WHIPPED

It was the night before “Something”

When all through my house 

A mess I’d been making 

(You should'a seen my blouse) 

I do all this prep  

Without care or worry  

And like it much better 

When I’m not in a hurry 

The veggies are ready 

But there is hesitation 

I’d like to cut fruit 

Without enzyme oxidation 

I sit in my chair 

Pondering options for cooking 

Convection, conduction, radiation 

Just stop looking! 

The process is such 

The food gives me help 

Except that one time… 

When I tried to fix kelp 

Wait! Back to the story 

(I tend to get lost) 

When my kitchen is filled 

With so much amylose 

I’ve spent most the day 

Working starch into pastry 

And I might say 

The stuff is quite tasty 

The fillings are diffused 

With sugar and fruit 

And I’m always surprised 

When they turn out this cute 

When suddenly it hits me 

But is it too late 

To possibly  top them 

With a coagulate? 

I’ve heard of this cream 

I know it’s quite heavy 

It’s all about chance here 

Could I be that ready? 

I get my stuff going 

I call it by name 

I know I’m alone 

Yet it’s part of the game 

I stand at the mixer 

There is no hesitation 

I’m sure of this process 

It’s denaturation 

Oh such a mess! 

I cause so much clatter 

My dog even wonders 

“Hey what’s the matter"? 

On with the whipping 

Boy this is a scene 

I’m mixing amino acids 

Inside some protein 

Go carbon and hydrogen 

Some nitrogen too 

Keep moving there sulphur 

(Phosphorus doesn’t have a clue) 

So what am I seeing? 

A clot, mass or gel? 

Is it time to give up? 

Continue a spell? 

Best that I stop 

No more words will I utter 

With more agitation...

My cream will be butter!

Susan... 

Say What You Need To Say

Clare never wanted to look back – she would drown 

in the reflection if she let them have control. The 

haunting of her spirit is more than enough; popping 

in and out of her life at their discretion. There are no 

lessons learned enough, or books read enough, to 

ease the whispers of her journey. She knew this...the 

parasites would feed from her forever. They knew 

where to slither and how deep to feast, leaving scars 

and molted remains scattered along the path. Her 

attempts to rid them have never been successful; 

only momentarily does she feel relief, and at what 

cost? They do not allow her control; her freedom 

comes with stipulations. As with Pavlov and his dog, 

Clare has been conditioned; “Do what you do Clare, 

and say what you need to say, but we are here - and 

here is where we are going to stay.” 

"To laugh often and much;

to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; 

to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends.

To appreciate beauty; 

to find the best in others;

to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, 

or a redeemed social condition;

to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. 

This is to have succeeded." 

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Study: Shroom

Word...To Know

To get 

To grasp

By chance 

 Through encounter
Or design

Inspire me 

Emphasize

A moment or forever
The Word

Or provocation

Sweet Pleasures  

Pain enforced

Inspiration, loss, defeat

In will or true design

Sharp, amusing, destructive

Divine 

Perhaps sublime

Give them to me

Put them here

Challenge a clever mind

Call Me Queenie

My story is too long and too full to explain why, at 25 with a daughter who was eight, I had to apply for Food Stamps. Living in the city without a car meant Eva and I had to take several buses to the welfare office so we could apply for aid. It was one of those days were the guilt of being a bad person and a terrible mother overwhelmed me. 

The decision to apply was a choice I made. I chose to ask for help, knowing I would be judged by those who had never walked in my shoes. I remember riding in the bus and trying to not cry, as Eva wondered why I was upset. I told her. I told her I couldn't feed us any longer. I didn't tell her it was because I had only a GED, and a "good job" was out of my reach. She always saw me as a momma who made sure we had what we needed. And I was not going to stop being that momma on that day. 

Did you know you can be refused help? I was refused. I had no money, no car, did not receive child support and worked as a waitress, yet the man who was my case worker told me I was too pretty to need welfare. He told me I was certainly someones girlfriend, and certainly they took care of me. No sooner had those words left his lips, was I over his desk. I am not violent, but I was at the end of a very short tiny string of hope. I was not going to be accused of lying and cheating by that asshole.

Things calmed down and they brought in a woman who told me I would have to wait a few weeks. She told me I was lucky Eva wasn't older than twelve. When I asked why, she said I wouldn't receive Food Stamps if she were older than twelve. Perhaps the laws have changed ( I certainly hope so) but I was shocked that a child would be allowed to starve at the sweet young age of twelve. We left that office with nothing.

When we got back to our neighborhood in the city, it hit me hard that, in a few days, there would not be a Thanksgiving dinner. As we walked down our block and past our neighbors, I knew I needed to do something, but I didn't know what that something was. As we came closer to our house, Eva looked down on the sidewalk and laying near the grass was a $20 bill. Now we didn't live in a middleclass neighborhood; we lived above a hooker and across the street from a brother and sister who had 5 children together. Someone would have known if they were missing $20. Eva picked up that money, and we both knew it was a gift. A small miracle; a truly needed blessing. 

