On the Alberta/Montana Border

Monday, November 13, 2023

The Taste of Love

When I was young, with Mom I’d go,

To Gramma’s house. In sun or snow,

And there, in Gramma’s kitchen, find,

A treasure ‘f I was so inclined

Of wondrous foods. Such tasty fare,

I’d spend most waking minutes there,

And bask in what I understood

Was Gramma’s love. T’was sweet and good!

Then as the years went rolling past,

My own kids did appear at last,

And oft’ I took then with me when,

I went to my mom’s house. Therein

We’d find all sorts of yummy stuff,

In Gramma’s kitchen. N’er enough

To ever have them say, “We’re done!

I’m sure ‘elsewhere’ will be more fun!”

Cause just like me, they understood

That Gramma’s love bore tasty food.

And now, a gramma I’ve become,

I, cookies bake, or cakes of crumb,

Or breads or soups of boundless mien,

To feed the hordes when we convene,

And how I love to see the grins,

As they all eat, cause Gramma wins,

Why, just today my Twizzle said,

“I just love eating Gramma’s bread!”

And Emma-Gem of stature, small,

Said, “Gramma’s kitchen’s best of all!”

What have I learned from the above?

That Gramma’s kitchen just means ‘LOVE’

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week please come join with us,

As we all talk about The Bus!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13) Today!

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

Shoes (December 4)

Winter (December 11)

Cookies (December 18)

Christmas/Hanukkah/Holidays (Dec. 25)

The Future (January 1 My last Poetry Monday)

Monday, November 6, 2023

Melon Head

Barry is my special friend, we talk most every day,

He’s wise and fun (a perfect combination, by the way).

But once, there was a time when it was my turn to annoy.

So stick around a sec, ‘cause it’s a tale you will enjoy.

Now, Barry likes his food, you just might call him, well, a snob,

He so enjoys a well-cooked meal, from pasta to kebabs.

But one day, he confided, ‘Only onions make me cry,’

And so I thought I’d try it out, and learn the truth, thereby.

My wife and I had planned a summer picnic with our friends,

(You know these are the best of times. You hope they never end.)

Our watermelon patch had borne a very yummy yield,

So, for dessert, we grabbed some big ones from out in the field.

Then…

To test his ‘only onions make him cry’, s‘indeed the case…

I took a watermelon and hit Barry in the face!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Next week will see us all just itchin'

To talk a bit 'bout Gramma's Kitchen!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)

Watermelon (November 6) Today!

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

Shoes (December 4)

Winter (December 11)

Cookies (December 18)

Christmas/Hanukkah/Holidays (Dec. 25)

The Future (January 1 My last Poetry Monday)

Monday, October 30, 2023

Mixing Mayhem with Amen

Two brothers, ages six and eight were quite the mischief-makers,

If hi-jinks happened, they two were the movers and the shakers,

Exasperated totally, their poor and harried Mama,

Went to see their minister. Converse about her trauma,

He’d had some luck with other boys all bent on causing trouble,

She wanted help with her two ‘fore their town'd reduced to rubble,

The man agreed and said he’d like to see them one by one,

The younger first, that morning, with the elder later on...

The preacher took the six-year-old and sat him on a chair,

Then stood before the boy and fixed him with a sober stare,

Said to the lad, “Now tell me, son, do you know just where God is?”

The little boy just stared (mouth gaped, right to his epiglottis),

Again the preacher went on to repeat his simple question,

Again the boy just stared at him with fear in his expression,

A third time (louder now), the preacher thundered, “Where is God?”

The small boy screamed and ran as though pursued by demon squads,

Some time hence, his older brother found him in the cupboard,

Pale and shaking like a leaf, his legs both weak and ‘rubbered’,

The eight-year-old just looked at him and slowly shook his head,

Said, “What on earth is eating you? You look like you’re ‘most dead!”

The younger boy gave him a look of terror and of shame,

“God has disappeared, Bro! And they think that we’re to blame!”

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

That WATERMELON is a hit...

Let's reminisce a little bit!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)

Mischief (October 30) Today!

Watermelon (November 6)

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

Friday, October 27, 2023

Getting Through

For four of her five years, she and her Mom,

Had happ’ly lived with us—a time of calm,

And every day her mom, with hug and kiss,

Would go to work and leave her little Miss.

So Tinesy Girl and me, we were a team,

To have her here with me was such a dream,

And, daily, we would eat and read and play,

Too soon her mom came home from her work day.

Now Tinesy Girl’s most favourite toy of all,

Was not a Pretty Pony or a doll,

Instead a little music box that sang,

With a little, purple phone (to speak or clang).

The phone, some days before, had disappeared,

Both Tinesy Girl and me, we'd searched and peered,

Unable to find out just where it went,

Decided it would show—we'd not lament!

