Beef Soup with Swamp Peef and Cheese

Beef soup with swamp peef and cheese may be eaten in perfect contentment while standing in the middle of your living room with none of your best friends. If not sizzled in half an hour, the peefs bobbing on the surface like so many Esther Williamses, then there’s not much more I can do for you. Enjoy!

Find the freshest peef you can find,
and only from the swamp.
Don’t let the butcher hornswoggle you
into ocean peef or bay peef or estruary.
Those peefs have too much grit,
not enough grain, if you know what I mean.
Demand the peef that you deserve.
Meanwhile, muddle some beef
and boil the cheese of your choosing.
Peas are not valid in this dish.
Try again, if that was your idea.




Yet another hat tip to Janelle Shane.


Export Bean Spoons In Pie-Shell, Top If Spoon and Whip The Mustard

Serves 37 at a table where everyone is angry and trees outside the window are heavy with new leaves. It may be raining or not. Enjoy!

Top if spoon
but not if no spoon
spoon is nonpresent

at present

Whip the mustard
regardless of spoon
or not

export beans in
if all you have is
pie shell

make a hyphen
out of spoons





Another “recipe” from Janelle Shane’s neural network cookbook.


NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 30: Something That Happens Again and Again


Their Profane Mother, Their Busy Mother

I curse under my breath
at the thought of this obligation
or that one, and as I complete a task,
I add one more or a few more, or
someone else adds them to me.
I curse, the big one, the f bomb, and then
I wonder if either of my children heard me,
their profane mother, their busy mother
who always has her hand in too many pots
at once. But maybe this is always how it goes;
maybe my mother, too, swore quietly —
maybe that’s what she meant by smoking.



The LAST PROMPT FOR THIS YEAR at was to write about something that occurs over and over. I don’t think this poem will be everyone’s cup of Constant Comment, but maybe you’ll get it if you, too, are kind of tightly wound and busy, and/or are a parent.


NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 29: A Complex Assignment

Today’s prompt at is a multistage affair. First, I’m supposed to find a favorite poem and pull out one word from it. I’ll take nightgowns (poetic license to remove the original hyphen) from “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” by Wallace Stevens:

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.


OK, next, I’m supposed to free-write for five minutes from the word I’ve selected, while not really using the poem:


Nighties, we called them when I would lie awake in bed, in the room that overlooked the roof of the garage, near the tree that held my tire swing, robins and a lilac sprig that my mother had cut for me, in water next to my bed, whatever little table I had next to my bed

nothing softer than nighties, I’ve written before about how I had at least one secondhand one, which was strangely intimate. Nightgowns and nightshirts, I don’t know if those are the same. I had a Garfield one. Once when we went camping, in the shared bathroom was a girl about my age with a Dukes of Hazzard nightgown or nightshirt. I looked down on her, in my mind, because I thought she must be from the country, which is kind of funny since we were camping

My mother used to ask for nightgowns as presents for Christmas or her birthday or Mother’s Day, but only certain kinds, neither too long nor too short, and a silky nylon with a flocked inside. I think I’m too old now to wear nightgowns, and too young at the same time, but I know they make the same kind my mother liked, and sometimes I’m tempted.

And finally, now I’m supposed to make a poem from that:

When I Was 10, We Went Camping

soft as a robin’s song,
which is to say, not soft at all
but sharp, if nightgowns could be sharp.



NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 28: A Skelton


Skeleton Skelton

The pile of bones
that each of us owns
until we die,
mourned with a sigh,
put in the earth
for second birth,
feeding worms
and all that squirms.
It’s not macabre,
it’s abracadabra.



From a prompt at, to write a Skelton, which is a poem made of short rhyming lines. There’s supposed to be a certain pattern of stresses, but I’m terrible at that. This is as formal as I get.


NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 27: Taste


The End of Lime and the Presence of Lime

Lime flavor can taste like guest soap at times,
but I’d still rather taste it than a lot of other things.
The tyranny of green apple depresses and enrages me —
both the fact of it and, no less, what it represents:
I’m an old crank who clings to memories of
scuttled flavors of Life Savers, Skittles.
If only they brought back lime, then maybe
I would be assured that I am still relevant, alive.
Yesterday, because of a lime-lĂ­mon-lemon error
that I was then too polite to correct, I missed out
on a lime Italian ice, got lemon instead. I can’t say
I was disappointed with lemon, exactly, but still.
Still, though — the end of lime and the presence of lime.



From a prompt at