OH, SPRING
Oh, Spring, I beckon you, show your sweet face.
Warm my days with bright sun and light breezes;
Uncurl the new leaves on dead tree branches
And push up from the cold earth the jonquil and iris.
Oh, Spring, show your sweet face.
Entertain my morn with the cardinal’s song;
Chase away this eternal gloom of winter
And renew my soul as you do the Earth.
Barbara Blume
1/18/14
Here is my poem about eggs (or an egg, actually). Unlike Kathy’s poem, however, there is nothing sensual about this one!
A Raw Deal
I’m here to tell you, Humpty Dumpty got a rotten break.
I mean, come on, the poor guy was just sitting on a fence,
minding his own business.
And to be humiliated in verse forever, just for falling? It’s plain wrong.
Picture this if you can:
It’s a beautiful day for a jog. The sun is shining, the birds are singing
and the grass is green underfoot.
There is a fairly low stone fence along the road: rock piled on rock.
That sun was hot enough to scramble anyone’s brains, they tell me.
Humpty Dumpty was no exception:
so he climbed up on the wall to sit a spell, maybe catch his breath and cool off. Eggs just shouldn’t run.
Now, I don’t know what happened next; maybe he lost his balance, or maybe he got dizzy…..I guess we’ll never know.
It was not a pretty sight when the king and his men rode by; that much I can tell you. He had definitely cracked with that fall.
But to his credit, the king stopped and ordered his men to try to help the poor fellow out. In spite of the mess, they loaded him on their horses.
But you already know how this all ends. Humpty Dumpty fell apart and no one could help him get his act together again.
That’s how I heard it, anyway. And we both know that Mother Goose may exaggerate, but she’s no liar.
Carol Hemmye
An egg seems an unlikely topic for a writing assignment, but as usual with this group of women, we all expressed our individual “take” on the subject. This was fun in the end when I stopped wondering where to go with it and just enjoyed the journey to a long ago memory of a wonderful Sunday morning. Hail to the egg in all its forms.
Lazy Sunday morning… smells from the kitchen fill the house….the aroma of freshly brewed coffee makes its way to the bedroom where he is sleeping still…an invitation to waken and embrace this day.
Mimosas, bright orange and bubbly, in long stem crystal glasses grace the table while the bacon sizzles in the pan…spitting and curling…setting the stage for the eggs.
Pancakes, in the wings, are waiting for their chance to shine…to soak up the rich brown maple syrup, thick and sweet, after they are covered with soft yellow pats of butter that drizzle down the stack. Now the debut of the star unfolds. As with any celebrity, how to make the entrance is complicated and fraught with many wonderful choices that make it hard to pick just one…….
Scrambled like our lives, maybe Over Easy like many relationships, or perhaps Hard Boiled like a jaded soul. Sunny Side Up like an optimist, or Deviled like a tortured mind. Soft Boiled and easy to take advantage of, or Poached and on the run from the hunter.
When he wakens from the beckoning of the smells that fill his senses, his choice is Benedict….covered in a creamy sauce and perched atop a muffin, soft and yielding to his touch as his knife breaks open the waiting egg and the warm yellow yolk oozes over the
Plate.
Kathy Branton
the abundant literary path 