Now, Mama was a theatre carpenter

Each day she took her to-ol box with her,

But on this day, she got a big surprise,

Among her big old tools, a phone—pint-sized.

She thought it had been wrongly so dispatched,

And brought it home, where it was quickly snatched,

Then gladly TG played with it till bed,

And when she went to sleep, t’was by her head!

Next day, when daughter got to work, she groaned,

Again, amongst her tools, was TG’s phone,

She smiled—got the message finally…

TG was telling Mom, "Please message me!"

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because we like to please!

And we love her, you know that’s true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,

With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,

Each month we write and have such fun

We can't wait for another one,

With 'MESSAGE ME!' how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

Baking In A Tornado: Midnight Message

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Monday, October 23, 2023

Talk

Of Talk Show hosts, there are a few,

Some long past and some quite new,

But if you had to pick just one…

Tell me which was smart. And fun?

Allen, yes, he was the first,

Gave us all our ‘Talk Show’ thirst!

And Carson. Many call him king,

Oh, the laughter he could bring!

Then Letterman, that name I know,

Sardonic. Witty on his show.

And Stewart, oh, that man is good,

And often tells it like he should.

Skits for which O’Brien’s known,

Made everybody laugh. Or groan.

Colbert. That man is smarter, still,

He’s known for insights ‘Up the Hill’.

Then Oprah, her I loved a lot,

Her opinions, many sought!

With giveaways and games and such,

DeGeneres, she did so much.

And Kimmel, what about this guy?

I love the twinkle in his eye.

And Rivers, clever, clever girl,

She gave the Talk Show world a whirl!

Then Miller earned his place, I’ll grant

With his jokes, more jokes and rants.

Excitement, positivity,

Marked O’Donnel’s show…agree?

Then Oliver, oh, that clever lad,

That man knows pol’tics, good and bad.

Then Myers, him I watch a lot,

A Closer Look’s his famous spot.

Hall, his show had class and slink,

Cancelled much too soon, I think.

Galifianakis, Parr,

These are the names that did go far,

And Ferguson and Cavett, too,

Oh, Fallon, Shandling, I’ll add you.

All these and many more, I think

Gave us fun or made us blink,

Love ‘em. Hate ‘em. Each held sway

In their unique and chosen way!

Where would we be throughout the years,

Without our Talk Show hosts and peers,

With thoughts to ponder, memes to quote…

I’m not done yet—where’s that remote?

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Next week be sure to be right here.

Cause MISCHIEF is our theme. Oh, dear...

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)

Talk Shows (October 23) Today!

Mischief (October 30)

Watermelon (November 6)

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

Friday, October 20, 2023

A Little Jack Snack

Okay, first off, the story of Little Jack Horner intrigues me.

Is it satirical? Or merely the story of a greedy little boy sitting in a corner, keeping all the pie to himself.

I think this needs to be explored. Right?

So here we go…

We’ll begin with the actual poem, as I learned it in the great So Long Ago:

Little Jack Horner

Sat in a corner,

Eating his Christmas pie.

He stuck in his thumb

And pulled out a plum,

And said, “What a good boy am I!”

Right away, this begs the question, Why is Jackie sitting in a corner all by himself?

With a pie.

Had he been bad and sent to said corner?

I want to mention, here, that when MY parents gave me a time out, pie wasn’t included.

Had he been sent there to eat by himself because someone forgot to bathe that day? Seriously, it could happen. I know there have been occasions when I’ve sat beside someone who…never mind.

Suffice it to say odours other than entrees/desserts were distinctly indicated.

Or did Jackie Boy simply want to sit there quietly by himself? Perhaps my loquacious Aunt Agnes was in the crowd and talk about yesterday’s sermon and tomorrow’s choir rehearsal just interfered with some serious ‘pie-eating’ concentration. The old ‘shut up and let me shovel’!

And that brings us to the next talking point. I’m assuming everyone at the party was gifted with a large pie of their own and that our boy hadn’t pinched what would amount to the entire company’s dessert. Please tell me it isn’t so, Jackie!

And that his being holed up in that corner had nothing to do with selfishness.

Or theft.

Oh, dear.

Could it be the corner was shady and hidden and that our boy was there, not by design, but by necessity? To stay out of sight?

This brings up a whole new discussion.

Is this a story about the nefarious Mr. Jack Horner of the Hole-in-the-Wall Horners?

The not-so-famous outlaws. (Okay, yes, I made them up…)

Was the Jack in our story just a common thief?

There is also the theory that ‘Jack’ was a well-known public figure, but one with his own interests at heart. That the ‘pie’ he had purloined was, in fact, loaded with—not the fruit one would expect—but instead, a deed to a valuable property.