That $20 bought us a chicken and some bread and a few other much needed supplies. We have remembered this story, and never forgotten what it feels like to have so little and to be thankful for so much.

I did get Food Stamps. They came to my house, they checked me out, and in the end I was given assitance. I also made the call to my Dad, who hadn't talked to me in years. He wanted nothing to do with a girl who had a baby at 17. But I told him my plan, and he agreed Eva and I could move home while I went to school. I had to sign a contract. Yep, my Dad was tough on me. But I did what I said I would do. I followed his rules, I went to school and I finished and had my own apartment in less than 2 years. 

So the other day, while I was in line buying groceries to cook dinner for my Dad, the young man in front of me was having a problem paying for his very simple list of groceries. I noticed he was buying a large pack of hamburger that had been discounted because of the age of the package. He had a loaf of white bread and a small bag of buns. What he didn't have was enough money on his EBT card to pay for them. I could see he was embarrassed. It took several times for the cashier to accomplish his payment, as he had to get some cash out of his wallet. I wanted to help him, but I knew he wouldn't have allowed it. He was a Dad, with two young boys and I knew how he felt. 

There are, without a doubt, people who take advantage of things. I would be surprised if anyone could tell me they hadn't siezed an opportunity to try and get a deal or find a bargain. Food Stamps are not a good deal. They are a way to keep a family from starving. They are a blessing to many, and a huge embarassment as well. For those who abuse them..shame on them. But for the majority they are what keeps their family's fed.

I hope, when you see people using an EBT card, you can recognise how fortunate a country we are to be able to help the needy. My Aunt Jane, who has been a Nun for over 60 years told me once; It isn't about those who abuse the system, it is about those who need it.

"How many cares one loses when one decides not to be
      something, but to be someone" ~~ Coco Chanel

THERES A HANDFUL OF THINGS THAT I MISSED

One small book reading I can’t say I've had

Bows on the strings of my shoes

Sweet smelling sheets pulled up to my chin

A bandage to cover my knee

Fresh homemade cookies

Or a P B and J

Made by your hands … And only for me 

Hugs at the door when I come in from school

Or worry when I am not there 

The glance which is made when I walk down the street 

(Into places that shouldn’t have been)

The moments of pretty or special

One dress picked only for me

A room or a bed... to call all my own

In a place which I could call home

Bring Them Home

I grew up knowing my dad had been a pilot in World War II. I have his flight jacket and pictures of him in his uniform, and standing in formation with his platoon. Every Veterans day I thank him for putting his life in danger while protecting our country, and let him know how much I love and respect him, and all he has endured since the war. For his war has never truly ended. To this day his memories come flooding back every time he hears of one of his buddies who have passed. They are all old men now, and it is their time. But they have a bond few of us will ever know or understand. Being in the trenches with a soldier; a man who is fighting alongside you with purpose and pride, has always been an honor for my father.

I have heard the good stories of his time in Europe. I know of his women, and the automobiles they commandeered from Frenchmen, (in the name of war), and then used to carouse the country side. Young men, many who had never traveled far from their small US hometowns, were living a life few of us can imagine. Yet the real story; the story of flying bombs and killing of the innocent; of watching his brothers in arms being killed every day was not the story I was told. He holds that close to him, and his dreams reflect the horror of his war and the loss of his wholesomeness.

We are in three wars today. Our young boys and girls are bravely shipped to a desert across the seas, all doing so with pride and honor for our country, and with the hope their work will make a difference back home, and in the lives of those they are there to protect. I am heartbroken daily, when I see family after family receiving their children home in a box draped with our flag. The very flag they have given their young lives for. Yet these wars are not anything similar to previous wars fought by our soldiers. We are at war with people who do not honor human life. We are fighting to teach tribesmen what democracy looks like, hoping they will want to end their own thousand year wars. They don’t want to end them. It is in the fiber of their DNA to fight. It matters little whether they win, because “winning” would put an end to this travesty, and they would have to compromise with their forever enemy. Now we are caught up in the sickness of this battle. We cannot give them enough money; teach their children and women to seek justice; turn them towards a life of structure and peace, if they are intent on living in a world of anger and destruction.

Stop this endless flood of human losses and family devastations.  Enough of our young innocent children have been murdered, and those who come home are forever broken. Generations yet to be born will be affected by these tragedies and we have nothing more to give.

Our young people are in a battle with an enemy of no conscience, and for that reason alone… bring them home.

In honor of my father; John G Bathe, 1922-present, and my nephew, Frank Bryant Jr., born in the USA, died Kabul Afghanistan, April 27, 2011

‎"Square your shoulders to the world, be not the kind to quit; It's not the load that weighs you down but the way you carry it." ~~ Unknown