're making french toast! You are a saint You gotta fiddle with that knob on the left rear burner Like this It's a pain in the butt sometimes Personally, I think it just likes the extra attention Mmm...your ear smells like cinnamon not fair, man, that... not fair at all your ass looks better in my sweatpants than mine does I now have to kill myself After I eat a loaf of french toast, though You want some orange juice? freshly squeezed...somewhere Tell me, again Why is it we never were? Rene ~ January 5, 2013 For 100 Word Song The song prompt was Dan Fogleberg's Same Old Auld Lang Syne This is my spin on the classic

November Lace, 2009, Rene Foran It was nearly 90 degrees in that cozy little kitchen the smell of home cooking had attached itself to every molecule of every acrylic holiday sweater her every effort to help prepare the feast was waved off and redirected to the family room where a stony, silent, football viewing Mt Rushmore occupied the couch, a loveseat, and three folding chairs she wandered down  to the basement where she was years removed from the circle and miles behind the conversation so she drifted along searching where was her world? where was her piece? where did she belong? she slipped away  from the fray unnoticed up to her childhood room through the bedroom window and onto the rooftop poetic: " she sat arms hugging knees surveying life,  the leafless trees spindly branches claw the sky scratching for sun, to heaven they cry p...

The thing I remember most about Esme was that amidst her thrift store furnishings she had one of those French provincial type telephones. The kind that Elizabeth Taylor had in Butterfield 8.  She'd say that all the time too, most likely while fingering a crumb of Captain's Wafer out of her cleavage and delicately placing it in her mouth like Beluga caviar...  "Same fuckin' phone as was in da movie." Esme's world was a gyre of Paul Klee paintings, Popular Club pantsuits with Hermes scarves, teak tv trays, and Taster's Choice Instant Coffee. "Honey, just put in a splash of half and half and then a spoonful of Cremora...Tastes just the same and you'll save on the cream." On Sundays, we'd watch Masterpiece Theatre while sipping on SaveMart Tea in Royal Doulton bone china cups.  Pinkies up. That was pure Esme.  Indulge commonly. Live mightily.  Rene ~ November 1, 2012 For d'verse poets "Meeting The Bar" challenge "Po...

in this house there is ritual there are knives wine and truth souls resting at room temperature butterflied ready for the heat steel drawn a stainless flash tok, tok, tok tok, tok, tok peppers, onions and herbs shuffle down words and emotions form organically honest, raw unprocessed heart to mouth hand to blade the rhythm rises and falls this is the way to perfect this is how to cook for the angels raise a glass to the gods and the princes of your near wild heaven Rene~October 6, 2012 Public domain image of Fresh fruit and vegetables