That the ‘sticking in of the thumb’ included fingers. And the pulling forth of the juicy (?) bit of parchment entitled the bearer to sole possession of…something valuable enough it warranted sneakiness and hiding in shadowy corners.

And the not sharing of the something valuable.

Truthfully, I prefer the idea that Little Jack Horner was simply at a Christmas party. Everyone had been given their own pie. And he chose to eat his in the corner where grooming was unimportant. Along with acceptable gustatory mannerisms vis-à-vis pie-eating.

Thus, the thumb being poked into the pie and withdrawn captured by a plum would simply be that. A small boy, rather greedy and impatient—hence the using of the fingers— who is proud of his whole ‘poking fingers into pies’ abilities.

We need a re-write…

Young Jack Horner’s manners

In his family of Tanners,

Was not something of which they were proud.

And thus, they would press him,

That, though they would dress him

He shouldn’t be part of the crowd.

So there in the corner,

(cheered by his suborners!)

Not bound by a cord and not strappled…

He stuck in his thumb

And pulled out a plum,

Then shouted out, “I ordered apple!”

Today’s post is a word challenge!

Each month Karen, Mimi or I choose a number between 12 and 50 and the others craft a post using that number of words one or multiple times.

This month’s number is: 45

It was chosen by ME!

Now go and see what my friends have created!

Baking In ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Monday, October 16, 2023

A Word...

Noah Webster was man most known for brains, not brawn,

And as a lexicographer, he absolutely shone!

For he loved words and used them well, for work and then for play,

Why, he gave us the dictionary that we have today.

But when he died, his Miriam, she wanted to take charge

When funeral plans were in the works—decided to go large,

Many people came. The service wasn’t sad or bleak,

And, at the end, she asked if anyone would like to speak.

A man came up, “I’d like to say a word if that’s okay.”

The widow smiled and then stood back to let him have his say,

The man leaned o’er the stand, and said “Plethora” clear and low,

She smiled and said, “That means a lot! Your warmth and fondness shows!”

Another man came up to her, “I, too would like a word!”

Again she smiled and then stepped back—again a voice was heard,

“Infinity” was what he said. And Miriam almost glowed,

Said, “You are very kind, sir! That means more than you can know!”

Then last, a woman joined her there, said, “I have aught to say.”

Again, the widow stepped aside and let her have her day,

The woman moved up to the stand, “Aorta” was her word,

And Miri said, “That warms my heart. I’m awful glad I heard!”

And many more came to the front to say a word or two,

And Miriam loved everyone and smiled when each was through,

And finally thanked them for their words, “My heart is very cheered!

I’m happy my sesquipedalian you all revered!”

So when you’re looking something up in Webster’s greatest feat,

Remember just who organized the words, both Sour and Sweet!

And if you’re bored, just read it like a book. Be wild and daring,

And if you don’t enjoy, don’t fret, 'cause soon you’ll be past Caring.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Next week, we'll reach the highs and lows

Discussing wise or fun talk shows!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)

Dictionary (October 16) Today!

Talk Shows (October 23)

Mischief (October 30)

Watermelon (November 6)

Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)

The Bus (November 20)

A Pet's Life (November 27)

Friday, October 13, 2023

Almost True

...that one time when Sally didn't make things worse...

“Look! ‘The Paragon Paranormal Society has thoroughly investigated this site and guarantees its authenticity’!”

“Huh. Who are they when they’re at home?” I muttered under my breath.

Peter and Dad laughed.

Mort was now hopping from foot to foot, obviously excited.

Or he had to go to the bathroom.

I gazed up at the creepy-looking three-storey house and shivered. If they had a bathroom…

The five of us started up the great front stairs to the doorway.

They creaked ‘authentically’.

So far so good.

“Oh, look at that! A spider! Whoda thought?” Sally poked at a large, furry brown member of the species in its rather spectacular web.

It curled its legs up, then scurried away from her.

“Oh. It’s real. My bad.”

Just then, a gust of wind blew over the porch, tossing Sally’s and my hair and almost claiming Dad’s ball cap.

He opened the door—another realistic creak—and we went inside.

“Welcome!” A solemn voice called out. “Please join the group. We’ll be getting started soon!”

The five of us hovered near the door, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. Finally, I was able to make out a large, square room, with a stairway directly in front of me, great shelves filled with…gee-gaws…on all the walls, and a rather mundane-looking reception counter to the right. The voice seemed to have come from there.

A group of 8 or 10 people were gathered/huddled beside the stairway. Some of them were, like Mort, excited.

The rest seemed more like me.

We gathered with them.

A moment or two later, a tall figure emerged from behind the counter and approached us—finally coalescing into a young man.

Wearing a heavy cowl.

Okay. Creepy.

“Welcome to Dell House,” the young man said. “I’m Night and I’ll be your guide this afternoon.”

