Lament for my Arm Hair ( file under inevitable loss)

Several times a week,
Do I smell that familiar scent of,
OFF!

Reaching my arm as I do,
In contempt of fire,
Into the ring for a pan or a pot, a steak or a piece of fish.

Only to discover,
That my nose hairs begin to dance,
With that scent that can only be thrown by flame meeting hair.

Lament for my arm hair,
Oh yes indeed,
Looking down to discover a bare arm, where once there was hair.

And now what is this,
But a shriveled and disheveled,
Barren area of my arm that has been freed from its follicles by flame.

Several times a week,
Do I smell that oh so familiar scent,
Of my arm hair diminishing and in a weird kind of way I can for only a moment glimpse,
That which bows down on my grill or my flame,
And how it must feel,
But only for a moment,
For while I lament my hair,
I celebrate my journey.

Are you celebrating your journey? Are you dreaming big and inspired?

Logan Pearsall Smith once said “There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine”

I couldn’t agree more.

A la prochaine

SDM

Lament for a Potato (file under Spud Killer)

Only a Mick,
Such as I,
Would hold court,
To lament the fallen spud,
Fallen by my own hand,
Only to reveal,
The potato phoenix,
Reborn into something new and beautiful,
Tasty and bountiful,
In this year passed,
I have been the judge, jury and executioner,
Of too many to count,
And their death,
Most certainly not for not,
As I have transformed their rugged beauty,
Their palette of flavour to reveal,
With delight,
Mash, medallion and fry,
I have taken them to a Zen like state,
From which joy abounds,
For those that receive it.

Only a Mick,
Such as I,
Could possibly lament,
For the potatoes that I have killed,
Only to rebirth them into something more fantastic,
Something more appealing,
Something revealing,
That from one comes another,
And from another comes pleasure divine,
Only a Mick such as I,
Would redefine Ambrosia,
To now become,
The potato and its many uses,
And in its death,
Finding beauty,
I still lament,
As I accept,
My fate and theirs,
To something more.

Only a Mick such as I,
Could take something,
Which once starved an entire population,
Strangling it and forcing the perilous journey across the Atlantic,
To new and wonderful worlds,
And like the potato I now lament,
Onto ever greater things,
The manifest destiny,
Of mash or fry,
Shepherds pie,
And ever more.

Fear not potato,
You have not lived in vain,
For though I lament,
I too celebrate,
Your simple beauty and truth,
And all the joy that you can bring,
As I transform you,
And in so doing,
Become transformed myself.


An old Irish Proverb states; "Only two things in this world are too serious to be jested on, potatoes and matrimony."

SDM