Gravy

It was a lot of years before
I could serve gravy
without reservation,
frequently presenting a bland
paste or an overly
salty broth.

I think a modicum of age-aquired
patience is the key,

and stirring; a constant motion
of the whisk while adding increments
of flour and slowly increasing
the heat.

There are still lumps most
of the time — small and less
numerous — and I keep the salt
close at hand, but I now
taste before adding.

I do not remember the sounds
of rapid stirring from my mother’s
kitchen, or a salt shaker
on the table or clumps of flour
mixing with the rice.

All I remember is the gravy
being excellent.

 

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Red Balloon

Amidst the horde of hats and coats
huddled beneath

umbrellas — straining
to maintain structure —

there is an upturned
face —

oblivious to the wet, sting
of the drops —

watching the path
of the red balloon

as it fights to reach the heights
it is destined for.

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Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Black

Black,
to him, it is more than a color,
it is an identity,
a mantra,
a way of life,
a culture and a belief.
It guides his actions
and determines his friends,
chooses the place of his home,
the nature if his church
and the power of his convictions.
It is the cross he bears
and the flag he waves,
the box he checks
and the first word used to describe him;
more important than gender
or place or date of birth,
almost taking the place of a name.
He would prefer to be called
a man –
no preceding adjectives –
but differentiating descriptors are a
societal requirement,
so, he clings to it and waits.
Black is his creed,
his motivation and his history,
a thing he could no more shed
than his skin.

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once a year

transient,
homeless,
…….vagabond,
…………bum…
these are the words
we call them.

hungry,
cold,
……lonely,
………ashamed
are the words they
call themselves.

I am sure it was you —
yes, you, standing
……there smiling
………and gracious

as you fill bowls,
working
……your annual shift
……….at the shelter —

who drove past these
same souls
……as they stood
………on the corner

holding their signs.

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Of the Night

The skies are clearest
on the coldest
of nights,

the stars the brightest
when the moon
is absent,

and troubled dreams
are not always forgotten
in the morning light.

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Upon Reading the Poems of Mary Oliver, In Which She Refers to the Poet in Third Person

I write as often as I may
a poem or a chapter,
a recounting of the hours
of the day, or the days
that can pass in the course
of a night.

I write as often as I may
of laughter, but tears
frequently fall, searches
of joy where anger
is normally found.

I write as often as I may,
trying to expound
on the mundane found
in the spectacular, and vain
attempts to simplify
the amazing.

I write as often as I may,
never quite satisfied with
the result. Maybe this is why
I follow the advice of a friend
and leave the titles of ‘author’
and ‘poet’ for others to bestow,

never referring to myself
as anything more than ‘writer’.

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The Glow of Morning

She chooses to live
in the dark,
afraid of what light
may reveal.

There are mornings, though,
when sleep evades her,
and the sun invades
the room before she
can hide.

She will watch the dust
dance in the streams of light
filtering through the shutters,
and, occasionally, even lift
a hand to feel the warmth,

and marvel at the glow.

 

For The Mag image prompt.

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