The government likes telling me just what I ought to eat/according to their experts it is watercress and beet/any other foodstuff is adulterated scree/let's talk about it over lunch down at the KFC.
I think that I shall never see/another big screen loud movie/that super hero derring-do/is streaming now on pay-per-view/It's just as well; I hate mayhem/and get my kicks with TCM.
I like vetoes, yes I do/they tell Trump what he can do/with his egotistic hype/no wonder all his tweets are tripe!
I saw the quail hurry down the alley
from my patio window.
They brought the smell of cedar.
Of lively powdery blue berries
that turned brown and cracked
when I gently placed them
in my riven ceramic bowl.
I collected them off the cedar
on my long walks to and from.
Hearing the quail's faltering cry.
With the sunset dragging down
the mountains into dust at my feet.
Where the quail go is no concern of mine.
But I feel sorry they must hurry.
What can a quail have that is worth
hurrying to? says I --
a man sitting in a faded recliner who
is done hurrying to anything.
When I was younger I did more
hurrying away from than hurrying to.
Straying from rather than headed to.
And my friends and the wife of my
youth know this well
and they want to talk and talk and talk
about it with me.
The intermeddlers.
They would take a snail out of
its shell to improve its life.
Their helping hand pinches.
Their breath is stale and self righteous.
Strafing my comfort zone.
Please go away, Yenta.
Leave me trace my dreams
with Pixy Stix.
Lookit, Ma -- I'm driving fast/with no hands a-steerin'/these new cars are super smart/there's no use a-fearin'/I can text or talk or nap/there'll be no collision/heck, I might as well sit back/watching television!
When you have a lot of tykes/better travel on some bikes/fam'ly vans are overpriced/what they charge is more a heist/take it from a man with kids/I oughta have been raising squids!
The digital yuan is now here to stay/making it easy for Chinese to pay/for chopsticks and moon cakes and pickled bai cai/now they'll be eating the whole livelong day/belly aches soon will disable them all/then Uncle Sam can watch Xi Jinping fall.
BACKGROUND:
I sent my prose poem 'How to cook an old boot' to an English professor friend of mine.
In return, he rearranged my work to make some kind of academic point, which I am still trying to figure out.
His version went like this:
(These items cannot be purchased
a kettle of enraged water.
add a dollop of sour cream
Add the good wishes of
Happy New Year.
and a back scratcher from the
Autumn mopery.
and a set of ground up spats.
and stay there; you're of no further use here.)
But hey --
For a thicker sauce, rummage through
Summer folly.
Gently slide the boot into
Spring wattles.
in all the seasons until
New Pains Bring New Opportunities.
in order to
loosen the hobnails.
In Peru there is a charming tradition
it is mellowed and ripe:
it will then last for many years.
Just before serving,
Leftover boot can be hung
on the clothesline to dry out;
locally take the next flight to Belgium
Never serve boiled boot to friends
of letting the children walk around in
One that has marinated
online, so if you haven't got them
or current job.
or relatives that don't know your middle
Probably longer than your marriage
Start with an old boot.
the boot after it has been cooked
the boys down at the plant
to make a bouquet garni.
Welcome Wagon.
who complain about their allergies
Winter pips.
your laundry for a pair of dirty socks
name.
I responded with what I thought was a harmless ditty:
poets and their critics dance
To which I responded as follows:
as an educator you have to analyze literature -- that's your job (and your joy, I realize)
No cunning fable is the Christ,
to shackle and confuse.
He lived and died for all of us,
salvation to suffuse
throughout our world as loving grace
to never be displaced --
assailed by devils and by men,
he's stronger still and chaste.
Julie Wernau | |
| REPORTER | |
 | |
| M: +1 917-821-8503 | |
| E: julie.wernau@wsj.com | |
| A: 1 South Wacker Drive #2100, Chicago, IL | |
 |
| 9:51 AM (33 minutes ago) |  | ||
| ||||
I will be on a break until Jan. 4. Best wishes for the new year.
Thanks so much for your email.
I'm now on annual leave over Christmas and will be checking emails
only sporadically. I'll be back on Dec. 29th.
Many thanks, and merry Christmas!
Katie
--
Katie Deighton
REPORTER, THE EXPERIENCE REPORT
[image: The Wall Street Journal] <https://www.wsj.com/>
*Please note I am currently based in the U.K.*
M: +44 (0)7435 828580 <+44+(0)7435+828580>
E: katie.deighton@wsj.com
*T: *@DollyDeighton <https://twitter.com/dollydeig
[image: Dow Jones] <https://www.dowjones.com/>
--
| Alejandro Lazo | |||||||||||||
REPORTER • SAN FRANCISCO BUREAU | |||||||||||||
Hi, there: I will be out of the office until Monday Jan 4. I will get back to you when I return. Thanks! Sadie -- Sadie Gurman
|
Start with an old boot.
One that has marinated
in all the seasons until
it is mellowed and ripe:
Winter pips.
Spring wattles.
Summer folly.
Autumn mopery.
Gently slide the boot into
a kettle of enraged water.
Add the good wishes of
the boys down at the plant
and a back scratcher from the
Welcome Wagon.
(These items cannot be purchased
online, so if you haven't got them
locally take the next flight to Belgium
and stay there; you're of no further use here.)
Just before serving,
add a dollop of sour cream
and a set of ground up spats.
For a thicker sauce, rummage through
your laundry for a pair of dirty socks
to make a bouquet garni.
Never serve boiled boot to friends
who complain about their allergies
or relatives that don't know your middle
name.
In Peru there is a charming tradition
of letting the children walk around in
the boot after it has been cooked
in order to
loosen the hobnails.
Leftover boot can be hung
on the clothesline to dry out;
it will then last for many years.
Probably longer than your marriage
or current job.
And then you'll probably be reduced
to eating shoe laces and KIWI polish.
But hey --
New Pains Bring New Opportunities.
Happy New Year.
I pray my garments spotless stay
as I approach the Judgement Day.
All earthly stains I must eschew
or else my options will be few
when at last my greatest Friend
will ask some time with me to spend.
My cookie jar doth overflow;
I tell my gut "Look out below!"
With icing thick and sprinkles too
my diet plans say "Toodle-loo!"
But, hey, it's only once a year
that sugar is my sole veneer.
In ten more years Toyota cars
will have to run on Leyden jars.
The Japanese say gasoline
makes of the air a foul latrine.
To avoid more greenhouse trauma,
they're riding bikes in Yokohama.
It looks like that there comfort check
from Uncle Sam has gone to heck.
The wishing well is goin' dry --
but do not start to moan or cry;
no doubt when Biden takes a hand
we'll each be getting twenty grand!
