Haiku: タマネギの皮のように白い雪 Snow as white as onion peel

 

branches against brick --

snow as white as onion peel;

after church, a nap.

Carrots on counter --

dirty orange and crooked;

a bent sacrifice.

mother and daughter --

in the kitchen by their choice;

potatoes are fun.

Potatoes au gratin. At Valley Villa. For free. A cooking fetish.

I love cooking for large groups. So does Amy. So today Amy and I are preparing a huge Sunday dinner for after Stake Conference. It's open to everyone and anyone. At no charge. You just have to bring your own bowl/plate. We're serving a cheesy potato casserole with hamburger; slow cooker cabbage, carrots, and onions; and Amy's fabulous peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies. Anyone who shows up at our door at 1 p.m. will get a heapin' helpin'.

And don't forget to tune into KUTV Channel 2--Salt Lake, this coming Tuesday at 10 p.m. for a video on our crazy cooking fetish -- the TV crew interviewed us for 2 hours while we served split pea soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. 

 

And Pharaoh said unto Joseph

 "And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it."

Genesis 41:15

I never dream of cows or corn/but when I wake up in the morn/like Pharaoh I become perplexed/with thoughts of what is coming next/I have no Joseph to expound/if things will fly or strike the ground/And so without such fine input/I sit and rub my rabbit's foot. 

Putin and the News, with other poetical whimsies.

 

"Russia passed a law that threatens prison time for anyone publishing what authorities consider to be false information about the country’s invasion of Ukraine, which the Kremlin refers to as a special military operation."

WSJ

Old Putin decides that the news/does not align much with his views/Reporters who stray/are sent far away/where polar bears give interviews.

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I'm tired of the Covid/I wish it would depart/even with the face masks/infections off the chart/continue to develop/while anti-vaxers prate/that it is Biden's purpose/us to exterminate.

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Never trust supply chain rules/they are made for crooks and fools/Ships and trucks and railroad cars/frozen fast beneath the stars/So it is, when I need eggs/all I find are stale nutmegs.

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Buttered toast and jam, for me/is a form of ecstasy/From the omelette I have strayed/Give me but sweet marmalade/Buttered crumbs upon my lips/are better than vacation trips!

Potiphar's Wife & other whimsies

Potiphar's wife the young Joseph did want/and so all her wiles before him did she flaunt/But Joseph resisted and her plans did fail/so in hellish fury she cast him in jail/Virtue is often rewarded that way/so only the brave with much godliness play. 

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the day is sold to rain/the rain that never ceases/the kind of rain, in fact/that gives my forehead creases/as if the sun a myth/had never showed its faces/to any single man/or to the human races/but I will persevere/in thinking sunlight loyal/that it will soon come back/and my depression spoil.

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the last poem is finished/my life's work complete/I've jumped all the hurdles/and stymied defeat/now I lay back/with my laurels and chips/collecting rewards/and concocting new dips.

Infant, you fill up that diaper so fast & other whimsies.

 

Infant, you fill up the diapers so fast/I don't see how mommy much longer can last/There is no delay tween the mouth and the bum/You mulch it right down to the very last crumb/Oh dear, now your mother has a look in her eye/that means it's MY turn to give changing a try!

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falling asleep at the wheel of a car/will carry the driver not too very far/a snooze going eighty is always a thrill/until there's a corpse in the wormy soil chill/so get lots of rest e'er you step on the gas/or angels will bring you a nice boarding pass.

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People make jokes about Adam and Eve/I wish from such nonsense we'd get a reprieve/Don't they deserve peace and quiet, dear hearts/with nothing but fig leaves to cover their parts?

The son of his old age

 

Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age: and he made him a coat of many colours.

Genesis 37:3.

When a man begins to age/all his children he will gauge/Those who please him best will rise/while the others get green eyes/It's not fair or very smart/and often breaks the brittle heart.

 

The Elevator Man & other whimsies

 

The elevator man?

In New York City maybe.

Anywhere else -- gone, baby.

Who's hiring for the posish?

Not even a masochist's wish!

I'd rather drive a fish van.

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I want to write something morose.

Without any hope or glucose.

But damned if I know

how to snuff out the glow

of my playfulness grandiose.

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Of my birth I've never written.

Of my death I'm much much more smitten.

Coming out of the womb

can't compare with the tomb.

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No harm would I be

to lizard or bee.

No malice bear I

for even jai alai.

But should they cause emesis

I would be their nemesis. 

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"Fahad Shah, who writes for The Christian Science Monitor from Kashmir, India, was detained for publishing "anti-national" content." 

Many countries nowadays/put their writers through a maze/If you don't jump through the hoops/you will be chased by some troops/locked up in a dungeon cell/then rot away and not raise hell.

Esau ran to meet him

 "And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him: and they wept."

Genesis 33:4

Esau and Jacob were kin/They parted in anger and sin/When many years passed/they met at long last/Forgotten was all their chagrin.

If I come back a dog I'll bark

 

If I come back a dog I'll bark

at foolish pigeons in the park

But if a cat is Vishnu's will,

I'll sit upon a windowsill.

A spider, now, might be a gas --

but probably I'll be an ass . . . 

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I'm of that ancient order that got letters in the mail.

A postcard from the tropics did intrigue me without fail.

A blurry shot so overblown the colors ran amok.

I've never got an email yet that left me thunderstruck.

Eroded to a nubbin of its former zip and glory,

the postcard's now a relic, positively dinosaury.

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The wind of a book fills your sails, matey.

It takes you to lands both enchanted and fatey.

Feel that firm heft and the gravitas, lubber.

Then go to your mess of fried eel and whale blubber.

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I have dreamed of automats;

eating with fedora hats.

Turning knobs and using nickels

for real pie and maybe pickles.

But in the Midwest as a lad

the White Castle was all I had