Little Dog

Little, white, shaggy ball of fluff
Jumped into my lap and my life
An early Christmas gift
From the "Returns" department for pets
Who makes me love used merchandise even better than new!

This is a 5W (Who, What, When, Where, Why) Poem submitted for Experimenting With Poetry Forms

Out of Garlic

image from Magpie Tales 56

She pressed the flat edge of the knife against the clove of garlic then brought her hand down upon it with a sharp "smack," perhaps a little harder than necessary. She heard the satisfying crack as the skin of the garlic peeled open, revealing the smooth, white clove. How many garlic cloves had she peeled to saute in oil and add to the countless pots of tomato sauce she'd simmered for countless hours on the stove? She imagined that the months and years of her married life could be tallied up by garlic cloves and pots of sauce. Still, after 23 years, her sauce couldn't compete with his mother's. That she used his mother's recipe held no sway; there was always something missing. Probably those apron strings. Anyway, it didn't matter now. This would be the last pot of sauce he got from her. After this, he could go to his mother's for sauce. Or get it from the Ragu in the jar!

She put the heavy iron pot on the stove to simmer. It did smell good! She filled another pot with salted water for the pasta and left it, too, on the stove, unlit. He could figure out how to boil water, couldn't he? She set up the Mr. Coffee to come on about 10 minutes before he was to arrive home so that his coffee would be hot. There was a full container of milk in the refrigerator. The week's laundry was done early, so all of his clothes were cleaned and put away. She suddenly felt a small flutter of excitement and nervousness as she picked up a pen and wrote,

Dear Anthony,

I'm leaving you. I don't love you any more, and I know you stopped loving me a long time ago. There is sauce on the stove and water for pasta. Your sandwich for lunch tomorrow is in the refrigerator. 

Yours,

Angela

P.S. You're out of garlic

submitted for Magpie Tales 56

A Camping We Will Go!

To be young and stupid
And have Nature as your playground
A tent, sleeping bags, and a quick trip to the grocery
And we're off on a weekend adventure
Why not?
The damp ground can't dampen our spirits
Even as we snap another cheap tent post
And can't find dry wood
To make a decent fire
Who cares?
The fire finally struggles to life
And we proudly cook our provisions
Cheap steak that is an amazing simulation of shoe leather
And where did our can opener go?
Oh well!
There's always alcohol
And stars
And the music of the woods
To lull us to sleep
Good night!

written for Cloaked Monk's March Challenge

Bubbe's* Gift

* Bubbe is a Yiddish word for grandmother. When I was seven, my grandmother,who loved to read and to write, gave me the book 101 Famous Poems for my birthday. I have it to this day.

My love of words began my seventh year

A small green book you pressed into my hand

 And though I was too young to understand

I knew that it was something you held dear

Into those magic poems I would peer

The distance between you and me was spanned

Your writer's mark on me you left your brand

And to this day I always keep it near

Because of you a truer voice I found

You taught me how to write from what I live

You taught me to observe the world around

You taught me how to listen for the sound

I read your words wrapped up like gifts to give

Each time I write, to you I will be bound

poem submitted for Poetry Potluck

Thank you to Jingle at Thursday Poets Rally for this award!