His voice was deep and sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

I shivered. Of course his name was ‘Night’.

“First, a warning. Dell House spirits are capricious and unpredictable. They can appear at any time and have been known to ‘attack’ in numerous ways. Blasts of wind. Falling items and pictures. So please be alert. Best to stay away from walls at all times. And hang onto each other.”

A timid hand slowly rose on the far side of the group. “Ex-cuse me?” a faint voice said.

Night turned toward them. “Yes?”

“Is it quite safe?”

“Well…no one has died here. Well…apart from the spirits.” Night’s laugh was, like him, weird. “Stay together and let’s go.”

“Do you have a history of this place?” Dad asked, falling into step beside our guide.

A long-fingered hand dipped into some hidden pocket in Night’s robes and emerged with a handful of pamphlets. “Our history is written here.” He handed one to Dad.

“Thanks.” Dad fell back with the rest of us, squinting as he tried to read in the rather inadequate light.

Suddenly, a blast of wind, similar to the one we had felt outside, tore the paper from his hands.

“Hey!” Dad made a spectacular, but futile effort to catch it. Then he glared as the paper rose nearly to the ceiling two floors above us.

Night silently handed Dad a second pamphlet. “That happens a lot,” the young man said.

Dad looked at me. “I’m beginning to believe the reports,” he whispered.

I giggled nervously.

Night took us up the main staircase.

By this point, everyone in the group was clinging desperately to someone else.

My bunch wasn’t any different. I had linked arms with both Dad and Peter and I saw Mort grab Sally’s hand.

One man ahead of me was gripping the heavily-carved bannister. Suddenly, he jerked his hand away. “It’s hot!” he said.

“Oh, yeah. That’ll happen, too,” Night said. “Careful.”

We had just reached the top of the stairs when a stream of water came out of nowhere and struck Mort in the chest.

“Hey!” he shouted, ducking to one side and brushing hastily at his shirt, now dripping wet.

Night paused and looked at him. “Capricious and unpredictable.”

“Maybe you should give us an idea of what more we can expect,” Dad said.

What can I say. He’s an ex-marine, but the urge to plan and execute remains strong.

Night looked at him and shrugged. “We don’t know, sir. It’s never the same twice.”

Dad looked at me and Peter. I tightened my hold on both of them.

We were guided along a wide hallway, hung with a dozen or more massive portraits.

“The family through the generations,” Night said.

Man, this guy wasn’t about to waste breath explaining anything!

As we were passing one picture of a young girl and her beribboned pet goat, the picture suddenly just…dropped, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Someone shrieked and everyone huddled closer together in the center of the hallway.

Okay, I knew why Night had advised us to stay away from the walls.

We continued down the hall.

Doors slammed open, then shut.

Light fixtures swayed alarmingly.

Soft, strange music played. It would grow for a moment, then die.

And I’m pretty sure I saw a translucent figure sail across the hall and into the wall just ahead of us.

“Did you see that?” I managed to gasp.

Dad and Peter’s eyes were on the same spot.

“I did,” they said together. They looked at each other.

“Keep up,” Night said.

We hurried to catch the others.

Throughout all this, Mort and Sally were uncharacteristically silent. I kept glancing back to make sure they were still with us.

Sally seemed calm, but Mort’s eyes were bigger than dinner plates as he swiveled to watch everything.

Night led us into bedrooms, where rugs rolled themselves up and dresser drawers made a staccato sound as they moved in and out. Blinds snapped up and curtains slid back and forth across the rods.

Bedclothes were tossed about.

A pillow sailed past. Dad ducked, but I wasn’t as fortunate.

The resulting cloud of dust made me sneeze repeatedly.

It was hard to know how to react or where to look first.

As we made our way back into the hallway from one of the bedrooms, Peter leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Even if this is all fake, it’s pretty spectacular!”

Just as the words left his lips, another wind blast tore through—this time seeming to target him. It nearly pulled him free from my grip.

Our hold tightened.

The tour continued...

We couldn’t have been in that house for more than half an hour, but it seemed days. Every floor and room sported some new and startling event.

My fingers were just beginning to grow slightly numb from Peter and Dad’s crushing grip when Night finally steered us back to the main staircase.

We descended it, relief writ large on every face in the group as we spied our escape.

Night stopped at the bottom of the stairs, halting the group. Then he looked up at us. “We, the spirits of Dell House hope you enjoyed your visit. Do tell your friends and neighbours. And come back yourselves. If you dare.”

With those words, he suddenly…disappeared.

I am not making this up. He disappeared. His cloak was suddenly—empty. It dropped to the floor in a heap of cloth.

We stared, aghast.

One woman fainted.

But Sally is made of sterner stuff.

“Cool!” she said. She cracked her knuckles and grinned at the rest of us. “Let’s go again!”