**********************************************************
New improved space-age technology
Slipped customers into buying
Light weight aluminum fry pans.
A slippery deal peels
Right into all my spiced,
Saute'ed, scrambled, interior enrichments.
As my bloodstream leaches iron
Slumping eyelids to sleep forever,
It's time to resurrect old
Grandma's black iron.
*****************************************************
Okay, lets put the above poem to the LAB test and have an interpretation of this poem by LavendarRose:
To me this speaks of sex (at my age everything does!) so you young'ens just cover your eyes.
Guys these days want to slip into the gal with the light-weight thin promiscuous body, only to find that she is anorexic and lacking in the ability to nurture and comfort him. She isn't willing to make a commitment so there's no enduring quality to her. The older, more mature women (me and Mrs. Rags) are the tried and true black irons that have experienced life and can offer him stability, longevity, and a "piece" of history!
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Children cry over crumbled Cheddar cheese
When whining wins wars waged for chocolate,
Negotiating better bedtime bonuses
Laying foundations of future businesses
Building tough characters.
Isn't it nice.
Children also hold out a hand helping
Great Grandmother's aging memory lapsing.
Great Grandmother cannot remember locating
The last place she placed the mints.
Clearly, the child points the way
To an unhindered path
Remembering Great Gran with love.
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Cowboy
Peter wore cowboy boots
And liked to spike his hair.
How do I look?
I think I need a tatoo
On my hand of a blue balloon
Before I ride my pinto pony
Around an arena with a leaky roof
In the chill March air.
Eyes as tender as a doe
Watched as birds flew in rafters
Dislodging a single shoot of straw.
It floated down, the rain picked up
And hammered tin tin in urgent measure
As a captured mustang reared outside
And Peter plodded his horse
To slow sleepy hoof steps. Whoa.
And also Peter likes to wear
Sunglasses
Round frames and dark.
He said I'd better
Write that down too.
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Weather
The sickly painted blue door
Held on strong firm hinges
Attached to a small white house
Opened slightly.
Who stood outside?
An ill wind gusted from ice caps
That should have stayed north
But melted its way as chill words.
The door slammed!
Locked.
Blue paint peeled outside
Withstanding storming onslaught
As wind became crystal golf balls
Knocking.
Hitting hard.
Little pig, little pig
Wailed banshees left outside
You must be bacon at my feet.
Open!
Say I.
Squealing inside creates no escape.
The walls prison poison seem
Waiting for storm’s disinterest
To bore
Away.
As through a window facing south
The sun hangs as glorious warmth invades
Beckoning promises of another trail
To walk
Alone.
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Poetry(?)
Poetic problems perplex
quiet quirky quasar
reason. Raised random
silly sonic sentences
to truth triumph tee. The
ultimate universal unit.
victory voyage vested
where winners wear
xanthic xylophones,
yew, yaks, yesterday's
zoo zipper
and
backpacks
carrying
demolition.
f
i
g
h
t.......I without a base.
*************************************************************
A.M.
The morning light, sunrise,
Birds greet in song, thrilling.
Rising voices
Playing background prayers,
Accordian notes expand
Contract.
Alive, a minute more.
Food within reach.
Things to do, to care.
Laughter made.
Created in thankful heart
And star spiked tender eye.
****************************************************************
Interpretation
If I draw a peach
You may say an apple.
Does that mean
My peach is rotten?
Bruised,
A peach is still sweet
Dripping sweet nectar
Attracting the yellow jacket.
